Mr. Barnstaple awakened1 slowly out of profound slumber2.
He had a vague feeling that a very delightful3 and wonderful dream was slipping from him. He tried to keep on with the dream and not to open his eyes. It was about a great world of beautiful people who had freed themselves from a thousand earthly troubles. But it dissolved and faded from his mind. It was not often nowadays that dreams came to Mr. Barnstaple. He lay very still with his eyes closed, reluctantly coming awake to the affairs of every day.
The cares and worries of the last fortnight resumed their sway. Would he ever be able to get away for a holiday by himself? Then he remembered that he had already got his valise stowed away in the Yellow Peril4. But surely that was not last night; that was the night before last, and he had started — he remembered now starting and the little thrill of getting through the gate before Mrs. Barnstaple suspected anything. He opened his eyes and fixed5 them on a white ceiling, trying to recall that journey. He remembered turning into the Camberwell New Road and the bright exhilaration of the morning, Vauxhall Bridge and that nasty tangle8 of traffic at Hyde Park Corner. He always maintained that the west of London was far more difficult for motoring than the east. Then — had he gone to Uxbridge? No. He recalled the road to Slough9 and then came a blank in his mind.
What a very good ceiling this was! Not a crack nor a stain!
But how had he spent the rest of the day? He must have got somewhere because here he was in a thoroughly10 comfortable bed — an excellent bed. With a thrush singing. He had always maintained that a good thrush could knock spots off a nightingale, but this thrush was a perfect Caruso. And another answering it! In July! Pangbourne and Caversham were wonderful places for nightingales. In June. But this was July — and thrushes. . . . Across these drowsy11 thought-phantoms came the figure of Mr. Rupert Catskill, hands on hips12, face and head thrust forward speaking, saying astonishing things. To a naked seated figure with a grave intent face. And other figures. One with a face like the Delphic Sibyl. Mr. Barnstaple began to remember that in some way he had got himself mixed up with a week-end party at Taplow Court. Now had this speech been given at Taplow Court? At Taplow Court they wear clothes. But perhaps the aristocracy in retirement13 and privacy —?
Utopia? . . . But was it possible?
Mr. Barnstaple sat up in his bed in a state of extreme amazement14. “Impossible!” he said. He was lying in a little loggia half open to the air. Between the slender pillars of fluted15 glass he saw a range of snow-topped mountains, and in the foreground a great cluster of tall spikes16 bearing deep red flowers. The bird was still singing — a glorified17 thrush, in a glorified world. Now he remembered everything. Now it was all clear. The sudden twisting of the car, the sound like the snapping of a fiddle18 string and — Utopia! Now he had it all, from the sight of sweet dead Greenlake to the bringing in of Lord Barralonga under the strange unfamiliar19 stars. It was no dream. He looked at his hand on the exquisitely20 fine coverlet. He felt his rough chin. It was a world real enough for shaving — and for a very definite readiness for breakfast. Very — for he had missed his supper. And as if in answer to his thought a smiling girl appeared ascending21 the steps to his sleeping-place and bearing a little tray. After all, there was much to be said for Mr. Burleigh. To his swift statesmanship it was that Mr. Barnstaple owed this morning cup of tea.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Barnstaple.
“Why not?” said the young Utopian, and put down his tea and smiled at him in a motherly fashion and departed.
“Why not a good morning, I suppose,” said Mr. Barnstaple and meditated22 for a moment, chin on knees, and then gave his attention to the bread-and-butter and tea.
Section 2
The little dressing-room in which he found his clothes lying just as he had dumped them overnight, was at once extraordinarily23 simple and extraordinarily full of interest for Mr. Barnstaple. He paddled about it humming as he examined it.
The bath was much shallower than an ordinary earthly bath; apparently24 the Utopians did not believe in lying down and stewing25. And the forms of everything were different, simpler and more graceful26. On earth he reflected art was largely wit. The artist had a certain limited selection of obdurate27 materials and certain needs, and his work was a clever reconciliation28 of the obduracy29 and the necessity and of the idiosyncrasy of the substance to the aesthetic30 preconceptions of the human mind. How delightful, for example, was the earthly carpenter dealing31 cleverly with the grain and character of this wood or that. But here the artist had a limitless control of material, and that element of witty32 adaptation had gone out of his work. His data were the human mind and body. Everything in this little room was unobtrusively but perfectly33 convenient — and difficult to misuse34. If you splashed too much a thoughtful outer rim35 tidied things up for you.
