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crome yellow(克罗姆·耶娄)-第22节

小说: crome yellow(克罗姆·耶娄) 字数: 每页4000字

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friends     about    him   at   the  last;  bidding     them    talk   to  him;   not   of   the 

consolations   of philosophy;  but   of love   and   gallantry;  while   the   life   was 

ebbing away through his opened veins。                Dipping his pen once more in the 

ink   he   wrote   on   the   last   page   of   his   diary: 'He   died   a   Roman   death。' 

Then; putting the toes of one foot into the water and finding that it was not 

too hot; he threw off his dressing…gown and; taking a razor in his hand; sat 

down   in   the   bath。    With   one   deep   cut   he   severed   the   artery   in   his   left 

wrist;   then   lay  back   and   composed   his   mind   to   meditation。        The   blood 

oozed   out;   floating   through   the   water   in   dissolving   wreaths   and   spirals。 

In a little while the whole bath was tinged with pink。 The colour deepened; 

Sir   Hercules   felt   himself   mastered   by   an   invincible   drowsiness;   he   was 

sinking from vague dream to dream。 Soon he was sound asleep。                            There 

was not much blood in his small body。〃 



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                            CHAPTER XIV。 



     For   their   after…luncheon   coffee   the   party   generally   adjourned   to   the 

library。    Its windows looked east; and at this hour of the day it was the 

coolest place in the whole house。            It was a large room; fitted; during the 

eighteenth century;  with   white painted shelves   of   an   elegant design。            In 

the   middle    of  one   wall   a  door;   ingeniously   upholstered       with   rows   of 

dummy  books;  gave   access   to   a   deep   cupboard;  where;   among   a   pile   of 

letter…files   and   old   newspapers;   the   mummy…case   of   an   Egyptian   lady; 

brought back by the second Sir Ferdinando on his return from the Grand 

Tour;   mouldered   in   the   darkness。      From   ten   yards   away   and   at   a   first 

glance; one might almost have mistaken this secret door for a section of 

shelving filled with genuine books。            Coffee…cup in hand; Mr。 Scogan was 

standing      in  front   of   the   dummy      book…shelf。     Between      the   sips   he 

discoursed。 

     〃The bottom shelf;〃 he was saying; 〃is taken up by an Encyclopaedia 

in   fourteen   volumes。      Useful;   but   a   little   dull;   as   is   also   Caprimulge's 

'Dictionary      of  the  Finnish    Language'。      The     'Biographical     Dictionary' 

looks     more    promising。      'Biography      of  Men     who    were    Born    Great'; 

'Biography of Men who Achieved Greatness'; 'Biography of Men who had 

Greatness   Thrust   upon   Them';   and   'Biography   of   Men   who   were   Never 

Great     at  All'。   Then     there   are   ten  volumes      of  'Thom's     Works    and 

Wanderings';   while   the   'Wild   Goose   Chase;   a   Novel';   by   an   anonymous 

author; fills no less than six。       But what's this; what's this?〃         Mr。 Scogan 

stood     on   tiptoe   and   peered    up。    〃Seven      volumes     of   the  'Tales   of 

Knockespotch'。        The   'Tales   of   Knockespotch';〃   he   repeated。       〃Ah;   my 

dear Henry;〃 he said; turning round; 〃these are your best books。                  I would 

willingly give all the rest of your library for them。〃 

     The   happy   possessor   of   a   multitude   of   first   editions;   Mr。   Wimbush 

could afford to smile indulgently。 

     〃Is it possible;〃 Mr。 Scogan went on; 〃that they possess nothing more 

than a back and a title?〃       He opened the cupboard door and peeped inside; 

as though he hoped to find the rest of the books behind it。                 〃Phooh!〃 he 

said;   and   shut   the   door   again。   〃It   smells   of   dust   and   mildew。   How 



