Linnet, much wondering what this mood might portend5, went up to her own room and tried on her new gew-gaws. Puffed6 white sleeves, laced corset, crimson7 kirtle, high shoes, flowered kerchief at her bosom8, silver dirk in her hair; Linnet wasn’t over-vain, as girls go in this world, but tricked out in such finery, she gazed in her glass, and, to tell the whole truth, admired herself consumedly. If only her Englishman could have seen her in that dress! But she stifled9 her sigh, and tripped lightly downstairs again, with the buoyancy of youth, when conscious of a perfectly10 becoming costume, for Andreas Hausberger’s scrutiny11.
The wirth scanned her, well satisfied. “On Monday,” he said, briefly12, in that iron voice, “we set out on our tour, and go first to Innsbruck.”
It was earlier by a week than he at first intended; but he saw it would be hard, if he stopped at St Valentin, to keep Fridolin’s hands from Franz’s throat much longer. So, by way of minimising the adverse13 chances, he made up his mind to start as soon as possible for his winter season. He meant to begin modestly with entertainments at hotels among the Tyrolese winter resorts, and the towns of the Riviera; and then, when his troupe14 had got over its first access of stage fright, and grown used to an audience, to go across for the summer to England or America.
So, for the next few days Linnet was busy as a bee with preparations for her first journey into the great wide world outside the Zillerthal. As yet, her native valley had bounded her view?—?she had never gone even as far as Jenbach. Expectation and preparation kept her mind well employed during that busy week, and prevented it from dwelling15 too much or too long on the kindly16 Engl?nder, who had vanished from her ken17 across the sea to England. For, that he had gone straight home, Linnet never even doubted. On the afternoon of Andreas Hausberger’s exciting announcement, indeed, a little registered parcel came by post for her to St Valentin. It bore the postmark of Wilten, where Will had intentionally18 dropped it into the letter-box, on purpose to conceal19 from her his exact whereabouts. Linnet scanned it close, and read the name correctly, but was too innocent of the topography of her native country to know that Wilten is the name of a village on the outskirts20 of Innsbruck. When she asked Andreas Hausberger where Wilten was, a little later in the day, without showing him the postmark, he confirmed her belief by answering at once that ’twas a town in England, not far from Salisbury. So he had thought of her over sea, then, and sent her this beautiful costly21 present from his own country. She tried it on that night before her tiny square mirror. As Will had rightly judged, it set off the rich tints22 of her creamy brown neck to the best advantage.
A beautiful gift! A real lady might have worn it! Later on, when Linnet had diamonds and rubies23 at command, there was no trinket she prized among all her jewels like Will Deverill’s coral.
At last the eventful morning itself arrived. The little troupe set out on foot down the mountain to Mairhofen. There, their boxes, sent on over-night, awaited them. They drove in a large open brake to Jenbach?—?Andreas Hausberger, Franz Lindner, Linnet herself, Philippina, and the two other singers who composed the party. At Jenbach, they descended24 at the door of the railway station. For the first time in her life, Linnet saw, half-alarmed, a puffing25 and snorting machine, a sort of iron devil, breathing flames like purgatory26, burst with smoke and stench upon the crowd by the waiting-room. Though she had heard all about it often enough before, and could see for herself that this great scurrying27 creature, for all its noise and bustle28, kept rigidly29 to the rails as it approached the platform, she yet drew back in pure physical terror and surprise at the swiftness and irresistibility30 of the fire-fiend’s motion.
She had scant31 time to think, however, for scarce had it come to rest when Andreas Hausberger, little heeding, bundled them all unceremoniously into a third-class compartment32; and before Linnet had leisure to recover her self-possession, the engine had uttered one wild discordant33 shriek34, and with ringing of bells and rattlings of wheels in her ears, she found herself, willy-nilly, beyond hope of release, whirled along at the break-neck pace of what you and I know as an Austrian slow train, over the jolting35 rails, up the broad Inn valley.