In a tray by the bath was a very big fine sponge. So either Utopians still dived for sponges or they grew them or trained them (who could tell?) to come up of their own accord.
As he set out his toilet things a tumbler was pushed off a glass shelf on to the floor and did not break. Mr. Barnstaple in an experimental mood dropped it again and still it did not break.
He could not find taps at first though there was a big washing basin as well as a bath. Then he perceived a number of studs on the walls with black marks that might be Utopian writing. He experimented. He found very hot water and then very cold water filling his bath, a fountain of probably soapy warm water, and other fluids — one with an odour of pine and one with a subdued36 odour of chlorine. The Utopian characters on these studs set him musing37 for a time; they were the first writing he had seen; they appeared to be word characters, but whether they represented sounds or were greatly simplified hieroglyphics38 he could not imagine. Then his mind went off at a tangent in another direction because the only metal apparent in this dressing-room was gold. There was, he noted39, an extraordinary lot of gold in the room. It was set and inlaid in gold. The soft yellow lines gleamed and glittered. Gold evidently was cheap in Utopia. Perhaps they knew how to make it.
He roused himself to the business of his toilet. There was no looking-glass in the room, but when he tried what he thought was the handle of a cupboard door, he found himself opening a triple full-length mirror. Afterwards he was to discover that there were no displayed mirrors in Utopia; Utopians, he was to learn, thought it indecent to be reminded of themselves in that way. The Utopian method was to scrutinize40 oneself, see that one was all right and then forget oneself for the rest of the day. He stood now surveying his pyjamaed and unshaven self with extreme disfavour. Why do respectable citizens favour such ugly pink-striped pyjamas41? When he unpacked42 his nail-brush and tooth-brush, shaving-brush and washing-glove, they seemed to him to have the coarseness of a popular burlesque43. His tooth-brush was a particularly ignoble44 instrument. He wished now he had bought a new one at the chemist’s shop near Victoria Station.
And what nasty queer things his clothes were!
He had a fantastic idea of adopting Utopian ideas of costume, but a reflective moment before his mirror restrained him. Then he remembered that he had packed a silk tennis shirt and flannels45. Suppose he wore those, without a collar stud or tie — and went bare-footed?
He surveyed his feet. As feet went on earth they were not unsightly feet. But on earth they had been just wasted.
Section 3
A particularly clean and radiant Mr. Barnstaple, white-clad, bare-necked and bare-footed, presently emerged into the Utopian sunrise. He smiled, stretched his arms and took a deep breath of the sweet air. Then suddenly his face became hard and resolute46.
From another little sleeping house not two hundred yards away Father Amerton was emerging. Intuitively Mr. Barnstaple knew he meant either to forgive or be forgiven for the overnight quarrel. It would be a matter of chance whether he would select the role of offender47 or victim; what was certain was that he would smear48 a dreary49 mess of emotional personal relationship over the jewel-like clearness and brightness of the scene. A little to the right of Mr. Barnstaple and in front of him were wide steps leading down towards the lake. Three strides and he was going down these steps two at a time. It may have been his hectic50 fancy, but it seemed to him that he heard the voice of Father Amerton, “Mr. Barn — staple,” in pursuit.
Mr. Barnstaple doubled and doubled again and crossed a bridge across an avalanche51 gully, a bridge with huge masonry52 in back and roof and with delicate pillars of prismatic glass towards the lake. The sunlight entangled53 in these pillars broke into splashes of red and blue and golden light. Then at a turfy corner gay with blue gentians, he narrowly escaped a collision with Mr. Rupert Catskill. Mr. Catskill was in the same costume that he had worn on the previous day except that he was without his grey top hat. He walked with his hands clasped behind him.
“Hullo!” he said. “What’s the hurry? We seem to be the first people up.”
