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The Crimson Tide: A Novel
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“Good heavens, has it gone as far as that!” she whispered in gay consternation. “And could I really arrive in time, though breathless?”
He laughed: “You don’t need to stir from your niche, sweetness. I swept your altar once. I’ll keep the fire clean.”
“You adorable thing–” He felt the faintest pressure of her fingers; then he heard himself being presented to Questa Terrett.
The frail and somewhat mortuary beauty of this slim poetess, with her full-lipped profile of an Egyptian temple-girl and her pale, still eyes, left him guessing–rather guiltily–recollecting his recent but meaningless disrespect.
“I don’t know,” she said, “just why you are here. Soldiers are no novelty. Is somebody in love with you?”
It was a toss-up whether he’d wither or laugh, but the demon of gaiety won out.
She also smiled.
“I asked you,” she added, “because you seem to be quite featureless.”
“Oh, I’ve a few eyes and noses and that sort–”
“I mean psychologically accentless.”
“Just plain man?”
“Yes. That is all you are, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it is,” he admitted, quite as much amused as she appeared to be.
“I see. Some crazy girl here is enamoured of you. Otherwise, you scarcely belong among modern intellectuals, you know.”
At that he laughed outright.
She said: “You really are delightful. You’re just a plain, fighting male, aren’t you?”
“Well, I haven’t done much fighting–”
“Unimaginative, too! You could have led yourself to believe you had done a lot,” she pointed out. “And maybe you could have interested me.”
“I’m sorry. But suppose you try to interest me?”
“Don’t I? I’ve tried.”
“Do your best,” he encouraged her cheerfully. “You never can be sure I’m not listening.”
At that she laughed: “You nice youth,” she said, “if you’d talk that way to your sweetheart she’d sit up and listen… Which I’m afraid she doesn’t, so far.”
He felt himself flushing, but he refused to wince under her amused analysis.
“You’ve simply got to have imagination, you know,” she insisted. “Otherwise, you don’t get anywhere at all. Have you read my smears?”
“Smears?”
“Bacteriologists take a smear of something on a glass slide and slip it under a microscope. My poems are like that. The words are the bacteria. Few can identify them.”
“Are you serious?”
“Entirely.”
He maintained his gravity: “Would you be kind enough to take a smear and let me look?” he inquired politely.
“Certainly: the experiment is called ‘Unpremeditation.’”
She dropped one thin and silken knee over the other and crossed her hands on it as she recited her poem.
“UNPREMEDITATION.”
“In the tube.
Several,
With intonation.
Red, red, red.
A square fabric
Once white
With intention.
Soiled, soiled, soiled.
Six hundred hundred million
Swarm like vermin,
Without intention.
Redder. Redder.
Drip, drip, drip.
A goes west,
B goes east,
C goes north,
Pink, pink, pink.
Two white squares.
And a coat-sleeve.
Without intention,
Intonations.
Pinker. Redder.
Six hundred hundred million.
Billions. Trillions.
A week. Two weeks.
Otherwise?
Eternity.”
Jim’s features had become a trifle glassy. “You do skip a few words,” he said, “don’t you?”
“Words are animalculæ. Some skip, some gyrate, some sub-divide.”
He put a brave face on the matter: “If you’re not really guying me,” he ventured, “would you tell me a little about your poem?”
“Why, yes,” she replied amiably. “To put it redundantly, then, I have sketched in my poem a man in the subway, with influenza, which infects others in his vicinity.”
He laughed: “You don’t need to stir from your niche, sweetness. I swept your altar once. I’ll keep the fire clean.”
“You adorable thing–” He felt the faintest pressure of her fingers; then he heard himself being presented to Questa Terrett.
The frail and somewhat mortuary beauty of this slim poetess, with her full-lipped profile of an Egyptian temple-girl and her pale, still eyes, left him guessing–rather guiltily–recollecting his recent but meaningless disrespect.
“I don’t know,” she said, “just why you are here. Soldiers are no novelty. Is somebody in love with you?”
It was a toss-up whether he’d wither or laugh, but the demon of gaiety won out.
She also smiled.
“I asked you,” she added, “because you seem to be quite featureless.”
“Oh, I’ve a few eyes and noses and that sort–”
“I mean psychologically accentless.”
“Just plain man?”
“Yes. That is all you are, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it is,” he admitted, quite as much amused as she appeared to be.
“I see. Some crazy girl here is enamoured of you. Otherwise, you scarcely belong among modern intellectuals, you know.”
At that he laughed outright.
She said: “You really are delightful. You’re just a plain, fighting male, aren’t you?”
“Well, I haven’t done much fighting–”
“Unimaginative, too! You could have led yourself to believe you had done a lot,” she pointed out. “And maybe you could have interested me.”
“I’m sorry. But suppose you try to interest me?”
“Don’t I? I’ve tried.”
“Do your best,” he encouraged her cheerfully. “You never can be sure I’m not listening.”
At that she laughed: “You nice youth,” she said, “if you’d talk that way to your sweetheart she’d sit up and listen… Which I’m afraid she doesn’t, so far.”
He felt himself flushing, but he refused to wince under her amused analysis.
“You’ve simply got to have imagination, you know,” she insisted. “Otherwise, you don’t get anywhere at all. Have you read my smears?”
“Smears?”
“Bacteriologists take a smear of something on a glass slide and slip it under a microscope. My poems are like that. The words are the bacteria. Few can identify them.”
“Are you serious?”
“Entirely.”
He maintained his gravity: “Would you be kind enough to take a smear and let me look?” he inquired politely.
“Certainly: the experiment is called ‘Unpremeditation.’”
She dropped one thin and silken knee over the other and crossed her hands on it as she recited her poem.
“UNPREMEDITATION.”
“In the tube.
Several,
With intonation.
Red, red, red.
A square fabric
Once white
With intention.
Soiled, soiled, soiled.
Six hundred hundred million
Swarm like vermin,
Without intention.
Redder. Redder.
Drip, drip, drip.
A goes west,
B goes east,
C goes north,
Pink, pink, pink.
Two white squares.
And a coat-sleeve.
Without intention,
Intonations.
Pinker. Redder.
Six hundred hundred million.
Billions. Trillions.
A week. Two weeks.
Otherwise?
Eternity.”
Jim’s features had become a trifle glassy. “You do skip a few words,” he said, “don’t you?”
“Words are animalculæ. Some skip, some gyrate, some sub-divide.”
He put a brave face on the matter: “If you’re not really guying me,” he ventured, “would you tell me a little about your poem?”
“Why, yes,” she replied amiably. “To put it redundantly, then, I have sketched in my poem a man in the subway, with influenza, which infects others in his vicinity.”
Другие электронные книги автора Robert Chambers
Другие аудиокниги автора Robert Chambers
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее