manalive-第4节

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By　a　fortunate　physical　provision；　most　very　substantial　creatures
are　also　reposeful；　and　middle…class　boarding…houses　in　the　lesser
parts　of　London　are　not　built　for　a　man　as　big　as　a　bull　and　excitable
as　a　kitten。

When　Inglewood　followed　the　stranger　into　the　boarding…house；
he　found　him　talking　earnestly　（and　in　his　own　opinion　privately）
to　the　helpless　Mrs。　Duke。　　That　fat；　faint　lady　could　only
goggle　up　like　a　dying　fish　at　the　enormous　new　gentleman；
who　politely　offered　himself　as　a　lodger；　with　vast　gestures
of　the　wide　white　hat　in　one　hand；　and　the　yellow　Gladstone　bag
in　the　other。　　Fortunately；　Mrs。　Duke's　more　efficient　niece
and　partner　was　there　to　complete　the　contract；　for；　indeed；
all　the　people　of　the　house　had　somehow　collected　in　the　room。
This　fact；　in　truth；　was　typical　of　the　whole　episode。
The　visitor　created　an　atmosphere　of　comic　crisis；　and　from
the　time　he　came　into　the　house　to　the　time　he　left　it；　he　somehow
got　the　company　to　gather　and　even　follow　（though　in　derision）
as　children　gather　and　follow　a　Punch　and　Judy。　　An　hour　ago；
and　for　four　years　previously；　these　people　had　avoided
each　other；　even　when　they　had　really　liked　each　other。
They　had　slid　in　and　out　of　dismal　and　deserted　rooms　in　search
of　particular　newspapers　or　private　needlework。　　Even　now　they
all　came　casually；　as　with　varying　interests；　but　they　all　came。
There　was　the　embarrassed　Inglewood；　still　a　sort　of　red　shadow；
there　was　the　unembarrassed　Warner；　a　pallid　but　solid　substance。
There　was　Michael　Moon　offering　like　a　riddle　the　contrast
of　the　horsy　crudeness　of　his　clothes　and　the　sombre　sagacity
of　his　visage。　　He　was　now　joined　by　his　yet　more　comic　crony；
Moses　Gould。　　Swaggering　on　short　legs　with　a　prosperous
purple　tie；　he　was　the　gayest　of　godless　little　dogs；
but　like　a　dog　also　in　this；　that　however　he　danced　and
wagged　with　delight；　the　two　dark　eyes　on　each　side　of　his
protuberant　nose　glistened　gloomily　like　black　buttons。
There　was　Miss　Rosamund　Hunt；　still　with　the　find　white　hat
framing　her　square；　good…looking　face；　and　still　with　her　native
air　of　being　dressed　for　some　party　that　never　came　off。
She　also；　like　Mr。　Moon；　had　a　new　companion；　new　so　far　as　this
narrative　goes；　but　in　reality　an　old　friend　and　a　protegee。
This　was　a　slight　young　woman　in　dark　gray；　and　in　no　way
notable　but　for　a　load　of　dull　red　hair；　of　which　the　shape
somehow　gave　her　pale　face　that　triangular；　almost　peaked；
appearance　which　was　given　by　the　lowering　headdress　and　deep　rich
ruff　of　the　Elizabethan　beauties。　　Her　surname　seemed　to　be　Gray；
and　Miss　Hunt　called　her　Mary；　in　that　indescribable　tone
applied　to　a　dependent　who　has　practically　become　a　friend。
She　wore　a　small　silver　cross　on　her　very　business…like
gray　clothes；　and　was　the　only　member　of　the　party　who　went
to　church。　　Last；　but　the　reverse　of　least；　there　as　Diana　Duke；
studying　the　newcomer　with　eyes　of　steel；　and　listening
carefully　to　every　idiotic　word　he　said。　　As　for　Mrs。　Duke；
she　smiled　up　at　him；　but　never　dreamed　of　listening　to　him。
She　had　never　really　listened　to　any　one　in　her　life；　which；　some　said；
was　why　she　had　survived。