“I saw Father Amerton —”
“That accounts for it. You were afraid of being caught up in a service, Matins or Prime or whatever he calls it. Wise man to run. He shall pray for the lot of us. Me too.”
He did not wait for any endorsement54 from Mr. Barnstaple, but went on talking.
“You have slept well? What did you think of the old fellow’s answer to my speech. Eh? Evasive cliches. When in doubt, abuse the plaintiff’s attorney. We don’t agree with him because we have bad hearts.”
“What old fellow do you mean?”
“The worthy55 gentleman who spoke56 after me.”
“Urthred! But he’s not forty.”
“He’s seventy-three. He told us afterwards. They live long here, a lingering business. Our lives are a fitful hectic fever from their point of view. But as Tennyson said, ‘Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay!’ H’m? He evaded57 my points. This is Lotus Land, Sunset Land; we shan’t be thanked for disturbing its slumbers58.”
“I doubt their slumbers.”
“Perhaps the Socialist59 bug60 has bit you too. Yes — I see it has! Believe me this is the most complete demonstration61 of decadence62 it would be possible to imagine. Complete. And we shall disturb their slumbers, never fear. Nature, you will see, is on our side — in a way no one has thought of yet.”
“But I don’t see the decadence,” said Mr. Barnstaple.
“None so blind as those who won’t see. It’s everywhere. Their large flushed pseudo-health. Like fatted cattle. And their treatment of Barralonga. They don’t know how to treat him. They don’t even arrest him. They’ve never arrested anyone for a thousand years. He careers through their land, killing63 and slaying64 and frightening and disturbing and they’re flabbergasted, Sir, simply flabbergasted. It’s like a dog running amuck65 in a world full of sheep. If he hadn’t had a side-slip I believe he would be hooting66 and snorting and careering along now — killing people. They’ve lost the instinct of social defence.”
“I wonder.”
“A very good attitude of mind. If indulged in, in moderation. But when your wondering is over, you will begin to see that I am right. H’m? Ah! There on that terrace! Isn’t that my Lord Barralonga and his French acquaintance? It is. Inhaling67 the morning air. I think with your permission I will go on and have a word with them. Which way did you say Father Amerton was? I don’t want to disturb his devotions. This way? Then if I go to the right —”
He grimaced68 amiably69 over his shoulder.
Section 4
Mr. Barnstaple came upon two Utopians gardening. They had two light silvery wheelbarrows, and they were cutting out old wood and overblown clusters from a line of thickets71 that sprawled72 over a rough-heaped ridge7 of rock and foamed73 with crimson75 and deep red roses. These gardeners had great leather gauntlets and aprons76 of tanned skin, and they carried hooks and knives.
Mr. Barnstaple had never before seen such roses as they were tending here; their fragrance77 filled the air. He did not know that double roses could be got in mountains; bright red single sorts he had seen high up in Switzerland, but not such huge loose-flowered monsters as these. They dwarfed78 their leaves. Their wood was in long, thorny79, snaky-red streaked80 stems that writhed81 wide and climbed to the rocky lumps over which they grew. Their great petals82 fell like red snow and like drifting moths83 and like blood upon the soft soil that sheltered amidst the brown rocks.
“You are the first Utopians I have actually seen at work,” he said.
“This isn’t our work,” smiled the nearer of the two, a fair-haired, freckled84, blue-eyed youth. “But as we are for these roses we have to keep them in order.”
“Are they your roses?”
“Many people think these double mountain roses too much trouble and a nuisance with their thorns and sprawling85 branches, and many people think only the single sorts of roses ought to be grown in these high places and that this lovely sort ought to be left to die out up here. Are you for our roses?”
“Such roses as these?” said Mr. Barnstaple. “Altogether.”
“Good! Then just bring me up my barrow closer for all this litter. We’re responsible for the good behaviour of all this thicket70 reaching right down there almost to the water.”
“And you have to see to it yourselves?”
“Who else?”
“But couldn’t you get someone — pay someone to see to it for you?”
