This crystallization affects the individual according to his nature. If that nature be inexperienced, unworn—in a word, if it be virginal, its earliest effects are those of a malady4. On the other hand, if the nature on which it operates has received the baptism of fire, its effect is that of a tonic5. To the one it is a fever, to the other a bugle-call. In the first instance, admiration is pursued by self-depreciation, desire is pinioned6 before conventional obstacles, and hope falters7 beneath a weight of doubt. In the second, admiration, desire, and hope are fused into one sentiment, the charm of the chase, the delight of the prospective8 quarry9. As an example, there is Werther, and there is also Don Juan.
Now Tristrem Varick had never known a mother, sisters he had none, the feminine had been absent from his life, but in his nature there was an untarnishable refinement10. During his student-days at Harvard, and throughout his residence abroad, there had been nothing of that which the French have agreed to denominate as bonnes fortunes. Such things may have been in his path, waiting only to be gathered, but, in that case, certain it is that he had passed them by unheeded. To use the figurative phrase, he was incapable11 of stretching his hand to any woman who had not the power of awakening12 a lasting13 affection; and during his wanderings, and despite, too, the example and easy morals of his comrades, no such woman having crossed his horizon, he had been innocent of even the most fugitive14 liaison15. Nevertheless, the morning after the dinner in Gramercy Park, crystallization had done its work. He awoke with the surprise and wonder of an inexperienced sensation; he awoke with the consciousness of being in love, wholly, turbulently, absurdly in love with a girl to whom he had not addressed a single word.
The general opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, there are, after all, very few people who know what love really is. And among those that know, fewer there are that tell. A lexicographer16, deservedly forgotten, has defined it as an exchange of fancies, the contact of two epiderms. Another, wiser if less epigrammatic, announced it as a something that no one knew what, coming no one knew whence, and ending no one knew how. But in whatever fashion it may be described, one thing is certain, it has been largely over-rated.
In the case of Tristrem Varick it appeared in its most perfect form. The superlative is used advisedly. Love has a hundred aspects, a thousand toilets. It may come at first sight, in which event, if it be enduring, it is, as Balzac has put it, a resultant of that prescience which is known as second sight. Or, it may come of the gradual fusion17 of two natures. It may come of propinquity, of curiosity, of sympathy, of hatred18. It may come of the tremors19 of adolescence20, the mutual21 attraction of one sex for the other; and, again, it may come of natural selection, of the discernment which leads a man through mazes22 of women to one in particular, to the woman who to him is the one woman in the world and manacles him at her feet. If Tristrem Varick had not met Miss Raritan, it is more than probable that he never would have known the meaning of the word.
When the first surprise at the discovery waned23, delight took its place. He saw her amber24 eyes, he recalled as she had crossed the room the indolent undulation of her hips25, he breathed the atmosphere of health which she exhaled26, and in his ears her voice still rang. The Non più mesta of her song seemed almost a promise, and the O Magali an invitation. He recalled the movement of her lips, and fell to wondering what her name might be. At first he fancied that it might be Stella; but that, for some occult reason which only a lover would understand, he abandoned for Thyra, a name which pleasured him awhile and which he repeated aloud until it became sonorous27 as were it set in titles. But presently some defect presented itself, it sounded less apt, more suited to a blue-eyed daughter of a viking than to one so brune as she. Decidedly, Thyra did not suit her. And yet her name might be something utterly29 commonplace, such as Fanny, for instance, or Agnes, or Gertrude. But that was a possibility which he declined to entertain. When a girl is baptized, the mother, in choosing the name, should, he told himself, think of the lover who will one day pronounce it. And what had her mother chosen? It would be forethought indeed if she had selected Undine or even Iseult; but what mother was ever clairvoyant30 enough for that?
He thought this over awhile and was about to give the query31 up, when suddenly, without an effort on his part, he was visited by a name that announced her as the perfume announces the rose, a name that pictured and painted her, a name that suited her as did her gown of canary, a name that crowned her beauty and explained the melancholy32 of her lips. "It is Madeleine," he said, "it can be nothing else."
And into the syllables33 he threw the waving inflection of the French.
"It is Madeleine," he continued, "and when I see her I will tell in what way I divined it."
The possibility that she might be indifferent to such homage34 did not, for the moment, occur to him. He was loitering in the enchanted35 gardens of the imagination, which have been visited by us all. It was the improbable that fluttered his pulse.
Hitherto the life of Tristrem Varick had been that of a dilettante36. There had been no reason why he should work. His education had unfitted him for labor37, and his tastes, if artistic38, were not sufficiently39 pronounced to act as incentives40. He handled the brush well enough to know that he could never be a painter; he had a natural understanding of music, its value was clear to him, yet its composition was barred. The one talent that he possessed—a talent that grows rarer with the days—was that of appreciation41, he could admire the masterpieces of others, but creation was not his. A few centuries ago he would have made an admirable knight-errant. In a material age like our own, his raison a'être was not obvious. In a word, he was just such an one as his father had intended he should be, one whose normal condition was that of chronic42 pluperfect subjunctive, and who, if thrown on his own resources, would be helpless indeed.
