Chapter 49

第四十九章

从菲利普多方面了解到的情况来看，范妮·普赖斯的境遇够惨的。平时，画室里的女同学常结伴去餐馆用餐，唯独她范妮·普赖斯从未凑过。这份热闹，所以她们免不了要在背后嘀咕几句。其实原因很清楚：她一贫如洗，哪有钱上馆子。菲利普想起他初来巴黎时曾同她在一块儿吃过一顿午餐，当时她那副狼吞虎咽的馋相，菲利普看了不胜厌恶，现在他明白过来，她原来并非嘴馋贪吃，而实在是饿坏了。她平日吃些什么，看门人给菲利普讲了：每天给她留一瓶牛奶，面包由她自个儿买，中午她从学校回来，啃半个面包，喝半瓶牛奶，剩下的就留在晚上吃。一年四季天天如此。想到她生前忍饥挨饿，一定受够了苦，菲利普不由得一阵心酸。她从来不让人知道自己比谁都穷；她显然已落到山穷水尽的地步，最后连画室的学费也付不出。她的一方斗室里，空空荡荡的几乎没什么家具。至于她的衣服，除了那件一年穿到头的破旧棕色裙衫外，就再没有什么了。菲利普翻看她的遗物，想找到个把亲友的地址，好同他联系。他发现了一张纸条，上面写着他菲利普的名字，一连写了几十次。他像当头挨了一棍子似地愣住了。想来她准是爱上自己了哩。那具悬梁高挂、裹在棕色衣衫里的形销骨立的尸体，顿时浮现在眼前，他禁不住打了个寒战。要是她心里果真有他，那干吗不开口向他求助呢？他肯定乐意尽力周济的嘛。当初不该明知她对自己有特殊的感情，竟然装聋作哑，漠然置之，现在想来，心里悔恨交集。她遗书中的那句留言，包含着几多哀怨：想到让别人来碰我的身子，我简直受不了。她是活活给饥饿逼死的。

菲利普终于找到了一封落款为"家兄艾伯特"的信件。信是在两三个星期之前从萨比顿区某街寄来的，信中一口回绝了商借五英镑的请求。写信人说，他有家室之累，得为妻子儿女着想；他不认为自己有理由可随意借钱给别人。他功范妮回伦敦设法谋个差事。菲利普给艾伯特·普赖斯发了份电报。不久，回电来了：

"深感悲恸。商务繁忙，难以脱身。是否非来不可？普赖斯。"

菲利普又去了份简短的电报，请他务必拨冗前来。第二天早上，一个陌生人来画室找他。

"我叫普赖斯，"菲利普把门打开，对方自我介绍说。

来人略带几分粗俗之气，穿一身黑衣服，圆顶礼帽上箍了根簿条带。他那笨手笨脚的模样有点像范妮。他蓄着一撮短须，一口的伦敦士腔。菲利普请他进了屋子。在菲利普向他详述出事经过以及他如何料理后事的时候，他不时斜睨着眼四下打量。

"我就不必去看她的遗体了吧，呃？"艾伯特·普赖斯问。"我的神经比较脆弱，受不了一点儿刺激。"

他渐渐打开了话匣子。他是个橡胶商，家里有老婆和三个孩子。范妮原是当家庭教师的，他不明白为什么她好端端的差事不干，非要跑到巴黎来不可。

"我和内人都对她说，巴黎可不是姑娘家待的地方。干画画这一行赚不了钱的--历来如此嘛。"

不难看出，他们兄妹俩的关系并不怎么融洽。他抱怨她不该自寻短见，死了还要给他添麻烦。他不愿让人说他妹妹是迫于贫困才走此绝路的，因为这似乎有辱他们家的门庭。他忽然想到，她走这一步会不会出于某种较为体面的动机。

"我想她总不至于同哪个男人有什么瓜葛吧。你明白我的意思，巴黎这个地方，无奇不有嘛，她也许是为了保全自己的名誉才不得已这么干的呢。"

菲利普感到自己脸上发烫，心里暗暗诅咒自己的软心肠。普赖斯那对刺人的小眼睛，似乎在怀疑菲利普和他妹妹有什么私情。

"我相信令妹的贞操是无可指摘的，"他以坚决的口气答道，"她自寻短见是因为她快饿死了。"

"嗯，您这么一说，可使她家里人感到难堪罗，凯里先生。她只需给我来封信就行了。我总不会眼睁睁看着妹妹缺吃少穿的嘛。"

菲利普正是看了这位兄长拒绝借钱的信才知道他地址的，可菲利普只是耸了耸肩：何必当面揭穿他的谎言呢。他十分讨厌这个小个儿男人，只求能尽快地把他打发走。艾伯特·普赖斯也希望能快点把事办完，及早回伦敦去。他们来到可怜的范妮生前住的小斗室。艾伯特·普赖斯看了看屋子里的画和家具。

"在艺术方面我可不想充内行，"他说，"我想这些画还对以卖几个子儿的，是吗？"

"一文不值，"菲利普说。

"这些家具值不了十个先令。"

艾伯特·普赖斯对法语一窍不通，凡事都得由菲利普出面张罗。看来还得经过一道道没完没了的手续，才能让那具可怜的遗体安然人士。从这儿取到证件，得上那儿去盖印儿，还得求见不少盲老爷。一连三天，菲利普从早一直忙到晚，简直连喘口气的工夫也没有。最后，他总算和艾伯特·普赖斯一起，跟随在灵车后面，朝蒙帕纳斯公墓走去。

"我也希望把丧事办得体面些，"艾伯特·普赖斯说，"不过，想想白白把钱往水里扔，实在没意思。"

灰蒙蒙的早晨，寒意侵人，草草举行的葬礼显得分外凄凉。参加葬礼的还有另外五六个人，都是和范妮·普赖斯在画室里共过学的同窗：奥特太太---一因为她身为司库，自认为参加葬礼责无旁贷：露思·查利斯--一因为她心地善良；此外还有劳森、克拉顿和弗拉纳根。她生前从未得到过这些人的好感。菲利普纵目望去，只见碑石林立，有的简陋、粗糙，有的浮华俗气，不堪入目。菲利普看着看着不由得一阵哆嗦。眼前这一片景象好不肃杀凄然。他们离开公墓时，艾伯特·普赖斯要菲利普陪他一起去吃午饭。菲利普一则对他十分厌恶，二则感到困顿异常（这些天来他一直眠不安神，老是梦见身裹破旧棕色衣服的范妮·普赖斯悬梁高挂的惨状），很想一口回绝，但一时又想不出什么话来推托。

"你领我去一家上等馆子，让咱俩吃顿像样的午餐。这种事儿糟透了，真叫我的神经受不了。"

"拉夫组餐厅可算是这儿附近最上乘的一家馆子了，"菲利普答道。

艾伯特·普赖斯在一张天鹅绒靠椅上坐定身子，如释重负地吁了口气。他要了份丰盛的午餐，外加一瓶酒。

"嘿，我真高兴，事情总算办完了。"

他狡猾地问了几个问题，菲利普一听就知道他很想了解巴黎画家的私生活情况。尽管他口口声声说画家的私生活糟透了，但实际上却巴不得能听到他想象中画家们所过的那种淫逸放浪生活的细枝末节。他时而狡黠地眨眨眼睛，时而颇有城府地窃笑几声，那意思分明是说：菲利普休想瞒得过他，得好好从实招来。他是个见过世面的人，对这类事的内情暗幕也并非一无所知。他问菲利普是否去过蒙马特尔，那儿下至坦普尔酒吧，上至皇家交易所，全是享有盛名的冒险家的乐园。他真想编些词儿，说自己曾去过"红磨坊游乐场"呢！他们这顿午餐菜肴精美，酒也香醇醉人。艾伯特·普赖斯酒足饭饱之余，兴致更高了。

"再来点白兰地吧，"咖啡端上餐桌时，他说，"索性破点财罗！"

他搓了搓手。

"我说呀，我还真想在这儿过夜，明儿再回去呢。让咱俩一块儿消度今宵，老弟意下如何？"

"你是要我今儿晚上陪你去逛蒙马特尔？见你的鬼去吧！"菲利普说。

"我想我不是那个意思。"

他回答得那么一本正经，反倒把菲利普逗乐了。

"再说，你的神经恐怕也消受不了哪，"菲利普神态严肃地说。

艾伯特·普赖斯最后还是决定搭下午四时的火车回伦敦去，不一会儿，他就和菲利普分手了。

"再见了，老弟，"他说。"告诉你，过些日子我还要上巴黎来的，到时候我再来拜访你，让咱们痛痛快快地乐一下。"

