Philip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him; and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf.
The houses in the street which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere , silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down at once.
He asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him and cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do without that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she intimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to receive his rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer’s round the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who would ‘do’ for him.
Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had offered a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in August, he had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds Philip bought himself whatever else was essential.
He spent ten shillings on putting a corn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on the walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands Augustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet’s Olympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while he shaved.
To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel Ajuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance .
He wondered what had happened to Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair had sought death in the turbidSeine; but perhaps with his Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to politics and bull-fighting.
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菲利普邀请劳森和海沃德前来参观他乔迁的新居。他们俩践约而来,一个人手里拎了瓶威士忌酒,另一个人拿了包pate de foie gras。听到他们俩对自己的眼力啧啧称赞时,菲利普心里美极了。他本想把那位当证券经纪人的苏格兰佬一并请来热闹一番,无奈他只有三张椅子,只能招待两位客人,多请一位就没椅子啦。劳森知道菲利普正是通过他才同诺拉·内斯比特结识的。此时,他同菲利普说起了几天前他邂遇诺拉的事儿。
withE
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Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras; and he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could entertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that through him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked that he had run across her a few days before.
Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked at him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.
Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked suddenly:
Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated him so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her abominably .
‘If I’d only had the sense to stick to her!’ he said to himself, afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last pipe before going to bed.
He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play, and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He recollected her solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting , there was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal ; he had always known that it was a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods.
He made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she was incapable of malice . Should he write to her? No. He would break in on her suddenly and cast himself at her feet—he knew that when the time came he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how he liked to think of it—and tell her that if she would take him back she might rely on him for ever.
He was cured of the hateful disease from which he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His imagination leaped forward to the future.
He pictured himself rowing with her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk: he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter , which poured out like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of character. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad dream.
But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed him. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would be abominable of him to force himself on her presence. The door was opened by a maid new since he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs. Nesbit was in.
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"请你去问她能否见见凯里先生?"菲利普说,"我在这里等回话。"
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‘Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here.’
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那位女用人噔噔奔上楼去,不一会儿,又噔噔奔了下来。
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The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.
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"先生,请您上楼。二楼前面那个房间。"
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‘Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front.’
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"我知道,"菲利普说着,脸上绽出一丝微笑。
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‘I know,’ said Philip, with a slight smile.
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菲利普怀着一颗怦怦直跳的心走进屋去。他笃笃敲着房门。
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He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.
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"请进,"那个熟悉的、欢快的声音说道。
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‘Come in,’ said the well-known, cheerful voice.
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这个声音好比是在招呼他走到充满恬静、幸福的新大地里去。他的脚一跨入房间,诺拉便迎上前来。
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It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he entered Norah stepped forward to greet him.
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她同菲利普握了握手,仿佛他们俩前一天才分手似的。这当儿,一个男人倏地站了起来。
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She shook hands with him as if they had parted the day before. A man stood up.
Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name, but he seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home. He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men get when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of more than average height, and broad-shouldered.
‘I was wondering what had become of you,’ said Norah, in her sprightly manner. ‘I met Mr. Lawson the other day—did he tell you?—and I informed him that it was really high time you came to see me again.’
Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance , and he admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about to put sugar in it when he stopped her.
He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never took sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance was affected .
The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice of him. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated Philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah.