Isabel Archer1 was a young person of many theories; her imagination was remarkably2 active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was tinged3 with the unfamiliar4. It is true that among her contemporaries she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity5; for these excellent people never withheld6 their admiration7 from a reach of intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke8 of Isabel as a prodigy9 of learning, a creature reported to have read the classic authors — in translations. Her paternal10 aunt, Mrs. Varian, once spread the rumour11 that Isabel was writing a book — Mrs. Varian having a reverence12 for books, and averred13 that the girl would distinguish herself in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she entertained that esteem14 that is connected with a sense of privation. Her own large house, remarkable15 for its assortment16 of mosaic17 tables and decorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs. Varian’s acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York Interviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer you had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather to keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was determined18 to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her impression with regard to Isabel’s labours was quite illusory; the girl had never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels19 of authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were right when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or no she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience20 that might easily be confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often surveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the habit of taking for granted, on scanty21 evidence, that she was right; she treated herself to occasions of homage22. Meanwhile her errors and delusions23 were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying24. Her thoughts were a tangle25 of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion she had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous zigzags26. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely27 wrong, and then she treated herself to a week of passionate28 humility29. After this she held her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation30 (she couldn’t help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully31 chronic32. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one’s self as to cultivate doubt of one’s best friend: one should try to be one’s own best friend and to give one’s self, in this manner, distinguished33 company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered her a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had a fixed34 determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of irresistible35 action: she held it must be detestable to be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them, her mere36 errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if she had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered37 her) that the chance of inflicting38 a sensible injury upon another person, presented only as a contingency39, caused her at moments to hold her breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen to her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty40 about the things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when she fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was the danger of inconsistency — the danger of keeping up the flag after the place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked41 as to be almost a dishonour42 to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of artillery43 to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such contradictions would never be noted44 in her own conduct. Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre knowledge, her inflated45 ideals, her confidence at once innocent and dogmatic, her temper at once exacting46 and indulgent, her mixture of curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity47 and indifference48, her desire to look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory49, flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended to awaken50 on the reader’s part an impulse more tender and more purely51 expectant.
It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use of that state. She never called it the state of solitude52, much less of singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister Lily constantly urged her to come and abide53. She had a friend whose acquaintance she had made shortly before her father’s death, who offered so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability; she was thoroughly54 launched in journalism55, and her letters to the Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence “ephemeral,” but she esteemed56 the courage, energy and good-humour of the writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of letters to the Interviewer from the radical57 point of view — an enterprise the less difficult as she knew perfectly58 in advance what her opinions would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once; thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful59 the two should travel together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone60 this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly61 in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation62, no beneficent aptitude63 of any sort, and resign one’s self to being frivolous64 and hollow. Isabel was stoutly65 determined not to be hollow. If one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work to one’s hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it. From lapsing66 into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself, in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded person of another sex. The girl’s prayer was very sufficiently67 answered; something pure and proud that there was in her — something cold and dry an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called it — had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture68 on the article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a ruinous expenditure69, and it made her smile to think that one of them should present himself as an incentive70 to hope and a reward of patience. Deep in her soul — it was the deepest thing there — lay a belief that if a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel’s thoughts hovered71 about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature had, in her conceit72, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs73, of shady bowers74 and lengthening75 vistas76, which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses77 of one’s spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places which were not gardens at all — only dusky pestiferous tracts78, planted thick with ugliness and misery79. In the current of that repaid curiosity on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were less happy than herself — a thought which for the moment made her fine, full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one’s self? It must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life. This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject of special attention.
England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not London, was her father’s Mecca, and into many of his interests there his children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle’s house seemed a picture made real; no refinement80 of the agreeable was lost upon Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements81, the quiet light on dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a “property”— a place where sounds were felicitously82 accidental, where the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all friction83 dropped out of contact and all shrillness84 out of talk — these things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like a placid85, homely86 household god, a god of service, who had done his work and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected — the effect she produced upon people was often different from what she supposed — and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her chatter87. It was by this term that he qualified88 her conversation, which had much of the “point” observable in that of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed away in the utterance89; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak — so many characteristics of her niece — that he had fallen in love with Mrs. Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house; and our rustling90, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the British constitution, the English character, the state of politics, the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities91 of the aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired92 whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs.
“The books?” he once said; “well, I don’t know much about the books. You must ask Ralph about that. I’ve always ascertained93 for myself — got my information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even; I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I’ve had very good opportunities — better than what a young lady would naturally have. I’m of an inquisitive94 disposition95, though you mightn’t think it if you were to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you more. I’ve been watching these people for upwards96 of thirty-five years, and I don’t hesitate to say that I’ve acquired considerable information. It’s a very fine country on the whole — finer perhaps than what we give it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn’t seem to be generally felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it’s because I’ve had a considerable degree of success. When you’re successful you naturally feel more at home.”
“Do you suppose that if I’m successful I shall feel at home?” Isabel asked.
“I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful. They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them a great deal of kindness. But you mustn’t feel too much at home, you know.”
“Oh, I’m by no means sure it will satisfy me,” Isabel judicially97 emphasised. “I like the place very much, but I’m not sure I shall like the people.”
“The people are very good people; especially if you like them.”
“I’ve no doubt they’re good,” Isabel rejoined; “but are they pleasant in society? They won’t rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves agreeable to me? That’s what I like people to do. I don’t hesitate to say so, because I always appreciate it. I don’t believe they’re very nice to girls; they’re not nice to them in the novels.”
“I don’t know about the novels,” said Mr. Touchett. “I believe the novels have a great deal but I don’t suppose they’re very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend of Ralph’s and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy — I suppose that was it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given a representation — something in the nature of a caricature, as you might say — of my unworthy self. I didn’t read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn’t have listened very attentively98. I had no objection to her giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn’t like the idea that she hadn’t taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an American — I can’t talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I’ve made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don’t talk like the old gentleman in that lady’s novel. He wasn’t an American; we wouldn’t have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you that they’re not always accurate. Of course, as I’ve no daughters, and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven’t had much chance to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle.”
“Gracious,” Isabel exclaimed; “how many classes have they? About fifty, I suppose.”
“Well, I don’t know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice of the classes. That’s the advantage of being an American here; you don’t belong to any class.”
“I hope so,” said Isabel. “Imagine one’s belonging to an English class!”
“Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable — especially towards the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and the people I don’t. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the first.”
“I’m much obliged to you,” said the girl quickly. Her way of taking compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling99 to show how infinitely100 they pleased her. To show that was to show too much. “I’m sure the English are very conventional,” she added.
“They’ve got everything pretty well fixed,” Mr. Touchett admitted. “It’s all settled beforehand — they don’t leave it to the last moment.”
“I don’t like to have everything settled beforehand,” said the girl. “I like more unexpectedness.”
Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. “Well, it’s settled beforehand that you’ll have great success,” he rejoined. “I suppose you’ll like that.”
“I shall not have success if they’re too stupidly conventional. I’m not in the least stupidly conventional. I’m just the contrary. That’s what they won’t like.”
“No, no, you’re all wrong,” said the old man. “You can’t tell what they’ll like. They’re very inconsistent; that’s their principal interest.”
“Ah well,” said Isabel, standing101 before her uncle with her hands clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the lawn —“that will suit me perfectly!”
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1
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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100
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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