Nevertheless；　Mrs。　Duke　was　pleased　with　her　new　guest's
concentration　of　courtesy　upon　herself；　for　no　one　ever　spoke
seriously　to　her　any　more　than　she　listened　seriously　to　any　one。
And　she　almost　beamed　as　the　stranger；　with　yet　wider　and　almost
whirling　gestures　of　explanation　with　his　huge　hat　and　bag；
apologized　for　having　entered　by　the　wall　instead　of　the　front　door。
He　was　understood　to　put　it　down　to　an　unfortunate　family　tradition
of　neatness　and　care　of　his　clothes。

〃My　mother　was　rather　strict　about　it；　to　tell　the　truth；〃
he　said；　lowering　his　voice；　to　Mrs。　Duke。　　〃She　never　liked
me　to　lose　my　cap　at　school。　　And　when　a　man's　been　taught
to　be　tidy　and　neat　it　sticks　to　him。〃

Mrs。　Duke　weakly　gasped　that　she　was　sure　he　must　have　had　a　good　mother；
but　her　niece　seemed　inclined　to　probe　the　matter　further。

〃You've　got　a　funny　idea　of　neatness；〃　she　said；　〃if　it's
jumping　garden　walls　and　clambering　up　garden　trees。
A　man　can't　very　well　climb　a　tree　tidily。〃

〃He　can　clear　a　wall　neatly；〃　said　Michael　Moon；　〃I　saw　him　do　it。〃

Smith　seemed　to　be　regarding　the　girl　with　genuine　astonishment。
〃My　dear　young　lady；〃　he　said；　〃I　was　tidying　the　tree。　　You　don't　want
last　year's　hats　there；　do　you；　any　more　than　last　year's　leaves？
The　wind　takes　off　the　leaves；　but　it　couldn't　manage　the　hat；　that　wind；
I　suppose；　has　tidied　whole　forests　to…day。　Rum　idea　this　is；　that　tidiness
is　a　timid；　quiet　sort　of　thing；　why；　tidiness　is　a　toil　for　giants。
You　can't　tidy　anything　without　untidying　yourself；　just　look　at　my　trousers。
Don't　you　know　that？　　Haven't　you　ever　had　a　spring　cleaning？〃

〃Oh　yes；　sir；〃　said　Mrs。　Duke；　almost　eagerly。　　〃You　will　find
everything　of　that　sort　quite　nice。〃　　For　the　first　time　she
had　heard　two　words　that　she　could　understand。

Miss　Diana　Duke　seemed　to　be　studying　the　stranger　with　a　sort　of　spasm
of　calculation；　then　her　black　eyes　snapped　with　decision；　and　she　said
that　he　could　have　a　particular　bedroom　on　the　top　floor　if　he　liked：
and　the　silent　and　sensitive　Inglewood；　who　had　been　on　the　rack　through
these　cross…purposes；　eagerly　offered　to　show　him　up　to　the　room。
Smith　went　up　the　stairs　four　at　a　time；　and　when　he　bumped　his　head
against　the　ultimate　ceiling；　Inglewood　had　an　odd　sensation　that　the　tall
house　was　much　shorter　than　it　used　to　be。

Arthur　Inglewood　followed　his　old　friendor　his　new　friend；
for　he　did　not　very　clearly　know　which　he　was。　　The　face　looked
very　like　his　old　schoolfellow's　at　one　second　and　very　unlike
at　another。　　And　when　Inglewood　broke　through　his　native
politeness　so　far　as　to　say　suddenly；　〃Is　your　name　Smith？〃
he　received　only　the　unenlightening　reply；　〃Quite　right；
quite　right。　　Very　good。　　Excellent！〃　　Which　appeared　to　Inglewood；
on　reflection；　rather　the　speech　of　a　new…born　babe　accepting
a　name　than　of　a　grown…up　man　admitting　one。

