Burmese Days 缅甸岁月 Chapter 2
时间：2015-10-13 04:32:50
（单词翻译:单击）
At about the time when U Po Kyin began his morning's business, 'Mr Porley' the timber merchant and friend of Dr Veraswami, was leaving his house for the Club.
Flory was a man of about thirty-five, of middle height, not ill made. He had very black, stiff hair growing low on his head, and a cropped black moustache, and his skin, naturally sallow, was discoloured by the sun. Not having grown fat or bald he did not look older than his age, but his face was very haggard in spite of the sunburn, with lank2 cheeks and a sunken, withered3 look round the eyes. He had obviously not shaved this morning. He was dressed in the usual white shirt, khaki drill shorts and stockings, but instead of a topi he wore a battered4 Terai hat, cocked over one eye. He carried a bamboo stick with a wrist-thong, and a black cocker spaniel named Flo was ambling5 after him.
All these were secondary expressions, however. The first thing that one noticed in Flory was a hideous6 birthmark stretching in a ragged7 crescent down his left cheek, from the eye to the corner of the mouth. Seen from the left side his face had a battered, woebegone look, as though the birthmark had been a bruise--for it was a dark blue in colour. He was quite aware of its hideousness8. And at all times, when he was not alone, there was a sidelongness about his movements, as he manoeuvred constantly to keep the birthmark out of sight.
Flory's house was at the top of the maidan, close to the edge of the jungle. From the gate the maidan sloped sharply down, scorched9 and khaki-coloured, with half a dozen dazzling white bungalows10 scattered11 round it. All quaked, shivered in the hot air. There was an English cemetery12 within a white wall half-way down the hill, and near by a tiny tin-roofed church. Beyond that was the European Club, and when one looked at the Club--a dumpy one-storey wooden building--one looked at the real centre of the town. In any town in India the European Club is the spiritual citadel13, the real seat of the British power, the Nirvana for which native officials and millionaires pine in vain. It was doubly so in this case, for it was the proud boast of Kyauktada Club that, almost alone of Clubs in Burma, it had never admitted an Oriental to membership. Beyond the Club, the Irrawaddy flowed huge and ochreous glittering like diamonds in the patches that caught the sun; and beyond the river stretched great wastes of paddy fields, ending at the horizon in a range of blackish hills.
The native town, and the courts and the jail, were over to the right, mostly hidden in green groves14 of peepul trees. The spire15 of the pagoda16 rose from the trees like a slender spear tipped with gold. Kyauktada was a fairly typical Upper Burma town, that had not changed greatly between the days of Marco Polo and 1910, and might have slept in the Middle Ages for a century more if it had not proved a convenient spot for a railway terminus. In 1910 the Government made it the headquarters of a district and a seat of Progress--interpretable as a block of law courts, with their army of fat but ravenous17 pleaders, a hospital, a school and one of those huge, durable18 jails which the English have built everywhere between Gibraltar and Hong Kong. The population was about four thousand, including a couple of hundred Indians, a few score Chinese and seven Europeans. There were also two Eurasians named Mr Francis and Mr Samuel, the sons of an American Baptist missionary19 and a Roman Catholic missionary respectively. The town contained no curiosities of any kind, except an Indian fakir who had lived for twenty years in a tree near the bazaar20, drawing his food up in a basket every morning.
Flory yawned as he came out of the gate. He had been half drunk the night before, and the glare made him feel liverish. 'Bloody21, bloody hole!' he thought, looking down the hill. And, no one except the dog being near, he began to sing aloud, 'Bloody, bloody, bloody, oh, how thou art bloody' to the tune22 of 'Holy, holy, holy, oh how Thou art holy ' as he walked down the hot red road, swishing at the dried-up grasses with his stick. It was nearly nine o'clock and the sun was fiercer every minute. The heat throbbed23 down on one's head with a steady, rhythmic24 thumping25, like blows from an enormous bolster26. Flory stopped at the Club gate, wondering whether to go in or to go farther down the road and see Dr Veraswami. Then he remembered that it was 'English mail day' and the newspapers would have arrived. He went in, past the big tennis screen, which was overgrown by a creeper with starlike mauve flowers.
In the borders beside the path swaths of English flowers--phlox and larkspur, hollyhock and petunia--not yet slain27 by the sun, rioted in vast size and richness. The petunias28 were huge, like trees almost. There was no lawn, but instead a shrubbery of native trees and bushes--gold mohur trees like vast umbrellas of blood-red bloom, frangipanis with creamy, stalkless flowers, purple bougainvillea, scarlet29 hibiscus and the pink Chinese rose, bilious- green crotons, feathery fronds30 of tamarind. The clash of colours hurt one's eyes in the glare. A nearly naked mali, watering-can in hand, was moving in the jungle of flowers like some large nectar- sucking bird.
On the Club steps a sandy-haired Englishman, with a prickly moustache, pale grey eyes too far apart, and abnormally thin calves32 to his legs, was standing33 with his hands in the pockets of his shorts. This was Mr Westfield, the District Superintendent34 of Police. With a very bored air he was rocking himself backwards35 and forwards on his heels and pouting36 his upper lip so that his moustache tickled37 his nose. He greeted Flory with a slight sideways movement of his head. His way of speaking was clipped and soldierly, missing out every word that well could be missed out. Nearly everything he said was intended for a joke, but the tone of his voice was hollow and melancholy38.
'Hullo, Flory me lad. Bloody awful morning, what?'
'We must expect it at this time of year, I suppose,' Flory said. He had turned himself a little sideways, so that his birthmarked cheek was away from Westfield.
'Yes, dammit. Couple of months of this coming. Last year we didn't have a spot of rain till June. Look at that bloody sky, not a cloud in it. Like one of those damned great blue enamel39 saucepans. God! What'd you give to be in Piccadilly now, eh?'
'Have the English papers come?'
'Yes. Dear old Punch, Pink'un and Vie Parisienne. Makes you homesick to read 'em, what? Let's come in and have a drink before the ice all goes. Old Lackersteen's been fairly bathing in it. Half pickled already.'
They went in, Westfield remarking in his gloomy voice, 'Lead on, Macduff.' Inside, the Club was a teak-walled place smelling of earth-oil, and consisting of only four rooms, one of which contained a forlorn 'library' of five hundred mildewed40 novels, and another an old and mangy billiard-table--this, however, seldom used, for during most of the year hordes41 of flying beetles42 came buzzing round the lamps and littered themselves over the cloth. There were also a card-room and a 'lounge' which looked towards the river, over a wide veranda43; but at this time of day all the verandas44 were curtained with green bamboo chicks. The lounge was an unhomelike room, with coco-nut matting on the floor, and wicker chairs and tables which were littered with shiny illustrated45 papers. For ornament46 there were a number of 'Bonzo' pictures, and the dusty skulls47 of sambhur. A punkah, lazily flapping, shook dust into the tepid48 air.
There were three men in the room. Under the punkah a florid, fine- looking, slightly bloated man of forty was sprawling49 across the table with his head in his hands, groaning50 in pain. This was Mr Lackersteen, the local manager of a timber firm. He had been badly drunk the night before, and he was suffering for it. Ellis, local manager of yet another company, was standing before the notice- board studying some notice with a look of bitter concentration. He was a tiny wiry-haired fellow with a pale, sharp-featured face and restless movements. Maxwell, the acting53 Divisional Forest Officer, was lying in one of the long chairs reading the Field, and invisible except for two large-boned legs and thick downy forearms.
'Look at this naughty old man,' said Westfield, taking Mr Lackersteen half affectionately by the shoulders and shaking him. 'Example to the young, what? There but for the grace of God and all that. Gives you an idea what you'll be like at forty.'
'Poor old chap,' said Westfield, 'regular martyr54 to booze, eh? Look at it oozing55 out of his pores. Reminds me of the old colonel who used to sleep without a mosquito net. They asked his servant why and the servant said: "At night, master too drunk to notice mosquitoes; in the morning, mosquitoes too drunk to notice master." Look at him--boozed last night and then asking for more. Got a little niece coming to stay with him, too. Due tonight, isn't she, Lackersteen?'
'Oh, leave that drunken sot alone,' said Ellis without turning round. He had a spiteful Cockney voice. Mr Lackersteen groaned56 again, '---- the niece! Get me some brandy, for Christ's sake.'
'Good education for the niece, eh? Seeing uncle under the table seven times a week. Hey, butler! Bringing brandy for Lackersteen master!'
The butler, a dark, stout57 Dravidian with liquid, yellow-irised eyes like those of a dog, brought the brandy on a brass58 tray. Flory and Westfield ordered gin. Mr Lackersteen swallowed a few spoonfuls of brandy and sat back in his chair, groaning in a more resigned way. He had a beefy, ingenuous59 face, with a toothbrush moustache. He was really a very simple-minded man, with no ambitions beyond having what he called 'a good time'. His wife governed him by the only possible method, namely, by never letting him out of her sight for more than an hour or two. Only once, a year after they were married, she had left him for a fortnight, and had returned unexpectedly a day before her time, to find Mr Lackersteen, drunk, supported on either side by a naked Burmese girl, while a third up- ended a whisky bottle into his mouth. Since then she had watched him, as he used to complain, 'like a cat over a bloody mousehole'. However, he managed to enjoy quite a number of 'good times', though they were usually rather hurried ones.
'My Christ, what a head I've got on me this morning,' he said. 'Call that butler again, Westfield. I've got to have another brandy before my missus gets here. She says she's going to cut my booze down to four pegs60 a day when our niece gets here. God rot them both!' he added gloomily.
'Stop playing the fool, all of you, and listen to this,' said Ellis sourly. He had a queer wounding way of speaking, hardly ever opening his mouth without insulting somebody. He deliberately61 exaggerated his Cockney accent, because of the sardonic62 tone it gave to his words. 'Have you seen this notice of old Macgregor's? A little nosegay for everyone. Maxwell, wake up and listen!'
Maxwell lowered the Field. He was a fresh-coloured blond youth of not more than twenty-five or six--very young for the post he held. With his heavy limbs and thick white eyelashes he reminded one of a cart-horse colt. Ellis nipped the notice from the board with a neat, spiteful little movement and began reading it aloud. It had been posted by Mr Macgregor, who, besides being Deputy Commissioner64, was secretary of the Club.
'Just listen to this. "It has been suggested that as there are as yet no Oriental members of this club, and as it is now usual to admit officials of gazetted rank, whether native or European, to membership of most European Clubs, we should consider the question of following this practice in Kyauktada. The matter will be open for discussion at the next general meeting. On the one hand it may be pointed65 out"--oh, well, no need to wade66 through the rest of it. He can't even write a notice without an attack of literary diarrhoea. Anyway, the point's this. He's asking us to break all our rules and take a dear little nigger-boy into this Club. DEAR Dr Veraswami, for instance. Dr Very-slimy, I call him. That WOULD be a treat, wouldn't it? Little pot-bellied niggers breathing garlic in your face over the bridge-table. Christ, to think of it! We've got to hang together and put our foot down on this at once. What do you say, Westfield? Flory?'
Westfield shrugged67 his thin shoulders philosophically68. He had sat down at the table and lighted a black, stinking69 Burma cheroot.
'Got to put up with it, I suppose,' he said. 'B--s of natives are getting into all the Clubs nowadays. Even the Pegu Club, I'm told. Way this country's going, you know. We're about the last Club in Burma to hold out against 'em.'
'We are; and what's more, we're damn well going to go on holding out. I'll die in the ditch before I'll see a nigger in here.' Ellis had produced a stump70 of pencil. With the curious air of spite that some men can put into their tiniest action, he re-pinned the notice on the board and pencilled a tiny, neat 'B. F.' against Mr Macgregor's signature--'There, that's what I think of his idea. I'll tell him so when he comes down. What do YOU say, Flory?'
Flory had not spoken all this time. Though by nature anything but a silent man, he seldom found much to say in Club conversations. He had sat down at the table and was reading G. K. Chesterton's article in the London News, at the same time caressing71 Flo's head with his left hand. Ellis, however, was one of those people who constantly nag52 others to echo their own opinions. He repeated his question, and Flory looked up, and their eyes met. The skin round Ellis's nose suddenly turned so pale that it was almost grey. In him it was a sign of anger. Without any prelude72 he burst into a stream of abuse that would have been startling, if the others had not been used to hearing something like it every morning.
'My God, I should have thought in a case like this, when it's a question of keeping those black, stinking swine out of the only place where we can enjoy ourselves, you'd have the decency73 to back me up. Even if that pot-bellied greasy74 little sod of a nigger doctor IS your best pal31. _I_ don't care if you choose to pal up with the scum of the bazaar. If it pleases you to go to Veraswami's house and drink whisky with all his nigger pals75, that's your look-out. Do what you like outside the Club. But, by God, it's a different matter when you talk of bringing niggers in here. I suppose you'd like little Veraswami for a Club member, eh? Chipping into our conversation and pawing everyone with his sweaty hands and breathing his filthy76 garlic breath in our faces. By god, he'd go out with my boot behind him if ever I saw his black snout inside that door. Greasy, pot-bellied little--!' etc.
