The time came for my departure from Tahiti. According to the gracious custom of the island, presents were given me by the persons with whom I had been thrown in contact—baskets made of the leaves of the cocoa-nut tree, mats of pandanus, fans; and Tiaré gave me three little pearls and three jars of guava-jelly made with her own plump hands. When the mail-boat, stopping for twenty-four hours on its way from Wellington to San Francisco, blew the whistle that warned the passengers to get on board, Tiaré clasped me to her vast bosom2, so that I seemed to sink into a billowy sea, and pressed her red lips to mine. Tears glistened3 in her eyes. And when we steamed slowly out of the lagoon4, making our way gingerly through the opening in the reef, and then steered5 for the open sea, a certain melancholy6 fell upon me. The breeze was laden7 still with the pleasant odours of the land. Tahiti is very far away, and I knew that I should never see it again. A chapter of my life was closed, and I felt a little nearer to inevitable8 death.
Not much more than a month later I was in London; and after I had arranged certain matters which claimed my immediate9 attention, thinking Mrs. Strickland might like to hear what I knew of her husband’s last years, I wrote to her. I had not seen her since long before the war, and I had to look out her address in the telephone-book. She made an appointment, and I went to the trim little house on Campden Hill which she now inhabited. She was by this time a woman of hard on sixty, but she bore her years well, and no one would have taken her for more than fifty. Her face, thin and not much lined, was of the sort that ages gracefully11, so that you thought in youth she must have been a much handsomer woman than in fact she was. Her hair, not yet very gray, was becomingly arranged, and her black gown was modish12. I remembered having heard that her sister, Mrs. MacAndrew, outliving her husband but a couple of years, had left money to Mrs. Strickland; and by the look of the house and the trim maid who opened the door I judged that it was a sum adequate to keep the widow in modest comfort.
When I was ushered13 into the drawing-room I found that Mrs. Strickland had a visitor, and when I discovered who he was, I guessed that I had been asked to come at just that time not without intention. The caller was Mr. Van Busche Taylor, an American, and Mrs. Strickland gave me particulars with a charming smile of apology to him.
“You know, we English are so dreadfully ignorant. You must forgive me if it’s necessary to explain.” Then she turned to me. “Mr. Van Busche Taylor is the distinguished14 American critic. If you haven’t read his book your education has been shamefully15 neglected, and you must repair the omission16 at once. He’s writing something about dear Charlie, and he’s come to ask me if I can help him.”
Mr. Van Busche Taylor was a very thin man with a large, bald head, bony and shining; and under the great dome18 of his skull19 his face, yellow, with deep lines in it, looked very small. He was quiet and exceedingly polite. He spoke20 with the accent of New England, and there was about his demeanour a bloodless frigidity21 which made me ask myself why on earth he was busying himself with Charles Strickland. I had been slightly tickled22 at the gentleness which Mrs. Strickland put into her mention of her husband’s name, and while the pair conversed23 I took stock of the room in which we sat. Mrs. Strickland had moved with the times. Gone were the Morris papers and gone the severe cretonnes, gone were the Arundel prints that had adorned24 the walls of her drawing-room in Ashley Gardens; the room blazed with fantastic colour, and I wondered if she knew that those varied25 hues26, which fashion had imposed upon her, were due to the dreams of a poor painter in a South Sea island. She gave me the answer herself.
“What wonderful cushions you have,” said Mr. Van Busche Taylor.
“Do you like them?” she said, smiling. “Bakst, you know.”
And yet on the walls were coloured reproductions of several of Strickland’s best pictures, due to the enterprise of a publisher in Berlin.
“You’re looking at my pictures,” she said, following my eyes. “Of course, the originals are out of my reach, but it’s a comfort to have these. The publisher sent them to me himself. They’re a great consolation27 to me.”
“They must be very pleasant to live with,” said Mr. Van Busche Taylor.
“Yes; they’re so essentially28 decorative29.”
“That is one of my profoundest convictions,” said Mr. Van Busche Taylor. “Great art is always decorative.”
