Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The discreet1 opposition2 offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable3, that she married to please herself. One did other things to please other people; one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel’s satisfaction was confirmed by her lover’s admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief impression produced on Isabel’s spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever known before — from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her not having chosen a consort4 who was the hero of a richer accumulation of anecdote5; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late, on purpose to remonstrate6; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently7 wished her not to marry at all — that was what it really meant — because he was amused with the spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little free or unemployed8 emotion for minor9 needs, and accepted as an incident, in fact quite as an ornament10, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious, almost with awe11, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed and possessed12 condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed13 virtue14 of being in love. It was the tragic15 part of happiness; one’s right was always made of the wrong of some one else.
The elation16 of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of men, was a kind of ecstasy17 of self-control. This disposition18, however, made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten19 and dedicated20 state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he never forgot to be graceful21 and tender, to wear the appearance — which presented indeed no difficulty — of stirred senses and deep intentions. He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live with than a high spirit attuned22 to softness? For would not the softness be all for one’s self, and the strenuousness23 for society, which admired the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one’s thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought reproduced literally24 — that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred it to be freshened in the reproduction even as “words” by music. His egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this lady’s intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one — a plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give a decorative25 value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he could tap her imagination with his knuckle26 and make it ring. He knew perfectly27, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little favour with the girl’s relations; but he had always treated her so completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one morning, he made an abrupt28 allusion29 to it. “It’s the difference in our fortune they don’t like,” he said. “They think I’m in love with your money.”
“Are you speaking of my aunt — of my cousin?” Isabel asked. “How do you know what they think?”
“You’ve not told me they’re pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations. I don’t mind them; I only care for one thing — for your not having the shadow of a doubt. I don’t care what people of whom I ask nothing think — I’m not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I’ve never so concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won’t pretend I’m sorry you’re rich; I’m delighted. I delight in everything that’s yours — whether it be money or virtue. Money’s a horrid30 thing to follow, but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I’ve sufficiently31 proved the limits of my itch32 for it: I never in my life tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it’s their business to suspect — that of your family; it’s proper on the whole they should. They’ll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter. Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to be thankful for life and love.” “It has made me better, loving you,” he said on another occasion; “it has made me wiser and easier and — I won’t pretend to deny — brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want a great many things before and to be angry I didn’t have them. Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation34; I used to have morbid35, sterile36, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I’m really satisfied, because I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight37 and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it properly I see it’s a delightful38 story. My dear girl, I can’t tell you how life seems to stretch there before us — what a long summer afternoon awaits us. It’s the latter half of an Italian day — with a golden haze39, and the shadows just lengthening40, and that divine delicacy41 in the light, the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you love to-day. Upon my honour, I don’t see why we shouldn’t get on. We’ve got what we like — to say nothing of having each other. We’ve the faculty42 of admiration43 and several capital convictions. We’re not stupid, we’re not mean, we’re not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness44. You’re remarkably45 fresh, and I’m remarkably well-seasoned. We’ve my poor child to amuse us; we’ll try and make up some little life for her. It’s all soft and mellow46 — it has the Italian colouring.”
They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal of latitude47; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment48 of old acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus49 of new, which seemed to assure her a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire for unlimited50 expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one’s energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had “seen life” in a year or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations51, her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient52 conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed in a more primitive53 need — a need the answer to which brushed away numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility54, she could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was giving.
He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine — Pansy who was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her. She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the end of the alley55, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an appeal for approbation56. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance had the personal touch that the child’s affectionate nature craved57. She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on them — Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render, part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer58. “She doesn’t know,” he said to Isabel; “she doesn’t guess; she thinks it perfectly natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it’s the way I like her to be. No, I’m not a failure, as I used to think; I’ve succeeded in two things. I’m to marry the woman I adore, and I’ve brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way.”
He was very fond, in all things, of the “old way”; that had struck Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. “It occurs to me that you’ll not know whether you’ve succeeded until you’ve told her,” she said. “You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified59 — she may be jealous.”
“I’m not afraid of that; she’s too fond of you on her own account. I should like to leave her in the dark a little longer — to see if it will come into her head that if we’re not engaged we ought to be.”
Isabel was impressed by Osmond’s artistic60, the plastic view, as it somehow appeared, of Pansy’s innocence61 — her own appreciation62 of it being more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter, who had made such a pretty little speech —“Oh, then I shall have a beautiful sister!” She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not cried, as he expected.
“Perhaps she had guessed it,” said Isabel.
“Don’t say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her good manners are paramount63. That’s also what I wished. You shall see for yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person.”
The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini’s, whither Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been ushered64 into the Countess’s drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady, who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in company. It was Isabel’s view that the little girl might have given lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified65 this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted66 herself while they waited together for the Countess. Her father’s decision, the year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.
“Papa has told me that you’ve kindly67 consented to marry him,” said this excellent woman’s pupil. “It’s very delightful; I think you’ll suit very well.”
“You think I shall suit YOU?”
“You’ll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will suit each other. You’re both so quiet and so serious. You’re not so quiet as he — or even as Madame Merle; but you’re more quiet than many others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She’s always in motion, in agitation68 — to-day especially; you’ll see when she comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders, but I suppose there’s no harm if we judge them favourably69. You’ll be a delightful companion for papa.”
“For you too, I hope,” Isabel said.
“I speak first of him on purpose. I’ve told you already what I myself think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You’ll be my model; I shall try to imitate you though I’m afraid it will be very feeble. I’m very glad for papa — he needed something more than me. Without you I don’t see how he could have got it. You’ll be my stepmother, but we mustn’t use that word. They’re always said to be cruel; but I don’t think you’ll ever so much as pinch or even push me. I’m not afraid at all.”
“My good little Pansy,” said Isabel gently, “I shall be ever so kind to you.” A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need it had intervened with the effect of a chill.
“Very well then, I’ve nothing to fear,” the child returned with her note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to suggest — or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded70!
Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite71. She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to a composition of figures already sketched72 in. “If you expect me to congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don’t suppose you care if I do or not; I believe you’re supposed not to care — through being so clever — for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell fibs; I never tell them unless there’s something rather good to be gained. I don’t see what’s to be gained with you — especially as you wouldn’t believe me. I don’t make professions any more than I make paper flowers or flouncey lampshades — I don’t know how. My lampshades would be sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I’m very glad for my own sake that you’re to marry Osmond; but I won’t pretend I’m glad for yours. You’re very brilliant — you know that’s the way you’re always spoken of; you’re an heiress and very good-looking and original, not banal73; so it’s a good thing to have you in the family. Our family’s very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and my mother was rather distinguished74 — she was called the American Corinne. But we’re dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you’ll pick us up. I’ve great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose Pansy oughtn’t to hear all this; but that’s what she has come to me for — to acquire the tone of society. There’s no harm in her knowing what horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was enchanted75 for myself; and after all I’m very selfish. By the way, you won’t respect me, not one little mite33, and we shall never be intimate. I should like it, but you won’t. Some day, all the same, we shall be better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and see you, though, as you probably know, he’s on no sort of terms with Osmond. He’s very fond of going to see pretty women, but I’m not afraid of you. In the first place I don’t care what he does. In the second, you won’t care a straw for him; he won’t be a bit, at any time, your affair, and, stupid as he is, he’ll see you’re not his. Some day, if you can stand it, I’ll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir.”
“Let her stay, please,” said Isabel. “I would rather hear nothing that Pansy may not!”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
discreet
|
|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
consort
|
|
| v.相伴；结交 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
anecdote
|
|
| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
remonstrate
|
|
| v.抗议，规劝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
unemployed
|
|
| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
minor
|
|
| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
ornament
|
|
| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
imputed
|
|
| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
elation
|
|
| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
ecstasy
|
|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
smitten
|
|
| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
dedicated
|
|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
attuned
|
|
| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
strenuousness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
decorative
|
|
| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
knuckle
|
|
| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
itch
|
|
| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
mite
|
|
| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
morbid
|
|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
sterile
|
|
| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
haze
|
|
| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
lengthening
|
|
| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
dreariness
|
|
| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
remarkably
|
|
| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
mellow
|
|
| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
latitude
|
|
| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
attachment
|
|
| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
stimulus
|
|
| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
unlimited
|
|
| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
aspirations
|
|
| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
incipient
|
|
| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
primitive
|
|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
humility
|
|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
alley
|
|
| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
approbation
|
|
| n.称赞；认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
craved
|
|
| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
archer
|
|
| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
horrified
|
|
| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
paramount
|
|
| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
ushered
|
|
| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
acquitted
|
|
| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
favourably
|
|
| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
rite
|
|
| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
sketched
|
|
| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
banal
|
|
| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
enchanted
|
|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |