Within, the winding6 walks dimly echoed whispering words; the lawn was studded with dazzling groups; on the terrace by the river a dainty multitude beheld7 those celebrated8 waters which furnish flounders to Richmond and whitebait to Blackwall.
‘Mrs. Coningsby shall decide,’ said Lord Beaumanoir.
Edith and Lady Theresa Lyle stood by a statue that glittered in the sun, surrounded by a group of cavaliers; among them Lord Beaumanoir, Lord Mil-ford, Lord Eugene de Vere. Her figure was not less lithe9 and graceful10 since her marriage, a little more voluptuous11; her rich complexion12, her radiant and abounding13 hair, and her long grey eye, now melting with pathos14, and now twinkling with mockery, presented one of those faces of witchery which are beyond beauty.
‘Mrs. Coningsby shall decide.’
‘It is the very thing,’ said Edith, ‘that Mrs. Coningsby will never do. Decision destroys suspense15, and suspense is the charm of existence.’
‘But suspense may be agony,’ said Lord Eugene de Vere, casting a glance that would read the innermost heart of Edith.
‘And decision may be despair,’ said Mrs. Coningsby.
‘But we agreed the other night that you were to decide everything for us,’ said Lord Beaumanoir; ‘and you consented.’
‘I consented the other night, and I retract16 my consent today; and I am consistent, for that is indecision.’
‘You are consistent in being charming,’ said Lord Eugene.
‘Pleasing and original!’ said Edith. ‘By-the-bye, when I consented that the melancholy17 Jaques should be one of my aides-decamp I expected him to maintain his reputation, not only for gloom but wit. I think you had better go back to the forest, Lord Eugene, and see if you cannot stumble upon a fool who may drill you in repartee18. How do you do, Lady Riddlesworth?’ and she bowed to two ladies who seemed inclined to stop, but Edith added, ‘I heard great applications for you this moment on the terrace.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the ladies; and they moved on.
‘When Lady Riddlesworth joins the conversation it is like a stoppage in the streets. I invented a piece of intelligence to clear the way, as you would call out Fire! or The queen is coming! There used to be things called vers de société, which were not poetry; and I do not see why there should not be social illusions which are not fibs.’
‘I entirely19 agree with you,’ said Lord Milford; ‘and I move that we practise them on a large scale.’
‘Like the verses, they might make life more light,’ said Lady Theresa.
‘We are surrounded by illusions,’ said Lord Eugene, in a melancholy tone.
‘And shams20 of all descriptions,’ said Edith; ‘the greatest, a man who pretends he has a broken heart when all the time he is full of fun.’
‘There are a great many men who have broken hearts,’ said Lord Beaumanoir, smiling sorrowfully.
‘Cracked heads are much commoner,’ said Edith, ‘you may rely upon it. The only man I really know with a broken heart is Lord Fitz–Booby. I do think that paying Mount–Dullard’s debts has broken his heart. He takes on so; ’tis piteous. “My dear Mrs. Coningsby,” he said to me last night, “only think what that young man might have been; he might have been a lord of the treasury21 in ‘35; why, if he had had nothing more in ‘41, why, there’s a loss of between four and five thousand pounds; but with my claims — Sir Robert, having thrown the father over, was bound on his own principle to provide for the son — he might have got something better; and now he comes to me with his debts, and his reason for paying his debts, too, Mrs. Coningsby, because he is going to be married; to be married to a woman who has not a shilling. Why, if he had been in office, and only got 1,500L. a year, and married a woman with only another 1,500L., he would have had 3,000L. a year, Mrs. Coningsby; and now he has nothing of his own except some debts, which he wants me to pay, and settle 3,000L. a year on him besides.”’
They all laughed.
‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Coningsby, with a resemblance which made all start, ‘you should have heard it with the Fitz–Booby voice.’
The character of a woman rapidly develops after marriage, and sometimes seems to change, when in fact it is only complete. Hitherto we have known Edith only in her girlhood, bred up in a life of great simplicity22, and under the influence of a sweet fancy, or an absorbing passion. Coningsby had been a hero to her before they met, the hero of nursery hours and nursery tales. Experience had not disturbed those dreams. From the moment they encountered each other at Millbank, he assumed that place in her heart which he had long occupied in her imagination; and, after their second meeting at Paris, her existence was merged23 in love. All the crosses and vexations of their early affection only rendered this state of being on her part more profound and engrossing24.
But though Edith was a most happy wife, and blessed with two children worthy25 of their parents, love exercises quite a different influence upon a woman when she has married, and especially when she has assumed a social position which deprives life of all its real cares. Under any circumstances, that suspense, which, with all its occasional agony, is the great spring of excitement, is over; but, generally speaking, it will be found, notwithstanding the proverb, that with persons of a noble nature, the straitened fortunes which they share together, and manage, and mitigate27 by mutual28 forbearance, are more conducive29 to the sustainment of a high-toned and romantic passion, than a luxurious30 prosperity.
The wife of a man of limited fortune, who, by contrivance, by the concealed31 sacrifice of some necessity of her own, supplies him with some slight enjoyment32 which he has never asked, but which she fancies he may have sighed for, experiences, without doubt, à degree of pleasure far more ravishing than the patrician33 dame34 who stops her barouche at Storr and Mortimer’s, and out of her pin-money buys a trinket for the husband whom she loves, and which he finds, perhaps, on his dressing-table, on the anniversary of their wedding-day. That’s pretty too and touching35, and should be encouraged; but the other thrills, and ends in an embrace that is still poetry.
The Coningsbys shortly after their marriage had been called to the possession of a great fortune, for which, in every sense, they were well adapted. But a great fortune necessarily brings with it a great change of habits. The claims of society proportionately increase with your income. You live less for yourselves. For a selfish man, merely looking to his luxurious ease, Lord Eskdale’s idea of having ten thousand a year, while the world suppose you have only five, is the right thing. Coningsby, however, looked to a great fortune as one of the means, rightly employed, of obtaining great power. He looked also to his wife to assist him in this enterprise.
Edith, from a native impulse, as well as from love for him, responded to his wish. When they were in the country, Hellingsley was a perpetual stream and scene of splendid hospitality; there the flower of London society mingled36 with all the aristocracy of the county. Leander was often retained specially26, like a Wilde or a Kelly, to renovate37 the genius of the habitual38 chief: not of the circuit, but the kitchen. A noble mansion39 in Park Lane received them the moment Parliament assembled. Coningsby was then immersed in affairs, and counted entirely on Edith to cherish those social influences which in a public career are not less important than political ones. The whole weight of the management of society rested on her. She had to cultivate his alliances, keep together his friends, arrange his dinner-parties, regulate his engagements. What time for romantic love? They were never an hour alone. Yet they loved not less; but love had taken the character of enjoyment instead of a wild bewitchment; and life had become an airy bustle40, instead of a storm, an agony, a hurricane of the heart.
In this change in the disposition41, not in the degree, of their affection, for there was the same amount of sweet solicitude42, only it was duly apportioned43 to everything that interested them, instead of being exclusively devoted44 to each other, the character of Edith, which had been swallowed up by the absorbing passion, rapidly developed itself amid the social circumstances. She was endued45 with great vivacity46, a sanguine47 and rather saucy48 spirit, with considerable talents, and a large share of feminine vanity: that divine gift which makes woman charming. Entirely sympathising with her husband, labouring with zeal49 to advance his views, and living perpetually in the world, all these qualities came to light. During her first season she had been very quiet, not less observant, making herself mistress of the ground. It was prepared for her next campaign. When she evinced a disposition to take a lead, although found faultless the first year, it was suddenly remembered that she was a manufacturer’s daughter; and she was once described by a great lady as ‘that person whom Mr. Coningsby had married, when Lord Monmouth cut him off with a shilling.’
But Edith had anticipated these difficulties, and was not to be daunted50. Proud of her husband, confident in herself, supported by a great establishment, and having many friends, she determined51 to exchange salutes52 with these social sharp-shooters, who are scarcely as courageous53 as they are arrogant54. It was discovered that Mrs. Coningsby could be as malicious55 as her assailants, and far more epigrammatic. She could describe in a sentence and personify in a phrase. The mot was circulated, the nom de nique repeated. Surrounded by a brilliant band of youth and wit, even her powers of mimickry were revealed to the initiated56. More than one social tyrant57, whom all disliked, but whom none had ventured to resist, was made ridiculous. Flushed by success and stimulated58 by admiration59, Edith flattered herself that she was assisting her husband while she was gratifying her vanity. Her adversaries60 soon vanished, but the powers that had vanquished61 them were too choice to be forgotten or neglected. The tone of raillery she had assumed for the moment, and extended, in self-defence, to persons, was adopted as a habit, and infused itself over affairs in general.
Mrs. Coningsby was the fashion; she was a wit as well as a beauty; a fascinating droll62; dazzling and bewitching, the idol63 of every youth. Eugene de Vere was roused from his premature64 exhaustion65, and at last found excitement again. He threw himself at her feet; she laughed at him. He asked leave to follow her footsteps; she consented. He was only one of a band of slaves. Lord Beaumanoir, still a bachelor, always hovered66 about her, feeding on her laughing words with a mild melancholy, and sometimes bandying repartee with a kind of tender and stately despair. His sister, Lady Theresa Lyle, was Edith’s great friend. Their dispositions67 had some resemblance. Marriage had developed in both of them a frolic grace. They hunted in couple; and their sport was brilliant. Many things may be said by a strong female alliance, that would assume quite a different character were they even to fall from the lips of an Aspasia to a circle of male votaries68; so much depends upon the scene and the characters, the mode and the manner.