Their eyes rested on a nude30 woman suckling a baby, while a girl was kneeling by their side holding out a flower to the indifferent child. Looking over them was a wrinkled, scraggy hag. It was Strickland’s version of the Holy Family. I suspected that for the figures had sat his household above Taravao, and the woman and the baby were Ata and his first son. I asked myself if Mrs. Strickland had any inkling of the facts.
The conversation proceeded, and I marvelled31 at the tact1 with which Mr. Van Busche Taylor avoided all subjects that might have been in the least embarrassing, and at the ingenuity32 with which Mrs. Strickland, without saying a word that was untrue, insinuated33 that her relations with her husband had always been perfect. At last Mr. Van Busche Taylor rose to go. Holding his hostess’ hand, he made her a graceful10, though perhaps too elaborate, speech of thanks, and left us.
“I hope he didn’t bore you,” she said, when the door closed behind him. “Of course it’s a nuisance sometimes, but I feel it’s only right to give people any information I can about Charlie. There’s a certain responsibility about having been the wife of a genius.”
She looked at me with those pleasant eyes of hers, which had remained as candid34 and as sympathetic as they had been more than twenty years before. I wondered if she was making a fool of me.
“Of course you’ve given up your business,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” she answered airily. “I ran it more by way of a hobby than for any other reason, and my children persuaded me to sell it. They thought I was overtaxing my strength.”
I saw that Mrs. Strickland had forgotten that she had ever done anything so disgraceful as to work for her living. She had the true instinct of the nice woman that it is only really decent for her to live on other people’s money.
“They’re here now,” she said. “I thought they’d, like to hear what you had to say about their father. You remember Robert, don’t you? I’m glad to say he’s been recommended for the Military Cross.”
She went to the door and called them. There entered a tall man in khaki, with the parson’s collar, handsome in a somewhat heavy fashion, but with the frank eyes that I remembered in him as a boy. He was followed by his sister. She must have been the same age as was her mother when first I knew her, and she was very like her. She too gave one the impression that as a girl she must have been prettier than indeed she was.
“I suppose you don’t remember them in the least,” said Mrs. Strickland, proud and smiling. “My daughter is now Mrs. Ronaldson. Her husband’s a Major in the Gunners.”
“He’s by way of being a pukka soldier, you know,” said Mrs. Ronaldson gaily35. “That’s why he’s only a Major.”
I remembered my anticipation36 long ago that she would marry a soldier. It was inevitable. She had all the graces of the soldier’s wife. She was civil and affable, but she could hardly conceal37 her intimate conviction that she was not quite as others were. Robert was breezy.
“It’s a bit of luck that I should be in London when you turned up,” he said. “I’ve only got three days’ leave.”
“He’s dying to get back,” said his mother.
“Well, I don’t mind confessing it, I have a rattling38 good time at the front. I’ve made a lot of good pals39. It’s a first-rate life. Of course war’s terrible, and all that sort of thing; but it does bring out the best qualities in a man, there’s no denying that.”
Then I told them what I had learned about Charles Strickland in Tahiti. I thought it unnecessary to say anything of Ata and her boy, but for the rest I was as accurate as I could be. When I had narrated40 his lamentable41 death I ceased. For a minute or two we were all silent. Then Robert Strickland struck a match and lit a cigarette.
“The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small,” he said, somewhat impressively.
Mrs. Strickland and Mrs. Ronaldson looked down with a slightly pious42 expression which indicated, I felt sure, that they thought the quotation43 was from Holy Writ17. Indeed, I was unconvinced that Robert Strickland did not share their illusion. I do not know why I suddenly thought of Strickland’s son by Ata. They had told me he was a merry, light-hearted youth. I saw him, with my mind’s eye, on the schooner44 on which he worked, wearing nothing but a pair of dungarees; and at night, when the boat sailed along easily before a light breeze, and the sailors were gathered on the upper deck, while the captain and the supercargo lolled in deck-chairs, smoking their pipes, I saw him dance with another lad, dance wildly, to the wheezy music of the concertina. Above was the blue sky, and the stars, and all about the desert of the Pacific Ocean.