“Oh, hoary86 relic87 from the ancient past!” the young man replied. “Oh, fossil ignoramus from a barbaric universe! Don’t you realize that there is no working class in Utopia? It died out fifteen hundred years or so ago. Wages-slavery, pimping and so forth88 are done with. We read about them in books. Who loves the rose must serve the rose — himself.”
“But you work.”
“Not for wages. Not because anyone else loves or desires something else and is too lazy to serve it or get it himself. We work, part of the brain, part of the will, of Utopia.”
“May I ask at what?”
“I explore the interior of our planet. I study high-pressure chemistry. And my friend —”
He interrogated89 his friend, whose dark face and brown eyes appeared suddenly over a foam74 of blossom. “I do Food.”
“A cook?”
“Of sorts. Just now I am seeing to your Earthling dietary. It’s most interesting and curious — but I should think rather destructive. I plan your meals. . . . I see you look anxious, but I saw to your breakfast last night.” He glanced at a minute wrist-watch under the gauntlet of his gardening glove. “It will be ready in about an hour. How was the early tea?”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Barnstaple.
“Good,” said the dark young man. “I did my best. I hope the breakfast will be as satisfactory. I had to fly two hundred kilometres for a pig last night and kill it and cut it up myself, and find out how to cure it. Eating bacon has gone out of fashion in Utopia. I hope you will find my rashers satisfactory.”
“It seems very rapid curing — for a rasher,” said Mr. Barnstaple. “We could have done without it.”
“Your spokesman made such a point of it.”
The fair young man struggled out of the thicket and wheeled his barrow away. Mr. Barnstaple wished the dark young man “Good morning.”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” asked the dark young man.
Section 5
He discovered Ridley and Penk approaching him. Ridley’s face and ear were still adorned90 with sticking-plaster and his bearing was eager and anxious. Penk followed a little way behind him, holding one hand to the side of his face. Both were in their professional dress, white-topped caps, square-cut leather coats and black gaiters; they had made no concessions91 to Utopian laxity.
Ridley began to speak as soon as he judged Mr. Barnstaple was within earshot.
“You don’t ‘appen to know, Mister, where these ’ere decadents92 shoved our car?”
“I thought your car was all smashed up.”
“Not a Rolls–Royce — not like that. Wind-screen, mud-guards and the on-footboard perhaps. We went over sideways. I want to ‘ave a look at it. And I didn’t turn the petrol off. The carburettor was leaking a bit. My fault. I ‘adn’t been careful enough with the strainer. If she runs out of petrol, where’s one to get more of it in this blasted Elysium? I ain’t seen a sign anywhere. I know if I don’t get that car into running form before Lord Barralonga wants it there’s going to be trouble.”
Mr. Barnstaple had no idea where the cars were.
“‘Aven’t you a car of your own?” asked Ridley reproachfully.
“I have. But I’ve never given it a thought since I got out of it.”
“Owner-driver,” said Ridley bitterly.
“Anyhow, I can’t help you find your cars. Have you asked any of the Utopians?”
“Not us. We don’t like the style of ’em,” said Ridley.
“They’ll tell you.”
“And watch us — whatever we do to our cars. They don’t get a chance of looking into a Rolls–Royce every day in the year. Next thing we shall have them driving off in ’em. I don’t like the place, and I don’t like these people. They’re queer. They ain’t decent. His lordship says they’re a lot of degenerates93, and it seems to me his lordship is about right. I ain’t a Puritan, but all this running about without clothes is a bit too thick for me. I wish I knew where they’d stowed those cars.”
Mr. Barnstaple was considering Penk. “You haven’t hurt your face?” he asked.
“Nothing to speak of,” said Penk. “I suppose we ought to be getting on.”
Ridley looked at Penk and then at Mr. Barnstaple. “He’s had a bit of a contoosion,” he remarked, a faint smile breaking through his sourness.
“We better be getting on if we’re going to find those cars,” said Penk.
A grin of intense enjoyment94 appeared upon Ridley’s face. “‘E’s bumped against something.”
“Oh — shut it!” said Penk.
But the thing was too good to keep back. “One of these girls ‘it ’im.”
“What do you mean?” said Mr. Barnstaple. “You haven’t been taking liberties —?”
