’Twas a pull to get away; Will frankly1 admitted to his own soul he felt it so. But he saw it was right, and he went accordingly. Linnet, he knew, had grown fond of him in those few days; when he asked her once how it was she liked Franz Lindner less now than formerly2, she looked up at him with an arch smile, and, after a second’s pause, made the frank avowal3: “Perhaps it’s because now . . . I think Englishmen nicer.” At the moment his heart had come up in his mouth with pleasure, as will happen with all of us when a pretty woman lets us see for ourselves she really likes us. But he must go all the same: for Linnet’s sake?—?he must go: if illusion there were, he must at once disillusion4 her.
As for Linnet herself, she accepted the separation much more readily, to say the truth, than Will ever imagined she could. It half-piqued him, indeed, to find how easily she seemed to acquiesce5 in the inevitable6. She trembled when he told her, to be sure, and tears started to her eyes; but she answered, none the less, in a fairly firm voice, that she always knew the gn?dige Herr must go away in the end; that she hoped he would remember her wherever he went; and she?—?with a deep sigh?—?she could never forget his kindness. That, however, was all. Just a pressure of her fingers, just a kiss on his hand, just a tear that dropped wet on his outstretched palm as she bent7 her head over it in customary obeisance8, and Linnet was gone, and he saw no more of her that evening. In the morning when he stood at the door to bid farewell to the household, he fancied her eyes looked red with crying. But she grasped his hand hard, for all that, and said goodbye without flinching9. He gave a florin or two as Trinkgeld to each of the servants at the inn; but to Linnet he felt he couldn’t give anything. She was of different mould. Linnet noticed the omission10 herself, with a glistening11 eye?—?and took it, as it was meant, for a social distinction.
The plain truth was, she had always expected Will must soon go away from her. Nor was she indeed as yet what one might fairly call quite in love with him. The very distance between them seemed to forbid the feeling. He was kind, he was sympathetic, he was musical, he was a gentleman, he divined her better qualities, her deeper feelings; he spoke12 to her more deferentially13 and with truer respect than any of her own equals had ever yet spoken to her; she couldn’t help feeling flattered that he should like to come out upon the hillside to talk with her; but, as yet, she hardly said to herself she loved him. If she had, what good? Was it likely such a great gentleman from over the seas would care to marry a mere14 Tyrolese milkmaid? Was it likely, if he did, the wirth and the priest would allow her to marry a Protestant Englishman?
So, from the very outset, save as a passing affection, Will Deverill stood wholly outside poor Linnet’s horizon. She regarded him as a pleasant but short-lived episode. Besides, light loves are the rule with the alp-girl. It was quite in the nature of things for Linnet that a man should take a liking15 to her, should pay her brief court, should expect from her far greater favours than ever Will Deverill expected, and should give her up in the end for a mere freak of fancy. That was the way of the Zillerthal! So, though the thorn had gone deep, she accepted her fate as just what one might have anticipated, and hardly cried for an hour in her own bed at night, to think those sweet mornings on the pasture by the pinewood were to be over for ever. For of course, in the end, if the wirth so willed, she must marry herself contentedly16 to Andreas Hausberger.
Acting17 on Florian’s advice, Will did not even tell his tremulous little friend he was going to Innsbruck. “Better break it off at once,” Florian said, with practical common-sense, “once for all and absolutely. No chance of letters or any nonsense of that sort?—?if the dulcinea can write, which of course is doubtful.” And Will, having made up his mind to the wrench18, acquiesced19 in this sage20 council. So for Linnet, the two strangers who had loomed21 so large, and played so leading a part on the stage of her little life for one rapturous fortnight, vanished utterly22, as it were, at a single breath, like a dissolving cloud, into the infinite and the unknowable.
By seven that night, the young Englishmen found themselves once more in the full flood of civilisation23. The electric light shed its beams on their hotel; a Parisian chef de cuisine24 turned out sweetbreads and ices of elaborate art to pamper25 their palates. Once more, Florian donned with joy the black coat of Bond Street. They had penetrated26 the Zillerthal with their knapsacks on their backs; but two leather portmanteaus, enclosing the fuller garb27 of civilised life, awaited their advent28 at Innsbruck. Thus restored to society, with a rosebud29 in his buttonhole, the dainty little man descended30 radiant to the salle-à-manger. He welcomed the change; after three whole weeks of unadulterated Nature, he had tired of Arcadia. And he loved tables-d’h?te: ’twas a field for the prosecution31 of social conquests. “A man goes there on his merits,” he said briskly to Will, as they dressed for dinner, “neither handicapped nor yet unduly32 weighted. Nobody knows who he is, and he knows nobody. So he starts there on the flat, without fear or favour; and if at the end of ten minutes he hasn’t managed to make himself the centre of a conversational33 circle, he may retire into private life as a social failure.”