In some dim way he had been conscious of this before, and hitherto he had accepted it, as he had accepted his father's attitude, as one accepts the inevitable43, and put it aside again as something against which, like death, or like life, it is useless to rebel. After all, there was nothing particularly dreadful about it. An inability to be Somebody was not a matter of which the District Attorney is obliged to take cognizance. At least he need do no harm, and he would have wealth enough to do much good. It was in thoughts like these that hitherto he had found consolation44. But on this particular morning he looked for them anew, and the search was fruitless. Not one of the old consolations45 disclosed the slightest worth. He stood before himself naked in his nothingness. The true knowledge of his incompetence46 had never come home to him before—but now it closed round him in serried47 arguments, and in the closing shut out all hope of her. Who was he, indeed, to pretend to such a girl?
To win her, he told himself, one must needs be a conqueror48, one who has coped with dangers and could flaunt49 new triumphs as his lady's due. Some soldier bearing a marshal's baton50 back from war, some hero that had liberated51 an empire or stolen a republic for himself, some prince of literature or satrap of song, someone, in fact, who, booted and spurred, had entered the Temple of Fame, and claimed the dome52 as his. But he! What had he to offer? His name, however historical and respected, was an accident of birth. Of the wealth which he would one day possess he had not earned a groat. And, were it lost, the quadrature of the circle would not be more difficult than its restoration. And yet, and yet—though any man she could meet might be better and wiser and stronger than he, not one would care for her more. At least there was something in that, a tangible53 value, if ever there were one. There was every reason why she should turn her back, and that one reason, and that one only, why she should not. But that one reason, he told himself, was a force in itself. The resuscitation54 of hope was so sudden that the blood mounted to his temples and pulsated55 through his veins56.
He left the bed in which his meditations57 had been passed. "They say everything comes to him who waits," he muttered, and then proceeded to dress. He took a tub and got himself, absent-mindedly, into a morning suit. "I don't believe it," he exclaimed, at last, "the world belongs to the impatient, and I am impatient of her."
Tristrem was in no sense a diplomatist. In his ways there was a candor58 that was as unusual as it is delightful59; yet such is the power of love that, in its first assault, the victim is transformed. The miser60 turns prodigal61, the coward brave, the genius becomes a simpleton, and in the simpleton there awakes a Machiavelli. Tristrem passed a forenoon in trying to unravel62 as cruel a problem as has ever been given a lover to solve—how, in a city like New York, to meet a girl of whom he knew absolutely nothing, and who was probably unaware63 of his own existence. He might have waited, it is true—chance holds many an odd trick—but he had decided28 to be impatient, and in his impatience64 he went to Gramercy Park and drank tea there, not once, but four afternoons in succession, an excess of civility which surprised Mrs. Weldon not a little.
That he should make an early visit of digestion65 was quite in the order of things, but when that visit was repeated again and again, Mrs. Weldon, with a commingling66 of complacency and alarm, told herself that, in her quality of married woman, such persistence67 should be discouraged. But the opportunity for such discouragement did not present itself, or rather, when it did the need of discouragement had passed. Tristrem drank tea with her several times, and then disappeared abruptly69. "He must have known it was hopeless," she reflected, when a week went by unmarked by further enterprise on his part. And then, the intended discouragement notwithstanding, she felt vaguely70 vexed71.
In the tea-drinking Tristrem's object, if not apparent to Mrs. Weldon, was perfectly72 clear to himself. He desired to learn something of Miss Raritan, and he knew, if the tea-drinking was continued with sufficient endurance, not only would he acquire, from a talkative lady like his hostess, information of the amplest kind, which after all was secondary, but that in the course of a week the girl herself must put in an appearance. A dinner call, if not obligatory73 to him, was obligatory to her, and on that obligation he counted.
To those who agree to be bound by what the Western press calls etiquette74, there is nothing more inexorable than a social debt. A woman may contest her mantua-maker's bill with impunity75, her antenuptial promises may go to protest and she remain unestopped; but let her leave a dinner-call overdue76 and unpaid77, then is she shameless indeed. In this code Tristrem was necessarily learned. On returning to Fifth Avenue he had marvelled78 somewhat at noting that laws which applied79 to one sex did not always extend to the other, that civility was not exacted of men, that politeness was relegated80 to the tape-counter and out of place in a drawing-room; in a word, that it was not good form to be courteous81, and not ill-bred to be rude.
While the tea-drinking was in progress he managed without much difficulty to get Mrs. Weldon on the desired topic. There were spacious82 digressions in her information and abrupt68 excursions into irrelevant83 matter, and there were also interruptions by other visitors, and the consequent and tedious exchange of platitude84 and small-talk. But after the fourth visit Tristrem found himself in possession of a store of knowledge, the sum and substance of which amounted to this: Miss Raritan lived with her mother in the shady part of the Thirties, near Madison Avenue. Her father was dead. It had been rumored85, but with what truth Mrs. Weldon was not prepared to affirm, that the girl had some intention of appearing on the lyric86 stage, which, if she carried out, would of course be the end of her socially. She had been very much ruin after on account of her voice, and at the Wainwarings the President had said that he had never heard anything like it, and asked her to come to Washington and be present at one of the diplomatic dinners. Personally Mrs. Weldon knew her very slightly, but she intimated that, inasmuch as the government had once sent Raritan père abroad as minister—in order probably to be rid of him—his daughter was inclined to look down on those whose fathers held less exalted87 positions—on Mrs. Weldon herself, for example.
