They gave small tips, but they were liked; they didn’t do anything themselves, but they were welcome. They looked so well everywhere; they gratified the general relish8 for stature9, complexion10 and “form.” They knew it without fatuity11 or vulgarity, and they respected themselves in consequence. They were not superficial; they were thorough and kept themselves up — it had been their line. People with such a taste for activity had to have some line. I could feel how, even in a dull house, they could have been counted upon for cheerfulness. At present something had happened — it didn’t matter what, their little income had grown less, it had grown least — and they had to do something for pocket-money. Their friends liked them, but didn’t like to support them. There was something about them that represented credit — their clothes, their manners, their type; but if credit is a large empty pocket in which an occasional chink reverberates12, the chink at least must be audible. What they wanted of me was to help to make it so. Fortunately they had no children — I soon divined that. They would also perhaps wish our relations to be kept secret: this was why it was “for the figure”— the reproduction of the face would betray them.
I liked them — they were so simple; and I had no objection to them if they would suit. But, somehow, with all their perfections I didn’t easily believe in them. After all they were amateurs, and the ruling passion of my life was the detestation of the amateur. Combined with this was another perversity13 — an innate14 preference for the represented subject over the real one: the defect of the real one was so apt to be a lack of representation. I liked things that appeared; then one was sure. Whether they WERE or not was a subordinate and almost always a profitless question. There were other considerations, the first of which was that I already had two or three people in use, notably15 a young person with big feet, in alpaca, from Kilburn, who for a couple of years had come to me regularly for my illustrations and with whom I was still — perhaps ignobly16 — satisfied. I frankly17 explained to my visitors how the case stood; but they had taken more precautions than I supposed. They had reasoned out their opportunity, for Claude Rivet18 had told them of the projected edition de luxe of one of the writers of our day — the rarest of the novelists — who, long neglected by the multitudinous vulgar and dearly prized by the attentive19 (need I mention Philip Vincent?) had had the happy fortune of seeing, late in life, the dawn and then the full light of a higher criticism — an estimate in which, on the part of the public, there was something really of expiation20. The edition in question, planned by a publisher of taste, was practically an act of high reparation; the wood-cuts with which it was to be enriched were the homage21 of English art to one of the most independent representatives of English letters. Major and Mrs. Monarch confessed to me that they had hoped I might be able to work THEM into my share of the enterprise. They knew I was to do the first of the books, “Rutland Ramsay,” but I had to make clear to them that my participation22 in the rest of the affair — this first book was to be a test — was to depend on the satisfaction I should give. If this should be limited my employers would drop me without a scruple23. It was therefore a crisis for me, and naturally I was making special preparations, looking about for new people, if they should be necessary, and securing the best types. I admitted however that I should like to settle down to two or three good models who would do for everything.
“Should we have often to — a — put on special clothes?” Mrs. Monarch timidly demanded.
“Dear, yes — that’s half the business.”
“And should we be expected to supply our own costumes?”
“Oh, no; I’ve got a lot of things. A painter’s models put on — or put off — anything he likes.”
“And do you mean — a — the same?”
“The same?”
Mrs. Monarch looked at her husband again.
“Oh, she was just wondering,” he explained, “if the costumes are in GENERAL use.” I had to confess that they were, and I mentioned further that some of them (I had a lot of genuine, greasy24 last– century things), had served their time, a hundred years ago, on living, world-stained men and women. “We’ll put on anything that fits,” said the Major.
“Oh, I arrange that — they fit in the pictures.”
“I’m afraid I should do better for the modern books. I would come as you like,” said Mrs. Monarch.
“She has got a lot of clothes at home: they might do for contemporary life,” her husband continued.
“Oh, I can fancy scenes in which you’d be quite natural.” And indeed I could see the slipshod rearrangements of stale properties — the stories I tried to produce pictures for without the exasperation25 of reading them — whose sandy tracts26 the good lady might help to people. But I had to return to the fact that for this sort of work — the daily mechanical grind — I was already equipped; the people I was working with were fully27 adequate.
“We only thought we might be more like SOME characters,” said Mrs. Monarch mildly, getting up.