那天下午菲利普心神不定，索性跳上一辆公共汽车过河去迪朗一吕埃尔画铺，看看那儿可有什么新的画儿展出。然后，他沿着大街信步闲逛。寒风劲吹，卷地而过。行人裹紧大衣，蜷缩着身子，想挡住侵骨的寒气。他们愁眉锁眼，行色匆匆，一副心事重重的神态。此刻，在那白色墓碑林立的蒙帕纳斯公墓的地下，准像冰窖似的阴冷彻骨。菲利普感到自己在此茫茫人世间，好不孤独，心头不禁涌起一股莫可名状的思乡之情。他想找个伴儿。但眼下这时候，克朗肖正在工作，克拉顿从来就不欢迎别人登门造访，劳森正忙着给露思·查利斯画另一幅肖像，自然不希望有人来打扰。于是他决计去找弗拉纳根。菲利普发现他在作画，不过正巴不得丢下画来跟人聊聊。画室里又舒适又暖和，这个美国学生比他们大多数人都阔绰。弗拉纳根忙着去张罗茶水。菲利普端详着弗拉纳根那两幅准备送交巴黎艺展的头像。

"我要送画去展出，脸皮未免厚了点吧，"弗拉纳根说。"管他呐，我就是要送去。阁下认为这两张画够糟的吧？"

"不像我想象的那么糟，"菲利普说。

事实上，这两幅画的手法之巧妙，令人拍案。凡是难以处理的地方，均被作画人圆熟地回避掉了；调色用彩很大胆，透出一股刚劲之气，叫人惊讶之余，更觉得回味无穷。弗拉纳根虽不懂得绘画的学问或技巧，倒像个毕生从事绘画艺术的画家，信手挥毫，笔锋所至，画面顿生异趣。

"如果规定每幅画的欣赏时间不得超过三十秒钟，那你弗拉纳根啊，包管会成为个了不起的大画家，"菲利普笑着说。

这些年轻人之间倒没有那种相互奉承、吹吹拍拍的风气。

"在我们美国，时间紧着呢，谁也抽不出三十秒钟的工夫来看一幅画，"弗拉纳根大笑着说。

弗拉纳根虽然算得是天字第一号的浮躁之徒，可他心肠之好，不但令人感到意外，更叫人觉得可爱。谁要是生了病，他自告奋勇地充当看护。他那爱说爱笑的天性，对病人来说，着实胜过吃药打针。他生就一副美国人的脾性，不像英国人那样严严控制自己的情感，唯恐让人说成是多愁善感。相反，他认为感情的流露本是人之天性。他那充溢的同情心，常使一些身陷苦恼的朋友感激不尽。菲利普经过几天来好大一番折腾，心情沮丧，弗拉纳根出于真心好意，说呀笑呀闹个没完，一心想把菲利普的劲头鼓起来。他故意加重自己的美国腔--他知道这是惹英国人捧腹的绝招--滔滔不绝地随口扯淡，他兴致勃勃，想入非非，那股快活劲儿就别提了。到时候，他们一起去外面吃饭，饭后又上蒙帕纳斯游乐场，那是弗拉纳根最喜欢去的娱乐场所。黄昏一过，他的兴头更足了。他灌饱了酒，可他那副疯疯癫癫的醉态，与其说是酒力所致，还不如归之于他天生活泼好动。他提议去比里埃舞厅，菲利普累过了头反倒不想睡觉了，所以很乐于上那儿走一遭。他们在靠近舞池的平台上找了张桌子坐下。这儿地势稍高，他们可以一边喝啤酒一边看别人跳舞。刚坐下不久，弗拉纳根一眼瞧见了个朋友。他发狂似地喊了一声，纵身越过栅栏，跳到舞池里去了。菲利普打量着周围的人群。比里埃舞场并非是上流人士出入的游乐场所。那是个星期四的晚上，舞厅里人头躜动，其中有些是来自各个学院的大学生，但小职员和店员占了男客的大多数。他们穿着日常便服：现成的花呢上装或式样古怪的燕尾服--而且还都戴着礼帽，因为他们把帽子带进了舞厅，跳舞的时候帽子无处可放，只得搁在自己的脑瓜上。有些女的看上去像是用人，有些是浓妆艳抹的轻挑女子，但大多数是售货女郎，她们身上穿的虽说是些便宜货，却是模仿河对岸的时兴款式。那些个轻佻姑娘打扮得花枝招展，像杂耍场里卖艺的，要不就是有意学那些名噪一时的舞蹈演员的模样；她们在眼睛周围涂了一层浓浓的黑色化妆品，两颊抹得鲜红。真不知道什么叫害臊。舞厅里的白色大灯，低低挂着，使人们脸上的阴影越发显得浓黑。在这样的强光之下，所有的线条似乎都变得钢硬死板，而周围的色调也显得粗俗不堪。整个舞厅里呈现一片乌烟瘴气的景象。菲利普倾靠在栅栏上，目不转睛地望着台下，他的耳朵里听不到音乐声了。舞池里的人们忘情地跳着。他们在舞池里缓缓地转着圈子，个个神情专注，很少有人说话。舞厅里又间又热，人们的脸上沁出亮晶晶的汗珠。在菲利普看来，他们平时为了提防别人而戴上的那层道貌岸然的假面具，此刻全部剥落下来，露出了他们的本来面目。说来也怪，在此恣意纵乐的时刻，他们全都露出了兽类的特征：有的像狐狸，有的像狼，也有的长着愚不可及的山羊似的长脸。由于他们过着有害身心的生活，吃的又是营养不足的食物，他们脸上带着一层菜色。庸俗的生活趣味，使他们的面容显得呆板愚钝，唯有那一双狡诈的小眼睛在骨溜溜地打转。他们鼠口寸光，胸无大志。你可以感觉到，对所有这些人来说，生活无非是一长串的琐事和邪念罢了。舞厅里空气浑浊，充满了人身上发出来的汗臭。但他们狂舞不止，仿佛是受着身体内某种力量的驱使，而在菲利普看来，驱使他们向前的乃是一股追求享受的冲动。他们不顾一切地想逃避这个充满恐怖的现实世界。……命运之神凌驾于他们头上。他们跳呀，跳呀，仿佛他们的脚下是茫茫无尽头的黑暗深渊。他们之所以缄默不语，是因为他们隐隐感到惊恐。他们好似被生活吓破了胆，连他们的发言权也被剥夺了，所以他们内心的呼声到了喉咙口又被咽了回去。他们的眼神凶悍而残忍；尽管他们的兽欲使他们脱却了人形，尽管他们面容显得卑劣而凶狠，尽管最糟糕的还在于他们的愚蠢无知，然而，那一双虎视眈眈的眼睛却掩饰不住内心的极度痛苦，使得这一群浑浑噩噩之徒，显得既可怕而又可怜。菲利普既厌恶他们，又为他们感到痛心，对他们寄予无限同同情。

他从衣帽间取出外衣，跨出门外，步入凛冽的寒夜之中。
 

The story which Philip made out in one way and another was terrible. One of the grievances of the women-students was that Fanny Price would never share their gay meals in restaurants, and the reason was obvious: she had been oppressed by dire poverty. He remembered the luncheon they had eaten together when first he came to Paris and the ghoulish appetite which had disgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner because she was ravenous. The concierge told him what her food had consisted of. A bottle of milk was left for her every day and she brought in her own loaf of bread; she ate half the loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day when she came back from the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. It was the same day after day. Philip thought with anguish of what she must have endured. She had never given anyone to understand that she was poorer than the rest, but it was clear that her money had been coming to an end, and at last she could not afford to come any more to the studio. The little room was almost bare of furniture, and there were no other clothes than the shabby brown dress she had always worn. Philip searched among her things for the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. He found a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score of times. It gave him a peculiar shock. He supposed it was true that she had loved him; he thought of the emaciated body, in the brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; and he shuddered. But if she had cared for him why did she not let him help her? He would so gladly have done all he could. He felt remorseful because he had refused to see that she looked upon him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her letter were infinitely pathetic: I can’t bear the thought that anyone else should touch me. She had died of starvation.

Philip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother, Albert. it was two or three weeks old, dated from some road in Surbiton, and refused a loan of five pounds. The writer had his wife and family to think of, he didn’t feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that Fanny should come back to London and try to get a situation. Philip telegraphed to Albert Price, and in a little while an answer came:

‘Deeply distressed. Very awkward to leave my business. Is presence essential. Price.’

Philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presented himself at the studio.

‘My name’s Price,’ he said, when Philip opened the door.

He was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he had something of Fanny’s clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had a cockney accent. Philip asked him to come in. He cast sidelong glances round the studio while Philip gave him details of the accident and told him what he had done.

‘I needn’t see her, need I?’ asked Albert Price. ‘My nerves aren’t very strong, and it takes very little to upset me.’

He began to talk freely. He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife and three children. Fanny was a governess, and he couldn’t make out why she hadn’t stuck to that instead of coming to Paris.

‘Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl. And there’s no money in art—never ‘as been.’

It was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with his sister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had done him. He did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty; that seemed to reflect on the family. The idea struck him that possibly there was a more respectable reason for her act.

‘I suppose she ‘adn’t any trouble with a man, ‘ad she? You know what I mean, Paris and all that. She might ‘ave done it so as not to disgrace herself.’

Philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. Price’s keen little eyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue.

‘I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous,’ he answered acidly. ‘She killed herself because she was starving.’

‘Well, it’s very ‘ard on her family, Mr. Carey. She only ‘ad to write to me. I wouldn’t have let my sister want.’

