Chapter L
As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics1 and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who professed2 to think her sister-in-law a prodigy3 of learning, never made an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if they had been mounds4 of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense, though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who — with all the respect that she owed her — could not see why she should not descend5 from the vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble6 that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested7; it may be divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents’ guest might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat8 — a mild afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional puffs9 of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together, but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often ascended10 to those desolate11 ledges12 from which the Roman crowd used to bellow13 applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed) bloom in the deep crevices14; and to-day she felt weary and disposed to sit in the despoiled15 arena16. It made an intermission too, for the Countess often asked more from one’s attention than she gave in return; and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian17 unlocks the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of travertine — the latent colour that is the only living element in the immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of swallows kept circling and plunging18. Isabel presently became aware that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with a certain little poise19 of the head which she had some weeks before perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose. Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier20; and this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence22. She replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon a broken block.
“It’s very soon told,” said Edward Rosier. “I’ve sold all my bibelots!” Isabel gave instinctively23 an exclamation24 of horror; it was as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn25. “I’ve sold them by auction26 at the Hotel Drouot,” he went on. “The sale took place three days ago, and they’ve telegraphed me the result. It’s magnificent.”
“I’m glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things.”
“I have the money instead — fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think me rich enough now?”
“Is it for that you did it?” Isabel asked gently.
“For what else in the world could it be? That’s the only thing I think of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn’t stop for the sale; I couldn’t have seen them going off; I think it would have killed me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I should tell you I have kept my enamels27. Now I have the money in my pocket, and he can’t say I’m poor!” the young man exclaimed defiantly28.
“He’ll say now that you’re not wise,” said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond had never said this before.
Rosier gave her a sharp look. “Do you mean that without my bibelots I’m nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That’s what they told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn’t seen HER!”
“You say that so sadly that it’s the same as if you said I shouldn’t.” And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation30 of his own. He had the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature31 one or two persons still have the perversity32 to think him diminutive33. “I know what happened here while I was away,” he went on; “What does Mr. Osmond expect after she has refused Lord Warburton?”
Isabel debated. “That she’ll marry another nobleman.”
“What other nobleman?”
“One that he’ll pick out.”
Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket. “You’re laughing at some one, but this time I don’t think it’s at me.”
“I didn’t mean to laugh,” said Isabel. “I laugh very seldom. Now you had better go away.”
“I feel very safe!” Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently34 on his toes and looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions had returned from their excursion. “You must really go away,” she said quickly. “Ah, my dear lady, pity me!” Edward Rosier murmured in a voice strangely at variance36 with the announcement I have just quoted. And then he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery37 is seized by a happy thought: “Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I’ve a great desire to be presented to her.”
Isabel looked at him a moment. “She has no influence with her brother.”
“Ah, what a monster you make him out!” And Rosier faced the Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation38 partly due perhaps to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in conversation with a very pretty young man.
“I’m glad you’ve kept your enamels!” Isabel called as she left him. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short, with lowered eyes. “We’ll go back to the carriage,” she said gently.
“Yes, it’s getting late,” Pansy returned more gently still. And she went on without a murmur35, without faltering39 or glancing back. Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced himself, while the Countess’s expressive40 back displayed to Isabel’s eye a gracious inclination41. These facts, none the less, were presently lost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed42 on her lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel’s. There shone out of each of them a little melancholy43 ray — a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing44, the definite ideal of the child with her own dry despair. “Poor little Pansy!” she affectionately said.
“Oh never mind!” Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. “Did you show your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?” Isabel asked at last.
“Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased.”
“And you’re not tired, I hope.”
“Oh no, thank you, I’m not tired.”
The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not to wait — she would come home in a cab!
About a week after this lady’s quick sympathies had enlisted45 themselves with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her; she got up from her low chair. “Pardon my taking the liberty,” she said in a small voice. “It will be the last — for some time.”
Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited, frightened look. “You’re not going away!” Isabel exclaimed.
“I’m going to the convent.”
“To the convent?”
Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment, perfectly46 still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel nevertheless pressed her. “Why are you going to the convent?”
“Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl’s better, every now and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little seclusion47 — a little reflexion.” Pansy spoke21 in short detached sentences, as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph of self-control: “I think papa’s right; I’ve been so much in the world this winter.”
Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a larger meaning than the girl herself knew. “When was this decided48?” she asked. “I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn’t be too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine’s to come for me at a quarter past seven, and I’m only to take two frocks. It’s only for a few weeks; I’m sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being educated. I’m very fond of little girls,” said Pansy with an effect of diminutive grandeur49. “And I’m also very fond of Mother Catherine. I shall be very quiet and think a great deal.”
Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck. “Think of ME sometimes.”
“Ah, come and see me soon!” cried Pansy; and the cry was very different from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.
Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long, tender kiss.
Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head, “En voila, ma chere, une pose!” But if it was an affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected50. She could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed. It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after he had come in, to allude51 to his daughter’s sudden departure: she spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. “I shall miss Pansy very much.”
He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of flowers in the middle of the table. “Ah yes,” he said at last, “I had thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I can make you understand. It doesn’t matter; don’t trouble yourself about it. That’s why I had not spoken of it. I didn’t believe you would enter into it. But I’ve always had the idea; I’ve always thought it a part of the education of one’s daughter. One’s daughter should be fresh and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled52. Pansy’s a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This bustling53, pushing rabble54 that calls itself society — one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under the arcade55, among those tranquil56 virtuous57 women. Many of them are gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books and her drawing, she will have her piano. I’ve made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic58; there’s just to be a certain little sense of sequestration. She’ll have time to think, and there’s something I want her to think about.” Osmond spoke deliberately59, reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words — almost into pictures — to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the picture he had evoked60 and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he went on: “The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great institution; we can’t do without it; it corresponds to an essential need in families, in society. It’s a school of good manners; it’s a school of repose61. Oh, I don’t want to detach my daughter from the world,” he added; “I don’t want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This one’s very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way.”
Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch62; she found it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her husband’s desire to be effective was capable of going — to the point of playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She could not understand his purpose, no — not wholly; but she understood it better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced that the whole proceeding63 was an elaborate mystification, addressed to herself and destined64 to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill into Isabel’s heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough. The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel’s imagination, and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of her husband’s genius — she sat looking, like him, at the basket of flowers — poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently, in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess too, apparently65, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel.
“It’s very absurd, my dear Osmond,” she said, “to invent so many pretty reasons for poor Pansy’s banishment66. Why, don’t you say at once that you want to get her out of my way? Haven’t you discovered that I think very well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you’ve made up your mind that with those convictions I’m dreadful company for Pansy.”
Osmond took a sip68 of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured. “My dear Amy,” he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece of gallantry, “I don’t know anything about your convictions, but if I suspected that they interfere69 with mine it would be much simpler to banish67 YOU.”
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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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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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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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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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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enamels
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| 搪瓷( enamel的名词复数 )； 珐琅； 釉药； 瓷漆 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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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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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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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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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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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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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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63
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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64
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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65
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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66
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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67
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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68
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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69
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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