The Rainbow-虹(英文版)-第86部分

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was　rather　surprised　when　he　found　that　he　had　spent　twenty
pounds　in　a　little　under　a　week；　but　it　was　only　the　irritation
of　having　to　go　to　the　bank。　The　machinery　of　the　old　system
lasted　for　him；　not　the　system。　The　money　simply　did　not
exist。

Neither　did　any　of　the　old　obligations。　They　came　home　from
the　theatre；　had　supper；　then　flitted　about　in　their
dressinggowns。　They　had　a　large　bedroom　and　a　corner
sittingroom　high　up；　remote　and　very　cosy。　They　ate　all　their
meals　in　their　own　rooms；　attended　by　a　young　German　called
Hans；　who　thought　them　both　wonderful；　and　answered
assiduously：

〃Gewiss；　Herr　Baronbitte　sehr；　Frau
Baronin。〃

Often；　they　saw　the　pink　of　dawn　away　across　the　park。　The
tower　of　Westminster　Cathedral　was　emerging；　the　lamps　of
Piccadilly；　stringing　away　beside　the　trees　of　the　park；　were
being　pale　and　mothlike；　the　morning　traffic　was
clockclocking　down　the　shadowy　road；　which　had　gleamed　all
night　like　metal；　down　below；　running　far　ahead　into　the　night；
beneath　the　lamps；　and　which　was　now　vague；　as　in　a　mist；
because　of　the　dawn。

Then；　as　the　flush　of　dawn　became　stronger；　they　opened　the
glass　doors　and　went　on　to　the　giddy　balcony；　feeling　triumphant
as　two　angels　in　bliss；　looking　down　at　the　still　sleeping
world；　which　would　wake　to　a　dutiful；　rumbling；　sluggish　turmoil
of　unreality。

＇But　the　air　was　cold。　They　went　into　their　bedroom；　and　bathed　before
going　to　bed；　leaving　the　partition　doors　of　the　bathroom　open；　so　that
the　vapour　came　into　the　bedroom　and　faintly　dimmed　the　mirror。　She　was
always　in　bed　first。　She　watched　him　as　he　bathed；　his　quick；　unconscious
movements；　the　electric　light　glinting　on　his　wet　shoulders。　He　stood　out
of　the　bath；　his　hair　all　washed　flat　over　his　forehead；　and　pressed　the
water　out　of　his　eyes。　He　was　slender；　and；　to　her；　perfect；　a　clean；
straightcut　youth；　without　a　grain　of　superfluous　body。　The　brown　hair　on
his　body　was　soft　and　fine　and　adorable；　he　was　all　beautifully　flushed；
as　he　stood　in　the　white　bathapartment。

He　saw　her　warm；　dark；　litup　face　watching　him　from　the　pillowyet
he　did　not　see　itit　was　always　present；　and　was　to　him　as　his　own
eyes。　He　was　never　aware　of　the　separate　being　of　her。　She　was　like　his
own　eyes　and　his　own　heart　beating　to　him。

So　he　went　across　to　her；　to　get　his　sleeping　suit。　It　was　always　a
perfect　adventure　to　go　near　to　her。　She　put　her　arms　round　him；　and
snuffed　his　warm；　softened　skin。

〃Scent；〃　she　said。

〃Soap；〃　he　answered。

〃Soap；〃　she　repeated；　looking　up　with　bright　eyes。　They　were　both
laughing；　always　laughing。＇

Soon　they　were　fast　asleep；　asleep　till　midday；　close
together；　sleeping　one　sleep。　Then　they　awoke　to　the
everchanging　reality　of　their　state。　They　alone　inhabited　the
world　of　reality。　All　the　rest　lived　on　a　lower　sphere。

Whatever　they　wanted　to　do；　they　did。　They　saw　a　few
peopleDorothy；　whose　guest　she　was　supposed　to　be；　and　a
couple　of　friends　of　Skrebensky；　young　Oxford　men；　who　called
her　Mrs。　Skrebensky　with　entire　simplicity。　They　treated　her；
indeed；　with　such　respect；　that　she　began　to　think　she　was
really　quite　of　the　whole　universe；　of　the　old　world　as　well　as
of　the　new。　She　fot　she　was　outside　the　pale　of　the　old
world。　She　thought　she　had　brought　it　under　the　spell　of　her
own；　real　world。　And　so　she　had。

In　such　everchanging　reality　the　weeks　went　by。　All　the
time；　they　were　an　unknown　world　to　each　other。　Every　movement
made　by　the　one　was　a　reality　and　an　adventure　to　the　other。
They　did　not　want　outside　excitements。　They　went　to　very　few
theatres；　they　were　often　in　their　sittingroom　high　up　over
Piccadilly；　with　windows　open　on　two　sides；　and　the　door　open　on
to　the　balcony；　looking　over　the　Green　Park；　or　down　upon　the
minute　travelling　of　the　traffic。