In spite of her terror?—?for she knew the railway as yet chiefly by hearing reports of collisions and accidents?—?Linnet enjoyed to the full that first steam-borne journey. She whirled past turreted36 towers like Hall and Volders, which to you and me commend themselves as the absolute quintessence of old-world quaintness38, but which, to Linnet’s young eyes, accustomed only to St Valentin and the grassy39 Alps, envisaged40 themselves rather in glowing hues41 as the kingdoms of the world and all their glory. They had been late to start, and their drive from Mairhofen had been tolerably leisurely42, so dusk was closing in when they arrived at Innsbruck. Oh, the bustle, the din3, the whirling awe43 of that arrival! Electric lamps lighted up the broad Platz in front of the station; on either side rose great hotels, grander and more palatial44 than any buildings on earth Linnet’s poor little fancy had ever yet dreamed of. Not to one of these, however, of course, did Andreas Hausberger take his little troupe of minstrels. But even the humbler inn on the south side of the Theresien Strasse, to which they repaired on foot, bearing their boxes between them, seemed to Linnet’s inexperienced and impressionable eye a most princely caravanserai. After the noise and bustle in that busy railway junction45, which made her brain whirl with the unaccustomed dizziness of a great city, the comparative rest and quiet of the Golden Eagle seemed a positive relief both of mind and body. That night she slept little. Her head swam with excitement; for this was the first step on her journey through the world, which might lead her perhaps at last to England. And in England, she thought to herself once or twice with a little thrill, who could tell but peradventure she might meet . . . Will Deverill?
For she knew little as yet of how big the world is, and how long you may live in it, going to and fro, without necessarily knocking up against this one or that of its component46 units.
Next morning they rose betimes, and went out into the street to view the city. For to Linnet, as to Mrs Palmer, a city it was?—?and a very great one. Such streets and streets seemed to frighten and appal47 her. Florian had admired in that picturesque48 old capital of a mountain land, the antiquated49 tone, the eighteenth-century flavour, the medi?val survivals, the air as of a world elsewhere gone from us utterly50. But to Linnet, though it was beautiful and impressive too, it was above all things magnificent, grandiose51, stately, imposing52. She gazed with open eyes at the Golden Roof, admired the bronze statues at the base of the Anna Column, looked up with silent awe at the front of the Landhaus, and thought the Rudolfsbrunnen, with its attendant griffins and dragons, a wonderful work of art for the world’s delectation.
Philippina went with her, her companion on the alp. Linnet noticed with much surprise?—?for she knew not as yet the difference in fibre between them?—?that Philippina, though as interested as herself in the shops and their contents, seemed wholly unimpressed by these other and vastly more attractive features of a civilised city. For Linnet had been gifted by nature, to the fullest degree, with the profound Tyrolese artistic53 susceptibility. Though her mind came to art as a blank page, it responded to the stimulus54, once presented to its ken, as the sensitive plate of a photographic camera responds in every line to the inspiring picture.
As they strolled through the town, by Andreas Hausberger’s express desire?—?for the wise impresario55 had arranged their first appearance for that very evening, and wished the girls to come to it fresh, after a morning’s exercise?—?they paid comparatively little heed2 to what most of us regard as by far the most striking characteristic of Innsbruck?—?the great limestone56 crags that seem on every side to tower and overhang the very roofs of the city. They were accustomed, indeed, to crags, and made very small case of them. It was the houses, the shops, the noise, the crowd, the gaiety, that chiefly struck them. Innsbruck to Linnet was as a little Paris. But as they went on their way through the bustling57 streets, they came at last to a church door, which Linnet’s profound religious nature could hardly pass by without one minute’s prayer for Our Lady’s aid at this critical turning-point of her artistic history.
Philippina, nothing loth, for her part, opined it could do them no harm to make favour above with the blessed saints for this evening’s work by a little Pater Noster. The blessed saints dearly love attentions: much may be done with them by a small wax candle! So they opened the door, and stepped into the Hofkirche.
Even those of us who know well the world and its art, can remember vividly58 the strange start of surprise with which we gazed round for the first time on that oddest and most bizarre of Christian59 temples. It isn’t so much beautiful, indeed, as unexpected and startling. To push open the church door and find oneself at once ringed round and guarded close, as it were, by that great circle of mailed knights60 and bronze-wimpled ladies, who watch the long sleep of the kneeling Maximilian on his cenotaph in the centre, gives one a thrill of a novel sort from which some tinge61 of dim awe can hardly ever be wholly absent. There they stand, on their low pedestals, a congregation of bronze ancestors round their descendant’s tomb?—?Theodoric the Ostrogoth and King Arthur the Briton, Mary of Burgundy and Eleonora of Portugal?—?strange efforts of struggling art in its first faint steps towards the attainment63 of the beautiful?—?na?f, ungainly, crude, rising only once or twice within measurable distance of the ideal in the few figures cast in metal by Peter Vischer of Nuremberg. But to Linnet, a woman grown, instinct with the innate64 artistic taste of her countrymen, yet innocent till then of all forms of art save the saints and purgatories65 of her mountain chapels66, the Hofkirche was a glimpse of some new and unseen world of infinite possibilities. She went through it all piecemeal67 with open-mouthed interest. Philippina could only laugh at the quaint37 vizors of the knights, the quainter68 dresses of the ladies. But Linnet was almost shocked Philippina should laugh at them. She herself half forgot her intended prayer to Our Lady in her delight and surprise at those wonderful figures and those beautiful bas-reliefs. She read all the names on the bases conscientiously69; they didn’t mean much to her, to be sure?—?her historical ideas didn’t get as far as “Clovis, King of the Franks,” or even as “Count Frederick of Tyrol with the Empty Pockets”; but in a vague sort of way she gathered for herself that these were statues of archdukes and mighty70 heroes, keeping watch and ward62 silently round the great dead emperor who knelt in the centre on his marble sarcophagus. Good luck, too, attended them. The little hump-backed sacristan, seeing two pretty girls looking through the grating at the reliefs on its sides, relaxed his stony71 heart without the customary kreuzers, and admitted them within the railing to inspect at their leisure those exquisite72 pictures in marble which Thorwaldsen declared the most perfect work of their kind in the whole of Christendom. Philippina found the dresses quite grotesquely73 old-fashioned; but Linnet, hardly knowing why she lingered so long, gazed at each scene in detail with the profoundest interest.
