阅读-The-shadow-in-the-rose-garden

ThePrussianOfficerandOtherStories,byD.H.LawrenceTHESHADOWINTHEROSEGARDENArathersmallyoungmansatbythewindowofaprettyseasidecottagetryingtopersuadehimselfthathewasreadingthenewspaper.Itwasabouthalf-pasteightinthemorning.Outside,thegloryroseshunginthemorningsunshinelikelittlebowlsoffiretippedup.Theyoungmanlookedatthetable,thenattheclock,thenathisownbigsilverwatch.Anexpressionofstiffendurancecameontohisface.Thenheroseandreflectedontheoil-paintingsthathungonthewallsoftheroom,givingcarefulbuthostileattentionto“TheStagatBay”.Hetriedthelidofthepiano,andfounditlocked.Hecaughtsightofhisownfaceinalittlemirror,pulledhisbrownmoustache,andanalertinterestsprangintohiseyes.Hewasnotill-favoured.Hetwistedhismoustache.Hisfigurewasrathersmall,butalertandvigorous.Asheturnedfromthemirroralookofself-commiserationmingledwithhisappreciationofhisownphysiognomy.Inastateofself-suppression,hewentthroughintothegarden.Hisjacket,however,didnotlookdejected.Itwasnew,andhadasmartandself-confidentair,sittinguponaconfidentbody.HecontemplatedtheTreeofHeaventhatflourishedbythelawn,thensaunteredontothenextplant.Therewasmorepromiseinacrookedappletreecoveredwithbrown-redfruit.Glancinground,hebrokeoffanappleand,withhisbacktothehouse,tookaclean,sharpbite.Tohissurprisethefruitwassweet.Hetookanother.Thenagainheturnedtosurveythebedroomwindowsoverlookingthegarden.Hestarted,seeingawoman’sfigure;butitwasonlyhiswife.Shewasgazingacrosstothesea,apparentlyignorantofhim.Foramomentortwohelookedather,watchingher.Shewasagood-lookingwoman,whoseemedolderthanhe,ratherpale,buthealthy,herfaceyearning.Herrichauburnhairwasheapedinfoldsonherforehead.Shelookedapartfromhimandhisworld,gazingawaytothesea.Itirkedherhusbandthatsheshouldcontinueabstractedandinignoranceofhim;hepulledpoppyfruitsandthrewthematthewindow.Shestarted,glancedathimwithawildsmile,andlookedawayagain.Thenalmostimmediatelysheleftthewindow.Hewentindoorstomeether.Shehadafinecarriage,veryproud,andworeadressofsoftwhitemuslin.“I’vebeenwaitinglongenough,”hesaid.“Formeorforbreakfast?”shesaidlightly.“Youknowwesaidnineo’clock.Ishouldhavethoughtyoucouldhavesleptafterthejourney.”“YouknowI’malwaysupatfive,andIcouldn’tstopinbedaftersix.Youmightaswellbeinpitasinbed,onamorninglikethis.”“Ishouldn’thavethoughtthepitwouldoccurtoyou,here.”Shemovedaboutexaminingtheroom,lookingattheornamentsunderglasscovers.He,plantedonthehearthrug,watchedherratheruneasily,andgrudginglyindulgent.Sheshruggedhershouldersattheapartment.“Come,”shesaid,takinghisarm,“letusgointothegardentillMrsCoatesbringsthetray.”“Ihopeshe’llbequick,”hesaid,pullinghismoustache.Shegaveashortlaugh,andleanedonhisarmastheywent.Hehadlightedapipe.MrsCoatesenteredtheroomastheywentdownthesteps.Thedelightful,erectoldladyhastenedtothewindowforagoodviewofhervisitors.Herchina-blueeyeswerebrightasshewatchedtheyoungcouplegodownthepath,hewalkinginaneasy,confidentfashion,withhiswife,onhisarm.Thelandladybegantalkingtoherselfinasoft,Yorkshireaccent.“Justofaheighttheyare.Shewouldn’tha’marriedamanlessthanherselfinstature,Ithink,thoughhe’snotherequalotherwise.”Herehergranddaughtercamein,settingatrayonthetable.Thegirlwenttotheoldwoman’sside.“He’sbeeneatingtheapples,gran’,”shesaid.“Hashe,mypet?Well,ifhe’shappy,whynot?”Outside,theyoung,well-favouredmanlistenedwithimpatiencetothechinkoftheteacups.Atlast,withasighofrelief,thecouplecameintobreakfast.Afterhehadeatenforsometime,herestedamomentandsaid:“Doyouthinkit’sanybetterplacethanBridlington?”“Ido,”shesaid,“infinitely!Besides,Iamathomehere—it’snotlikeastrangesea-sideplacetome.”“Howlongwereyouhere?”“Twoyears.”Heatereflectively.“Ishouldha’thoughtyou’drathergotoafreshplace,”hesaidatlength.Shesatverysilent,andthen,delicately,putoutafeeler.“Why?”shesaid.“DoyouthinkIshan’tenjoymyself?”Helaughedcomfortably,puttingthemarmaladethickonhisbread.“Ihopeso,”hesaid.Sheagaintooknonoticeofhim.“Butdon’tsayanythingaboutitinthevillage,Frank,”shesaidcasually.“Don’tsaywhoIam,orthatIusedtolivehere.There’snobodyIwanttomeet,particularly,andweshouldneverfeelfreeiftheyknewmeagain.”“Whydidyoucome,then?”“‘Why?’Can’tyouunderstandwhy?”“Notifyoudon’twanttoknowanybody.”“Icametoseetheplace,notthepeople.”Hedidnotsayanymore.“Women,”shesaid,“aredifferentfrommen.Idon’tknowwhyIwantedtocome—butIdid.”Shehelpedhimtoanothercupofcoffee,solicitously.“Only,”sheresumed,“don’ttalkaboutmeinthevillage.”Shelaughedshakily.“Idon’twantmypastbroughtupagainstme,youknow.”Andshemovedthecrumbsontheclothwithherfinger-tip.Helookedatherashedrankhiscoffee;hesuckedhismoustache,andputtingdownhiscup,saidphlegmatically:“I’llbetyou’vehadalotofpast.”Shelookedwithalittleguiltiness,thatflatteredhim,downatthetablecloth.“Well,”shesaid,caressive,“youwon’tgivemeaway,whoIam,willyou?”“No,”hesaid,comforting,laughing,“Iwon’tgiveyouaway.”Hewaspleased.Sheremainedsilent.Afteramomentortwosheliftedherhead,saying:“I’vegottoarrangewithMrsCoates,anddovariousthings.Soyou’dbettergooutbyyourselfthismorning—andwe’llbeintodinneratone.”“Butyoucan’tbearrangingwithMrsCoatesallmorning,”hesaid.“Oh,well—thenI’vesomeletterstowrite,andImust