This went on for several minutes. It was curiously77 impressive, because it was so completely sincere. Ellis really did hate Orientals--hated them with a bitter, restless loathing78 as of something evil or unclean. Living and working, as the assistant of a timber firm must, in perpetual contact with the Burmese, he had never grown used to the sight of a black face. Any hint of friendly feeling towards an Oriental seemed to him a horrible perversity79. He was an intelligent man and an able servant of his firm, but he was one of those Englishmen--common, unfortunately-- who should never be allowed to set foot in the East.
Flory sat nursing Flo's head in his lap, unable to meet Ellis's eyes. At the best of times his birthmark made it difficult for him to look people straight in the face. And when he made ready to speak, he could feel his voice trembling--for it had a way of trembling when it should have been firm; his features, too, sometimes twitched80 uncontrollably.
'Steady on,' he said at last, sullenly81 and rather feebly. 'Steady on. There's no need to get so excited. _I_ never suggested having any native members in here.'
'Oh, didn't you? We all know bloody well you'd like to, though. Why else do you go to that oily little babu's house every morning, then? Sitting down at table with him as though he was a white man, and drinking out of glasses his filthy black lips have slobbered over--it makes me spew to think of it.'
'Sit down, old chap, sit down,' Westfield said. 'Forget it. Have a drink on it. Not worth while quarrelling. Too hot.'
'My God,' said Ellis a little more calmly, taking a pace or two up and down, 'my God, I don't understand you chaps. I simply don't. Here's that old fool Macgregor wanting to bring a nigger into this Club for no reason whatever, and you all sit down under it without a word. Good God, what are we supposed to be doing in this country? If we aren't going to rule, why the devil don't we clear out? Here we are, supposed to be governing a set of damn black swine who've been slaves since the beginning of history, and instead of ruling them in the only way they understand, we go and treat them as equals. And you silly b--s take it for granted. There's Flory, makes his best pal a black babu who calls himself a doctor because he's done two years at an Indian so-called university. And you, Westfield, proud as Punch of your knock- kneed, bribe-taking cowards of policemen. And there's Maxwell, spends his time running after Eurasian tarts82. Yes, you do, Maxwell; I heard about your goings-on in Mandalay with some smelly little bitch called Molly Pereira. I suppose you'd have gone and married her if they hadn't transferred you up here? You all seem to LIKE the dirty black brutes83. Christ, I don't know what's come over us all. I really don't.'
'Come on, have another drink,' said Westfield. 'Hey, butler! Spot of beer before the ice goes, eh? Beer, butler!'
The butler brought some bottles of Munich beer. Ellis presently sat down at the table with the others, and he nursed one of the cool bottles between his small hands. His forehead was sweating. He was sulky, but not in a rage any longer. At all times he was spiteful and perverse84, but his violent fits of rage were soon over, and were never apologized for. Quarrels were a regular part of the routine of Club life. Mr Lackersteen was feeling better and was studying the illustrations in La Vie Parisienne. It was after nine now, and the room, scented85 with the acrid86 smoke of Westfield's cheroot, was stifling87 hot. Everyone's shirt stuck to his back with the first sweat of the day. The invisible chokra who pulled the punkah rope outside was falling asleep in the glare.
'Butler!' yelled Ellis, and as the butler appeared, 'go and wake that bloody chokra up!'
'Yes, master.'
'And butler!'
'Yes, master?'
'How much ice have we got left?'
''Bout1 twenty pounds, master. Will only last today, I think. I find it very difficult to keep ice cool now.'
'Don't talk like that, damn you--"I find it very difficult!" Have you swallowed a dictionary? "Please, master, can't keeping ice cool"--that's how you ought to talk. We shall have to sack this fellow if he gets to talk English too well. I can't stick servants who talk English. D'you hear, butler?'
'God! No ice till Monday,' Westfield said. 'You going back to the jungle, Flory?'
'Yes. I ought to be there now. I only came in because of the English mail.'
'Go on tour myself, I think. Knock up a spot of Travelling Allowance. I can't stick my bloody office at this time of year. Sitting there under the damned punkah, signing one chit after another. Paper-chewing. God, how I wish the war was on again!'
'I'm going out the day after tomorrow,' Ellis said. 'Isn't that damned padre coming to hold his service this Sunday? I'll take care not to be in for that, anyway. Bloody knee-drill.'
'Next Sunday,' said Westfield. 'Promised to be in for it myself. So's Macgregor. Bit hard on the poor devil of a padre, I must say. Only gets here once in six weeks. Might as well get up a congregation when he does come.'
