This was said about a week after the dinner at Sidonia’s, by Lord Montacute to the duchess. ‘That terrible yacht!’ thought the duchess. Her Grace, a year ago, had she been aware of it, would have deemed Tancred’s engagement as fearful an affair. The idea that her son should have called every day for a week on a married lady, beautiful and attractive, would have filled her with alarm amounting almost to horror. Yet such was the innocent case. It might at the first glance seem difficult to reconcile the rival charms of the Basilisk and Lady Bertie and Bellair, and to understand how Tancred could be so interested in the preparations for a voyage which was to bear him from the individual in whose society he found a daily gratification. But the truth is, that Lady Bertie and Bellair was the only person who sympathised with his adventure.
She listened with the liveliest concern to his account of all his progress; she even made many admirable suggestions, for Lady Bertie and Bellair had been a frequent visitor at Cowes, and was quite initiated2 in the mysteries of the dilettante3 service of the Yacht Club. She was a capital sailor; at least she always told Tancred so. But this was not the chief source of sympathy, or the principal bond of union, between them. It was not the voyage, so much as the object of the voyage, that touched all the passion of Lady Bertie and Bellair. Her heart was at Jerusalem. The sacred city was the dream of her life; and, amid the dissipations of May Fair and the distractions4 of Belgravia, she had in fact all this time only been thinking of Jehoshaphat and Sion. Strange coincidence of sentiment — strange and sweet!
The enamoured Montacute hung over her with pious5 rapture6, as they examined together Mr. Roberts’s Syrian drawings, and she alike charmed and astonished him by her familiarity with every locality and each detail. She looked like a beautiful prophetess as she dilated7 with solemn enthusiasm on the sacred scene. Tancred called on her every day, because when he called the first time he had announced his immediate8 departure, and so had been authorised to promise that he would pay his respects to her every day till he went. It was calculated that by these means, that is to say three or four visits, they might perhaps travel through Mr. Roberts’s views together before he left England, which would facilitate their correspondence, for Tancred had engaged to write to the only person in the world worthy9 of receiving his letters. But, though separated, Lady Bertie and Bellair would be with him in spirit; and once she sighed and seemed to murmur10 that if his voyage could only be postponed11 awhile, she might in a manner become his fellow-pilgrim, for Lord Bertie, a great sportsman, had a desire to kill antelopes12, and, wearied with the monotonous13 slaughter14 of English preserves, tired even of the eternal moors15, had vague thoughts of seeking new sources of excitement amid the snipes of the Grecian marshes16, and the deer and wild boars of the desert and the Syrian hills.
While his captain was repeating his inquiries17 for instructions on the deck of the Basilisk at Greenwich, moored18 off the Trafalgar Hotel, Tancred fell into reveries of female pilgrims kneeling at the Holy Sepulchre by his side; then started, gave a hurried reply, and drove back quickly to town, to pass the remainder of the morning in Brook19 Street.
The two or three days had expanded into two or three weeks, and Tancred continued to call daily on Lady Bertie and Bellair, to say farewell. It was not wonderful: she was the only person in London who understood him; so she delicately intimated, so he profoundly felt. They had the same ideas; they must have the same idiosyncrasy. The lady asked with a sigh why they had not met before; Tancred found some solace20 in the thought that they had at least become acquainted. There was something about this lady very interesting besides her beauty, her bright intelligence, and her seraphic thoughts. She was evidently the creature of impulse; to a certain degree perhaps the victim of her imagination. She seemed misplaced in life. The tone of the century hardly suited her refined and romantic spirit. Her ethereal nature seemed to shrink from the coarse reality which invades in our days even the boudoirs of May Fair.
There was something in her appearance and the temper of her being which rebuked21 the material, sordid22, calculating genius of our reign23 of Mammon.
Her presence in this world was a triumphant24 vindication25 of the claims of beauty and of sentiment. It was evident that she was not happy; for, though her fair brow always lighted up when she met the glance of Tancred, it was impossible not to observe that she was sometimes strangely depressed26, often anxious and excited, frequently absorbed in reverie. Yet her vivid intelligence, the clearness and precision of her thought and fancy, never faltered27. In the unknown yet painful contest, the intellectual always triumphed. It was impossible to deny that she was a woman of great ability.
