When Tuppence entered the lounge at Sans Souci just before dinner, theonly occupant of the room was the monumental Mrs. O’Rourke, who wassitting by the window looking like some gigantic Buddha1.
She greeted Tuppence with a lot of geniality2 and verve.
“Ah now, if it isn’t Mrs. Blenkensop! You’re like myself; it pleases you tobe down to time and get a quiet minute or two before going into the diningroom, and a pleasant room this is in good weather with the windows openin the way that you’ll not be noticing the smell of cooking. Terrible that is,in all of these places, and more especially if it’s onion or cabbage that’s onthe fire. Sit here now, Mrs. Blenkensop, and tell me what you’ve been do-ing with yourself this fine day and how you like Leahampton.”
There was something about Mrs. O’Rourke that had an unholy fascina-tion for Tuppence. She was rather like an ogress dimly remembered fromearly fairy tales. With her bulk, her deep voice, her unabashed beard andmoustache, her deep twinkling eyes, and the impression she gave of beingmore than life-size, she was indeed not unlike some childhood’s fantasy.
Tuppence replied that she thought she was going to like Leahamptonvery much, and be happy there.
“That is,” she added in a melancholy3 voice, “as happy as I can be any-where with this terrible anxiety weighing on me all the time.”
“Ah now, don’t you be worrying yourself,” Mrs. O’Rourke advised com-fortably. “Those boys of yours will come back to you safe and sound. Not adoubt of it. One of them’s in the Air Force, so I think you said?”
“Yes, Raymond.”
“And is he in France now, or in England?”
“He’s in Egypt at the moment, but from what he said in his last letter—not exactly said—but we have a little private code if you know what Imean?—certain sentences mean certain things. I think that’s quite justi-fied, don’t you?”
Mrs. O’Rourke replied promptly4:
“Indeed I do. ’Tis a mother’s privilege.”
“Yes, you see I feel I must know just where he is.”
Mrs. O’Rourke nodded the Buddha-like head.
“I feel for you entirely5, so I do. If I had a boy out there I’d be deceivingthe censor6 in the very same way, so I would. And your other boy, the onein the Navy?”
Tuppence entered obligingly upon a saga7 of Douglas.
“You see,” she cried, “I feel so lost without my three boys. They’ve neverbeen all away together from me before. They’re all so sweet to me. I reallydo think they treat me more as a friend than a mother.” She laughed self-consciously. “I have to scold them sometimes and make them go outwithout me.”
(“What a pestilential woman I sound,” thought Tuppence to herself.)She went on aloud:
“And really I didn’t know quite what to do or where to go. The lease ofmy house in London was up and it seemed so foolish to renew it, and Ithought if I came somewhere quiet, and yet with a good train service—”
She broke off.
Again the Buddha nodded.
“I agree with you entirely. London is no place at the present. Ah! thegloom of it! I’ve lived there myself for many a year now. I’m by way of be-ing an antique dealer8, you know. You may know my shop in CornabyStreet, Chelsea? Kate Kelly’s the name over the door. Lovely stuff I hadthere too—oh, lovely stuff—mostly glass—Waterford, Cork—beautiful.
Chandeliers and lustres and punchbowls and all the rest of it. Foreignglass, too. And small furniture—nothing large—just small period pieces—mostly walnut9 and oak. Oh, lovely stuff—and I had some good customers.
But there, when there’s a war on, all that goes west. I’m lucky to be out ofit with as little loss as I’ve had.”
A faint memory flickered10 through Tuppence’s mind. A shop filled withglass, through which it was difficult to move, a rich persuasive11 voice, acompelling massive woman. Yes, surely, she had been into that shop.
Mrs. O’Rourke went on:
“I’m not one of those that like to be always complaining—not like somethat’s in this house. Mr. Cayley for one, with his muffler and his shawlsand his moans about his business going to pieces. Of course it’s to pieces,there’s a war on—and his wife with never boo to say to a goose. Thenthere’s that little Mrs. Sprot, always fussing about her husband.”
“Is he out at the Front?”