It was with this little store of information that Tristrem left her on the Thursday succeeding the dinner. It was meagre indeed, and yet ample enough to afford him food for reflection. During the gleaning88 many people had come and gone, but of Miss Raritan he had as yet seen nothing. The next afternoon, however, as he was about to ascend89 Mrs. Weldon's stoop for the fifth time in five days, the door opened and the girl on whom his thoughts were centred was before him.
Throughout the week he had lived in the expectation of meeting her, it was the one thing that had brought zest90 to the day and dreams to the night; there was even a little speech which he had rehearsed, but for the moment he was dumb. He plucked absently at his cuff91, to the palms of his hands there came a sudden moisture. In the vestibule above, a servant stood waiting for Miss Raritan to reach the pavement before closing the door, and abruptly, from a barrel-organ at the corner, a waltz was thrown out in jolts92.
The girl descended93 the steps before Tristrem was able to master his emotion.
"Miss Raritan," he began, hastily, "I don't suppose you remember me. I am Mr. Varick. I heard you sing the other night. I have come here every day since in the hope of——; you see, I wanted to ask if I might not have the privilege of hearing you sing again?"
"If you consider it a privilege, certainly. On Sunday evening, though, I thought you seemed rather bored." She made this answer very graciously, with her head held like a bird's, a trifle to one side.
Tristrem gazed at her in a manner that would have mollified a tigress. "I was not bored. I had never heard anyone sing before."
"Yet your friend, Mr. Weldon, tells me that you are very fond of music."
"That is exactly what I mean."
At this speech of his she looked at him, musingly94. "I wish I deserved that," she said.
Tristrem began again with new courage. "It is like anything else, I fancy. I doubt if anyone, ignorant of difficulties overcome, ever appreciates a masterpiece. A sonnet95, if perfect, is only perfect to a sonneteer. The gallery may applaud a drama, it is the playwright96 who judges it at its worth. It is the sculptor97 that appreciates a Canova——"
They had reached the corner where the barrel-organ was in ambush98. A woman dragging a child with Italy and dirt in its face followed them, her hand outstretched. Tristrem had an artful way of being rid of a beggar, and after the fumble99 of a moment he gave her some coin.
"—And the artist who appreciates rags," added Miss Raritan.
"Perhaps. I am not fond of rags myself, but I have often caught myself envying the simplicity100 which they sometimes conceal101. That woman, now, she may be as pleased with my little gift as I am to be walking with you."
"I thought it was my voice you liked," Miss Raritan answered, demurely102.
Tristrem experienced a mental start. A suspicion entered his mind which he chased indignantly. There was about the girl an aroma103 that was incompatible104 with coquetry.
"You would not, I am sure, have me think of you in the vox et pr?terea nihil style," he replied. "To be candid105, I thought that very matter over the other night." He hesitated, as though waiting for some question, but she did not so much as look at him, and he continued unassisted. "I thought of a flower and its perfume, I wondered which was the more admirable, and—and—I decided that I did not care for tulips."
"But that you did care for me, I suppose?"
"Yes, I decided that."
Miss Raritan threw back her head with a movement indicative of impatience.
"I didn't mean to tell you," he added—"that is, not yet."
They had crossed Broadway and were entering Fifth Avenue. There the stream of carriages kept them a moment on the curb106.
"I hope," Tristrem began again, "I hope you are not vexed."
"Vexed at what? No, I am not vexed. I am tired; every other man I meet—There, we can cross now. Besides, I am married. Don't get run over. I am going in that shop."
"You are not married!"
"Yes, I am; if I were a Harvard graduate I would say to Euterpe. As it is, Scales is more definite." She had led him to the door of a milliner, a portal which Tristrem knew was closed to him. "If you care to come and see me," she added, by way of congé, "my husband will probably be at home." And with that she opened the door and passed into the shop.
"I can imagine a husband," thought Tristrem, with a glimmer107 of that spirit of belated repartee108 which Thackeray called cab-wit, the brilliancy which comes to us when we are going home, "I can imagine a husband whose greatest merit is his wife."
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1
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
falters
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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12
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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13
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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lexicographer
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| n.辞典编纂人 | |
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fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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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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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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23
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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26
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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clairvoyant
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| adj.有预见的；n.有预见的人 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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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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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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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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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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43
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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44
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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49
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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50
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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51
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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52
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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53
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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54
resuscitation
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| n.复活 | |
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55
pulsated
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| v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的过去式和过去分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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56
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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57
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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59
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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commingling
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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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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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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jolts
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的名词复数 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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101
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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102
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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103
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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104
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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106
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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107
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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108
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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