The good-natured world would sometimes pause in its amusement, and, after dwelling69 with statistical70 accuracy on the number of times Mrs. Coningsby had danced the polka, on the extraordinary things she said to Lord Eugene de Vere, and the odd things she and Lady Theresa Lyle were perpetually doing, would wonder, with a face and voice of innocence71, ‘how Mr. Coningsby liked all this?’ There is no doubt what was the anticipation72 by the good-natured world of Mr. Coningsby’s feelings. But they were quite mistaken. There was nothing that Mr. Coningsby liked more. He wished his wife to become a social power; and he wished his wife to be amused. He saw that, with the surface of a life of levity73, she already exercised considerable influence, especially over the young; and independently of such circumstances and considerations, he was delighted to have a wife who was not afraid of going into society by herself; not one whom he was sure to find at home when he returned from the House of Commons, not reproaching him exactly for her social sacrifices, but looking a victim, and thinking that she retained her husband’s heart by being a mope. Instead of that Con-ingsby wanted to be amused when he came home, and more than that, he wanted to be instructed in the finest learning in the world.
As some men keep up their Greek by reading every day a chapter in the New Testament74, so Con-ingsby kept up his knowledge of the world, by always, once at least in the four-and-twenty hours, having a delightful75 conversation with his wife. The processes were equally orthodox. Exempted76 from the tax of entering general society, free to follow his own pursuits, and to live in that political world which alone interested him, there was not an anecdote77, a trait, a good thing said, or a bad thing done, which did not reach him by a fine critic and a lively narrator. He was always behind those social scenes which, after all, regulate the political performers, knew the springs of the whole machinery78, the changings and the shiftings, the fiery79 cars and golden chariots which men might mount, and the trap-doors down which men might fall.
But the Marquess of Montacute is making his reverence80 to Mrs. Guy Flouncey.
There was not at this moment a human being whom that lady was more glad to see at her déje?ner; but she did not show it in the least. Her self-possession, indeed, was the finest work of art of the day, and ought to be exhibited at the Adelaide Gallery. Like all mechanical inventions of a high class, it had been brought to perfection very gradually, and after many experiments. A variety of combinations, and an almost infinite number of trials, must have been expended81 before the too-startling laugh of Con-ingsby Castle could have subsided82 into the haughty83 suavity84 of that sunny glance, which was not familiar enough for a smile, nor foolish enough for a simper. As for the rattling85 vein86 which distinguished87 her in the days of our first acquaintance, that had long ceased. Mrs. Guy Flouncey now seemed to share the prevalent passion for genuine Saxon, and used only monosyllables; while Fine-ear himself would have been sometimes at fault had he attempted to give a name to her delicate breathings. In short, Mrs. Guy Flouncey never did or said anything but in ‘the best taste.’ It may, however, be a question, whether she ever would have captivated Lord Monmouth, and those who like a little nature and fun, if she had made her first advances in this style. But that showed the greatness of the woman. Then she was ready for anything for promotion88. That was the age of forlorn hopes; but now she was a general of division, and had assumed a becoming carriage.
This was the first déje?ner at which Tancred had been present. He rather liked it. The scene, lawns and groves89 and a glancing river, the air, the music, our beautiful countrywomen, who, with their brilliant complexions90 and bright bonnets, do not shrink from the daylight, these are circumstances which, combined with youth and health, make a morning festival, say what they like, particularly for the first time, very agreeable, even if one be dreaming of Jerusalem. Strange power of the world, that the moment we enter it, our great conceptions dwarf91! In youth it is quick sympathy that degrades them; more advanced, it is the sense of the ridiculous. But perhaps these reveries of solitude92 may not be really great conceptions; perhaps they are only exaggerations; vague, indefinite, shadowy, formed on no sound principles, founded on no assured basis.
Why should Tancred go to Jerusalem? What does it signify to him whether there be religious truth or political justice? He has youth, beauty, rank, wealth, power, and all in excess. He has a mind that can comprehend their importance and appreciate their advantages. What more does he require? Unreasonable93 boy! And if he reach Jerusalem, why should he find religious truth and political justice there? He can read of it in the travelling books, written by young gentlemen, with the best letters of introduction to all the consuls94. They tell us what it is, a third-rate city in a stony95 wilderness96. Will the Providence97 of fashion prevent this great folly98 about to be perpetrated by one born to be fashion’s most brilliant subject? A folly, too, which may end in a catastrophe99? His parents, indeed, have appealed in vain; but the sneer100 of the world will do more than the supplication101 of the father. A mother’s tear may be disregarded, but the sigh of a mistress has changed the most obdurate102. We shall see. At present Lady Constance Rawleigh expresses her pleasure at Tancred’s arrival, and his heart beats a little.
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1
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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2
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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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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provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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16
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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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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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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renovate
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| vt.更新，革新，刷新 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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41
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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45
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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47
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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48
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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49
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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50
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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53
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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55
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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56
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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57
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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59
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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60
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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61
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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62
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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64
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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65
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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66
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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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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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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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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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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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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100
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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102
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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