章节正文
This time it seemed as if the worm had turned;
Eshley began striding away.
"Where are you going?" screamed Adela.
"To fetch implements," was the answer.
"Implements? I won't have you use a lasso. The
room will be wrecked if there's a struggle."
But the artist marched out of the garden. In a
couple of minutes he returned, laden with easel,
sketching-stool, and painting materials.
"Do you mean to say that you're going to sit quietly
down and paint that brute while it's destroying my
morning-room?" gasped Adela.
"It was your suggestion," said Eshley, setting his
canvas in position.
"I forbid it; I absolutelyforbid it!" stormed
Adela.
"I don't see what standing you have in the matter,"
said the artist; "you can hardly pretend that it's your
ox, even by adoption."
"You seem to forget that it's in my morning-room,
eating my flowers," came the raging retort.
"You seem to forget that the cook has neuralgia,"
said Eshley; "she may be just dozing off into a merciful
sleep and your outcry will waken her. Consideration for
others should be the guiding principle of people in our
station of life."
"The man is mad!" exclaimed Adela tragically. A
moment later it was Adela herself who appeared to go mad.
The ox had finished the vase-flowers and the cover of
"Israel Kalisch," and appeared to be thinking of leaving
its rather restricted quarters. Eshley noticed its
restlessness and promptly flung it some bunches of
Virginia creeper leaves as an inducement to continue the
sitting.
"I forget how the proverb runs," he observed; of
something about 'better a dinner of herbs than a stalled
ox where hate is.' We seem to have all the ingredients
for the proverb ready to hand."
"I shall go to the Public Library and get them to
telephone for the police," announced Adela, and, raging
audibly, she departed.
Some minutes later the ox, awakening probably to the
suspicion that oil cake and chopped mangold was waiting
for it in some appointed byre, stepped with much
precaution out of the morning-room, stared with grave
inquiry at the no longer obtrusive and pea-stick-throwing
human, and then lumbered heavily but swiftly out of the
garden. Eshley packed up his tools and followed the
animal's example and "Larkdene" was left to neuralgia and
the cook.
The episode was the turning-point in Eshley's
artistic career. His remarkable picture, "Ox in a
morning-room, late autumn," was one of the sensations and
successes of the next Paris Salon, and when it was
subsequently exhibited at Munich it was bought by the
Bavarian Government, in the teeth of the spirited bidding
of three meat-extract firms. From that moment his
success was continuous and assured, and the Royal Academy
was thankful, two years later, to give a conspicuous
position on its walls to his large canvas "Barbary Apes
Wrecking a Boudoir."
Eshley presented Adela Pingsford with a new copy of
"Israel Kalisch," and a couple of finely flowering plants
of MADAME ADNRE BLUSSET, but nothing in the nature of a
real reconciliation has taken place between them.
THE STORY-TELLER
IT was a hot afternoon, and the railway carriage was
correspondingly sultry, and the next stop was at
Templecombe, nearly an hour ahead. The occupants of the
carriage were a small girl, and a smaller girl, and a
small boy. An aunt belonging to the children occupied
one corner seat, and the further corner seat on the
opposite side was occupied by a bachelor who was a
stranger to their party, but the small girls and the
small boy emphatically occupied the compartment. Both
the aunt and the children were conversational in a
limited, persistent way, reminding one of the attentions
of a housefly that refuses to be discouraged. Most of
the aunt's remarks seemed to begin with "Don't," and
nearly all of the children's remarks began with "Why?"
The bachelor said nothing out loud. "Don't, Cyril,
don't," exclaimed the aunt, as the small boy began
smacking the cushions of the seat, producing a cloud of
dust at each blow.
"Come and look out of the window," she added.
The child moved reluctantly to the window. "Why are
those sheep being driven out of that field?" he asked.
"I expect they are being driven to another field
where there is more grass," said the aunt weakly.
"But there is lots of grass in that field,"
protested the boy; "there's nothing else but grass there.
Aunt, there's lots of grass in that field."
"Perhaps the grass in the other field is better,"
suggested the aunt fatuously.
"Why is it better?" came the swift, inevitable
question.
"Oh, look at those cows!" exclaimed the aunt.
Nearly every field along the line had contained cows or
bullocks, but she spoke as though she were drawing
attention to a rarity.