“Not he. He’s a tuppenny-halfpenny clerk in an insurance office, that’sall, and so terrified of air raids he’s had his wife down here since the be-ginning of the war. Mind you, I think that’s right where the child’s con-cerned—and a nice wee mite12 she is—but Mrs. Sprot she frets13, for all thather husband comes down when he can .?.?. Keeps saying Arthur must missher so. But if you ask me Arthur’s not missing her overmuch—maybe he’sgot other fish to fry.”
Tuppence murmured:
“I’m terribly sorry for all these mothers. If you let your children go awaywithout you, you never stop worrying. And if you go with them it’s hardon the husbands being left.”
“Ah! yes, and it comes expensive running two establishments.”
“This place seems quite reasonable,” said Tuppence.
“Yes, I’d say you get your money’s worth. Mrs. Perenna’s a good man-ager. There’s a queer woman for you now.”
“In what way?” asked Tuppence.
Mrs. O’Rourke said with a twinkle:
“You’ll be thinking I’m a terrible talker. It’s true. I’m interested in all myfellow creatures, that’s why I sit in this chair as often as I can. You see whogoes in and who goes out and who’s on the veranda14 and what goes on inthe garden. What were we talking of now—ah yes, Mrs. Perenna, and thequeerness of her. There’s been a grand drama in that woman’s life, or I’mmuch mistaken.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do now. And the mystery she makes of herself! ‘And where might youcome from in Ireland?’ I asked her. And would you believe it, she held outon me, declaring she was not from Ireland at all.”
“You think she is Irish?”
“Of course she’s Irish. I know my own countrywomen. I could name youthe county she comes from. But there! ‘I’m English,’ she says. ‘And my hus-band was a Spaniard’—”
Mrs. O’Rourke broke off abruptly15 as Mrs. Sprot came in, closely followedby Tommy.
Tuppence immediately assumed a sprightly16 manner.
“Good evening, Mr. Meadowes. You look very brisk this evening.”
Tommy said:
“Plenty of exercise, that’s the secret. A round of golf this morning and awalk along the front this afternoon.”
Millicent Sprot said:
“I took baby down to the beach this afternoon. She wanted to paddle butI really thought it was rather cold. I was helping17 her build a castle and adog ran off with my knitting and pulled out yards of it. So annoying, andso difficult picking up all the stitches again. I’m such a bad knitter.”
“You’re getting along fine with that helmet, Mrs. Blenkensop,” said Mrs.
O’Rourke, suddenly turning her attention to Tuppence. “You’ve been justracing along. I thought Miss Minton said that you were an inexperiencedknitter.”
Tuppence flushed faintly. Mrs. O’Rourke’s eyes were sharp. With aslightly vexed18 air, Tuppence said:
“I have really done quite a lot of knitting. I told Miss Minton so. But Ithink she likes teaching people.”
Everybody laughed in agreement, and a few minutes later the rest of theparty came in and the gong was sounded.
The conversation during the meal turned on the absorbing subject ofspies. Well-known hoary19 chestnuts20 were retold. The nun21 with the muscu-lar arm, the clergyman descending22 from his parachute and using uncler-gymanlike language as he landed with a bump, the Austrian cook whosecreted a wireless23 in her bedroom chimney, and all the things that hadhappened or nearly happened to aunts and second cousins of thosepresent. That led easily to Fifth Column activities. To denunciations of theBritish Fascists24, of the Communists, of the Peace Party, of conscientious25 ob-jectors. It was a very normal conversation of the kind that may be heardalmost every day, nevertheless Tuppence watched keenly the faces anddemeanour of the people as they talked, striving to catch some telltale ex-pression or word. But there was nothing. Sheila Perenna alone took nopart in the conversation, but that might be put down to her habitual26 tacit-urnity. She sat there, her dark rebellious27 face sullen28 and brooding.
Carl von Deinim was out tonight, so tongues could be quite unres-trained.
Sheila only spoke29 once toward the end of dinner.
Mrs. Sprot had just said in her thin fluting30 voice:
“Where I do think the Germans made such a mistake in the last war wasto shoot Nurse Cavell. It turned everybody against them.”
It was then that Sheila, flinging back her head, demanded in her fierceyoung voice: “Why shouldn’t they shoot her? She was a spy, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, no, not a spy.”
“She helped English people to escape—in an enemy country. That’s thesame thing. Why shouldn’t she be shot?”