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symbolical!       One comes to the great masterpieces of the past; expecting 

some     miraculous      illumination;    and   one    finds;  on   opening     them;   only 

darkness and dust and a faint smell of decay。                After all; what is reading 

but   a   vice;   like   drink  or   venery   or   any   other   form   of   excessive   self… 

indulgence?       One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; one reads; above 

all; to prevent oneself thinking。         Stillthe 'Tales of Knockespotch'。。。〃 

     He paused; and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backs of 

the non…existent; unattainable books。 

     〃But I disagree with you about reading;〃 said Mary。                  〃About serious 

reading; I mean。〃 

     〃Quite     right;  Mary;     quite   right;〃   Mr。   Scogan     answered。      〃I   had 

forgotten there were any serious people in the room。〃 

     〃I like the idea of the Biographies;〃 said Denis。             〃There's room for us 

all within the scheme; it's comprehensive。〃 

     〃Yes;   the   Biographies   are   good;   the   Biographies   are   excellent;〃   Mr 

Scogan agreed。        〃I imagine them written in a very elegant Regency style… 

…Brighton Pavilion in wordsperhaps by the great Dr。 Lempriere himself。 

You know his classical dictionary?            Ah!〃 Mr。 Scogan raised his hand and 

let it limply fall again in a gesture which implied that words failed him。 

〃Read his biography of Helen; read how Jupiter; disguised as a swan; was 

'enabled to avail himself of his situation' vis…a…vis to Leda。               And to think 

that   he   may    have;   must   have    written   these   biographies     of  the   Great! 

What   a   work;   Henry!       And;   owing   to   the   idiotic   arrangement   of   your 

library; it can't be read。〃 

     〃I   prefer   the   'Wild   Goose     Chase';〃    said  Anne。     〃A    novel    in  six 

volumesit must be restful。〃 

     〃Restful;〃   Mr。   Scogan   repeated。       〃You've   hit   on   the   right   word。   A 

'Wild Goose Chase' is sound; but a bit old…fashionedpictures of clerical 

life in the fifties; you know; specimens of the landed gentry; peasants for 

pathos     and   comedy;      and   in  the   background;      always     the  picturesque 

beauties of nature soberly described。             All very good and solid; but; like 

certain   puddings;   just   a   little   dull。 Personally;   I   like   much   better   the 

notion of   'Thom's Works   and Wanderings'。              The   eccentric   Mr。 Thom  of 

Thom's   Hill。     Old   Tom   Thom;   as   his   intimates   used   to   call   him。    He 



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spent ten years in Thibet organising the clarified butter industry on modern 

European       lines;  and   was   able   to  retire  at  thirty…six   with   a  handsome 

fortune。     The rest of his life he devoted to travel and ratiocination; here is 

the result。〃     Mr。 Scogan tapped the dummy books。                〃And now we come 

to the 'Tales of Knockespotch'。 What a masterpiece and what a great man! 

Knockespotch knew how to write fiction。                 Ah; Denis; if you could only 

read Knockespotch you wouldn't be writing a novel about the wearisome 

development   of   a   young   man's   character;   you   wouldn't   be   describing   in 

endless;   fastidious   detail;   cultured   life   in   Chelsea   and   Bloomsbury   and 

Hampstead。        You   would be trying to   write a   readable book。            But   then; 

alas!   owing   to   the   peculiar   arrangement   of   our   host's   library;   you   never 

will read Knockespotch。〃 

     〃Nobody could regret the fact more than I do;〃 said Denis。 

     〃It    was     Knockespotch;〃         Mr。     Scogan      continued;      〃the    great 

Knockespotch; who delivered us from the dreary tyranny of the realistic 

novel。     My   life;   Knockespotch   said;   is   not   so   long   that   I   can   afford   to 

spend     precious    hours    writing    or  reading    descriptions     of  middle…class 

interiors。    He said again; 'I am tired of seeing the human mind bogged in 

a   social   plenum;   I   prefer   to   paint   it   in   a   vacuum;   freely   and   sportively 

bombinating。'〃 

     〃I say;〃 said Gombauld; 〃Knockespotch was a little obscure sometimes; 

wasn't he?〃 

     〃He   was;〃     Mr。   Scogan   replied;    〃and   with   intention。    It   made    him 

seem   even     profounder      than   he  actually   was。    But    it  was   only   in  his 

aphorisms that he was so dark and oracular。                In his Tales he was always 

luminous。      Oh;   those   Talesthose   Tales!      How   shall   I   describe   them? 

Fabulous characters shoot across his pages like gaily dressed performers 

on    the   trapeze。    There      are  extraordi

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