CHAPTER VI
關燈
小
中
大
ky.Idon’ttakeanyheedofwhatanyonesays.Ijustgostraightforward,Ido.That’salwaysbeenmyway.I’mnotoneofyourweakknock-kneedchaps.Ifawoman’sintrouble,Idon’tleaveherinthelurch.That’snotmystreet.No,thankyou.
“I’lltellyouanotherthingtoo.IcareagooddealaboutimprovingmyselfbymeansofLiteratureandArt,andsogettingawideroutlook.Forinstance,whenyoucameinIwasreadingRuskin’sStonesofVenice.Idon’tsaythistoboast,butjusttoshowyouthekindofmanIam.Icantellyou,Ienjoyedthatclassicalconcertthisafternoon.”
ToallhismoodsJackyremainedequallyindifferent.Whensupperwasready—andnotbefore—sheemergedfromthebedroom,saying:“Butyoudoloveme,don’tyou?”
Theybeganwithasoupsquare,whichLeonardhadjustdissolvedinsomehotwater.Itwasfollowedbythetongue—afreckledcylinderofmeat,withalittlejellyatthetop,andagreatdealofyellowfatatthebottom—endingwithanothersquaredissolvedinwater(jelly:pineapple),whichLeonardhadpreparedearlierintheday.Jackyatecontentedlyenough,occasionallylookingathermanwiththoseanxiouseyes,towhichnothingelseinherappearancecorresponded,andwhichyetseemedtomirrorhersoul.AndLeonardmanagedtoconvincehisstomachthatitwashavinganourishingmeal.
Aftersuppertheysmokedcigarettesandexchangedafewstatements.Sheobservedthather“likeness”hadbeenbroken.Hefoundoccasiontoremark,forthesecondtime,thathehadcomestraightbackhomeaftertheconcertatQueen’sHall.Presentlyshesatuponhisknee.TheinhabitantsofCameliaRoadtrampedtoandfrooutsidethewindow,justonalevelwiththeirheads,andthefamilyintheflatontheground-floorbegantosing,“Hark,mysoul,itistheLord.”
“Thattunefairlygivesmethehump,”saidLeonard.
Jackyfollowedthis,andsaidthat,forherpart,shethoughtitalovelytune.
“NoI’llplayyousomethinglovely.Getup,dear,foraminute.”
HewenttothepianoandjingledoutalittleGrieg.Heplayedbadlyandvulgarly,buttheperformancewasnotwithoutitseffect,forJackysaidshethoughtshe’dbegoingtobed.Asshereceded,anewsetofinterestspossessedtheboy,andhebegantothinkofwhathadbeensaidaboutmusicbythatoddMissSchlegel—theonethattwistedherfaceaboutsowhenshespoke.Thenthethoughtsgrewsadandenvious.TherewasthegirlnamedHelen,whohadpinchedhisumbrella,andtheGermangirlwhohadsmiledathimpleasantly,andHerrsomeone,andAuntsomeone,andthebrother—all,allwiththeirhandsontheropes.Theyhadallpassedupthatnarrow,richstaircaseatWickhamPlacetosomeampleroom,whitherhecouldneverfollowthem,notifhereadfortenhoursaday.Oh,itwasnogood,thiscontinualaspiration.Somearebornculturedtheresthadbettergoinforwhatevercomeseasy.Toseelifesteadilyandtoseeitwholewasnotforthelikesofhim.
Fromthedarknessbeyondthekitchenavoicecalled,“Len?”
“Youinbed?”heasked,hisforeheadtwitching.
“Allright.”
Presentlyshecalledhimagain.
“Imustcleanmybootsreadyforthemorning,”heanswered.
Presentlyshecalledhimagain.
“Iratherwanttogetthischapterdone.”
“What?”
Heclosedhisearsagainsther.
“What’sthat?”
“Allright,Jacky,nothingI’mreadingabook.”
“What?”
“What?”heanswered,catchingherdegradeddeafness.
Presentlyshecalledhimagain.
RuskinhadvisitedTorcellobythistime,andwasorderinghisgondolierstotakehimtoMurano.Itoccurredtohim,asheglidedoverthewhisperinglagoons,thatthepowerofNaturecouldnotbeshortenedbythefolly,norherbeautyaltogethersaddenedbythemiseryofsuchasLeonard.