“I ‘ave not,” said Penk. “But as Mr. Ridley’s been so obliging as to start the topic I suppose I got to tell wot ‘appened. It jest illustrates95 the uncertainties96 of being among a lot of ‘arf-savage, ‘arf-crazy people, like we got among.”
Ridley smiled and winked97 at Mr. Barnstaple. “Regular ‘ard clout98 she gave ’im. Knocked him over. ‘E put ‘is ‘and on ‘er shoulder and clop! over ‘e went. Never saw anything like it.”
“Rather unfortunate,” said Mr. Barnstaple.
“It all ‘appened in a second like.”
“It’s a pity it happened.”
“Don’t you go making any mistake about it, Mister, and don’t you go running off with any false ideas about it,” said Penk. “I don’t want the story to get about — it might do me a lot of ‘arm with Mr. Burleigh. Pity Mr. Ridley couldn’t ‘old ‘is tongue. What provoked her I do not know. She came into my room as I was getting up, and she wasn’t what you might call wearing anything, and she looked a bit saucy99, to my way of thinking, and — well, something come into my head to say to her, something — well, just the least little bit sporty, so to speak. One can’t always control one’s thoughts — can one? A man’s a man. If a man’s expected to be civil in his private thoughts to girls without a stitch, so to speak — well! I dunno. I really do not know. It’s against nature. I never said it, whatever it was I thought of. Mr. Ridley ’ere will bear me out. I never said a word to her. I ‘adn’t opened my lips when she hit me. Knocked me over, she did — like a ninepin. Didn’t even seem angry about it. A ‘ook-‘it — sideways. It was surprise as much as anything floored me.”
“But Ridley says you touched her.”
“Laid me ‘and on ‘er shoulder perhaps, in a sort of fatherly way. As she was turning to go — not being sure whether I wasn’t going to speak to her, I admit. And there you are! If I’m to get into trouble because I was wantonly ‘it —”
Penk conveyed despair of the world by an eloquent100 gesture.
Mr. Barnstaple considered. “I shan’t make trouble,” he said. “But all the same I think we must all be very careful with these Utopians. Their ways are not our ways.”
“Thank God!” said Ridley. “The sooner I get out of this world back to Old England, the better I shall like it.”
He turned to go.
“You should ‘ear ‘is lordship,” said Ridley over his shoulder. “‘E says it’s just a world of bally degenerates — rotten degenerates — in fact, if you’ll excuse me —@ * @ *! *! * $ * $ *! degenerates. Eh? That about gets ’em.”
“The young woman’s arm doesn’t seem to have been very degenerate,” said Mr. Barnstaple, standing101 the shock bravely.
“Don’t it?” said Ridley bitterly. “That’s all you know. Why! if there’s one sign more sure than another about degeneration it’s when women take to knocking men about. It’s against instink. In any respectable decent world such a thing couldn’t possibly ‘ave ‘appened. No ‘ow!”
“No —‘ow,” echoed Penk.
“In our world, such a girl would jolly soon ‘ave ‘er lesson. Jolly soon. See?”
But Mr. Barnstaple’s roving eye had suddenly discovered Father Amerton approaching very rapidly across a wide space of lawn and making arresting gestures. Mr. Barnstaple perceived he must act at once.
“Now here’s someone who will certainly be able to help you find your cars, if he cares to do so. He’s a most helpful man — Father Amerton. And the sort of views he has about women are the sort of views you have. You are bound to get on together. If you will stop him and put the whole case to him — plainly and clearly.”
He set off at a brisk pace towards the lake shore.
He could not be far now from the little summer-house that ran out over the water against which the gaily102 coloured boats were moored103.
If he were to get into one of these and pull out into the lake he would have Father Amerton at a very serious disadvantage. Even if that good man followed suit. One cannot have a really eloquent emotional scene when one is pulling hard in pursuit of another boat.
