The great renewed resonance11 — renewed by the incredible luck of the play — was always in his ears without so much as a conscious turn of his head to listen; so that the queer world of his fame was not the mere12 usual field of the Anglo–Saxon boom, but positively the bottom of the whole theatric sea, unplumbed source of the wave that had borne him in the course of a year or two over German, French, Italian, Russian, Scandinavian foot-lights. Paris itself really appeared for the hour the centre of his cyclone13, with reports and “returns,” to say nothing of agents and emissaries, converging14 from the minor15 capitals; though his impatience16 was scarce the less keen to get back to London, where his work had had no such critical excoriation17 to survive, no such lesson of anguish18 to learn, as it had received at the hand of supreme19 authority, of that French authority which was in such a matter the only one to be artistically21 reckoned with. If his spirit indeed had had to reckon with it his fourth act practically hadn’t: it continued to make him blush every night for the public more even than the inimitable feuilleton had made him blush for himself.
This had figured, however, after all, the one bad drop in his cup; so that, for the rest, his high-water mark might well have been, that evening at Gloriani’s studio, the approach of his odd and charming applicant22, vaguely23 introduced at the latter’s very own request by their hostess, who, with an honest, helpless, genial24 gesture, washed her fat begemmed hands of the name and identity of either, but left the fresh, fair, ever so habitually25 assured, yet ever so easily awkward Englishman with his plea to put forth26. There was that in this pleasant personage which could still make Berridge wonder what conception of profit from him might have, all incalculably, taken form in such a head — these being truly the last intrenchments of our hero’s modesty27. He wondered, the splendid young man, he wondered awfully28, he wondered (it was unmistakable) quite nervously29, he wondered, to John’s ardent30 and acute imagination, quite beautifully, if the author of “The Heart of Gold” would mind just looking at a book by a friend of his, a great friend, which he himself believed rather clever, and had in fact found very charming, but as to which — if it really wouldn’t bore Mr. Berridge — he should so like the verdict of some one who knew. His friend was awfully ambitious, and he thought there was something in it — with all of which might he send the book to any address?
Berridge thought of many things while the young Lord thus charged upon him, and it was odd that no one of them was any question of the possible worth of the offered achievement — which, for that matter, was certain to be of the quality of all the books, to say nothing of the plays, and the projects for plays, with which, for some time past, he had seen his daily post-bag distended31. He had made out, on looking at these things, no difference at all from one to the other. Here, however, was something more — something that made his fellow-guest’s overture32 independently interesting and, as he might imagine, important. He smiled, he was friendly and vague; said “A work of fiction, I suppose?” and that he didn’t pretend ever to pronounce, that he in fact quite hated, always, to have to, not “knowing,” as he felt, any better than any one else; but would gladly look at anything, under that demur33, if it would give any pleasure. Perhaps the very brightest and most diamond-like twinkle he had yet seen the star of his renown34 emit was just the light brought into his young Lord’s eyes by this so easy consent to oblige. It was easy because the presence before him was from moment to moment, referring itself back to some recent observation or memory; something caught somewhere, within a few weeks or months, as he had moved about, and that seemed to flutter forth at this stir of the folded leaves of his recent experience very much as a gathered, faded flower, placed there for “pressing,” might drop from between the pages of a volume opened at hazard.
He had seen him before, this splendid and sympathetic person — whose flattering appeal was by no means all that made him sympathetic; he had met him, had noted35, had wondered about him, had in fact imaginatively, intellectually, so to speak, quite yearned36 over him, in some conjunction lately, though ever so fleet-ingly, apprehended37: which circumstance constituted precisely38 an association as tormenting39, for the few minutes, as it was vague, and set him to sounding, intensely and vainly, the face that itself figured everything agreeable except recognition. He couldn’t remember, and the young man didn’t; distinctly, yes, they had been in presence, during the previous winter, by some chance of travel, through Sicily, through Italy, through the south of France, but his Seigneurie — so Berridge liked exotically to phrase it — had then (in ignorance of the present reasons) not noticed him. It was positive for the man of established identity, all the while too, and through the perfect lucidity40 of his sense of achievement in an air “conducting” nothing but the loudest bang, that this was fundamentally much less remarkable41 than the fact of his being made up to in such a quarter now. That was the disservice, in a manner, of one’s having so much imagination: the mysterious values of other types kept looming42 larger before you than the doubtless often higher but comparatively familiar ones of your own, and if you had anything of the artist’s real feeling for life the attraction and amusement of possibilities so projected were worth more to you, in nineteen moods out of twenty, than the sufficiency, the serenity43, the felicity, whatever it might be, of your stale personal certitudes. You were intellectually, you were “artistically” rather abject44, in fine, if your curiosity (in the grand sense of the term) wasn’t worth more to you than your dignity. What was your dignity, “anyway,” but just the consistency45 of your curiosity, and what moments were ever so ignoble46 for you as, under the blighting47 breath of the false gods, stupid conventions, traditions, examples, your lapses48 from that consistency? His Seigneurie, at all events, delightfully49, hadn’t the least real idea of what any John Berridge was talking about, and the latter felt that if he had been less beautifully witless, and thereby50 less true to his right figure, it might scarce have been forgiven him.
His right figure was that of life in irreflective joy and at the highest thinkable level of prepared security and unconscious insolence51. What was the pale page of fiction compared with the intimately personal adventure that, in almost any direction, he would have been all so stupidly, all so gallantly52, all so instinctively53 and, by every presumption54, so prevailingly ready for? Berridge would have given six months’ “royalties” for even an hour of his looser dormant55 consciousness — since one was oneself, after all, no worm, but an heir of all the ages too — and yet without being able to supply chapter and verse for the felt, the huge difference. His Seigneurie was tall and straight, but so, thank goodness, was the author of “The Heart of Gold,” who had no such vulgar “mug” either; and there was no intrinsic inferiority in being a bit inordinately56, and so it might have seemed a bit strikingly, black-browed instead of being fair as the morning. Again while his new friend delivered himself our own tried in vain to place him; he indulged in plenty of pleasant, if rather restlessly headlong sound, the confessed incoherence of a happy mortal who had always many things “on,” and who, while waiting at any moment for connections and consummations, had fallen into the way of talking, as they said, all artlessly, and a trifle more betrayingly, against time. He would always be having appointments, and somehow of a high “romantic” order, to keep, and the imperfect punctualities of others to wait for — though who would be of a quality to make such a pampered57 personage wait very much our young analyst58 could only enjoy asking himself. There were women who might be of a quality — half a dozen of those perhaps, of those alone, about the world; our friend was as sure of this, by the end of four minutes, as if he knew all about it.
After saying he would send him the book the young Lord indeed dropped that subject; he had asked where he might send it, and had had an “Oh, I shall remember!” on John’s mention of an hotel; but he had made no further dash into literature, and it was ten to one that this would be the last the distinguished59 author might hear of the volume. Such again was a note of these high existences — that made one content to ask of them no whit60 of other consistency than that of carrying off the particular occasion, whatever it might be, in a dazzle of amiability61 and felicity and leaving that as a sufficient trace of their passage. Sought and achieved consistency was but an angular, a secondary motion; compared with the air of complete freedom it might have an effect of deformity. There was no placing this figure of radiant ease, for Berridge, in any relation that didn’t appear not good enough — that is among the relations that hadn’t been too good for Berridge himself. He was all right where he was; the great Gloriani somehow made that law; his house, with his supreme artistic20 position, was good enough for any one, and to-night in especial there were charming people, more charming than our friend could recall from any other scene, as the natural train or circle, as he might say, of such a presence. For an instant he thought he had got the face as a specimen62 of imperturbability63 watched, with wonder, across the hushed rattle65 of roulette at Monte–Carlo; but this quickly became as improbable as any question of a vulgar table d’hote, or a steam-boat deck, or a herd66 of fellow-pilgrims cicerone-led, or even an opera-box serving, during a performance, for frame of a type observed from the stalls. One placed young gods and goddesses only when one placed them on Olympus, and it met the case, always, that they were of Olympian race, and that they glimmered67 for one, at the best, through their silver cloud, like the visiting apparitions68 in an epic69.
This was brief and beautiful indeed till something happened that gave it, for Berridge, on the spot, a prodigious extension — an extension really as prodigious, after a little, as if he had suddenly seen the silver clouds multiply and then the whole of Olympus presently open. Music, breaking upon the large air, enjoined70 immediate71 attention, and in a moment he was listening, with the rest of the company, to an eminent72 tenor73, who stood by the piano; and was aware, with it, that his Englishman had turned away and that in the vast, rich, tapestried74 room where, in spite of figures and objects so numerous, clear spaces, wide vistas75, and, as they might be called, becoming situations abounded76, there had been from elsewhere, at the signal of unmistakable song, a rapid accession of guests. At first he but took this in, and the way that several young women, for whom seats had been found, looked charming in the rapt attitude; while even the men, mostly standing77 and grouped, “composed,” in their stillness, scarce less impressively, under the sway of the divine voice. It ruled the scene, to the last intensity78, and yet our young man’s fine sense found still a resource in the range of the eyes, without sound or motion, while all the rest of consciousness was held down as by a hand mailed in silver. It was better, in this way, than the opera — John alertly thought of that: the composition sung might be Wagnerian, but no Tristram, no Iseult, no Parsifal and, no Kundry of them all could ever show, could ever “act” to the music, as our friend had thus the power of seeing his dear contemporaries of either sex (armoured they so otherwise than in cheap Teutonic tinsel!) just continuously and inscrutably sit to it.