A quotation from the Bible came to my lips, but I held my tongue, for I know that clergymen think it a little blasphemous45 when the laity46 poach upon their preserves. My Uncle Henry, for twenty-seven years Vicar of Whitstable, was on these occasions in the habit of saying that the devil could always quote scripture47 to his purpose. He remembered the days when you could get thirteen Royal Natives for a shilling.
1 tact [tækt] 第7级 | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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2 bosom [ˈbʊzəm] 第7级 | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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3 glistened [ˈglɪsənd] 第8级 | |
v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4 lagoon [ləˈgu:n] 第10级 | |
n.泻湖,咸水湖 | |
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5 steered [stiəd] 第7级 | |
v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 );操纵;控制;引导 | |
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6 melancholy [ˈmelənkəli] 第8级 | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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7 laden [ˈleɪdn] 第9级 | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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8 inevitable [ɪnˈevɪtəbl] 第7级 | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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9 immediate [ɪˈmi:diət] 第7级 | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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10 graceful [ˈgreɪsfl] 第7级 | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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11 gracefully ['greisfuli] 第7级 | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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12 modish [ˈməʊdɪʃ] 第12级 | |
adj.流行的,时髦的 | |
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13 ushered [ˈʌʃəd] 第8级 | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14 distinguished [dɪˈstɪŋgwɪʃt] 第8级 | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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15 shamefully ['ʃeɪmfəlɪ] 第8级 | |
可耻地; 丢脸地; 不体面地; 羞耻地 | |
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16 omission [əˈmɪʃn] 第9级 | |
n.省略,删节;遗漏或省略的事物,冗长 | |
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17 writ [rɪt] 第11级 | |
n.命令状,书面命令 | |
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18 dome [dəʊm] 第7级 | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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19 skull [skʌl] 第7级 | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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20 spoke [spəʊk] 第11级 | |
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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21 frigidity [frɪˈdʒɪdəti] 第9级 | |
n.寒冷;冷淡;索然无味;(尤指妇女的)性感缺失 | |
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22 tickled [ˈtikld] 第9级 | |
(使)发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)愉快,逗乐 | |
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23 conversed [kənˈvə:st] 第7级 | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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24 adorned [əˈdɔ:nd] 第8级 | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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25 varied [ˈveərid] 第8级 | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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26 hues [hju:z] 第10级 | |
色彩( hue的名词复数 ); 色调; 信仰; 观点 | |
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27 consolation [ˌkɒnsəˈleɪʃn] 第10级 | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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28 essentially [ɪˈsenʃəli] 第8级 | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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29 decorative [ˈdekərətɪv] 第9级 | |
adj.装饰的,可作装饰的 | |
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30 nude [nju:d] 第10级 | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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31 marvelled [ˈmɑ:vəld] 第7级 | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32 ingenuity [ˌɪndʒəˈnju:əti] 第7级 | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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33 insinuated [ɪnˈsɪnju:ˌeɪtid] 第10级 | |
v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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34 candid [ˈkændɪd] 第9级 | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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35 gaily [ˈgeɪli] 第11级 | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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36 anticipation [ænˌtɪsɪˈpeɪʃn] 第8级 | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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37 conceal [kənˈsi:l] 第7级 | |
vt.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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38 rattling [ˈrætlɪŋ] 第7级 | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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39 pals [pælz] 第8级 | |
n.朋友( pal的名词复数 );老兄;小子;(对男子的不友好的称呼)家伙 | |
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40 narrated [ˈnærˌeɪtid] 第7级 | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41 lamentable [ˈlæməntəbl] 第11级 | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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42 pious [ˈpaɪəs] 第9级 | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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43 quotation [kwəʊˈteɪʃn] 第7级 | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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44 schooner [ˈsku:nə(r)] 第12级 | |
n.纵帆船 | |
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45 blasphemous ['blæsfəməs] 第11级 | |
adj.亵渎神明的,不敬神的 | |
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