"Why is the grass in the other field better?"
persisted Cyril.
The frown on the bachelor's face was deepening to a
scowl. He was a hard, unsympathetic man, the aunt
decided in her mind. She was utterly unable to come to
any satisfactory decision about the grass in the other
field.
The smaller girl created a diversion by beginning to
recite "On the Road to Mandalay." She only knew the
first line, but she put her limited knowledge to the
fullest possible use. She repeated the line over and
over again in a dreamy but resolute and very audible
voice; it seemed to the bachelor as though some one had
had a bet with her that she could not repeat the line
aloud two thousand times without stopping. Whoever it
was who had made the wager was likely to lose his bet.
"Come over here and listen to a story," said the
aunt, when the bachelor had looked twice at her and once
at the communication cord.
The children moved listlessly towards the aunt's end
of the carriage. Evidently her reputation as a story-
teller did not rank high in their estimation.
In a low, confidential voice, interrupted at
frequent intervals by loud, petulant questionings from
her listeners, she began an unenterprising and deplorably
uninteresting story about a little girl who was good, and
made friends with every one on account of her goodness,
and was finally saved from a mad bull by a number of
rescuers who admired her moral character.
"Wouldn't they have saved her if she hadn't been
good?" demanded the bigger of the small girls. It was
exactly the question that the bachelor had wanted to ask.
"Well, yes," admitted the aunt lamely, "but I don't
think they would have run quite so fast to her help if
they had not liked her so much."
"It's the stupidest story I've ever heard," said the
bigger of the small girls, with immense conviction.
"I didn't listen after the first bit, it was so
stupid," said Cyril.
The smaller girl made no actualcomment on the
story, but she had long ago recommenced a murmured
repetition of her favourite line.
"You don't seem to be a success as a story-teller,"
said the bachelor suddenly from his corner.
The aunt bristled in instant defence at this
unexpected attack.
"It's a very difficult thing to tell stories that
children can both understand and appreciate," she said
stiffly.
"I don't agree with you," said the bachelor.
"Perhaps you would like to tell them a story," was
the aunt's retort.
"Tell us a story," demanded the bigger of the small
girls.
"Once upon a time," began the bachelor, "there was a
little girl called Bertha, who was extra-ordinarily
good."
The children's momentarily-aroused interest began at
once to flicker; all stories seemed dreadfully alike, no
matter who told them.
"She did all that she was told, she was always
truthful, she kept her clothes clean, ate milk puddings
as though they were jam tarts, learned her lessons
perfectly, and was polite in her manners."
"Was she pretty?" asked the bigger of the small
girls.
"Not as pretty as any of you," said the bachelor,
"but she was horribly good."
There was a wave of reaction in favour of the story;
the word horrible in connection with goodness was a
novelty that commended itself. It seemed to introduce a
ring of truth that was absent from the aunt's tales of
infant life.
"She was so good," continued the bachelor, "that she
won several medals for goodness, which she always wore,
pinned on to her dress. There was a medal for obedience,
another medal for punctuality, and a third for good
behaviour. They were large metal medals and they clicked
against one another as she walked. No other child in the
town where she lived had as many as three medals, so
everybody knew that she must be an extra good child."
"Horribly good," quoted Cyril.
"Everybody talked about her goodness, and the Prince
of the country got to hear about it, and he said that as
she was so very good she might be allowed once a week to
walk in his park, which was just outside the town. It
was a beautiful park, and no children were ever allowed
in it, so it was a great honour for Bertha to be allowed
to go there."
"Were there any sheep in the park?" demanded Cyril.
"No;" said the bachelor, "there were no sheep."
"Why weren't there any sheep?" came the inevitable
question arising out of that answer.
The aunt permitted herself a smile, which might
almost have been described as a grin.
"There were no sheep in the park," said the
bachelor, "because the Prince's mother had once had a
dream that her son would either be killed by a sheep or
else by a clock falling on him. For that reason the
Prince never kept a sheep in his park or a clock in his
palace."
Eshley began striding away.
"Where are you going?" screamed Adela.
"To fetch implements," was the answer.
"Implements? I won't have you use a lasso. The
room will be wrecked if there's a struggle."