Section 6
As Mr. Barnstaple untied104 the bright white canoe with the big blue eye painted at its prow105 that he had chosen, Lady Stella appeared on the landing-stage. She came out of the pavilion that stood over the water, and something in her quick movement as she emerged suggested to Mr. Barnstaple’s mind that she had been hiding there. She glanced about her and spoke very eagerly. “Are you going to row out upon the lake, Mr. Bastaple? May I come?”
She was attired106, he noted, in a compromise between the Earthly and the Utopian style. She was wearing what might have been either a very simple custard-coloured tea-robe or a very sophisticated bath-wrap; it left her slender, pretty arms bare and free except for a bracelet107 of amber6 and gold, and on her bare feet — and they were unusually shapely feet — were sandals. Her head was bare, and her dark hair very simply done with a little black and gold fillet round it that suited her intelligent face. Mr. Barnstaple was an ignoramus about feminine costume, but he appreciated the fact that she had been clever in catching108 the Utopian note.
He helped her into the canoe. “We will paddle right out — a good way,” she said with another glance over her shoulder, and sat down.
For a time Mr. Barnstaple paddled straight out so that he had nothing before him but sunlit water and sky, the low hills that closed in the lake towards the great plain, the huge pillars of the distant dam, and Lady Stella. She affected109 to be overcome by the beauty of the Conference garden slope with its houses and terraces behind him, but he could see that she was not really looking at the scene as a whole, but searching it restlessly for some particular object or person.
She made conversational110 efforts, on the loveliness of the morning and on the fact that birds were singing —“in July.”
“But here it is not necessarily July,” said Mr. Barnstaple.
“How stupid of me! Of course not.”
“We seem to be in a fine May.”
“It is probably very early,” she said. “I forgot to wind my watch.”
“Oddly enough we seem to be at about the same hours in our two worlds,” said Mr. Barnstaple. “My wrist-watch says seven.”
“No,” said Lady Stella, answering her own thoughts and with her eyes on the distant gardens. “That is a Utopian girl. Have you met any others — of our party — this morning?”
Mr. Barnstaple brought the canoe round so that he too could look at the shore. From here they could see how perfectly the huge terraces and avalanche walls and gullies mingled111 and interwove with the projecting ribs112 and cliffs of the mountain masses behind. The shrub113 tangles114 passed up into hanging pinewoods; the torrents115 and cascades116 from the snow-field above were caught and distributed amidst the emerald slopes and gardens of the Conference Park. The terraces that retained the soil and held the whole design spread out on either hand to a great distance and were continued up into the mountain substance; they were built of a material that ranged through a wide variety of colours from a deep red to a purple-veined white, and they were diversified117 by great arches over torrents and rock gullies, by huge round openings that spouted118 water and by cascades of steps. The buildings of the place were distributed over these terraces and over the grassy119 slopes they contained, singly or in groups and clusters, buildings of purple and blue and white as light and delicate as the Alpine120 flowers about them. For some moments Mr. Barnstaple was held silent by this scene, and then he attended to Lady Stella’s question. “I met Mr. Rupert Catskill and the two chauffeurs,” he said, “and I saw Father Amerton and Lord Barralonga and M. Dupont in the distance. I’ve seen nothing of Mr. Mush or Mr. Burleigh.”
“Mr. Cecil won’t be about for hours yet. He will lie in bed until ten or eleven. He always takes a good rest in the morning when there is any great mental exertion121 before him.”
The lady hesitated and then asked: “I suppose you haven’t seen Miss Greeta Grey?”
“No,” said Mr. Barnstaple. “I wasn’t looking for our people. I was just strolling about — and avoiding somebody.”
“The censor122 of manners and costumes?”
“Yes. . . . That, in fact, is why I took to this canoe.”
The lady reflected and decided123 on a confidence.
“I was running away from someone too.”
“Not the preacher?”
“Miss Grey!”
Lady Stella apparently went off at a tangent. “This is going to be a very difficult world to stay in. These people have very delicate taste. We may easily offend them.”
“They are intelligent enough to understand.”
“Do people who understand necessarily forgive? I’ve always doubted that proverb.”
Mr. Barnstaple did not wish the conversation to drift away into generalities, so he paddled and said nothing.
“You see Miss Grey used to play Phryne in a Revue.”