'Oh, hell! I'd snivel psalms89 to oblige the padre, but I can't stick the way these damned native Christians90 come shoving into our church. A pack of Madrassi servants and Karen school-teachers. And then those two yellow-bellies, Francis and Samuel--they call themselves Christians too. Last time the padre was here they had the nerve to come up and sit on the front pews with the white men. Someone ought to speak to the padre about that. What bloody fools we were ever to let those missionaries92 loose in this country! Teaching bazaar sweepers they're as good as we are. "Please, sir, me Christian91 same like master." Damned cheek.'
'How about that for a pair of legs?' said Mr Lackersteen, passing La Vie Parisienne across. 'You know French, Flory; what's that mean underneath93? Christ, it reminds me of when I was in Paris, my first leave, before I married. Christ, I wish I was there again!'
'Did you hear that one about "There was a young lady of Woking"?' Maxwell said. He was rather a silent youth, but, like other youths, he had an affection for a good smutty rhyme. He completed the biography of the young lady of Woking, and there was a laugh. Westfield replied with the young lady of Ealing who had a peculiar94 feeling, and Flory came in with the young curate of Horsham who always took every precaution. There was more laughter. Even Ellis thawed95 and produced several rhymes; Ellis's jokes were always genuinely witty97, and yet filthy beyond measure. Everyone cheered up and felt more friendly in spite of the heat. They had finished the beer and were just going to call for another drink, when shoes creaked on the steps outside. A booming voice, which made the floorboards tingle98, was saying jocosely99:
'Yes, most distinctly humorous. I incorporated it in one of those little articles of mine in Blackwood's, you know. I remember, too, when I was stationed at Prome, another quite--ah--diverting incident which--'
Evidently Mr Macgregor had arrived at the Club. Mr Lackersteen exclaimed, 'Hell! My wife's there,' and pushed his empty glass as far away from him as it would go. Mr Macgregor and Mrs Lackersteen entered the lounge together.
Mr Macgregor was a large, heavy man, rather past forty, with a kindly100, puggy face, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. His bulky shoulders, and a trick he had of thrusting his head forward, reminded one curiously of a turtle--the Burmans, in fact, nicknamed him 'the tortoise'. He was dressed in a clean silk suit, which already showed patches of sweat beneath the armpits. He greeted the others with a humorous mock-salute, and then planted himself before the notice-board, beaming, in the attitude of a schoolmaster twiddling a cane101 behind his back. The good nature in his face was quite genuine, and yet there was such a wilful102 geniality103 about him, such a strenuous104 air of being off duty and forgetting his official rank, that no one was ever quite at ease in his presence. His conversation was evidently modelled on that of some facetious105 schoolmaster or clergyman whom he had known in early life. Any long word, any quotation106, any proverbial expression figured in his mind as a joke, and was introduced with a bumbling noise like 'er' or 'ah', to make it clear that there was a joke coming. Mrs Lackersteen was a woman of about thirty-five, handsome in a contourless, elongated107 way, like a fashion plate. She had a sighing, discontented voice. The others had all stood up when she entered, and Mrs Lackersteen sank exhaustedly108 into the best chair under the punkah, fanning herself with a slender hand like that of a newt.
'Oh dear, this heat, this heat! Mr Macgregor came and fetched me in his car. SO kind of him. Tom, that wretch109 of a rickshaw-man is pretending to be ill again. Really, I think you ought to give him a good thrashing and bring him to his senses. It's too terrible to have to walk about in this sun every day.'
Mrs Lackersteen, unequal to the quarter-mile walk between her house and the Club, had imported a rickshaw from Rangoon. Except for bullock-carts and Mr Macgregor's car it was the only wheeled vehicle in Kyauktada, for the whole district did not possess ten miles of road. In the jungle, rather than leave her husband alone, Mrs Lackersteen endured all the horrors of dripping tents, mosquitoes and tinned food; but she made up for it by complaining over trifles while in headquarters.
'Really I think the laziness of these servants is getting too shocking,' she sighed. 'Don't you agree, Mr Macgregor? We seem to have no AUTHORITY over the natives nowadays, with all these dreadful Reforms, and the insolence110 they learn from the newspapers. In some ways they are getting almost as bad as the lower classes at home.'
'Oh, hardly as bad as that, I trust. Still, I am afraid there is no doubt that the democratic spirit is creeping in, even here.'
