stories by english authors in london(英国作家在伦敦的故事)-第16章
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he saw to his amazement that she was speckless and composedno trace
of tears dimmed the fairness of her face； there was no disarray in her
bridal wreath。
The clock showed the ninth minute。
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She put her hand appeallingly on his arm； while a heavenly light came
into her facethe expression of a Joan of Arc animating her country。
〃Do not give in； Leibel！〃 she said。 〃Do not have me！ Do not let them
persuade thee！ By my life； thou must not！ Go home！〃
So at the eleventh minute the vanquished Eliphaz produced the
balance； and they all lived happily ever afterward。
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AN IDYL OF LONDON
BY BEATRICE HARRADEN
It was one o'clock； and many of the students in the National Gallery
had left off work and were refreshing themselves with lunch and
conversation。 There was one old worker who had not stirred from his
place； but he had put down his brush； and had taken from his pocket a
small book； which was like its ownerthin and shabby of covering。 He
seemed to find pleasure in reading it； for he turned over its pages with all
the tenderness characteristic of one who loves what he reads。 Now and
again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautiful portrait of Andrea
del Sarto； and once his eyes rested on another copy next to his； better and
truer than his； and once he stopped to pick up a girl's prune…coloured tie；
which had fallen from the neighbouring easel。 After this he seemed to
become unconscious of his surroundings； as unconscious； indeed； as any
one of the pictures near him。 Any one might have been justified in
mistaking him for the portrait of a man； but that his lips moved； for it was
his custom to read softly to himself。
The students passed back to their places； not troubling to notice him；
because they knew from experience that he never noticed them； and that
all greetings were wasted on him and all words were wanton expenditure
of breath。 They had come to regard him very much in the same way as
many of us regard the wonders of nature； without astonishment； without
any questionings； and often without any interest。 One girl； a new… comer；
did chance to say to her companion：
〃How ill that old man looks！〃
〃Oh； he always looks like that；〃 was the answer。 〃You will soon get
accustomed to him。 Come along！ I must finish my 'Blind Beggar' this
afternoon。〃
In a few minutes most of the workers were busy again； although there
were some who continued to chat quietly； and several young men who
seemed reluctant to leave their girl friends； and who were by no means
encouraged to go！ One young man came to claim his book and pipe； which
he had left in the charge of a bright…eyed girl； who was copying Sir
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Joshua's 〃Angels。〃 She gave him his treasures； and received in exchange a
dark…red rose； which she fastened in her belt； and then he returned to his
portrait of Mrs。 Siddons。 But there was something in his disconsolate
manner which made one suspect that he thought less of Mrs。 Siddons's
beauty than of the beauty of the girl who was wearing the dark…red rose！
The strangers； strolling through the rooms； stopped now and again to peer
curiously at the students' work。 They were stared at indignantly by the
students themselves； but they made no attempt to move away； and even
ventured sometimes to pass criticisms of no tender character on some of
the copies。 The fierce…looking man who was copying 〃The Horse Fair〃
deliberately put down his brushes； folded his arms； and waited defiantly
until they had gone by； but others； wiser in their generation； went on
painting calmly。 Several workers were painting the new Raphael； one of
them was a white…haired old gentlewoman； whose hand was trembling；
and yet skilful still。 More than once she turned to give a few hints to the
young girl near her； who looked in some distress and doubt。 Just the
needful help was given； and then the girl plied her brush merrily； smiling
the while with pleasure and gratitude。 There seemed to be a genial； kindly
influence at work； a certain homeliness too； which must needs assert itself
where many are gathered together； working side by side。 All made a
harmony； the wonderful pictures； collected from many lands and many
centuries； each with its meaning and its message from the past； the ever…
present memories of the painters themselves； who had worked and striven
and conquered； and the living human beings； each with his wealth of
earnest endeavour and hope。
Meanwhile the old man read on uninterruptedly until two hands were
put over his book and a gentle voice said：
〃Mr。 Lindall； you have had no lunch again。 Do you know； I begin to
hate Lucretius。 He always makes you forget your food。〃
The old man looked up； and something like a smile passed over his
joyless face when he saw Helen Stanley bending over him。
〃Ah；〃 he answered； 〃you must not hate Lucretius。 I have had more
pleasant hours with him than with any living person。〃
He rose and came forward to examine her copy of Andrea del Sarto's
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portrait。
〃Yours is better than mine；〃 he said； critically； 〃in fact； mine is a
failure。 I think I shall only get a small price for mine； indeed； I doubt
whether I shall get sufficient to pay for my funeral。〃
〃You speak dismally；〃 she answered； smiling。
〃I missed you yesterday；〃 he continued； half dreamily。 〃I left my work；
and I wandered through the rooms； and I did not even read Lucretius。
Something seemed to have gone from my life。 At first I thought it must be
my favourite Raphael； or the Murillo； but it was neither the one nor the
other； it was you。 That was strange； wasn't it？ But you know we get
accustomed to anything； and perhaps I should have missed you less the
second day； and by the end of a week I should not have missed you at all。
Mercifully； we have in us the power of forgetting。〃
〃I do not wish to plead for myself；〃 she said； 〃but I do not believe that
you or any one could really forget。 That which outsiders call forgetfulness
might be called by the better name of resignation。〃
〃I don't care about talking any more now；〃 he said； suddenly； and he
went to his easel and worked silently at his picture； and Helen Stanley
glanced at him； and thought she had never seen her old companion look so
forlorn and desolate as he did to…day。 He looked as if no gentle hand had
ever been placed on him in kindliness and affection； and that seemed to
her a terrible thing； for she was one of those prehistorically minded
persons who persist in believing that affection is as needful to human life
as rain to flower life。 When first she came to work at the gallerysome
twelve months agoshe had noticed this old man； and had wished for his
companionship； she was herself lonely and sorrowful； and； although
young； had to fight her own battles； and had learned something of the
difficulties of fighting； and this had given her an experience beyond her
years。 She was not more than twenty…four years of age； but she looked
rather older； and； though she had beautiful eyes； full of meaning and
kindness； her features were decidedly plain as well as unattractive。 There
were some in the gallery who said among themselves that； as Mr。 Lindall
had waited so many years before talking to any one； he might have chosen
some one better worth the waiting for！ But they soon became accustomed
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to seeing Helen Stanley and Mr。 Lindall together； and they laughed less
than before； and meanwhile the acquaintance ripened into a sort of
friendship； half sulky on his part and wholly kind on her part。 He told her
nothing about himself； and he asked nothing about herself； for weeks he
never even knew her name。 Sometimes he did not speak at all； and the two
friends would work silently side by side until it was time to go； and then
he waited until she was ready； and walked with her across Trafalgar
Square； where they parted and went their own ways。
But occasionally； when she least expected it； he would speak with
glowing enthusiasm on art； then his eyes seemed to become bright； and his
bent figure more erect； and his whole bearing proud and dignified。 There
were times； too； when he would speak on other subjects： on the morality
of free thoughton Bruno； of blessed memory； on him； and scores of
others too。 He would speak of the different schools of philosophy； he
would laugh at himself； and at all who； having given time and thought to
the study of life's complicated problems； had not reached one step further
than the Old…World thinkers。 Perhaps he would quote one of his favourite
philosophers； and then suddenly relapse into silence； returning to his
wonted abstraction and to his indifference to his surroundings。 Helen
Stanley had learned to understand his ways and to appreciate his mind；
and； without intruding on him in any manner； had put herself gently into
his life as his quiet champion and his friend。 No one in her presence dared
speak slightingly of the old man； or to make fun of his tumble…down
appearance； or of his worn…out silk hat w
