He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted1 a representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of tact2, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore, appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation3 herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered Isabel’s character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval — her situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly4 comfortable had she not conceived an irresistible5 mistrust of the little lady for whom she had at first supposed herself obliged to “allow” as mistress of the house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress and a bore — adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had expressed some surprise at her niece’s having selected such a friend, yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel’s friends were her own affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict the girl to those she liked.
“If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you’d have a very small society,” Mrs. Touchett frankly6 admitted; “and I don’t think I like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When it comes to recommending it’s a serious affair. I don’t like Miss Stackpole — everything about her displeases7 me; she talks so much too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her — which one doesn’t. I’m sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I detest8 the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I’ll tell you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest boarding-house civilisation9, and she detests10 me for detesting11 it, because she thinks it the highest in the world. She’d like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there’s no use trying.”
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved12 of her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after Miss Stackpole’s arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on American hotels, which excited a vein13 of counter-argument on the part of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst. Ralph, with his experimental geniality14, suggested, by way of healing the breach15, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
“We judge from different points of view, evidently,” said Mrs. Touchett. “I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a ‘party.’”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Henrietta replied. “I like to be treated as an American lady.”
“Poor American ladies!” cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. “They’re the slaves of slaves.”
“They’re the companions of freemen,” Henrietta retorted.
“They’re the companions of their servants — the Irish chambermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work.”
“Do you call the domestics in an American household ‘slaves’?” Miss Stackpole enquired16. “If that’s the way you desire to treat them, no wonder you don’t like America.”
“If you’ve not good servants you’re miserable,” Mrs. Touchett serenely17 said. “They’re very bad in America, but I’ve five perfect ones in Florence.”
“I don’t see what you want with five,” Henrietta couldn’t help observing. “I don’t think I should like to see five persons surrounding me in that menial position.”
“I like them in that position better than in some others,” proclaimed Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.
“Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?” her husband asked.
“I don’t think I should: you wouldn’t at all have the tenue.”
“The companions of freemen — I like that, Miss Stackpole,” said Ralph. “It’s a beautiful description.”
“When I said freemen I didn’t mean you, sir!”
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something treasonable in Mrs. Touchett’s appreciation of a class which she privately18 judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: “My dear friend, I wonder if you’re growing faithless.”
“Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?”
“No, that would be a great pain; but it’s not that.”
“Faithless to my country then?”
“Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I said I had something particular to tell you. You’ve never asked me what it is. Is it because you’ve suspected?”
“Suspected what? As a rule I don’t think I suspect,” said Isabel.
“I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had forgotten it. What have you to tell me?”
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it. “You don’t ask that right — as if you thought it important. You’re changed — you’re thinking of other things.”
“Tell me what you mean, and I’ll think of that.”
“Will you really think of it? That’s what I wish to be sure of.”
“I’ve not much control of my thoughts, but I’ll do my best,” said Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried Isabel’s patience, so that our heroine added at last: “Do you mean that you’re going to be married?”
“Not till I’ve seen Europe!” said Miss Stackpole. “What are you laughing at?” she went on. “What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the steamer with me.”
“Ah!” Isabel responded.
“You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come after you.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“No, he told me nothing; that’s how I knew it,” said Henrietta cleverly. “He said very little about you, but I spoke19 of you a good deal.”
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood’s name she had turned a little pale. “I’m very sorry you did that,” she observed at last.
“It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he drank it all in.”
“What did you say about me?” Isabel asked.
“I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know.”
“I’m very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn’t to be encouraged.”
“He’s dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so handsome.”
“He’s very simple-minded,” said Isabel. “And he’s not so ugly.”
“There’s nothing so simplifying as a grand passion.”
“It’s not a grand passion; I’m very sure it’s not that.”
“You don’t say that as if you were sure.”
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. “I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood himself.”
“He’ll soon give you a chance,” said Henrietta. Isabel offered no answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great confidence. “He’ll find you changed,” the latter pursued. “You’ve been affected20 by your new surroundings.”
“Very likely. I’m affected by everything.”
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: “Did he ask you to speak to me?”
“Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it — and his handshake, when he bade me good-bye.”
“Thank you for doing so.” And Isabel turned away.
“Yes, you’re changed; you’ve got new ideas over here,” her friend continued.
“I hope so,” said Isabel; “one should get as many new ideas as possible.”
Isabel turned about again. “If you mean that I had any idea with regard to Mr. Goodwood —!” But she faltered23 before her friend’s implacable glitter.
“My dear child, you certainly encouraged him.”
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which, however, she presently answered: “It’s very true. I did encourage him.” And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood what he intended to do. It was a concession24 to her curiosity, for she disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy25.
“I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing,” Miss Stackpole answered. “But I don’t believe that; he’s not a man to do nothing. He is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he’ll always do something, and whatever he does will always be right.”
“I quite believe that.” Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
“Ah, you do care for him!” her visitor rang out.
“Whatever he does will always be right,” Isabel repeated. “When a man’s of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?”
“It may not matter to him, but it matters to one’s self.”
“Ah, what it matters to me — that’s not what we’re discussing,” said Isabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. “Well, I don’t care; you have changed. You’re not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr. Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day.”
“I hope he’ll hate me then,” said Isabel.
“I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it.”
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the alarm given her by Henrietta’s intimation that Caspar Goodwood would present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however, that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless, she stood prepared to hear the young man’s name announced. The feeling pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so agreeable during Isabel’s stay at Gardencourt that any change would be for the worse. Her suspense26 indeed was dissipated the second day. She had walked into the park in company with the sociable27 Bunchie, and after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the house, beneath a spreading beech28, where, in a white dress ornamented29 with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering30 shadows a graceful31 and harmonious32 image. She entertained herself for some moments with talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership divided with her cousin had been applied33 as impartially34 as possible — as impartially as Bunchie’s own somewhat fickle35 and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion, of the finite character of Bunchie’s intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would do well to take a book; formerly36, when heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had reminded herself that her uncle’s library was provided with a complete set of those authors which no gentleman’s collection should be without, she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent37 on the cool green turf of the lawn. Her meditations38 were presently interrupted by the arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew — that came into her vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer’s voice or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER— I don’t know whether you will have heard of my coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it. You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed, and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that you were unreasonable39, and it was the only concession you would make; but it was a very cheap one, because that’s not your character. No, you are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I’m not disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don’t see why that should be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else. I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn’t stay at home after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of yours faithfully
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however, as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing40 before her.
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1
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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2
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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3
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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4
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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5
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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6
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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7
displeases
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| 冒犯，使生气，使不愉快( displease的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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10
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11
detesting
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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12
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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14
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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15
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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16
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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17
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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18
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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19
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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20
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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21
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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22
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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23
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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24
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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26
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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28
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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29
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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31
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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32
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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33
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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35
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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36
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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37
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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38
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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39
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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40
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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