It was pure chance that had brought me to the neighbourhood of Gipsy’sAcre that day. I was driving a hired car, taking some people down fromLondon to attend a sale, a sale not of a house but its contents. It was a bighouse just at the outskirts1 of the town, a particularly ugly one. I drove anelderly couple there who were interested, from what I could overhear oftheir conversation, in a collection of papier m?ché, whatever papier m?chéwas. The only time I ever heard it mentioned before was by my mother inconnection with washing-up bowls. She’d said that a papier m?ché wash-ing-up bowl was far better than a plastic one any day! It seemed an oddthing for rich people to want to come down and buy a collection of thestuff.
However I stored the fact away in my mind and I thought I would lookin a dictionary or read up somewhere what papier m?ché really was.
Something that people thought worthwhile to hire a car for, and go downto a country sale and bid for. I liked to know about things. I was twenty-two years of age at that time and I had picked up a fair amount of know-ledge one way and another. I knew a good deal about cars, was a fairmechanic and a careful driver. Once I’d worked with horses in Ireland. Inearly got entangled2 with a dope gang but I got wise and quit in time. Ajob as a chauffeur3 to a classy car hire firm isn’t bad at all. Good money tobe made with tips. And not usually too strenuous4. But the work itself wasboring.
Once I’d gone fruit picking in summer time. That didn’t pay much, but Ienjoyed myself. I’d tried a lot of things. I’d been a waiter in a third-classhotel, life guard on a summer beach, I’d sold encyclopaedias5 and vacuumcleaners and a few other things. I’d once done horticultural work in abotanical garden and had learnt a little about flowers.
I never stuck to anything. Why should I? I’d found nearly everything Idid interesting. Some things were harder work than others but I didn’treally mind that. I’m not really lazy. I suppose what I really am is restless.
I want to go everywhere, see everything, do everything. I want to findsomething. Yes, that’s it. I want to find something.
From the time I left school I wanted to find something, but I didn’t yetknow what that something was going to be. It was just something I waslooking for in a vague, unsatisfied sort of way. It was somewhere. Sooneror later I’d know all about it. It might perhaps be a girl…I like girls, but nogirl I’d met so far had been important…You liked them all right but thenyou went to the next one quite gladly. They were like the jobs I took. Allright for a bit and then you got fed up with them and you wanted to moveon to the next one. I’d gone from one thing to another ever since I’d leftschool.
A lot of people disapproved6 of my way of life. I suppose they were whatyou might call my well-wishers. That was because they didn’t understandthe first thing about me. They wanted me to go steady with a nice girl,save money, get married to her and then settle down to a nice steady job.
Day after day, year after year, world without end, amen. Not for yourstruly! There must be something better than that. Not just all this tame se-curity, the good old welfare state limping along in its half- baked way!
Surely, I thought, in a world where man has been able to put satellites inthe sky and where men talk big about visiting the stars, there must besomething that rouses you, that makes your heart beat, that’s worthwhilesearching all over the world to find! One day, I remember, I was walkingdown Bond Street. It was during my waiter period and I was due on duty.
I’d been strolling looking at some shoes in a shop window. Very natty7 theywere. Like they say in the advertisements in newspapers: “What smartmen are wearing today” and there’s usually a picture of the smart man inquestion. My word, he usually looks a twerp! Used to make me laugh, ad-vertisements like that did.
I passed on from the shoes to the next window. It was a picture shop.