Philip had found the brother’s address only by reading the letter in which he refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders: there was no use in recrimination. He hated the little man and wanted to have done with him as soon as possible. Albert Price also wished to get through the necessary business quickly so that he could get back to London. They went to the tiny room in which poor Fanny had lived. Albert Price looked at the pictures and the furniture.

‘I don’t pretend to know much about art,’ he said. ‘I suppose these pictures would fetch something, would they?’

‘Nothing,’ said Philip.

‘The furniture’s not worth ten shillings.’

Albert Price knew no French and Philip had to do everything. It seemed that it was an interminable process to get the poor body safely hidden away under ground: papers had to be obtained in one place and signed in another; officials had to be seen. For three days Philip was occupied from morning till night. At last he and Albert Price followed the hearse to the cemetery at Montparnasse.

‘I want to do the thing decent,’ said Albert Price, ‘but there’s no use wasting money.’

The short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. Half a dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at the studio came to the funeral, Mrs. Otter because she was massiere and thought it her duty, Ruth Chalice because she had a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan. They had all disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across the cemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, others vulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was horribly sordid. When they came out Albert Price asked Philip to lunch with him. Philip loathed him now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamed constantly of Fanny Price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail in the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse.

‘You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. All this is the very worst thing for my nerves.’

‘Lavenue’s is about the best place round here,’ answered Philip.

Albert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. He ordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ he said.

He threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that he was eager to hear about the painter’s life in Paris. He represented it to himself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies which his fancy suggested to him. With sly winks and discreet sniggering he conveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more than Philip confessed. He was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two. He asked Philip whether he had ever been to any of those places in Montmartre which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. He would like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon was very good and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as the processes of digestion went satisfactorily forwards.

‘Let’s ‘ave a little brandy,’ he said when the coffee was brought, ‘and blow the expense.’

He rubbed his hands.

‘You know, I’ve got ‘alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow. What d’you say to spending the evening together?’

‘If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight, I’ll see you damned,’ said Philip.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t be quite the thing.’

The answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled.

‘Besides it would be rotten for your nerves,’ he said gravely.

Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four o’clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip.

‘Well, good-bye, old man,’ he said. ‘I tell you what, I’ll try and come over to Paris again one of these days and I’ll look you up. And then we won’t ‘alf go on the razzle.’

Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at Durand-Ruel’s. After that he strolled along the boulevard. It was cold and wind-swept. People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and careworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all those white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely homesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of Ruth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go and see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his work and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money than most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip looked at the two heads that he was sending to the Salon.

‘It’s awful cheek my sending anything,’ said Flanagan, ‘but I don’t care, I’m going to send. D’you think they’re rotten?’

‘Not so rotten as I should have expected,’ said Philip.

They showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties had been avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint was put on which was surprising and even attractive. Flanagan, without knowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has spent a lifetime in the practice of the art.

‘If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds you’d be a great master, Flanagan,’ smiled Philip.

These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with excessive flattery.

‘We haven’t got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds in looking at any picture,’ laughed the other.

Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. Whenever anyone was ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than any medicine. Like many of his countrymen he had not the English dread of sentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding nothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy which was often grateful to his friends in distress. He saw that Philip was depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindliness set himself boisterously to cheer him up. He exaggerated the Americanisms which he knew always made the Englishmen laugh and poured out a breathless stream of conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. In due course they went out to dinner and afterwards to the Gaite Montparnasse, which was Flanagan’s favourite place of amusement. By the end of the evening he was in his most extravagant humour. He had drunk a good deal, but any inebriety from which he suffered was due much more to his own vivacity than to alcohol. He proposed that they should go to the Bal Bullier, and Philip, feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. They sat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little from the level of the floor so that they could watch the dancing, and drank a bock. Presently Flanagan saw a friend and with a wild shout leaped over the barrier on to the space where they were dancing. Philip watched the people. Bullier was not the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night and the place was crowded. There were a number of students of the various faculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; they wore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, and their hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they danced there was no place to put them but their heads. Some of the women looked like servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most part they were shop-girls. They were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of the fashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up to resemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at the moment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudently scarlet. The hall was lit by great white lights, low down, which emphasised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden under it, and the colours were most crude. It was a sordid scene. Philip leaned over the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced furiously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with all their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their faces shone with sweat. it seemed to Philip that they had thrown off the guard which people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and he saw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they were strangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others had the long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from the unhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. Their features were blunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning. There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts. The air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they danced furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire for pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure. They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew not why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them, and they danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Their silence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbed them of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died at their throats. Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding the beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces, and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst of all, the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic. Philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which filled him.

He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness of the night.