Nor could it for a moment be imagined that these fitful moods were merely the routine intimations that her domestic hearth29 was not as happy as it deserved to be. On the contrary, Lord and Lady Bertie and Bellair were the very best friends; she always spoke30 of her husband with interest and kindness; they were much together, and there evidently existed between them mutual31 confidence. His lordship’s heart, indeed, was not at Jerusalem; and perhaps this want of sympathy on a subject of such rare and absorbing interest might account for the occasional musings of his wife, taking refuge in her own solitary32 and devoutly33 passionate34 soul. But this deficiency on the part of his lordship could scarcely be alleged35 against him as a very heinous36 fault; it is far from usual to find a British noble who on such a topic entertains the notions and sentiments of Lord Montacute; almost as rare to find a British peeress who could respond to them with the same fervour and facility as the beautiful Lady Bertie and Bellair. The life of a British peer is mainly regulated by Arabian laws and Syrian customs at this moment; but, while he sabbatically abstains37 from the debate or the rubber, or regulates the quarterly performance of his judicial38 duties in his province by the advent1 of the sacred festivals, he thinks little of the land and the race who, under the immediate superintendence of the Deity39, have by their sublime40 legislation established the principle of periodic rest to man, or by their deeds and their dogmas, commemorated41 by their holy anniversaries, have elevated the condition and softened42 the lot of every nation except their own.
‘And how does Tancred get on?’ asked Lord Eskdale one morning of the Duchess of Bellamont, with a dry smile. ‘I understand that, instead of going to Jerusalem, he is going to give us a fish dinner.’
The Duchess of Bellamont had made the acquaintance of Lady Bertie and Bellair, and was delighted with her, although her Grace had been told that Lord Montacute called upon her every day. The proud, intensely proper, and highly prejudiced Duchess of Bellamont took the most charitable view of this sudden and fervent43 friendship. A female friend, who talked about Jerusalem, but kept her son in London, was in the present estimation of the duchess a real treasure, the most interesting and admirable of her sex. Their intimacy44 was satisfactorily accounted for by the invaluable45 information which she imparted to Tancred; what he was to see, do, eat, drink; how he was to avoid being poisoned and assassinated46, escape fatal fevers, regularly attend the service of the Church of England in countries where there were no churches, and converse47 in languages of which he had no knowledge. He could not have a better counsellor than Lady Bertie, who had herself travelled, at least to the Faubourg St. Honoré, and, as Horace Walpole says, after Calais nothing astonishes. Certainly Lady Bertie had not been herself to Jerusalem, but she had read about it, and every other place. The duchess was delighted that Tancred had a companion who interested him. With all the impulse of her sanguine48 temperament49, she had already accustomed herself to look upon the long-dreaded yacht as a toy, and rather an amusing one, and was daily more convinced of the prescient shrewdness of her cousin, Lord Eskdale.
Tancred was going to give them a fish dinner! A what? A sort of banquet which might have served for the marriage feast of Neptune50 and Amphitrite, and be commemorated by a constellation51; and which ought to have been administered by the Nereids and the Naiads; terrines of turtle, pools of water souchée, flounders of every hue52, and eels53 in every shape, cutlets of salmon54, salmis of carp, ortolans represented by whitebait, and huge roasts carved out of the sturgeon. The appetite is distracted by the variety of objects, and tantalised by the restlessness of perpetual solicitation55; not a moment of repose56, no pause for enjoyment57; eventually, a feeling of satiety58, without satisfaction, and of repletion59 without sustenance60; till, at night, gradually recovering from the whirl of the anomalous61 repast, famished62 yet incapable63 of flavour, the tortured memory can only recall with an effort, that it has dined off pink champagne64 and brown bread and butter!
What a ceremony to be presided over by Tancred of Montacute; who, if he deigned65 to dine at all, ought to have dined at no less a round table than that of King Arthur. What a consummation of a sublime project! What a catastrophe66 of a spiritual career! A Greenwich party and a tavern67 bill!
All the world now is philosophical68, and therefore they can account for this disaster. Without doubt we are the creatures of circumstances; and, if circumstances take the shape of a charming woman, who insists upon sailing in your yacht, which happens to to be at Blackwall or Greenwich, it is not easy to discover how the inevitable69 consequences can be avoided. It would hardly do, off the Nore, to present your mistress with a sea-pie, or abruptly70 remind your farewell friends and sorrowing parents of their impending71 loss by suddenly serving up soup hermetically sealed, and roasting the embalmed72 joint73, which ought only to have smoked amid the ruins of Thebes or by the cataracts74 of Nubia.