But the artist marched out of the garden. In a
couple of minutes he returned, laden with easel,
sketching-stool, and painting materials.
"Do you mean to say that you're going to sit quietly
down and paint that brute while it's destroying my
morning-room?" gasped Adela.
"It was your suggestion," said Eshley, setting his
canvas in position.
"I forbid it; I absolutelyforbid it!" stormed
Adela.
"I don't see what standing you have in the matter,"
said the artist; "you can hardly pretend that it's your
ox, even by adoption."
"You seem to forget that it's in my morning-room,
eating my flowers," came the raging retort.
"You seem to forget that the cook has neuralgia,"
said Eshley; "she may be just dozing off into a merciful
sleep and your outcry will waken her. Consideration for
others should be the guiding principle of people in our
station of life."
"The man is mad!" exclaimed Adela tragically. A
moment later it was Adela herself who appeared to go mad.
The ox had finished the vase-flowers and the cover of
"Israel Kalisch," and appeared to be thinking of leaving
its rather restricted quarters. Eshley noticed its
restlessness and promptly flung it some bunches of
Virginia creeper leaves as an inducement to continue the
sitting.
"I forget how the proverb runs," he observed; of
something about 'better a dinner of herbs than a stalled
ox where hate is.' We seem to have all the ingredients
for the proverb ready to hand."
"I shall go to the Public Library and get them to
telephone for the police," announced Adela, and, raging
audibly, she departed.
Some minutes later the ox, awakening probably to the
suspicion that oil cake and chopped mangold was waiting
for it in some appointed byre, stepped with much
precaution out of the morning-room, stared with grave
inquiry at the no longer obtrusive and pea-stick-throwing
human, and then lumbered heavily but swiftly out of the
garden. Eshley packed up his tools and followed the
animal's example and "Larkdene" was left to neuralgia and
the cook.
The episode was the turning-point in Eshley's
artistic career. His remarkable picture, "Ox in a
morning-room, late autumn," was one of the sensations and
successes of the next Paris Salon, and when it was
subsequently exhibited at Munich it was bought by the
Bavarian Government, in the teeth of the spirited bidding
of three meat-extract firms. From that moment his
success was continuous and assured, and the Royal Academy
was thankful, two years later, to give a conspicuous
position on its walls to his large canvas "Barbary Apes
Wrecking a Boudoir."
Eshley presented Adela Pingsford with a new copy of
"Israel Kalisch," and a couple of finely flowering plants
of MADAME ADNRE BLUSSET, but nothing in the nature of a
real reconciliation has taken place between them.
THE STORY-TELLER
IT was a hot afternoon, and the railway carriage was
correspondingly sultry, and the next stop was at
Templecombe, nearly an hour ahead. The occupants of the
carriage were a small girl, and a smaller girl, and a
small boy. An aunt belonging to the children occupied
one corner seat, and the further corner seat on the
opposite side was occupied by a bachelor who was a
stranger to their party, but the small girls and the
small boy emphatically occupied the compartment. Both
the aunt and the children were conversational in a
limited, persistent way, reminding one of the attentions
of a housefly that refuses to be discouraged. Most of
the aunt's remarks seemed to begin with "Don't," and
nearly all of the children's remarks began with "Why?"
The bachelor said nothing out loud. "Don't, Cyril,
don't," exclaimed the aunt, as the small boy began
smacking the cushions of the seat, producing a cloud of
dust at each blow.
"Come and look out of the window," she added.
The child moved reluctantly to the window. "Why are
those sheep being driven out of that field?" he asked.
"I expect they are being driven to another field
where there is more grass," said the aunt weakly.
"But there is lots of grass in that field,"
protested the boy; "there's nothing else but grass there.
Aunt, there's lots of grass in that field."
"Perhaps the grass in the other field is better,"
suggested the aunt fatuously.
"Why is it better?" came the swift, inevitable
question.
"Oh, look at those cows!" exclaimed the aunt.
Nearly every field along the line had contained cows or
bullocks, but she spoke as though she were drawing
attention to a rarity.
"Why is the grass in the other field better?"
persisted Cyril.
The frown on the bachelor's face was deepening to a
scowl. He was a hard, unsympathetic man, the aunt
decided in her mind. She was utterly unable to come to
any satisfactory decision about the grass in the other
field.
The smaller girl created a diversion by beginning to
recite "On the Road to Mandalay." She only knew the
first line, but she put her limited knowledge to the
fullest possible use. She repeated the line over and
over again in a dreamy but resolute and very audible
voice; it seemed to the bachelor as though some one had
had a bet with her that she could not repeat the line
aloud two thousand times without stopping. Whoever it
was who had made the wager was likely to lose his bet.
"Come over here and listen to a story," said the
aunt, when the bachelor had looked twice at her and once
at the communication cord.
The children moved listlessly towards the aunt's end
of the carriage. Evidently her reputation as a story-
teller did not rank high in their estimation.
In a low, confidential voice, interrupted at
frequent intervals by loud, petulant questionings from
her listeners, she began an unenterprising and deplorably
uninteresting story about a little girl who was good, and
made friends with every one on account of her goodness,
and was finally saved from a mad bull by a number of
rescuers who admired her moral character.
"Wouldn't they have saved her if she hadn't been
good?" demanded the bigger of the small girls. It was
exactly the question that the bachelor had wanted to ask.
"Well, yes," admitted the aunt lamely, "but I don't
think they would have run quite so fast to her help if
they had not liked her so much."
"It's the stupidest story I've ever heard," said the
bigger of the small girls, with immense conviction.
"I didn't listen after the first bit, it was so
stupid," said Cyril.
The smaller girl made no actualcomment on the
story, but she had long ago recommenced a murmured
repetition of her favourite line.
"You don't seem to be a success as a story-teller,"
said the bachelor suddenly from his corner.
The aunt bristled in instant defence at this
unexpected attack.
"It's a very difficult thing to tell stories that
children can both understand and appreciate," she said
stiffly.
"I don't agree with you," said the bachelor.
"Perhaps you would like to tell them a story," was
the aunt's retort.
"Tell us a story," demanded the bigger of the small
girls.
"Once upon a time," began the bachelor, "there was a
little girl called Bertha, who was extra-ordinarily
good."
The children's momentarily-aroused interest began at
once to flicker; all stories seemed dreadfully alike, no
matter who told them.
"She did all that she was told, she was always
truthful, she kept her clothes clean, ate milk puddings
as though they were jam tarts, learned her lessons
perfectly, and was polite in her manners."
"Was she pretty?" asked the bigger of the small
girls.
"Not as pretty as any of you," said the bachelor,
"but she was horribly good."
There was a wave of reaction in favour of the story;
the word horrible in connection with goodness was a
novelty that commended itself. It seemed to introduce a
ring of truth that was absent from the aunt's tales of
infant life.
"She was so good," continued the bachelor, "that she
won several medals for goodness, which she always wore,
pinned on to her dress. There was a medal for obedience,
another medal for punctuality, and a third for good
behaviour. They were large metal medals and they clicked
against one another as she walked. No other child in the
town where she lived had as many as three medals, so
everybody knew that she must be an extra good child."
"Horribly good," quoted Cyril.
"Everybody talked about her goodness, and the Prince
of the country got to hear about it, and he said that as
she was so very good she might be allowed once a week to
walk in his park, which was just outside the town. It
was a beautiful park, and no children were ever allowed
in it, so it was a great honour for Bertha to be allowed
to go there."
"Were there any sheep in the park?" demanded Cyril.
"No;" said the bachelor, "there were no sheep."
"Why weren't there any sheep?" came the inevitable
question arising out of that answer.
The aunt permitted herself a smile, which might
almost have been described as a grin.
"There were no sheep in the park," said the
bachelor, "because the Prince's mother had once had a
dream that her son would either be killed by a sheep or
else by a clock falling on him. For that reason the
Prince never kept a sheep in his park or a clock in his
palace."