On this particular evening, however, in spite of several brilliant and manful efforts, Florian didn’t somehow succeed in attracting an audience quite so readily as usual. The environment was against him. On his right sat a lady whom he discovered by a side glance at the name written legibly on the napkin ring by her plate, to be the Honourable34 Mrs Medway, and who was so profoundly filled with a sense of the importance of her own Honourableness35 that she feared to contaminate herself or her daughter by conversation with her neighbours till she had satisfied her mind by sure and certain warranty36 that they too belonged to the Right Set in England. Pending37 proof to that effect, her answers to his questions were both curt38 and monosyllabic. This nettled39 Florian, who prided himself with truth on his extensive knowledge of all the “smart people.” To his left, beyond Will, on the other hand, sat a stolid-looking gentleman of nonconformist exterior40 and provincial41 garb, whose conversation, though ample, betrayed at times the inelegant idiom and accent of the Humber. Him Florian the silver-tongued carefully avoided. Opposite, was a vacant place, on either side of which sat two young girls of seventeen or thereabouts in the acutest stage of giggling42 inarticulateness. Florian listened, and despaired. Here was a coterie43, indeed, for a brilliant talker and a man of culture!
But just as they finished the soup, to his intense relief, a ray of light seemed to pierce of a sudden the gathering44 gloom of the dinner table. The drawing-room door opened, and through its portal a Vision of Beauty in an evening dress floated, Hellenic goddess-wise, into the salle-à-manger. It made its way straight to the vacant chair, nodded and smiled recognition to the bread-and-butter gigglers and the Honourable Mrs Medway, bowed demurely45, continental-way, to the newly come strangers, and glided46 off at once, without a pause or break, into a general flow all round of graceful47, easy conversation. Florian gazed, and succumbed48. This was a real live woman! Ripe, but not too ripe, soft and rounded of outline, with a bewitching mouth, a row of pearly teeth, and a cheek that wore only its own natural roses, she might have impressed at first sight a less susceptible49 heart by far than the epicurean sage’s. As she seated herself, she drew from her pocket a little cardboard box, which she handed with a charming smile to one of the giggling inarticulates. “Those are the set you admired, I think,” she said, with unconscious grace. “I hope I’ve got the right ones. I was passing the shop on my way back from my drive, and I thought I’d just drop in and bring them back as you liked them so.”
The giggling inarticulate gave a jerky little scream of unmixed delight as she opened the box and took out from it with tremulous hands a pretty set of coral necklet, brooch, and earrings50. “Not for me!” she cried, gasping51; “not for me?—?for a present! You don’t really mean to give them to me! They’re too lovely, too delicious!”
“Yes, I do,” the Vision of Beauty responded, beaming. “I wanted to give you some little souvenir some time before you went, and I didn’t know what you’d like; so, as you said you admired these, I thought I’d best go in at once as I passed and buy them. They’re pretty, aren’t they?”
Florian eyed them with the lenient52 glance of a man of taste who appraises53 and appreciates a beautiful woman’s selection. When the bread-and-butter gigglers had exhausted54 upon them their slender stock of laudatory55 adjectives?—?their oh’s and just look’s, and dear me, aren’t they beautiful’s?—?he broke in with his bland56 smile, and, laying the necklet in a curve on the white tablecloth57 before him, began to discourse58 with much unction in the Florianic tongue, on the ?sthetic points of this pretty trifle. For it was a pretty necklet, there was no denying that; its lance-like pendants were delicately shaped and most gracefully59 arranged; it was one of those simple half-barbaric designs which retain to our day all the na?ve beauty of primitive60 unsophisticated human workmanship. Florian found in it reminiscences of Eve in Eden. And he said so in that luxuriantly florid style of which he was so great and so practical a master. He called attention with suave61 tones to the distinctly precious suggestions of archaic62 influence in the shaping of the pendants; to the exquisite63 nature of coral as a decorative64 object, cast up blushing on our shores by the ungarnered sea?—?a material whose use we inherit from our innocent ancestors, when wild in woods the noble savage65 ran, his limbs untrammelled by clinging draperies?—?when beauty unadorned was adorned66 the most in the subtle and sinuous67 curves of its own lissome68 figure. Necklets and armlets, he observed, with one demonstrative white forefinger69 held poised70 above the salmon71, are the string-courses, so to speak, of this our natural human architecture; they serve to emphasise72 and throw out into stronger relief the structural73 points of the grand design, to call attention to the exquisite native fulness of a faultless torso.
The giggling inarticulates dropped their chins and stared. They were not quite sure whether such talk was proper. But the Vision of Beauty, more at home in the world, was not in the least alarmed at Florian’s torrent74 of eloquence75. On the contrary, she answered him back, as he himself remarked a little later to Will, like the lords of the council, with grace, wisdom, and understanding. Florian brightened, and flowed on. He loved a listener who could toss the ball back to him as fast as he tossed it. And the Vision of Beauty answered him back with lightning speed, and bore her share with credit in the conversation. It was evident as she went on that she knew her Europe. Was it Munich Florian touched upon with the light hand of his craft??—?she discoursed76 of the Van der Weydens and Crivellis in the Pinakothek, like one to the manner born, and had views of her own which were bold, if not prudent77, about the meaning and arrangement of the Aeginetan marbles. Was it Florence he attacked??—?she was at home at San Marco, and knew her way like a Baedeker round the rooms at the Pitti. Will listened and marvelled78, talking little himself, but giving Florian and the Vision of Beauty their heads. It surprised him much to find one female brain could store in its teeming79 cells so much miscellaneous knowledge.
At last, at a brief break in Florian’s flood of speech, Will found space to inquire, for a purpose of his own, “Would you mind my asking where you got that necklet?”
The Vision of Beauty handed the lid of the box to him. It bore, on a label, the name and address of the jeweller at whose shop she had bought it. “It’s on the way up,” she said, carelessly, “to this hotel from the city.”
That one Shibboleth80 betrayed her. Florian started in surprise. “Why,” he cried with open eyes, “then you must be an American.”
The beautiful stranger smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said with marked emphasis, as if to clinch81 the assertion of her western nationality. “I am an American, and I don’t want to hide it. But you pay what you consider a compliment to the purity of my English all the same, if you mean that till now you haven’t even suspected it.”
Florian made some politely condescending82 remark, of the sort so obnoxious83 to the late Mr Lowell, as to the correctness and delicacy84 of her English accent, and then, in order to show himself quite abreast85 of the times, inquired expansively if she knew the Van Rensselaers.
“No; I haven’t had that pleasure,” the Vision of Beauty answered, curtly86.
“The Livingstones, perhaps?” Florian adventured, in tentative tones.
The Vision shook her head.
“My friends the Vanderbilts?” Florian essayed once more, eager to find a connecting link. “I stayed with them at Newport.”
“No; nor yet the Vanderbilts,” the Vision answered, smiling.
Florian paused and reflected. “Ah, then, you’re from Boston, no doubt,” he suggested, with charitable promptitude. The fine friends he had mentioned, at whose houses he had stopped, were all New Yorkers.
“No; not from Boston,” the Vision answered with prompt negation87.
“Washington, I suppose?” Florian adventured again. They were the only three places a self-respecting American could admit she came from without shipwreck88 of her dignity. He would not pay so much grace and eloquence the very bad compliment, as it seemed to him, of supposing it could “register” from St Louis or New Orleans.
The pretty woman smiled once more, a self-restrained smile. “I come from New York,” she said, simply. “I’ve lived there long. It’s my native place. But there are a good many of us there who don’t aspire89 to know the Roosevelts or the Livingstones.”
Florian withdrew, with quiet tact90, from this false departure. He led aside the conversation, by graceful degrees, to the old Dutch families, the New England stock?—?Emerson, Longfellow, Channing, the Concord91 set: Howells, James, and Stedman, the later American poets. On these last he waxed warm. But the Vision of Beauty, herself cosmopolitan92 to the core, was all for our newest school of English bards93. She doted on Lang and Austin Dobson.
