The little entrance was very pretty, and the drawing-room, into which Peter was immediately ushered8, even prettier. Evidently the Archinards had brought their own furniture, and the Archinards had very good taste. The pale gray-greens of the room were charming. Peter noticed appreciatively the Copenhagen vases filled with white flowers; he could find time for appreciation10 as he passed to Mrs. Archinard’s sofa, for no one else was in the room, a fact of which he was immediately and disappointedly aware. Mrs. Archinard was really improved. Her husband’s monetary12 embarrassments14 had made even less impression on her than upon the surroundings, for though the little salon15 was very pretty, it was not the Priory drawing-room, and Mrs. Archinard was, if anything, plumper and prettier than when Peter had last seen her.
“This is really quite too delightful16! Quite too delightful, Mr. Odd!” Mrs. Archinard’s slender hand pressed his with seemingly affectionate warmth. “Katherine told us this morning about the rencontre. I was expecting you, as you see. Ten years! It seems impossible, really impossible!” Still holding his hand, she scanned his face with her sad and pretty smile. “I could hardly realize it, were it not that your books lie here beside me, living symbols of the years.”
Peter indeed saw, on the little table by the sofa, the familiar bindings.
“I asked Katherine to get them out, so that I might look over them again; strengthen my impression of your personality, join all the links before meeting you again. Dear, dear little books!” Mrs. Archinard laid her hand, with its one great emerald ring, on the “Dialogues,” which was uppermost. “Sit down, Mr. Odd; no, on this chair. The light falls on your face so. Yes, your books are to me among the most exquisite17 art productions of our age. Pater is more étincellant—a style too jewelled perhaps—one wearies of the chain of rather heartless beauty; but in your books one feels the heart, the aroma18 of life—a chain of flowers, flowers do not weary. Your personality is to me very sympathetic, Mr. Odd, very sympathetic.”
Peter was conscious of being sorry for it.
“I think we are both of us tired.” Mrs. Archinard’s smile grew even more sadly sweet; “both tired, both hopeless, both a little indifferent too. How few things one finds to care about! Things crumble19 so, once touched, do they not? Everything crumbles20.” Mrs. Archinard sighed, and, as Peter found nothing to say (“How dull a man who writes quite clever books can be!” thought Mrs. Archinard), she went on in a more commonplace tone—
“And you talked with dear Katherine last night; you pleased her. She told Hilda and me this morning that you really pleased her immensely. Katherine is hard to please. I am proud of my girl, Mr. Odd, very, very proud. Did you not find her quite distinctive21? Quite significant? I always think of Katherine as significant, many facetted, meaning much.” The murmuring modulations of Mrs. Archinard’s voice irritated Odd to such a pitch of ill-temper that he found it difficult to keep his own pleasant as he replied—
“Significant is most applicable. She is a charming girl.”
“Yes, charming; that too applies, and oh, what a misapplied word it is! Every woman nowadays is called charming. The daintily distinctive term is flung at the veriest schoolroom hoyden22, as at the hard, mechanical woman of the world.”
Peter now said to himself that Mrs. Archinard was an ass11—very unjustly—Mrs. Archinard was far from being an ass. She felt the atmosphere with unerring promptitude. Her effects were not to be made upon ce type là. She welcomed Katherine’s entrance as a diversion from looming23 boredom24. Katherine seemed to go in for a regal simplicity25 in dress. Her gown was again of velvet26, a deep amethyst27 color. The high collar and the long sleeves that came over her white hands in points were edged with a narrow line of sable28. A necklace of amethysts29 lightly set in gold encircled the base of her throat. Peter liked to see a well-dressed woman, and Katherine was more than well dressed. In the pearly tints30 of the room she made a picture with her purple gleams and shadows.
“I am glad to see you. Sit down. It is nice to have you in our little diggings. You are like a bit of England sitting there—a big bit!”
“And you are a perfectly31 delightful condensation32 of everything delightfully33 Parisian.”
“The heart is British. True oak!” laughed Katherine; “don’t judge me by the foliage35.”
“Ah, but it needs a good deal of Gallic genius to choose such foliage.”
“No, no. I give the credit to my American blood, to mamma. But thanks, very much. I am glad you are appreciative9.” Katherine smiled so gayly, and looked so charmingly in the amethyst velvet, that Peter forgot for a moment to wonder where Hilda was, but Katherine did not forget.