“Oh, but shooting a woman—and a nurse.”
Sheila got up.
“I think the Germans were quite right,” she said.
She went out of the window into the garden.
Dessert, consisting of some underripe bananas, and some tired oranges,had been on the table some time. Everyone rose and adjourned31 to thelounge for coffee.
Only Tommy unobtrusively betook himself to the garden. He foundSheila Perenna leaning over the terrace wall staring out at the sea. Hecame and stood beside her.
By her hurried, quick breathing he knew that something had upset herbadly. He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted.
He said: “Lovely night.”
In a low intense voice the girl answered:
“It could be. .?.?.”
Tommy looked at her doubtfully. He felt, suddenly, the attraction andthe vitality32 of this girl. There was a tumultuous life in her, a kind of com-pelling power. She was the kind of girl, he thought, that a man might eas-ily lose his head over.
“If it weren’t for the war, you mean?” he said.
“I don’t mean that at all. I hate the war.”
“So do we all.”
“Not in the way I mean. I hate the cant33 about it, the smugness—the hor-rible, horrible patriotism34.”
“Patriotism?” Tommy was startled.
“Yes, I hate patriotism, do you understand? All this country, country,country! Betraying your country—dying for your country—serving yourcountry. Why should one’s country mean anything at all?”
Tommy said simply: “I don’t know. It just does.”
“Not to me! Oh, it would to you—you go abroad and buy and sell in theBritish Empire and come back bronzed and full of clichés, talking aboutthe natives and calling for Chota Pegs35 and all that sort of thing.”
Tommy said gently:
“I’m not quite as bad as that, I hope, my dear.”
“I’m exaggerating a little—but you know what I mean. You believe inthe British Empire—and—and—the stupidity of dying for one’s country.”
“My country,” said Tommy dryly, “doesn’t seem particularly anxious toallow me to die for it.”
“Yes, but you want to. And it’s so stupid! Nothing’s worth dying for. It’sall an idea—talk, talk—froth—high-flown idiocy36. My country doesn’t meananything to me at all.”
“Some day,” said Tommy, “you’ll be surprised to find that it does.”
“No. Never. I’ve suffered—I’ve seen—”
She broke off—then turned suddenly and impetuously upon him.
“Do you know who my father was?”
“No!” Tommy’s interest quickened.
“His name was Patrick Maguire. He—he was a follower37 of Casement38 inthe last war. He was shot as a traitor39! All for nothing! For an idea—heworked himself up with those other Irishmen. Why couldn’t he just stay athome quietly and mind his own business? He’s a martyr40 to some peopleand a traitor to others. I think he was just—stupid!”
Tommy could hear the note of pent-up rebellion, coming out into theopen. He said:
“So that’s the shadow you’ve grown up with?”
“Shadow’s right. Mother changed her name. We lived in Spain for someyears. She always says that my father was half a Spaniard. We always telllies wherever we go. We’ve been all over the Continent. Finally we camehere and started this place. I think this is quite the most hateful thingwe’ve done yet.”
Tommy asked:
“How does your mother feel about—things?”
“You mean — about my father’s death?” Sheila was silent a moment,frowning, puzzled. She said slowly: “I’ve never really known .?.?. she nevertalks about it. It’s not easy to know what Mother feels or thinks.”
Tommy nodded his head thoughtfully.
Sheila said abruptly:
“I—I don’t know why I’ve been telling you this. I got worked up. Wheredid it all start?”
“A discussion on Edith Cavell.”
“Oh yes—patriotism. I said I hated it.”
“Aren’t you forgetting Nurse Cavell’s own words?”
“What words?”
“Before she died. Don’t you know what she said?”
He repeated the words:
“Patriotism is not enough .?.?. I must have no hatred41 in my heart.”
“Oh.” She stood there stricken for a moment.
Then, turning quickly, she wheeled away into the shadow of the garden.
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收听单词发音
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1
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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10
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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13
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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fascists
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| n.法西斯主义的支持者( fascist的名词复数 ) | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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29
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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30
fluting
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| 有沟槽的衣料； 吹笛子； 笛声； 刻凹槽 | |
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31
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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33
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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34
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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35
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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39
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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40
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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41
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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