“And have you seen the last Illustrated94?” she asked, after awhile, with a burst of enthusiasm. “It’s on the table in the salon95 there. And there are three, oh, such lovely, lovely stanzas96 in it,?—?‘Among Alps,’ by Will Deverill.”
Her words sent a thrill of pleasure through Will’s modest soul. He had published but little, and ’twas seldom he heard his own name thus familiarly unhandled. Still, a harassing97 doubt possessed98 his soul. Could the Vision of Beauty have seen his name in the visitors’ book of the hotel, noticed the coincidence with the lines in the Illustrated, which he had sent from the Zillerthal, and managed this little coup99 with feminine adroitness100, on purpose to deceive him? Yet she didn’t look guileful101. With poetic102 trustfulness, he cast the evil suggestion at once behind him. “I’m so glad you liked them,” he said, timidly, looking down at his plate, and playing in nervous jerks with his fork in the chicken. “I wrote them in the Tyrol here. They’re fresh-fed from the glaciers103.”
The Vision laid down her knife and fork and stared at him, speechless. “You’re not Will Deverill,” she exclaimed, in some excitement, after a moment’s pause.
“That’s my name,” Will answered, somewhat abashed104, still perusing105 his plate. “But I’m very little used to?—?to?—?to meeting people who have heard of it.”
The pretty American clasped her hands with delight “Well, I am glad to meet you,” she said, “though I’d have given you the benefit of the Mr, of course, if I’d known it was you. I just love your verses. I have ‘Voices from the Hills’ in my box upstairs, bound in calf106, this minute.”
“No; not really?” Will cried, with a young author’s delight at unexpected recognition.
“I’ll go upstairs after dinner and fetch it down to show you,” his pretty admirer answered, with some pride. “And your friend, too, is he a poet?”
“In soul; in soul only!” Florian interposed, airily, dashing in at a tangent; for it irked him thus to play second fiddle107 to Will’s first hand, and he longed to assert his “proper position.” “I string no sonnets108; I play no harmonies; I take the higher place. I sit on a critical throne, weighing and appraising109 all arts impartially110. Deverill rhymes; another man paints; a third man strums; a fourth acts, or carves stone?—?and all for me. I exercise none of these base handicrafts myself; but I live supreme111 in the Palace of Art they build, subordinating each in due place to my soul’s delight, like a subtle architect.”
“Just the same as all the rest of us,” the pretty American put in, interrupting his period. “We all do that. We sit still and listen. The difficulty is?—?to produce, like Mr Deverill.”
Florian stood aghast. To think a mere woman should thus slight his pretensions112! But the pretty American, disregarding him, turned to Will once more. “And your friend’s name?” she said, interrogatively.
“My friend’s name,” Will answered, “is Florian Wood. You must know it.”
“Ah, Mr Florian Wood,” the pretty stranger echoed; “I’ve heard of him, of course. I’m glad to meet him. It’s so nice to see people in the flesh at last one has often heard talked about.”
“But you’ve heard about everybody, Mrs Palmer,” the first giggling inarticulate interposed, with a gurgle of admiration113.
Florian clapped his hand to his head in theatrical114 disappointment. “Mrs Palmer!” he cried, markedly. “Did I hear aright, Mrs Palmer? This is indeed a blow! Then, I take it, you’re married!”
From anyone else on earth, the remark would have been rude; from Florian, it was only exaggerated compliment. The Vision of Beauty accepted it as such with American frankness.
“Well, you needn’t go and take a draught115 of cold poison offhand,” she retorted, a little saucily116, “for there’s still a chance for you. Remember, a woman may be maid, wife, . . . or widow.”
“Dear me,” Florian ejaculated, half-choking himself in his haste, “I never thought of that. You don’t mean to say?——”
“Yes, I do,” Mrs Palmer responded, cutting him short with a merry nod. “Any time these last five years. Now, you’re sorry you spoke. Mr Deverill, may I trouble you to pass the mustard?”
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1
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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contentedly
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acting
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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utterly
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civilisation
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cuisine
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pamper
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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descended
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prosecution
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unduly
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conversational
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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honourableness
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warranty
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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appraises
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| v.估价( appraise的第三人称单数 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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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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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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lissome
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| adj.柔软的；敏捷的 | |
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69
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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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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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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80
shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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adroitness
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guileful
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| adj.狡诈的，诡计多端的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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103
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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104
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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106
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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109
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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111
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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112
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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113
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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114
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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115
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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116
saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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