“I expect Hilda every moment. I have told them to wait tea until she comes, poor dear! ‘Them’ is Wilson, whom you saw, I suppose; Taylor, our old maid; and the cook! The cook is French, otherwise our staff is shrunken, but of the same elements. One doesn’t mind having no servants in a little box like this. Yes, mamma, I have paid all the calls, and only two people were out; so I deserve petting and tea. I hope Hilda will hurry.” Mrs. Archinard’s face took on a look of ill-used resignation.
“We all pay dearly for Hilda’s egotism,” she remarked, and for a moment there was a rather uncomfortable silence. Odd felt a queer indignation and a queerer melancholy36 rising within him.
The Hilda of to-day seemed far further away than the Hilda of ten years ago. They talked in a rather desultory37 fashion for some time. Mrs. Archinard’s presence was damping, and even Katherine’s smile was like a flower seen through rain. The little clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter.
“Almost six!” exclaimed Katherine; “we must have tea.”
“Yes, we may sacrifice ourselves, but we must not sacrifice Mr. Odd,” said Mrs. Archinard with distinct fretfulness. Taylor answered the bell, and Peter, with a quickness of combination that surprised himself, surmised38 that Hilda was out alone. Had she become emancipated39? Bohemian? His melancholy grew stronger. Tea was brought, a charming set of daintiest white and a little silver teapot of a quaint40 and delicate design.
“Hilda designed it in Florence,” said Katherine, seeing him looking at it; “an Italian friend had it made for her after her own model and drawings. Yes, Hilda goes in for decorative41 work a good deal. People who know about it have admired that teapot, as you do, I see.”
“It’s a lovely thing,” said Peter, as Katherine turned it before him; “the simplicity of the outline and the delicate bas-relief”—he bent42 his head to look more closely—“exquisite.” And he thought it rather rough on Hilda; to pour the tea from her own teapot without waiting for her.
Still, he owned, when at last the door-bell rang at fully34 half-past six, that he might have been asking for too much patience.
“There she is,” said Katherine; “I must go and tell her that you are here.” Katherine went out, and Odd heard a murmured colloquy43 in the entrance. He was conscious of feeling excited, and unconsciously rose to his feet and looked eagerly toward the door. But only Katherine came in.
“I don’t believe I shall ever see Hilda!” he exclaimed, with an assumption of exasperation44 that hid some real nervousness. Katherine laughed.
“Oh yes, you shall, in five minutes. She had to wash her face and hands. Artists are untidy people, you know,” and Odd, with that same strange acuteness of perception with which he seemed dowered this afternoon, felt that Hilda had been coming in in all her artistic45 untidiness, and that Katherine had seen to a more respectable entrée.
It rather irritated him with Katherine, and that tactful young lady probably guessed at his disappointment, for she went to the piano and began to play a sad aria46 from one of Schumann’s Sonatas47 that sighed and pled and sobbed48. She played very well, with the same perfect taste that she showed in her gowns, and Peter was too fond of music, too fond of Schumann especially, not to listen to her.
In the middle of the aria Hilda came in. It was over in a moment, the meeting, as the most exciting things in life are. Peter had not realized till the moment came how much it would excite him.
Hilda came in and walked up to him. She put her hand in his with all the pretty gravity he remembered in the child. Odd took the other hand too and stared at her. He was conscious then of being very much excited, and conscious that she was not.
Her eyes were “big and vague,” but they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and the vagueness was only in a certain lack of expression, for they looked straight into his. Carried along by that first impulse of excitement, despite the little shock of half-felt disappointment, Peter bent his head and kissed her on each cheek.
“Bravo!” said Katherine, still striking soft chords at the piano, “Bravo, Mr. Odd! considering your first meeting and your last parting, you have a right to that!” And Katherine laughed pleasantly, though she was a trifle displeased49.
“Yes, I have, haven’t I?” said Peter, smiling. He still held Hilda’s hands. The little flush that had come to her cheeks when he had kissed her was gone, and she looked very white.
“Are you glad to see me, Hilda?” he asked; “I beg your pardon, but it comes naturally to call you that.”
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Odd,” Hilda smiled. Her voice was very like the child’s voice saying, “I thank you very much,” ten years ago. The same voice, grave and gentle. Odd had expected some little warmth, some little embarrassment13 even, in the girl, considering the parting from the child. But Hilda did not show any warmth, neither did she seem at all embarrassed, and Odd felt rather as one does when an unnecessary downward stride reveals level ground where one expected another step. He had stumbled a little, and now, half ruefully, half humorously, he considered the child Hilda grown up. She sat down near her mother.