“I seem to remember something about it. There was a fuss in the newspapers.”
“That perhaps gave her a bias124.”
Three long sweeps with the paddle.
“But this morning she came to me and told me that she was going to wear complete Utopian costume.”
“Meaning?”
“A little rouge125 and face powder. It doesn’t suit her the least little bit, Mr. Bastaple. It’s a faux pas. It’s indecent. But she’s running about the gardens —. She might meet anyone. It’s lucky Mr. Cecil isn’t up. If she meets Father Amerton —! But it’s best not to think of that. You see, Mr. Bastaple, these Utopians and their sun-brown bodies — and everything, are in the picture. They don’t embarrass me. But Miss Grey —. An earthly civilized126 woman taken out of her clothes looks taken out of her clothes. Peeled. A sort of bleached127 white. That nice woman who seems to hover128 round us, Lychnis, when she advised me what to wear, never for one moment suggested anything of the sort. . . . But, of course, I don’t know Miss Grey well enough to talk to her and besides, one never knows how a woman of that sort is going to take a thing. . . . ”
Mr. Barnstaple stared shoreward. Nothing was to be seen of an excessively visible Miss Greeta Grey. Then he had a conviction. “Lychnis will take care of her,” he said.
“I hope she will. Perhaps, if we stay out here for a time —”
“She will be looked after,” said Mr. Barnstaple. “But I think Miss Grey and Lord Barralonga’s party generally are going to make trouble for us. I wish they hadn’t come through with us.”
“Mr. Cecil thinks that,” said Lady Stella.
“Naturally we shall all be thrown very much together and judged in a lump.”
“Naturally,” Lady Stella echoed.
She said no more for a little while. But it was evident that she had more to say. Mr. Barnstaple paddled slowly.
“Mr. Bastaple,” she began presently.
Mr. Barnstaple’s paddle became still.
“Mr. Bastaple — are you afraid?”
Mr. Barnstaple judged himself. “I have been too full of wonder to be afraid.”
Lady Stella decided to confess. “I am afraid,” she said. “I wasn’t at first. Everything seemed to go so easily and simply. But in the night I woke up — horribly afraid.”
“No,” considered Mr. Barnstaple. “No. It hasn’t taken me like that — yet. . . . Perhaps it will.”
Lady Stella leant forward and spoke confidentially129, watching the effect of her words on Mr. Barnstaple. “These Utopians — I thought at first they were just simple, healthy human beings, artistic130 and innocent. But they are not, Mr. Bastaple. There is something hard and complicated about them, something that goes beyond us and that we don’t understand. And they don’t care for us. They look at us with heartless eyes. Lychnis is kind, but hardly any of the others are the least bit kind. And I think they find us inconvenient131.”
Mr. Barnstaple thought it over. “Perhaps they do. I have been so preoccupied132 with admiration133 — so much of this is fine beyond dreaming — that I have not thought very much how we affected them. But — yes — they seem to be busy about other things and not very attentive134 to us. Except the ones who have evidently been assigned to watch and study us. And Lord Barralonga’s headlong rush through the country must certainly have been inconvenient.”
“He killed a man.”
“I know.”
They remained thoughtfully silent for some moments.
“And there are other things,” Lady Stella resumed. “They think quite differently from our way of thinking. I believe they despise us already. I noted something. . . . Last evening you were not with us by the lake when Mr. Cecil asked them about their philosophy. He told them things about Hegel and Bergson and Lord Haldane and his own wonderful scepticism. He opened out — unusually. It was very interesting — to me. But I was watching Urthred and Lion and in the midst of it I saw — I am convinced — they were talking to each other in that silent way they have, about something quite different. They were just shamming135 attention. And when Freddy Mush tried to interest them in Neo–Georgian poetry and the effect of the war upon literature, and how he hoped that they had something half as beautiful as the Iliad in Utopia, though he confessed he couldn’t believe they had, they didn’t even pretend to listen. They did not answer him at all. . . . Our minds don’t matter a bit to them.”
“In these subjects. They are three thousand years further on. But we might be interesting as learners.”