'And such a short time ago, even just before the war, they were so NICE and respectful! The way they salaamed111 when you passed them on the road--it was really quite charming. I remember when we paid our butler only twelve rupees a month, and really that man loved us like a dog. And now they are demanding forty and fifty rupees, and I find that the only way I can even KEEP a servant is to pay their wages several months in arrears112.'
'The old type of servant is disappearing,' agreed Mr Macgregor. 'In my young days, when one's butler was disrespectful, one sent him along to the jail with a chit saying "Please give the bearer fifteen lashes63". Ah well, eheu fugaces! Those days are gone for ever, I am afraid.'
'Ah, you're about right there,' said Westfield in his gloomy way. 'This country'll never be fit to live in again. British Raj is finished if you ask me. Lost Dominion113 and all that. Time we cleared out of it.'
Whereat there was a murmur114 of agreement from everyone in the room, even from Flory, notoriously a Bolshie in his opinions, even from young Maxwell, who had been barely three years in the country. No Anglo-Indian will ever deny that India is going to the dogs, or ever has denied it--for India, like Punch, never was what it was.
Ellis had meanwhile unpinned the offending notice from behind Mr Macgregor's back, and he now held it out to him, saying in his sour way:
'Here, Macgregor, we've read this notice, and we all think this idea of electing a native to the Club is absolute--' Ellis was going to have said 'absolute balls', but he remembered Mrs Lackersteen's presence and checked himself--'is absolutely uncalled for. After all, this Club is a place where we come to enjoy ourselves, and we don't want natives poking115 about in here. We like to think there's still one place where we're free of them. The others all agree with me absolutely.'
He looked round at the others. 'Hear, hear!' said Mr Lackersteen gruffly. He knew that his wife would guess that he had been drinking, and he felt that a display of sound sentiment would excuse him.
Mr Macgregor took the notice with a smile. He saw the 'B. F.' pencilled against his name, and privately116 he thought Ellis's manner very disrespectful, but he turned the matter off with a joke. He took as great pains to be a good fellow at the Club as he did to keep up his dignity during office hours. 'I gather,' he said, 'that our friend Ellis does not welcome the society of--ah--his Aryan brother?'
'No, I do not,' said Ellis tartly117. 'Nor my Mongolian brother. I don't like niggers, to put it in one word.'
Mr Macgregor stiffened118 at the word 'nigger', which is discountenanced in India. He had no prejudice against Orientals; indeed, he was deeply fond of them. Provided they were given no freedom he thought them the most charming people alive. It always pained him to see them wantonly insulted.
'Is it quite playing the game,' he said stiffly, 'to call these people niggers--a term they very naturally resent--when they are obviously nothing of the kind? The Burmese are Mongolians, the Indians are Aryans or Dravidians, and all of them are quite distinct--'
'Oh, rot that!' said Ellis, who was not at all awed96 by Mr Macgregor's official status. 'Call them niggers or Aryans or what you like. What I'm saying is that we don't want to see any black hides in this Club. If you put it to the vote you'll find we're against it to a man--unless Flory wants his DEAR pal Veraswami,' he added.
'Hear, hear!' repeated Mr Lackersteen. 'Count on me to blackball the lot of 'em.'
Mr Macgregor pursed his lips whimsically. He was in an awkward position, for the idea of electing a native member was not his own, but had been passed on to him by the Commissioner. However, he disliked making excuses, so he said in a more conciliatory tone:
'Shall we postpone119 discussing it till the next general meeting? In the meantime we can give it our mature consideration. And now,' he added, moving towards the table, 'who will join me in a little--ah-- liquid refreshment120?'
The butler was called and the 'liquid refreshment' ordered. It was hotter than ever now, and everyone was thirsty. Mr Lackersteen was on the point of ordering a drink when he caught his wife's eye, shrank up and said sulkily 'No.' He sat with his hands on his knees, with a rather pathetic expression, watching Mrs Lackersteen swallow a glass of lemonade with gin in it. Mr Macgregor, though he signed the chit for drinks, drank plain lemonade. Alone of the Europeans in Kyauktada, he kept the rule of not drinking before sunset.
'It's all very well,' grumbled121 Ellis, with his forearms on the table, fidgeting with his glass. The dispute with Mr Macgregor had made him restless again. 'It's all very well, but I stick to what I said. No natives in this Club! It's by constantly giving way over small things like that that we've ruined the Empire. The country's only rotten with sedition122 because we've been too soft with them. The only possible policy is to treat 'em like the dirt they are. This is a critical moment, and we want every bit of prestige we can get. We've got to hang together and say, "WE ARE THE MASTERS, and you beggars--"' Ellis pressed his small thumb down as though flattening123 a grub--'"you beggars keep your place!"'
'Hopeless, old chap,' said Westfield. 'Quite hopeless. What can you do with all this red tape tying your hands? Beggars of natives know the law better than we do. Insult you to your face and then run you in the moment you hit 'em. Can't do anything unless you put your foot down firmly. And how can you, if they haven't the guts124 to show fight?'
'Our burra sahib at Mandalay always said,' put in Mrs Lackersteen, 'that in the end we shall simply LEAVE India. Young men will not come out here any longer to work all their lives for insults and ingratitude125. We shall just GO. When the natives come to us begging us to stay, we shall say, "No, you have had your chance, you wouldn't take it. Very well, we shall leave you to govern yourselves." And then, what a lesson that will teach them!'
'It's all this law and order that's done for us,' said Westfield gloomily. The ruin of the Indian Empire through too much legality was a recurrent theme with Westfield. According to him, nothing save a full-sized rebellion, and the consequent reign126 of martial127 law, could save the Empire from decay. 'All this paper-chewing and chit-passing. Office babus are the real rulers of this country now. Our number's up. Best thing we can do is to shut up shop and let 'em stew128 in their own juice.'
'I don't agree, I simply don't agree,' Ellis said. 'We could put things right in a month if we chose. It only needs a pennyworth of pluck. Look at Amritsar. Look how they caved in after that. Dyer knew the stuff to give them. Poor old Dyer! That was a dirty job. Those cowards in England have got something to answer for.'
There was a kind of sigh from the others, the same sigh that a gathering129 of Roman Catholics will give at the mention of Bloody Mary. Even Mr Macgregor, who detested130 bloodshed and martial law, shook his head at the name of Dyer.
'Ah, poor man! Sacrificed to the Paget M.P.s. Well, perhaps they will discover their mistake when it is too late.'
'My old governor used to tell a story about that,' said Westfield. 'There was an old havildar in a native regiment--someone asked him what'd happen if the British left India. The old chap said--'
Flory pushed back his chair and stood up. It must not, it could not--no, it simply should not go on any longer! He must get out of this room quickly, before something happened inside his head and he began to smash the furniture and throw bottles at the pictures. Dull boozing witless porkers! Was it possible that they could go on week after week, year after year, repeating word for word the same evil-minded drivel, like a parody131 of a fifth-rate story in Blackwood's? Would none of them EVER think of anything new to say? Oh, what a place, what people! What a civilization is this of ours--this godless civilization founded on whisky, Blackwood's and the 'Bonzo' pictures! God have mercy on us, for all of us are part of it.
Flory did not say any of this, and he was at some pains not to show it in his face. He was standing by his chair, a little sidelong to the others, with the half-smile of a man who is never sure of his popularity.
'I'm afraid I shall have to be off,' he said. 'I've got some things to see to before breakfast, unfortunately.'
'Stay and have another spot, old man,' said Westfield. 'Morning's young. Have a gin. Give you an appetite.'
'No, thanks, I must be going. Come on, Flo. Good-bye, Mrs Lackersteen. Good-bye, everybody.'
'Exit Booker Washington, the niggers' pal,' said Ellis as Flory disappeared. Ellis could always be counted on to say something disagreeable about anyone who had just left the room. 'Gone to see Very-slimy, I suppose. Or else sloped off to avoid paying a round of drinks.'
'Oh, he's not a bad chap,' Westfield said. 'Says some Bolshie things sometimes. Don't suppose he means half of them.'
'Oh, a very good fellow, of course,' said Mr Macgregor. Every European in India is ex-officio, or rather ex-colore, a good fellow, until he has done something quite outrageous132. It is an honorary rank.
'He's a bit TOO Bolshie for my taste. I can't bear a fellow who pals up with the natives. I shouldn't wonder if he's got a lick of the tar-brush himself. It might explain that black mark on his face. Piebald. And he looks like a yellow-belly, with that black hair, and skin the colour of a lemon.'