“I am so sorry. I am afraid you waited for me,” she said, bending towards her; “I really couldn’t help it, mamma.”
“No, I think it kindest to consider you irresponsible; there is certainly an element of insanity50 in your exaggerated devotion to your work.” Mrs. Archinard smiled acidly, and Hilda, Odd thought, did look a little embarrassed now. He had adjusted himself to the reality of the present, and was able to study her. The same Botticelli Madonna mouth, the same Gainsborough eyes; the skin of dazzling whiteness—an almost unnatural51 white—but she was evidently tired.
Certainly her black gown looked strangely beside Katherine’s velvet, Mrs. Archinard’s silk and laces. Odd saw that there was mud on the skirt, a very short skirt, and Hilda’s legs were very long. She had walked, then. His own paternal52 solicitude53 struck him as amusing, and rather touching54, as he glanced at her slim feet, to see with satisfaction that wet boots had been replaced by patent-leather shoes—heelless little shoes.
“I am afraid you work too much, you tire yourself,” he said, for after her mother’s rebuff she had sunk back in her chair with a weary lassitude of pose. Hilda immediately sat up straightly, giving him an almost frightened glance. How unchanged the little face, though the cloud of her hair no longer framed it. Hilda’s hair was as smooth as her sister’s, only it was brushed straight back, and the soft blue-black coils were massed from ear to ear, and showed, in a coronet-like effect above her head, almost too much hair; it emphasized the pale fragility of her look.
“Oh no, I am not tired,” she said, “not particularly. I walked home, you see. I am very fond of walking.”
“Hilda is fond of such funny things,” said Katherine, coming from the piano, “of walking in the mud and rain for instance. She is the most persistently55, consistently energetic person I ever knew.” Katherine paused pleasantly as though for Hilda to speak, but Hilda said nothing and looked even more vague than before, almost dull in fact.
“Well, she has had no tea,” said Odd, “and after mud and rain that is rather cruel, even as a punishment.”
Again Hilda gave him the alarmed quick glance; his eyes were humorously kind, and she smiled a slight little smile.
“Some tea!” Katherine cried; “my poor Hilda, I’m afraid it is hard-boiled by this time”—she laid her hand on the teapot—“and almost cold. Shall I heat some more water, dear?”
“Oh! don’t think of it, Katherine, it is almost dinner-time.”
“Must I be off?” asked Odd, laughing.
“How absurd; we don’t dine till eight,” Katherine said.
“It wasn’t a hint to me, then, Hilda?” Hilda looked helplessly distressed56.
“A hint? Oh no, no. How could you think that?”
“I was only joking. I didn’t really believe you so anxious to get rid of an old friend.” Odd, with some determination, crossed the room and sat down beside her.
“I want to see a great deal of you if you will let me.”
“No one sees much of Hilda, not even her own mother,” said Mrs. Archinard from her sofa. “It is terrible indeed to feel oneself a cumberer of the earth, unable to suffice to oneself, far less to others. With my failing eyesight I simply cannot read by lamplight, and there are three or four hours at this season when I am absolutely without resources. Yet even those hours Hilda cannot give me.”
Hilda now looked so painfully embarrassed that Odd was perforce obliged, for very pity’s sake, to avert57 his eyes from her face.
“Ah, Mr. Odd,” Mrs. Archinard went on, “you do not know what that is. To lie in the gray dusk and watch one’s own gray, gray thoughts.”
“It must be very unpleasant,” Odd owned unwillingly58, feeling that his character of old friend was being rather imposed upon; this degree of intimacy59 was certainly unwarranted.
“Now, mamma, you usually have friends every afternoon,” said Katherine, in her pleasant, even voice. She was preparing some fresh tea. “You make me as well as Hilda feel a culprit.”
“No, my dear.” Mrs. Archinard’s deep sense of accumulated injury evidently got quite the better of her manners. “No, my dear, you never could read aloud and never did. I never asked it of you. You are really occupied as a girl should be. At all events you fulfil your social duties. You see that people come to see me. As I cannot go out, as Hilda will not, I really don’t know what I should do were it not for you. And, as it is, no one came this afternoon until Mr. Odd made his welcome appearance.”