“Would it have been interesting to have taken a Hottentot about London explaining things to him — after one had got over the first fun of showing off his ignorance? Perhaps it would. But I don’t think they want us here very much and I don’t think they are going to like us very much, and I don’t know what they are likely to do to us if we give too much trouble. And so I am afraid.”
She broke out in a new place. “In the night I was reminded of my sister Mrs. Kelling’s monkeys.
“It’s a mania136 with her. They run about the gardens and come into the house and the poor things are always in trouble. They don’t quite know what they may do and what they may not do; they all look frightfully worried and they get slapped and carried to the door and thrown out and all sorts of things like that. They spoil things and make her guests uneasy. You never seem to know what a monkey’s going to do. And everybody hates to have them about except my sister. And she keeps on scolding them. ‘Come down, Jacko! Put that down, Sadie’!”
Mr. Barnstaple laughed. “It isn’t going to be quite so bad as that with us, Lady Stella. We are not monkeys.”
She laughed too. “Perhaps it isn’t. But all the same — in the night — I felt it might be. We are inferior creatures, One has to admit it. . . . ”
She knitted her brows. Her pretty face expressed great intellectual effort. “Do you realize how we are cut off? . . . Perhaps you will think it silly of me, Mr. Bastaple, but last night before I went to bed I sat down to write my sister a letter and tell her all about things while they were fresh in my mind. And suddenly realized I might as well write — to Julius Caesar.”
Mr. Barnstaple hadn’t thought of that.
“That’s a thing I can’t get out of my head, Mr. Bastaple — no letters, no telegrams, no newspapers, no Bradshaw in Utopia. All the things we care for really — All the people we live for. Cut off! I don’t know for how long. But completely cut off. . . . How long are they likely to keep us here?”
Mr. Barnstaple’s face became speculative137.
“Are you sure they can ever send us back?” the lady asked.
“There seems to be some doubt. But they are astonishingly clever people.”
“It seemed so easy coming here — just as if one walked round a corner — but, of course, properly speaking we are out of space and time. . . . More out of it even than dead people. . . . The North Pole or Central Africa is a whole universe nearer home than we are. . . . It’s hard to grasp that. In this sunlight it all seems so bright and familiar. . . . Yet last night there were moments when I wanted to scream. . . . ”
She stopped short and scanned the shore. Then very deliberately138 she sniffed139.
Mr. Barnstaple became aware of a peculiarly sharp and appetizing smell drifting across the water to him.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s breakfast bacon!” cried Lady Stella with a squeak140 in her voice.
“Exactly as Mr. Burleigh told them,” said Mr. Barnstaple mechanically turning the canoe shoreward.
“Breakfast bacon! That’s the most reassuring141 thing that has happened yet. . . . Perhaps after all it was silly to feel frightened. And there they are signalling to us!” She waved her arm.
“Greeta in a white robe — as you prophesied142 — and Mr. Mush in a sort of toga talking to her. . . . Where could he have got that toga?”
A faint sound of voices calling reached them.
“Com — ing!” cried Lady Stella.
“I hope I haven’t been pessimistic,” said Lady Stella. “But I felt horrid143 in the night.”
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1
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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10
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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12
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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13
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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25
stewing
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| 炖 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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30
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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38
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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40
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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41
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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42
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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43
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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44
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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45
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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46
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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48
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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49
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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50
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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51
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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52
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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53
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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54
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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55
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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56
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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57
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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58
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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59
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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60
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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61
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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62
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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63
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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64
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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65
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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66
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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67
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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68
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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70
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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71
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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72
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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73
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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74
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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75
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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76
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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77
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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78
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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79
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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80
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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81
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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83
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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84
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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86
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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87
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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88
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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89
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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90
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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91
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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92
decadents
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| n.颓废派艺术家（decadent的复数形式） | |
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93
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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95
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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96
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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97
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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98
clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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99
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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100
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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101
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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102
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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103
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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104
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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105
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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106
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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108
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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109
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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111
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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116
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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117
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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118
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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119
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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121
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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122
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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125
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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128
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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132
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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133
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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134
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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shamming
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| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
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136
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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137
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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139
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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140
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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141
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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142
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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