Just three pictures in the window artily arranged with a drape of limp vel-vet in some neutral colour arranged over a corner of a gilt8 frame. Cissy, ifyou know what I mean. I’m not much of a one for Art. I dropped in to theNational Gallery once out of curiosity. Fair gave me the pip, it did. Greatbig shiny coloured pictures of battles in rocky glens, or emaciated9 saintsgetting themselves stuck with arrows. Portraits of simpering great ladiessitting smirking10 in silks and velvets and lace. I decided12 then and there thatArt wasn’t for me. But the picture I was looking at now was somehow dif-ferent. There were three pictures in the window. One a landscape, nice bitof country for what I call everyday. One of a woman drawn13 in such afunny way, so much out of proportion, that you could hardly see she was awoman. I suppose that’s what you call art nouveau. I don’t know what itwas about. The third picture was my picture. There wasn’t really much toit, if you know what I mean. It was—how can I describe it? It was kind ofsimple. A lot of space in it and a few great widening circles all round eachother if you can put it that way. All in different colours, odd colours thatyou wouldn’t expect. And here and there, there were sketchy14 bits of colourthat didn’t seem to mean anything. Only somehow they did mean some-thing! I’m no good at description. All I can say is that one wanted terriblyto go on looking at it.
I just stood there, feeling queer as though something very unusual hadhappened to me. Those fancy shoes now, I’d have liked them to wear. Imean I take quite a bit of trouble with my clothes. I like to dress well so asto make an impression, but I never seriously thought in my life of buyinga pair of shoes in Bond Street. I know the kind of fancy prices they askthere. Fifteen pounds a pair those shoes might be. Handmade or some-thing, they call it, making it more worthwhile for some reason. Sheerwaste of money that would be. A classy line in shoes, yes, but you can paytoo much for class. I’ve got my head screwed on the right way.
But this picture, what would that cost? I wondered. Suppose I were tobuy that picture? You’re crazy, I said to myself. You don’t go for pictures,not in a general way. That was true enough. But I wanted this picture…I’dlike it to be mine. I’d like to be able to hang it and sit and look at it as longas I liked and know that I owned it! Me! Buying pictures. It seemed a crazyidea. I took a look at the picture again. Me wanting that picture didn’tmake sense, and anyway, I probably couldn’t afford it. Actually I was infunds at just that moment. A lucky tip on a horse. This picture would prob-ably cost a packet. Twenty pounds? Twenty-five? Anyway, there would beno harm in asking. They couldn’t eat me, could they? I went in, feelingrather aggressive and on the defensive15.
The inside of the place was all very hushed and grand. There was a sortof muted atmosphere with neutral- colour walls and a velvet11 settee onwhich you could sit and look at the pictures. A man who looked a little likethe model for the perfectly16 dressed man in advertisements came and at-tended to me, speaking in a rather hushed voice to match the scenery.
Funnily, he didn’t look superior as they usually do in high-grade BondStreet shops. He listened to what I said and then he took the picture out ofthe window and displayed it for me against a wall, holding it there for meto look at as long as I wanted. It came to me then—in the way you some-times know just exactly how things are, that the same rules didn’t applyover pictures as they do about other things. Somebody might come into aplace like this dressed in shabby old clothes and a frayed17 shirt and turnout to be a millionaire who wanted to add to his collection. Or he couldcome in looking cheap and flashy, rather like me perhaps, but somehowor other he’d got such a yen18 for a picture that he managed to get themoney together by some kind of sharp practice.
“A very fine example of the artist’s work,” said the man who was hold-ing the picture.
“How much?” I said briskly.
The answer took my breath away.
“Twenty-five thousand,” he said in his gentle voice.
I’m quite good at keeping a poker19 face. I didn’t show anything. At least Idon’t think I did. He added some name that sounded foreign. The artist’sname, I suppose, and that it had just come on the market from a house inthe country, where the people who lived there had had no idea what itwas. I kept my end up and sighed.
“It’s a lot of money but it’s worth it, I suppose,” I said.
Twenty-five thousand pounds. What a laugh!
“Yes,” he said and sighed. “Yes indeed.” He lowered the picture verygently and carried it back to the window. He looked at me and smiled.
“You have good taste,” he said.
I felt that in some way he and I understood each other. I thanked himand went out into Bond Street.
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1
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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encyclopaedias
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| n.百科全书，大全( encyclopaedia的名词复数 ) | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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8
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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9
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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10
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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12
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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14
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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15
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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16
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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17
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
yen
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| n. 日元；热望 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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