Then　suddenly；　looking　at　a　sunset；　she　wanted　to　go。　She
must　be　gone。　She　must　be　gone　at　once。　And　in　two　hours'　time
they　were　at　Charing　Cross　taking　train　for　Paris。　Paris　was　his
suggestion。　She　did　not　care　where　it　was。　The　great　joy　was　in
setting　out。　And　for　a　few　days　she　was　happy　in　the　novelty　of
Paris。

Then；　for　some　reason；　she　must　call　in　Rouen　on　the　way　back
to　London。　He　had　an　instinctive　mistrust　of　her　desire　for　the
place。　But；　perversely；　she　wanted　to　go　there。　It　was　as　if　she
wanted　to　try　its　effect　upon　her。

For　the　first　time；　in　Rouen；　he　had　a　cold　feeling　of　death；
not　afraid　of　any　other　man；　but　of　her。　She　seemed　to　leave
him。　She　followed　after　something　that　was　not　him。　She　did　not
want　him。　The　old　streets；　the　cathedral；　the　age　and　the
monumental　peace　of　the　town　took　her　away　from　him。　She　turned
to　it　as　if　to　something　she　had　fotten；　and　wanted。　This　was
now　the　reality；　this　great　stone　cathedral　slumbering　there　in
its　mass；　which　knew　no　transience　nor　heard　any　denial。　It　was
majestic　in　its　stability；　its　splendid　absoluteness。

Her　soul　began　to　run　by　itself。　He　did　not　realize；　nor　did
she。　Yet　in　Rouen　he　had　the　first　deadly　anguish；　the　first
sense　of　the　death　towards　which　they　were　wandering。　And　she
felt　the　first　heavy　yearning；　heavy；　heavy　hopeless　warning；
almost　like　a　deep；　uneasy　sinking　into　apathy；
hopelessness。

They　returned　to　London。　But　still　they　had　two　days。　He
began　to　tremble；　he　grew　feverish　with　the　fear　of　her
departure。　She　had　in　her　some　fatal　prescience；　that　made　her
calm。　What　would　be；　would　be。

He　remained　fairly　easy；　however；　still　in　his　state　of
heightened　glamour；　till　she　had　gone；　and　he　had　turned　away
from　St。　Pancras；　and　sat　on　the　tramcar　going　up　Pimlico　to
the　〃Angel〃；　to　Moate　Street　on　Sunday　evening。

Then　the　cold　horror　gradually　soaked　into　him。　He　saw　the
horror　of　the　City　Road；　he　realized　the　ghastly　cold　sordidness
of　the　tramcar　in　which　he　sat。　Cold；　stark；　ashen　sterility
had　him　surrounded。　Where　then　was　the　luminous；　wonderful　world
he　belonged　to　by　rights？　How　did　he　e　to　be　thrown　on　this
refuseheap　where　he　was？

He　was　as　if　mad。　The　horror　of　the　brick　buildings；　of　the
tramcar；　of　the　ashengrey　people　in　the　street　made　him
reeling　and　blind　as　if　drunk。　He　went　mad。　He　had　lived　with
her　in　a　close；　living；　pulsing　world；　where　everything　pulsed
with　rich　being。　Now　he　found　himself　struggling　amid　an
ashendry；　cold　world　of　rigidity；　dead　walls　and　mechanical
traffic；　and　creeping；　spectrelike　people。　The　life　was
extinct；　only　ash　moved　and　stirred　or　stood　rigid；　there　was　a
horrible；　clattering　activity；　a　rattle　like　the　falling　of　dry
slag；　cold　and　sterile。　It　was　as　if　the　sunshine　that　fell　were
unnatural　light　exposing　the　ash　of　the　town；　as　if　the　lights
at　night　were　the　sinister　gleam　of　deposition。

Quite　mad；　beside　himself；　he　went　to　his　club　and　sat　with　a
glass　of　whisky；　motionless；　as　if　turned　to　clay。　He　felt　like
a　corpse　that　is　inhabited　with　just　enough　life　to　make　it
appear　as　any　other　of　the　spectral；　unliving　beings　which　we
call　people　in　our　dead　language。　Her　absence　was　worse　than
pain　to　him。　It　destroyed　his　being。

Dead；　he　went　on　from　lunch　to　tea。　His　face　was　all　the　time
fixed　and　stiff　and　colourless；　his　life　was　a　dry；　mechanical
movement。　Yet　even　he　wondered　slightly　at　the　awful　misery　that
had　overe　him。　How　could　he　be　so　ashlike　and　extinct？　He
wrote　her　a　letter。

