按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
ere the office…employee class overlaps with the middling…professional class。 it was at the tennis club that i first met hilda。
at that time hilda was twenty…four。 she was a small； slim； rather timid girl； with dark hair； beautiful movements； and—because of having very large eyes—a distinct resemblance to a hare。 she was one of those people who never say much； but remain on the edge of any conversation that’s going on； and give the impression that they’re listening。 if she said anything at all； it was usually ‘oh； yes； i think so too’； agreeing with whoever had spoken last。 at tennis she hopped about very gracefully； and didn’t play badly； but somehow had a helpless； childish air。 her surname was vincent。
if you’re married； there’ll have been times when you’ve said to yourself ‘why the hell did i do it？’ and god knows i’ve said it often enough about hilda。 and once again； looking at it across fifteen years； why did i marry hilda？
partly； of course； because she was young and in a way very pretty。 beyond that i can only say that because she came of totally different origins from myself it was very difficult for me to get any grasp of what she was really like。 i had to marry her first and find out about her afterwards； whereas if i’d married say； elsie waters； i’d have known what i was marrying。 hilda belonged to a class i only knew by hearsay； the poverty…stricken officer class。 for generations past her family had been soldiers； sailors； clergymen； anglo…indian officials； and that kind of thing。 they’d never had any money； but on the other hand none of them had ever done anything that i should recognize as work。 say what you will； there’s a kind of snob…appeal in that； if you belong as i do to the god…fearing shopkeeper class； the low church； and high…tea class。 it wouldn’t make any impression on me now； but it did then。 don’t mistake what i’m saying。 i don’t mean that i married hilda because she belonged to the class i’d once served across the counter； with some notion of jockeying myself up in the social scale。 it was merely that i couldn’t understand her and therefore was capable of being goofy about her。 and one thing i certainly didn’t grasp was that the girls in these penniless middle…class families will marry anything in trousers； just to get away from home。
it wasn’t long before hilda took me home to see her family。 i hadn’t known till then that there was a considerable anglo…indian colony in ealing。 talk about discovering a new world！ it was quite a revelation to me。
do you know these anglo…indian families？ it’s almost impossible； when you get inside these people’s houses； to remember that out in the street it’s england and the twentieth century。 as soon as you set foot inside the front door you’re in india in the eighties。 you know the kind of atmosphere。 the carved teak furniture； the brass trays； the dusty tiger…skulls on the wall； the trichinopoly cigars； the red…hot pickles； the yellow photographs of chaps in sun…helmets； the hindustani words that you’re expected to know the meaning of； the everlasting anecdotes about tiger…shoots and what smith said to jones in poona in ‘87。 it’s a sort of little world of their own that they’ve created； like a kind of cyst。 to me； of course； it was all quite new and in some ways rather interesting。 old vincent； hilda’s father； had been not only in india but also in some even more outlandish place； borneo or sarawak； i forget which。 he was the usual type； pletely bald； almost invisible behind his moustache； and full of stories about cobras and cummerbunds and what the district collector said in ‘93。 hilda’s mother was so colourless that she was just like one of the faded photos on the wall。 there was also a son； harold； who had some official job in ceylon and was home on leave at the time when i first met hilda。 they had a little dark house in one of those buried back…streets that exist in ealing。 it smelt perpetually of trichinopoly cigars and it was so full of spears； blow…pipes； brass ornaments； and the heads of wild animals that you could hardly move about in it。
old vincent had retired in 1910； and since then he and his wife had shown about as much activity； mental or physical； as a couple of shellfish。 but at the time i was vaguely impressed by a family which had had majors； colonels； and once even an admiral in it。 my attitude towards the vincents； and theirs towards me； is an interesting illustration of what fools people can be when they get outside their own line。 put me among business people—whether they’re pany directors or mercial travellers—and i’m a fairly good judge of character。 but i had no experience whatever of the officer…rentier…clergyman class； and i was inclined to kow… tow to these decayed throw…outs。 i looked on them as my social and intellectual superiors； while they on the other hand mistook me for a rising young businessman who before long would be pulling down the big dough。 to people of that kind； ‘business’； whether it’s marine insurance or selling peanuts； is just a dark mystery。 all they know is that it’s something rather vulgar out of which you can make money。 old vincent used to talk impressively about my being ‘in business’—once； i remember； he had a slip of the tongue and said ‘in trade’—and obviously didn’t grasp the difference between being in business as an employee and being there on your own account。 he had some vague notion that as i was ‘in’ the flying salamander i should sooner or later rise to the top of it； by a process of promotion。 i think it’s possible that he also had pictures of himself touching me for fivers at some future date。 harold certainly had。 i could see it in his eye。 in fact； even with my ine being what it is； i’d probably be lending money to harold at this moment if he were alive。 luckily he died a few years after we were married； of enteric or something； and both the old vincents are dead too。
well； hilda and i were married； and right from the start it was a flop。 why did you marry her？ you say。 but why did you marry yours？ these things happen to us。 i wonder whether you’ll believe that during the first two or three years i had serious thoughts of killing hilda。 of course in practice one never does these things； they’re only a kind of fantasy that one enjoys thinking about。 besides； chaps who murder their wives always get copped。 however cleverly you’ve faked the alibi； they know perfectly well that it’s you who did it； and they’ll pin it on to you somehow。 when a woman’s bumped off； her husband is always the first suspect—which gives you a little side…glimpse of what people really think about marriage。
one gets used to everything in time。 after a year or two i stopped wanting to kill her and started wondering about her。 just wondering。 for hours； sometimes； on sunday afternoons or in the evening when i’ve e home from work； i’ve lain on my bed with all my clothes on except my shoes； wondering about women。 why they’re like that； how they get like that； whether they’re doing it on purpose。 it seems to be a most frightful thing； the suddenness with which some women go to pieces after they’re married。 it’s as if they were strung up to