五只小猪14
时间：2024-12-17 01:16:56
（单词翻译:单击）
Narrative of Lady Dittisham
I have set down here the full story of my meeting with Amyas Crale, up to the time of his tragic
death.
I saw him first at a studio party. He was standing, I remember, by a window, and I saw him as I
came in at the door. I asked who he was. Someone said: “That’s Crale, the painter.” I said at once
that I’d like to meet him.
We talked on that occasion for perhaps ten minutes. When anyone makes the impression on you
that Amyas Crale made on me, it’s hopeless to attempt to describe them. If I say that when I saw
Amyas Crale, everybody else seemed to grow very small and fade away, that expresses it as well
as anything can.
Immediately after that meeting I went to look at as many of his pictures as I could. He had a
show on in Bond Street at the moment, and there was one of his pictures in Manchester and one in
Leeds and two in public galleries in London. I went to see them all. Then I met him again. I said:
“I’ve been to see all your pictures. I think they’re wonderful.”
He just looked amused. He said:
“Who said you were any judge of painting? I don’t believe you know anything about it.”
I said: “Perhaps not. But they are marvellous, all the same.”
He grinned at me and said: “Don’t be a gushing little fool.”
I said: “I’m not. I want you to paint me.”
Crale said: “If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll realize that I don’t paint portraits of pretty
women.”
I said: “It needn’t be a portrait and I’m not a pretty woman.”
He looked at me then as though he’d begun to see me. He said: “No, perhaps you’re not.”
I said: “Will you paint me then?”
He studied me for some time with his head on one side. Then he said: “You’re a strange child,
aren’t you?”
I said: “I’m quite rich, you know. I can afford to pay well for it.”
He said: “Why are you so anxious for me to paint you?”
I said: “Because I want it!”
He said: “Is that a reason?”
And I said: “Yes, I always get what I want.”
He said then: “Oh, my poor child, how young you are!”
I said: “Will you paint me?”
He took me by the shoulders and turned me towards the light and looked me over. Then he
stood away from me a little. I stood quite still, waiting.
He said: “I’ve sometimes wanted to paint a flight of impossibly-coloured Australian Maccaws
alighting on St. Paul’s Cathedral. If I painted you against a nice traditional bit of outdoor
landscape, I believe I’d get exactly the same result.”
I said: “Then you will paint me?”
He said: “You’re one of the loveliest, crudest, most flamboyant bits of exotic colouring I’ve
ever seen. I’ll paint you!”
I said: “Then that’s settled.”
He went on: “But I’ll warn you, Elsa Greer. If I do paint you, I shall probably make love to
you.”
I said: “I hope you will….”
I said it quite steadily and quietly. I heard him catch his breath, and I saw the look that came
into his eyes.
You see, it was as sudden as all that.
A day or two later we met again. He told me that he wanted me to come down to Devonshire—
he’d got the very place there that he wanted for a background. He said:
“I’m married, you know. And I’m very fond of my wife.”
I said if he was fond of her she must be very nice.
He said she was extremely nice. “In fact,” he said, “she’s quite adorable—and I adore her. So
put that in your pipe, young Elsa, and smoke it.”
I told him that I quite understood.
He began the picture a week later. Caroline Crale welcomed me very pleasantly. She didn’t like
me much—but, after all, why should she? Amyas was very circumspect. He never said a word to
me that his wife couldn’t have overheard, and I was quite polite and formal to him. Underneath,
though, we both knew.
After ten days he told me I was to go back to London.
I said: “The picture isn’t finished.”
He said: “It’s barely begun. The truth is, I can’t paint you, Elsa.”
I said: “Why?”
He said: “You know well enough why, Elsa. And that’s why you’ve got to clear out. I can’t
think about the painting—I can’t think about anything but you.”
We were in the Battery garden. It was a hot sunny day. There were birds and humming bees. It
ought to have been very happy and peaceful. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt—somehow—tragic.
As though—as though what was going to happen was already mirrored there.
I knew it would be no good my going back to London, but I said: “Very well, I’ll go if you say
so.”
Amyas said: “Good girl.”
So I went. I didn’t write to him.
He held out for ten days and then he came. He was so thin and haggard and miserable that it
shocked me.
He said: “I warned you, Elsa. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I said: “I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d come.”
He gave a sort of groan and said: “There are things that are too strong for any man. I can’t eat or
sleep or rest for wanting you.”
I said I knew that and that it was the same with me, and had been from the first moment I’d seen
him. It was Fate and it was no use struggling against it.
He said: “You haven’t struggled much, have you, Elsa?” And I said I hadn’t struggled at all.
He said he wished I wasn’t so young, and I said that didn’t matter. I suppose I might say that for
the next few weeks we were very happy. But happiness isn’t quite the word. It was something
deeper and more frightening than that.
We were made for each other and we’d found each other—and we both knew we’d got to be
together always.
But something else happened, too. The unfinished picture began to haunt Amyas. He said to me:
“Damned funny, I couldn’t paint you before—you yourself got in the way of it. But I want to paint
you, Elsa. I want to paint you so that that picture will be the finest thing I’ve ever done. I’m
itching and aching now to get at my brushes to see you sitting there on that hoary old chestnut of a
battlement wall with the conventional blue sea and the decorous English trees—and you—you—
sitting there like a discordant shriek of triumph.”
He said: “And I’ve got to paint you that way! And I can’t be fussed and bothered while I’m
doing it. When the picture’s finished I’ll tell Caroline the truth and we’ll get the whole messy
business cleared up.”
I said: “Will Caroline make a fuss about divorcing you?”
He said he didn’t think so. But you never knew with women.
I said I was sorry if she was going to be upset, but after all, I said, these things did happen.
He said: “Very nice and reasonable, Elsa. But Caroline isn’t reasonable, never has been
reasonable, and certainly isn’t going to feel reasonable. She loves me, you know.”
I said I understood that, but if she loved him, she’d put his happiness first, and at any rate she
wouldn’t want to keep him if he wanted to be free.
He said: “Life can’t really be solved by admirable maxims out of modern literature. Nature’s
red in tooth and claw, remember.”
I said: “Surely we are all civilized people nowadays?” and Amyas laughed. He said: “Civilized
people my foot! Caroline would probably like to take a hatchet to you. She might do it too. Don’t
you realize, Elsa, that she’s going to suffer—suffer? Don’t you know what suffering means?”
I said: “Then don’t tell her.”
He said: “No. The break’s got to come. You’ve got to belong to me properly, Elsa. Before all
the world. Openly mine.”
I said: “Suppose she won’t divorce you?”
He said: “I’m not afraid of that.”
I said: “What are you afraid of then?”
And then he said slowly: “I don’t know….”
You see, he knew Caroline. I didn’t.
If I’d had any idea….
We went down again to Alderbury. Things were difficult this time. Caroline had got suspicious.
I didn’t like it—I didn’t like it—I didn’t like it a bit. I’ve always hated deceit and concealment. I
thought we ought to tell her. Amyas wouldn’t hear of it.
The funny part of it was that he didn’t really care at all. In spite of being fond of Caroline and
not wanting to hurt her, he just didn’t care about the honesty or dishonesty of it all. He was
painting with a kind of frenzy, and nothing else mattered. I hadn’t seen him in one of his working
spells before. I realized now what a really great genius he was. It was natural for him to be so
carried away that all the ordinary decencies didn’t matter. But it was different for me. I was in a
horrible position. Caroline resented me—and quite rightly. The only thing to put the position quite
straight was to be honest and tell her the truth.
But all Amyas would say was that he wasn’t going to be bothered with scenes and fusses until
he’d finished the picture. I said there probably wouldn’t be a scene. Caroline would have too much
dignity and pride for that.
I said: “I want to be honest about it all. We’ve got to be honest!”
Amyas said: “To hell with honesty. I’m painting a picture, damn it.”
I did see his point of view, but he wouldn’t see mine.
And in the end I broke down. Caroline had been talking of some plan she and Amyas were
going to carry out next autumn. She talked about it quite confidently. And I suddenly felt it was
too abominable, what we were doing—letting her go on like this—and perhaps, too, I was angry,
because she was really being very unpleasant to me in a clever sort of way that one couldn’t take
hold of.
And so I came out with the truth. In a way, I still think I was right. Though, of course, I
wouldn’t have done it if I’d had the faintest idea what was to come of it.
The clash came right away. Amyas was furious with me, but he had to admit that what I had
said was true.
I didn’t understand Caroline at all. We all went over to Meredith Blake’s to tea, and Caroline
played up marvellously—talking and laughing. Like a fool, I thought she was taking it well. It was
awkward my not being able to leave the house, but Amyas would have gone up in smoke if I had.
I thought perhaps Caroline would go. It would have made it much easier for us if she had.
I didn’t see her take the coniine. I want to be honest so I think that it’s just possible that she may
have taken it as she said she did, with the idea of suicide in her mind.