Despite　these　doubts　about　identity；　the　hapless　Inglewood
watched　the　other　unpack；　and　stood　about　his　bedroom　in　all
the　impotent　attitudes　of　the　male　friend。　　Mr。　Smith　unpacked
with　the　same　kind　of　whirling　accuracy　with　which　he　climbed
a　treethrowing　things　out　of　his　bag　as　if　they　were　rubbish；
yet　managing　to　distribute　quite　a　regular　pattern　all　round
him　on　the　floor。

As　he　did　so　he　continued　to　talk　in　the　same　somewhat　gasping　manner
（he　had　come　upstairs　four　steps　at　a　time；　but　even　without　this　his　style
of　speech　was　breathless　and　fragmentary）；　and　his　remarks　were　still
a　string　of　more　or　less　significant　but　often　separate　pictures。

〃Like　the　day　of　judgement；〃　he　said；　throwing　a　bottle
so　that　it　somehow　settled；　rocking　on　its　right　end。
〃People　say　vast　universe。。。　infinity　and　astronomy；
not　sure。。。　I　think　things　are　too　close　together。。。　packed　up；
for　travelling。。。　stars　too　close；　really。。。　why；　the　sun's
a　star；　too　close　to　be　seen　properly；　the　earth's　a　star；
too　close　to　be　seen　at　all。。。　too　many　pebbles　on　the　beach；
ought　all　to　be　put　in　rings；　too　many　blades　of　grass　to　study。。。
feathers　on　a　bird　make　the　brain　reel；　wait　till　the　big　bag
is　unpacked。。。　may　all　be　put　in　our　right　places　then。〃

Here　he　stopped；　literally　for　breaththrowing　a　shirt　to　the　other　end
of　the　room；　and　then　a　bottle　of　ink　so　that　it　fell　quite　neatly　beyond　it。
Inglewood　looked　round　on　this　strange；　half…symmetrical　disorder　with
an　increasing　doubt。

In　fact；　the　more　one　explored　Mr。　Smith's　holiday　luggage；
the　less　one　could　make　anything　of　it。　　One　peculiarity　of　it
was　that　almost　everything　seemed　to　be　there　for　the　wrong　reason；
what　is　secondary　with　every　one　else　was　primary　with　him。
He　would　wrap　up　a　pot　or　pan　in　brown　paper；　and　the　unthinking
assistant　would　discover　that　the　pot　was　valueless　or　even　unnecessary；
and　that　it　was　the　brown　paper　that　was　truly　precious。
He　produced　two　or　three　boxes　of　cigars；　and　explained
with　plain　and　perplexing　sincerity　that　he　was　no　smoker；
but　that　cigar…box　wood　was　by　far　the　best　for　fretwork。
He　also　exhibited　about　six　small　bottles　of　wine；　white　and　red；
and　Inglewood；　happening　to　note　a　Volnay　which　he　knew　to　be　excellent；
supposed　at　first　that　the　stranger　was　an　epicure　in　vintages。
He　was　therefore　surprised　to　find　that　the　next　bottle　was　a　vile　sham
claret　from　the　colonies；　which　even　colonials　（to　do　them　justice）
do　not　drink。　　It　was　only　then　that　he　observed　that　all　six
bottles　had　those　bright　metallic　seals　of　various　tints；
and　seemed　to　have　been　chosen　solely　because　they　have　the　three
primary　and　three　secondary　colours：　　red；　blue；　and　yellow；
green；　violet　and　orange。　　There　grew　upon　Inglewood　an　almost
creepy　sense　of　the　real　childishness　of　this　creature。
For　Smith　was　really；　so　far　as　human　psychology　can　be；　innocent。
He　had　the　sensualities　of　innocence：　　he　loved　the　stickiness　of　gum；
and　he　cut　white　wood　greedily　as　if　he　were　cutting　a　cake。
To　this　man　wine　was　not　a　doubtful　thing　to　be　defended　or　denoun