I　have　been　thinking　that　we　must　get　married　before　long。　My
pay　will　be　more　when　I　get　out　to　India；　we　shall　be　able　to
get　along。　Or　if　you　don't　want　to　go　to　India；　I　could　very
probably　stay　here　in　England。　But　I　think　you　would　like　India。
You　could　ride；　and　you　would　know　just　everybody　out　there。
Perhaps　if　you　stay　on　to　take　your　degree；　we　might　marry
immediately　after　that。　I　will　write　to　your　father　as　soon　as　I
hear　from　you

He　went　on；　disposing　of　her。　If　only　he　could　be　with　her！
All　he　wanted　now　was　to　marry　her；　to　be　sure　of　her。　Yet　all
the　time　he　was　perfectly；　perfectly　hopeless；　cold；　extinct；
without　emotion　or　connection。

He　felt　as　if　his　life　were　dead。　His　soul　was　extinct。　The
whole　being　of　him　had　bee　sterile；　he　was　a　spectre；
divorced　from　life。　He　had　no　fullness；　he　was　just　a　flat
shape。　Day　by　day　the　madness　accumulated　in　him。　The　horror　of
notbeing　possessed　him。

He　went　here；　there；　and　everywhere。　But　whatever　he　did；　he
knew　that　only　the　cipher　of　him　was　there；　nothing　was　filled
in。　He　went　to　the　theatre；　what　he　heard　and　saw　fell　upon　a
cold　surface　of　consciousness；　which　was　now　all　that　he　was；
there　was　nothing　behind　it；　he　could　have　no　experience　of　any
sort。　Mechanical　registering　took　place　in　him；　no　more。　He　had
no　being；　no　contents。　Neither　had　the　people　he　came　into
contact　with。　They　were　mere　permutations　of　known　quantities。
There　was　no　roundness　or　fullness　in　this　world　he　now
inhabited；　everything　was　a　dead　shape　mental　arrangement；
without　life　or　being。

Much　of　the　time；　he　was　with　friends　and　rades。　Then　he
fot　everything。　Their　activities　made　up　for　his　own
negation；　they　engaged　his　negative　horror。

He　only　became　happy　when　he　drank；　and　he　drank　a　good　deal。
Then　he　was　just　the　opposite　to　what　he　had　been。　He　became　a
warm；　diffuse；　glowing　cloud；　in　a　warm；　diffuse　formless
fashion。　Everything　melted　down　into　a　rosy　glow；　and　he　was　the
glow；　and　everything　was　the　glow；　everybody　else　was　the　glow；
and　it　was　very　nice；　very　nice。　He　would　sing　songs；　it　was　so
nice。

Ursula　went　back　to　Beldover　shut　and　firm。　She　loved
Skrebensky；　of　that　she　was　resolved。　She　would　allow　nothing
else。

She　read　his　long；　obsessed　letter　about　getting　married　and
going　to　India；　without　any　particular　response。　She　seemed　to
ignore　what　he　said　about　marriage。　It　did　not　e　home　to　her。
He　seemed；　throughout　the　greater　part　of　his　letter；　to　be
talking　without　much　meaning。

She　replied　to　him　pleasantly　and　easily。　She　rarely　wrote
long　letters。

India　sounds　lovely。　I　can　just　see　myself　on　an　elephant
swaying　between　lanes　of　obsequious　natives。　But　I　don't　know　if
father　would　let　me　go。　We　must　see。

I　keep　living　over　again　the　lovely　times　we　have　had。　But　I
don't　think　you　liked　me　quite　so　much　towards　the　end；　did　you？
You　did　not　like　me　when　we　left　Paris。　Why　didn't　you？

I　love　you　very　much。　I　love　your　body。　It　is　so　clear　and
fine。　I　am　glad　you　do　not　go　naked；　or　all　the　women　would　fall
in　love　with　you。　I　am　very　jealous　of　it；　I　love　it　so
much。

He　was　more　or　less　satisfied　with　this　letter。　But　day　after
day　he　was　walking　about；　dead；　nonexistent。

He　could　not　e　again　to　Nottingham　until　the　end　of　April。
Then　he　persuaded　her　to　go　with　him　for　a　weekend　to　a
friend's　house　near　Oxford。　By　this　time　they　were　engaged。　He
had　written　to　her　father；　and　the　thing　was　settled。　He　brought
her　an　emerald　ring；　of　which　she　was　very　proud。

Her　people　treated　her　now　with　a　little　distance；　as　if　she
had　already　left　them。　They　left　her　very　much　alone。

She　went　with　him　for　the　three　days　in　the　country　house
near　Oxford。　It　was　delicious；　and　she　was　very　happy。　But　the
thing　she　remembered　most　was　when；　getting　up　in　the　morning
af