It made, the whole thing together, an enchantment79 amid which he had in truth, at a given moment, ceased to distinguish parts — so that he was himself certainly at last soaring as high as the singer’s voice and forgetting, in a lost gaze at the splendid ceiling, everything of the occasion but what his intelligence poured into it. This, as happened, was a flight so sublime80 that by the time he had dropped his eyes again a cluster of persons near the main door had just parted to give way to a belated lady who slipped in, through the gap made for her, and stood for some minutes full in his view. It was a proof of the perfect hush64 that no one stirred to offer her a seat, and her entrance, in her high grace, had yet been so noiseless that she could remain at once immensely exposed and completely unabashed. For Berridge, once more, if the scenic81 show before him so melted into the music, here precisely might have been the heroine herself advancing to the foot-lights at her cue. The interest deepened to a thrill, and everything, at the touch of his recognition of this personage, absolutely the most beautiful woman now present, fell exquisitely82 together and gave him what he had been wanting from the moment of his taking in his young Englishman.
It was there, the missing connection: her arrival had on the instant lighted it by a flash. Olympian herself, supremely83, divinely Olympian, she had arrived, could only have arrived, for the one person present of really equal race, our young man’s late converser84, whose flattering demonstration85 might now stand for one of the odd extravagant86 forms taken by nervous impatience. This charming, this dazzling woman had been one member of the couple disturbed, to his intimate conviction, the autumn previous, on his being pushed by the officials, at the last moment, into a compartment87 of the train that was to take him from Cremona to Mantua — where, failing a stop, he had had to keep his place. The other member, by whose felt but unseized identity he had been haunted, was the unconsciously insolent88 form of guaranteed happiness he had just been engaged with. The sense of the admirable intimacy89 that, having taken its precautions, had not reckoned with his irruption — this image had remained with him; to say nothing of the interest of aspect of the associated figures, so stamped somehow with rarity, so beautifully distinct from the common occupants of padded corners, and yet on the subject of whom, for the romantic structure he was immediately to raise, he had not had a scrap90 of evidence.
If he had imputed91 to them conditions it was all his own doing: it came from his inveterate92 habit of abysmal93 imputation94, the snatching of the ell wherever the inch peeped out, without which where would have been the tolerability of life? It didn’t matter now what he had imputed — and he always held that his expenses of imputation were, at the worst, a compliment to those inspiring them. It only mattered that each of the pair had been then what he really saw each now — full, that is, of the pride of their youth and beauty and fortune and freedom, though at the same time particularly preoccupied95: preoccupied, that is, with the affairs, and above all with the passions, of Olympus. Who had they been, and what? Whence had they come, whither were they bound, what tie united them, what adventure engaged, what felicity, tempered by what peril96, magnificently, dramatically attended? These had been his questions, all so inevitable97 and so impertinent, at the time, and to the exclusion98 of any scruples99 over his not postulating100 an inane101 honeymoon102, his not taking the “tie,” as he should doubtless properly have done, for the mere blest matrimonial; and he now retracted103 not one of them, flushing as they did before him again with their old momentary104 life. To feel his two friends renewedly in presence — friends of the fleeting105 hour though they had but been, and with whom he had exchanged no sign save the vaguest of salutes106 on finally relieving them of his company — was only to be conscious that he hadn’t, on the spot, done them, so to speak, half justice, and that, for his superior entertainment, there would be ever so much more of them to come.
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1
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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affluents
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| n.富裕的，富足的( affluent的名词复数 ) | |
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resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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12
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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cyclone
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| n.旋风，龙卷风 | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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16
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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excoriation
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| n.严厉的责难；苛责；表皮脱落；抓痕 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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43
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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45
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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46
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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47
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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48
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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49
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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50
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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51
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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52
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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53
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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54
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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55
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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56
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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57
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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imperturbability
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| n.冷静；沉着 | |
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64
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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65
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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66
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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69
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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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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scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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converser
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| 交谈，谈话； [计]对话，会话 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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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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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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postulating
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的现在分词 ) | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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103
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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106
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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