There are, however, two sides of every picture; a party may be pleasant, and even a fish dinner not merely a whirl of dishes and a clash of plates. The guests may be not too numerous, and well assorted75; the attendance not too devoted76, yet regardful; the weather may be charming, which is a great thing, and the giver of the dinner may be charmed, and that is everything.
The party to see the Basilisk was not only the most agreeable of the season, but the most agreeable ever known. They all said so when they came back. Mr. Vavasour, who was there, went to all his evening parties; to the assembly by the wife of a minister in Carlton Terrace; to a rout28 by the wife of the leader of opposition77 in Whitehall; to a literary soirée in Westminster, and a brace78 of balls in Portman and Belgrave Squares; and told them all that they were none of them to be compared to the party of the morning, to which, it must be owned, he had greatly contributed by his good humour and merry wit. Mrs. Coningsby declared to every one that, if Lord Monta-cute would take her, she was quite ready to go to Jerusalem; such a perfect vessel79 was the Basilisk, and such an admirable sailor was Mrs. Coningsby, which, considering that the river was like a mill-pond, according to Tancred’s captain, or like a mirror, according to Lady Bertie and Bellair, was not surprising. The duke protested that he was quite glad that Mon-tacute had taken to yachting, it seemed to agree with him so well; and spoke of his son’s future movements as if there were no such place as Palestine in the world. The sanguine duchess dreamed of Cowes regattas, and resolved to agree to any arrangement to meet her son’s fancy, provided he would stay at home, which she convinced herself he had now resolved to do.
‘Our cousin is so wise,’ she said to her husband, as they were returning. ‘What could the bishop80 mean by saying that Tancred was a visionary? I agree with you, George, there is no counsellor like a man of the world.’
‘I wish M. de Sidonia had come,’ said Lady Bertie and Bellair, gazing from the window of the Trafalgar on the moonlit river with an expression of abstraction, and speaking in a tone almost of melancholy81.
‘I also wish it, since you do,’ said Tancred. ‘But they say he goes nowhere. It was almost presumptuous82 in me to ask him, yet I did so because you wished it.’
‘I never shall know him,’ said Lady Bertie and Bellair, with some vexation.
‘He interests you,’ said Tancred, a little piqued83.
‘I had so many things to say to him,’ said her ladyship.
‘Indeed!’ said Tancred; and then he continued, ‘I offered him every inducement to come, for I told him it was to meet you; but perhaps if he had known that you had so many things to say to him, he might have relented.’
‘So many things! Oh! yes. You know he has been a great traveller; he has been everywhere; he has been at Jerusalem.’
‘Fortunate man!’ exclaimed Tancred, half to himself. ‘Would I were there!’
‘Would we were there, you mean,’ said Lady Bertie, in a tone of exquisite84 melody, and looking at Tancred with her rich, charged eyes.
His heart trembled; he was about to give utterance85 to some wild words, but they died upon his lips. Two great convictions shared his being: the absolute necessity of at once commencing his pilgrimage, and the persuasion86 that life, without the constant presence of this sympathising companion, must be intolerable. What was to be done? In his long reveries, where he had brooded over so many thoughts, some only of which he had as yet expressed to mortal ear, Tancred had calculated, as he believed, every combination of obstacle which his projects might have to encounter; but one, it now seemed, he had entirely87 omitted, the influence of woman. Why was he here? Why was he not away? Why had he not departed? The reflection was intolerable; it seemed to him even disgraceful. The being who would be content with nothing less than communing with celestial88 powers in sacred climes, standing89 at a tavern window gazing on the moonlit mudbanks of the barbarous Thames, a river which neither angel nor prophet had ever visited! Before him, softened by the hour, was the Isle90 of Dogs! The Isle of Dogs! It should at least be Cyprus!
The carriages were announced; Lady Bertie and Bellair placed her arm in his.
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1
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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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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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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antelopes
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| 羚羊( antelope的名词复数 )； 羚羊皮革 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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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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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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abstains
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的第三人称单数 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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46
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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48
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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50
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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51
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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52
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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53
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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54
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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64
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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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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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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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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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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