But I don’t really think so. I think she was one of those intensely jealous and possessive women
who won’t let go of anything that they think belongs to them. Amyas was her property. I think she
was quite prepared to kill him rather than to let him go—completely and finally—to another
woman. I think she made up her mind, right away, to kill him. And I think that Meredith’s
happening to discuss coniine so freely just gave her the means to do what she’d already made up
her mind to do. She was a very bitter and revengeful woman—vindictive. Amyas knew all along
that she was dangerous. I didn’t.
The next morning she had a final showdown with Amyas. I heard most of it from the outside on
the terrace. He was splendid—very patient and calm. He implored her to be reasonable. He said he
was very fond of her and the child and always would be. He’d do everything he could do to assure
their future. Then he hardened up and said: “But understand this. I’m damned well going to marry
Elsa—and nothing shall stop me. You and I always agreed to leave each other free. These things
happen.”
Caroline said to him: “Do as you please. I’ve warned you.”
Her voice was very quiet, but there was a queer note in it.
Amyas said: “What do you mean, Caroline?”
She said: “You’re mine and I don’t mean to let you go. Sooner than let you go to that girl I’ll
kill you….”
Just at that minute, Philip Blake came along the terrace. I got up and went to meet him. I didn’t
want him to overhear.
Presently Amyas came out and said it was time to get on with the picture. We went down
together to the Battery. He didn’t say much. Just said that Caroline was cutting up rough—but for
God’s sake not to talk about it. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing. Another day, he
said, would about finish the picture.
He said: “And it’ll be the best thing I’ve ever done, Elsa, even if it is paid for in blood and
tears.”
A little later I went up to the house to get a pullover. There was a chilly wind blowing. When I
came back again Caroline was there. I suppose she had come down to make one last appeal. Philip
and Meredith Blake were there too.
It was then that Amyas said he was thirsty and wanted a drink. He said there was beer but it
wasn’t iced.
Caroline said she’d send him down some iced beer. She said it quite naturally in an almost
friendly tone. She was an actress, that woman. She must have known then what she meant to do.
She brought it down about ten minutes later. Amyas was painting. She poured it out and set the
glass down beside him. Neither of us were watching her. Amyas was intent on what he was doing
and I had to keep the pose.
Amyas drank it down the way he always drank beer, just pouring it down his throat in one
draught. Then he made a face and said it tasted foul—but at any rate it was cold.
And even then, when he said that, no suspicion entered my head, I just laughed and said:
“Liver.”
When she’d seen him drink it Caroline went away.
It must have been about forty minutes later that Amyas complained of stiffness and pains. He
said he thought he must have got a touch of muscular rheumatism. Amyas was always intolerant
of any ailment and he didn’t like being fussed over. After saying that he turned it off with a light:
“Old age, I suppose. You’ve taken on a creaking old man, Elsa.” I played up to him. But I noticed
that his legs moved stiffly and queerly and that he grimaced once or twice. I never dreamt that it
wasn’t rheumatism. Presently he drew the bench along and sat sprawled on that, occasionally
stretching up to put a touch of paint here and there on the canvas. He used to do that sometimes
when he was painting. Just sit staring at me and then the canvas. Sometimes he’d do it for half an
hour at a time. So I didn’t think it specially queer.
We heard the bell go for lunch, and he said he wasn’t coming up. He’d stay where he was and
he didn’t want anything. That wasn’t unusual either, and it would be easier for him than facing
Caroline at the table.
He was talking in rather a queer way—grunting out his words. But he sometimes did that when
he was dissatisfied with the progress of the picture.
Meredith Blake came in to fetch me. He spoke to Amyas, but Amyas only grunted at him.
We went up to the house together and left him there. We left him there—to die alone. I’d never
seen much illness—I didn’t know much about it—I thought Amyas was just in a painter’s mood.
If I’d known—if I’d realized—perhaps a doctor could have saved him…Oh God, why didn’t I—
it’s no good thinking of that now. I was a blind fool. A blind, stupid fool.
There isn’t much more to tell.
Caroline and the governess went down there after lunch. Meredith followed them. Presently he
came running up. He told us Amyas was dead.
Then I knew! Knew, I mean, that it was Caroline. I still didn’t think of poison. I thought she’d
gone down that minute and either shot him or stabbed him.
I wanted to get at her—to kill her….
How could she do it? How could she? He was so alive, so full of life and vigour. To put all that
out—to make him limp and cold. Just so that I shouldn’t have him.
Horrible woman….
Horrible, scornful, cruel, vindictive woman….
I hate her. I still hate her.
They didn’t even hang her.
They ought to have hanged her….
Even hanging was too good for her….
I hate her…I hate her…I hate her….
End of Lady Dittisham’s Narrative.
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