“But Mr. Odd came at five, and you always read till then.” Katherine’s voice was gently playful. Hilda had not said one word, and her expression seemed now absolutely dogged.
“At this season, Katherine! You forget that it is night by four! And how a girl with any regard for her mother’s wishes can walk about the streets of Paris alone after that hour it passes my comprehension to understand.”
“Do you care about bicycling, Mr. Odd?” The change was abrupt60 but welcome. “Because I am going to the Bois to-morrow morning, and alone for once.” Katherine smiled at him over the kettle which she was lifting. “Papa has deserted61 me.”
“I should enjoy it immensely. And you,” he looked at Hilda, “won’t you come?”
“Oh, I can’t,” said Hilda, with a troubled look. “Thanks so much.”
“Oh no, Hilda can’t,” laughed Mrs. Archinard.
“And where is the Captain off to?” queried62 Peter hastily. He felt that he would like to shake Mrs. Archinard. Hilda’s stubborn silence might certainly be irritating, and Odd had sympathy for parental63 claims and wishes, especially concerning the advisability of a beautiful girl walking in the streets at night unescorted, sacrificed to youthful conceit64; but Mrs. Archinard’s personality certainly weakened all claims, and her taste was as certainly atrocious.
“Papa,” said Katherine, pouring out the tea, “is going to-morrow morning to the Riviera. Lucky papa!” Odd thought with some amusement of the ￡120 that constituted papa’s “luck.” “I have only been once to Monte Carlo, and I won such a lot. Only imagine how forty pounds turned my head. I revelled65 in hats and gloves for a whole year. Then we go to-morrow, Mr. Odd? I have my own bicycle. I have kept it near the Porte Dauphine, and you can hire a very nice one at the same place.”
“May I call for you here at ten, then? Will that suit you?”
“Very well.” Odd watched Katherine as she carried the tea and cake to her sister. Hilda gave a little start.
“O Katherine, how good of you! I didn’t realize what you were doing.”
“It is you who are good, my pet,” said Katherine in a low, gentle voice. Peter thought it a pretty little scene.
“A great deal of latitude66 must be granted to the young person who invented that teapot,” he said to Hilda. “One must work hard to do anything in art, mustn’t one? A most lovely teapot, Hilda.”
“I am glad you like it.” Hilda smiled her thanks, but her eyes still expressed that distance and reserve that showed no consciousness of the past, no intention of admitting it as a link to the present. She did not seem exactly shy, but her whole manner was passive—negative. Katherine probably thought that Mr. Odd had by this time realized the futility67 of an attempt to draw out the unresponsive artist, for she seated herself between Odd and the sofa, thus protecting Hilda from Mrs. Archinard’s severities and Odd from the ineffectual necessity for talking to Hilda. Odd thought that were Katherine and Mrs. Archinard not there he might have “come at” Hilda, but the sense of ease Katherine brought with her was undeniable. She was charmingly mistress of herself, made him talk, appealed prettily68 to her mother, who even gave more than one melancholy laugh, and, with a tactful give and take, yet kept the reins69 of conversation well within her own hands.
Odd found her a nice girl, but the undercurrent of his thought dwelt on Hilda, and at every gayety of Katherine’s, his eyes sought her sister’s face; Hilda’s eyes were always fixed70 on Katherine, and she smiled a certain dumbly admiring smile. As he sat near her, he could see that the little black dress was very shabby. He could not have associated Hilda with real untidiness, and indeed the dress with its white linen71 cuffs72 and collar, its inevitable73 grace of severely74 simple outline, was neat to an almost painful degree. Hilda’s artistic proclivities75 perhaps showed themselves in shiny seams and careful darns and patches.
When he rose to go he took her hands again; he hoped that his persistency76 did not make him appear rather foolish.
“I am sorry you won’t come to-morrow. May I hope for another day?”
“I can’t come to-morrow”—there was a touch of self-defence in Hilda’s smile—“but perhaps some other day. I should love to,” she finished rather abruptly77.
“But you will be different—I will be different. We will both be changed,” repeated itself in Odd’s mind as he walked down the Rue Pierre Charron. Poor little child-voice! how sadly it sounded. How true had been the prophecy.
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1
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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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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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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amethysts
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| n.紫蓝色宝石( amethyst的名词复数 )；紫晶；紫水晶；紫色 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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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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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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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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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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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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aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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48
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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51
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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52
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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