Her husband also rose; he stood looking at me with a dim wistfulness that was touching28 in so fine a man. “Wouldn’t it be rather a pull sometimes to have — a — to have —?” He hung fire; he wanted me to help him by phrasing what he meant. But I couldn’t — I didn’t know. So he brought it out, awkwardly: “The REAL thing; a gentleman, you know, or a lady.” I was quite ready to give a general assent29 — I admitted that there was a great deal in that. This encouraged Major Monarch to say, following up his appeal with an unacted gulp30: “It’s awfully31 hard — we’ve tried everything.” The gulp was communicative; it proved too much for his wife. Before I knew it Mrs. Monarch had dropped again upon a divan32 and burst into tears. Her husband sat down beside her, holding one of her hands; whereupon she quickly dried her eyes with the other, while I felt embarrassed as she looked up at me. “There isn’t a confounded job I haven’t applied33 for — waited for — prayed for. You can fancy we’d be pretty bad first. Secretaryships and that sort of thing? You might as well ask for a peerage. I’d be ANYTHING— I’m strong; a messenger or a coalheaver. I’d put on a gold-laced cap and open carriage-doors in front of the haberdasher’s; I’d hang about a station, to carry portmanteaus; I’d be a postman. But they won’t LOOK at you; there are thousands, as good as yourself, already on the ground. GENTLEMEN, poor beggars, who have drunk their wine, who have kept their hunters!”
I was as reassuring34 as I knew how to be, and my visitors were presently on their feet again while, for the experiment, we agreed on an hour. We were discussing it when the door opened and Miss Churm came in with a wet umbrella. Miss Churm had to take the omnibus to Maida Vale and then walk half-a-mile. She looked a trifle blowsy and slightly splashed. I scarcely ever saw her come in without thinking afresh how odd it was that, being so little in herself, she should yet be so much in others. She was a meagre little Miss Churm, but she was an ample heroine of romance. She was only a freckled35 cockney, but she could represent everything, from a fine lady to a shepherdess; she had the faculty36, as she might have had a fine voice or long hair.
She couldn’t spell, and she loved beer, but she had two or three “points,” and practice, and a knack37, and mother-wit, and a kind of whimsical sensibility, and a love of the theatre, and seven sisters, and not an ounce of respect, especially for the H. The first thing my visitors saw was that her umbrella was wet, and in their spotless perfection they visibly winced38 at it. The rain had come on since their arrival.
“I’m all in a soak; there WAS a mess of people in the ‘bus. I wish you lived near a stytion,” said Miss Churm. I requested her to get ready as quickly as possible, and she passed into the room in which she always changed her dress. But before going out she asked me what she was to get into this time.
“It’s the Russian princess, don’t you know?” I answered; “the one with the ‘golden eyes,’ in black velvet39, for the long thing in the Cheapside.”
“Golden eyes? I SAY!” cried Miss Churm, while my companions watched her with intensity40 as she withdrew. She always arranged herself, when she was late, before I could turn round; and I kept my visitors a little, on purpose, so that they might get an idea, from seeing her, what would be expected of themselves. I mentioned that she was quite my notion of an excellent model — she was really very clever.
“Do you think she looks like a Russian princess?” Major Monarch asked, with lurking41 alarm.
“When I make her, yes.”
“Oh, if you have to MAKE her —!” he reasoned, acutely.
“That’s the most you can ask. There are so many that are not makeable.”
“Well now, HERE’S a lady”— and with a persuasive42 smile he passed his arm into his wife’s —”who’s already made!”
“Oh, I’m not a Russian princess,” Mrs. Monarch protested, a little coldly. I could see that she had known some and didn’t like them. There, immediately, was a complication of a kind that I never had to fear with Miss Churm.
This young lady came back in black velvet — the gown was rather rusty43 and very low on her lean shoulders — and with a Japanese fan in her red hands. I reminded her that in the scene I was doing she had to look over someone’s head. “I forget whose it is; but it doesn’t matter. Just look over a head.”
“I’d rather look over a stove,” said Miss Churm; and she took her station near the fire. She fell into position, settled herself into a tall attitude, gave a certain backward inclination44 to her head and a certain forward droop45 to her fan, and looked, at least to my prejudiced sense, distinguished46 and charming, foreign and dangerous. We left her looking so, while I went down-stairs with Major and Mrs. Monarch.
“I think I could come about as near it as that,” said Mrs. Monarch.
“Oh, you think she’s shabby, but you must allow for the alchemy of art.”
However, they went off with an evident increase of comfort, founded on their demonstrable advantage in being the real thing. I could fancy them shuddering47 over Miss Churm. She was very droll48 about them when I went back, for I told her what they wanted.
“Well, if SHE can sit I’ll tyke to bookkeeping,” said my model.
“She’s very lady-like,” I replied, as an innocent form of aggravation49.
“So much the worse for YOU. That means she can’t turn round.”
“She’ll do for the fashionable novels.”
“Oh yes, she’ll DO for them!” my model humorously declared. “Ain’t they had enough without her?” I had often sociably50 denounced them to Miss Churm.
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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waterproofs
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| n.防水衣物，雨衣 usually plural( waterproof的名词复数 )v.使防水，使不透水( waterproof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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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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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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reverberates
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的第三人称单数 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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ignobly
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| 卑贱地，下流地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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41
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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43
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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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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45
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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46
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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47
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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48
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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49
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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50
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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