There was some desultory133 scandal about Flory, but not much, because Mr Macgregor did not like scandal. The Europeans stayed in the Club long enough for one more round of drinks. Mr Macgregor told his anecdote134 about Prome, which could be produced in almost any context. And then the conversation veered135 back to the old, never- palling136 subject--the insolence of the natives, the supineness of the Government, the dear dead days when the British Raj WAS the British Raj and please give the bearer fifteen lashes. This topic was never let alone for long, partly because of Ellis's obsession137. Besides, you could forgive the Europeans a great deal of their bitterness. Living and working among Orientals would try the temper of a saint. And all of them, the officials particularly, knew what it was to be baited and insulted. Almost every day, when Westfield or Mr Macgregor or even Maxwell went down the street, the High School boys, with their young, yellow faces--faces smooth as gold coins, full of that maddening contempt that sits so naturally on the Mongolian face--sneered at them as they went past, sometimes hooted138 after them with hyena-like laughter. The life of the Anglo- Indian officials is not all jam. In comfortless camps, in sweltering offices, in gloomy dakbungalows smelling of dust and earth-oil, they earn, perhaps, the right to be a little disagreeable.
It was getting on for ten now, and hot beyond bearing. Flat, clear drops of sweat gathered on everyone's face, and on the men's bare forearms. A damp patch was growing larger and larger in the back of Mr Macgregor's silk coat. The glare outside seemed to soak somehow through the green-chicked windows, making one's eyes ache and filling one's head with stuffiness139. Everyone thought with malaise of his stodgy140 breakfast, and of the long, deadly hours that were coming. Mr Macgregor stood up with a sigh and adjusted his spectacles, which had slipped down his sweating nose.
'Alas141 that such a festive142 gathering should end,' he said. 'I must get home to breakfast. The cares of Empire. Is anybody coming my way? My man is waiting with the car.'
'Oh, thank you,' said Mrs Lackersteen; 'if you'd take Tom and me. What a relief not to have to walk in this heat!'
The others stood up. Westfield stretched his arms and yawned through his nose. 'Better get a move on, I suppose. Go to sleep if I sit here any longer. Think of stewing143 in that office all day! Baskets of papers. Oh Lord!'
'Don't forget tennis this evening, everyone,' said Ellis. 'Maxwell, you lazy devil, don't you skulk144 out of it again. Down here with your racquet at four-thirty sharp.'
'Lead on, Macduff,' said Westfield.
They went out into the glaring white sunlight. The heat rolled from the earth like the breath of an oven. The flowers, oppressive to the eyes, blazed with not a petal146 stirring, in a debauch147 of sun. The glare sent a weariness through one's bones. There was something horrible in it--horrible to think of that blue, blinding sky, stretching on and on over Burma and India, over Siam, Cambodia, China, cloudless and interminable. The plates of Mr Macgregor's waiting car were too hot to touch. The evil time of day was beginning, the time, as the Burmese say, 'when feet are silent'. Hardly a living creature stirred, except men, and the black columns of ants, stimulated148 by the heat, which marched ribbon-like across the path, and the tail-less vultures which soared on the currents of the air.
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1
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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3
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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4
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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5
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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hideousness
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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11
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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12
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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pagoda
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| n.宝塔（尤指印度和远东的多层宝塔），（印度教或佛教的）塔式庙宇 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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20
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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21
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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22
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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23
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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24
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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25
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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26
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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27
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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28
petunias
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| n.矮牵牛（花）( petunia的名词复数 ) | |
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29
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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31
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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32
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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33
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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34
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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36
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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37
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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38
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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39
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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40
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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42
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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43
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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44
verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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45
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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47
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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48
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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49
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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50
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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51
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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52
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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53
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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54
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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55
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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56
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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57
stout
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| adj.强壮的，粗大的，结实的，勇猛的，矮胖的 | |
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58
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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59
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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60
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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61
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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62
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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63
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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64
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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65
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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66
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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67
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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68
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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69
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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70
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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71
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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72
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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73
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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74
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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75
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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76
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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77
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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78
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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79
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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80
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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82
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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83
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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84
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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85
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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86
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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87
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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88
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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89
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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90
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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91
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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92
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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93
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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94
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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95
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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96
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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98
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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99
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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100
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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101
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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102
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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103
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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104
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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105
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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106
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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107
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
exhaustedly
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| adv.exhausted（精疲力竭的）的变形 | |
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109
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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110
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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111
salaamed
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| 行额手礼( salaam的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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113
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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114
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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115
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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116
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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117
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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118
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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119
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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120
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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121
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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122
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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123
flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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124
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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125
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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126
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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127
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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128
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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129
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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130
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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132
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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133
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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134
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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135
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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136
palling
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的现在分词 ) | |
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137
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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138
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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140
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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141
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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142
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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143
stewing
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| 炖 | |
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144
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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145
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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146
petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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147
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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148
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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