- painting [´peintiŋ]
n.绘画；(油)画；着色 (初中英语单词) - forbid [fə´bid] vt.禁止，不许，阻止 (初中英语单词)
- absolutely [´æbsəlu:tli] ad.绝对地；确实 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- pretend [pri´tend] v.假装；借口；妄求 (初中英语单词)
- consideration [kən,sidə´reiʃən] n.考虑；原因；体谅 (初中英语单词)
- promptly [´prɔmptli] ad.敏捷地；即时地 (初中英语单词)
- swiftly [´swiftli] ad.迅速地，敏捷地 (初中英语单词)
- career [kə´riə] n.经历；生涯；职业 (初中英语单词)
- remarkable [ri´mɑ:kəbl] a.值得注意的；显著的 (初中英语单词)
- continuous [kən´tinjuəs] a.连续不断的；延长的 (初中英语单词)
- canvas [´kænvəs] n.帆布；油画(布) (初中英语单词)
- carriage [´kæridʒ] n.马车；客车；货运 (初中英语单词)
- driven [´driv(ə)n] drive 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- unable [ʌn´eibəl] a.不能的；无能为力的 (初中英语单词)
- satisfactory [,sætis´fæktəri] a.令人满意的 (初中英语单词)
- beginning [bi´giniŋ] n.开始，开端；起源 (初中英语单词)
- communication [kə,mju:ni´keiʃən] n.通信；通讯联系 (初中英语单词)
- evidently [´evidəntli] ad.明显地 (初中英语单词)
- account [ə´kaunt] vi.说明 vt.认为 n.帐目 (初中英语单词)
- immense [i´mens] a.广大的，无限的 (初中英语单词)
- actual [´æktʃuəl] a.现实的；实际的 (初中英语单词)
- comment [´kɔment] n.&v.评论；评注；注意 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- dreadfully [dredfuli] ad.可怕地；糟透地 (初中英语单词)
- polite [pə´lait] a.有礼貌的；温和的 (初中英语单词)
- reaction [ri´ækʃən] n.反应(力) (初中英语单词)
- horrible [´hɔrəbəl] a.可怕的；恐怖的 (初中英语单词)
- connection [kə´nekʃən] n.联系；关系；联运 (初中英语单词)
- goodness [´gudnis] n.优良；美德；精华 (初中英语单词)
- absent [´æbsənt, əb´sent] a.不在的 vt.使缺席 (初中英语单词)
- thankful [´θæŋkfəl] a.感激的；欣慰的 (高中英语单词)
- finely [´fainli] ad.美好地；精细地 (高中英语单词)
- bachelor [´bætʃələ] n.未婚男子；学士 (高中英语单词)
- persistent [pə´sistənt] a.坚持的；固执的 (高中英语单词)
- limited [´limitid] a.有限(制)的 (高中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- whoever [hu:´evə] pron.任何人，无论谁 (高中英语单词)
- flicker [´flikə] n.&v.闪烁；忽隐忽现 (高中英语单词)
- learned [´lə:nid] a.有学问的，博学的 (高中英语单词)
- setting [´setiŋ] n.安装；排字；布景 (英语四级单词)
- outcry [´autkrai] n.喊叫；强烈抗议 (英语四级单词)
- proverb [´prɔvə:b] n.谚语；格言 (英语四级单词)
- episode [´episəud] n.插曲；一段情节 (英语四级单词)
- compartment [kəm´pɑ:tmənt] n.间隔；隔室 (英语四级单词)
- reluctantly [ri´lʌktəntli] a.不情愿地；勉强地 (英语四级单词)
- diversion [dai´və:ʃən] n.转移；消遣 (英语四级单词)
- resolute [´rezəlu:t] a.坚决的；不屈不挠的 (英语四级单词)
- reputation [repju´teiʃən] n.名誉；名声；信誉 (英语四级单词)
- confidential [,kɔnfi´denʃəl] a.极受信任的；心腹的 (英语四级单词)
- inducement [in´dju:smənt] n.诱导，动机 (英语六级单词)
- awakening [ə´weikəniŋ] n.&a.觉醒(中的) (英语六级单词)
- munich [´mju:nik] n.慕尼黑 (英语六级单词)
- assured [ə´ʃuəd] a.确实的 n.被保险人 (英语六级单词)
- reconciliation [,rekənsili´eiʃən] n.调停；和解；服从 (英语六级单词)
- sultry [´sʌltri] a.狂(闷)热的；风骚的 (英语六级单词)
- emphatically [im´fætikəli] ad.强调地；断然地 (英语六级单词)
- dreamy [´dri:mi] a.心不在焉的；朦胧的 (英语六级单词)
- horribly [´hɔrəbli] ad.恐怖地 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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