While down in the town Linnet was thus engaged, high up in the hills Will Deverill sat alone by Mrs Palmer’s side on an outcrop of rock near the summit of the Lanser Kopf. Florian had gone off for a minute or two round the corner by the mountain indicator74, with the giggling75 inarticulates. Mrs Palmer, pointing her moral with the ferrule of her parasol on the grass in front of her, was discoursing76 to Will earnestly of his work and his prospects77. “I want to see you do something really great, Mr Deverill,” she said, with genuine fervour, looking deep into his eyes; “something larger in scale and more worthy78 of your genius?—?something that gives full scope to your dramatic element. I don’t like to see you frittering away your talents on these exquisite little lyrics79?—?beautiful gems80 in their way, to be sure, but that way not the highest. I want to see you settled down for a long spell of hard work at some big undertaking81?—?an epic82, a play, a grand opera, a masterpiece. I know you could do it if only you took the time. You should go to some quiet place where there’s nothing to distract you, and make your mind up to work, to write something more lasting83 than even that lovely Gwyn, or that exquisite Ossian!”
Will looked down and sighed. ’Tis pleasant to be appreciated by a beautiful woman. And every man thinks, if he had but the chance, he could show the world yet the sort of stuff that’s in him. “I only wish I could,” he answered, regretfully. “But I’ve my living to earn. That ties me down still to the treadmill84 of journalism85. When my holiday’s over?—?the first for two years?—?I must get back once more, well content, to Fleet Street and drudgery86.”
Mrs Palmer sighed too. She felt his difficulty. Her parasol played more nervously87 on the grass than before. She answered nothing, but she thought a great deal. How small a matter for her to secure this young poet whom she admired so much, six months of leisure for an immortal88 work?—?and yet, how impossible! There was only one way, she knew that very well; and the first step towards that way must come, not from her, but from this modest Will Deverill.
’Twas a passing thought, half formed, or scarce half formed, in the pretty widow’s mind. But nothing came of it. As she paused, and sighed, and played trembling with her parasol, and doubted what to answer him, Florian came up once more with the giggling inarticulates, “Well, Mr Wood?” she said, looking up, just by way of saying something, for the pause was an awkward one.
“Pardon me,” the mannikin of culture answered in his impressive way; “my name is Florian.”
“But I can’t call you so,” Mrs Palmer answered, recovering herself, with a merry little laugh.
“It’s usual in Society,” Florian responded with truth. “Just ask Will Deverill.”
Will nodded assent89. “Quite true,” he admitted. “Men and women alike in London know him only as Florian. It’s a sort of privilege he has, an attribute of his own. He’s arrogated91 it to himself, and the world at large acquiesces92 in his whim93, and grants it.”
“It makes things seem so much more real and agreeable, you see, as Dick Swiveller said to the marchioness,” Florian continued blandly94. “Now suppose we five form an elective family, a little brotherhood95 of our own, a freemasonry of culture, and call one another, like brothers and sisters, by our Christian names only! Wouldn’t that be delightful96! I’ve just been explaining to Ethel and Eva that I mean henceforth to Ethel and Eva them. Soul gets nearer to soul without these flimsy barriers. I’m Florian; this is Will; and you, Mrs Palmer, your Christian name is?——?”
The pretty widow drew back with a little look of alarm. “Oh no,” she said, shortly; “I never could tell you my given name for anything. It’s much too dreadful.” She pulled out a pencil from the pocket at her side. “See here,” she said to Will, writing down one word for him on the silver-cased tablets that hung pendant from her delicate Oriental chatelaine, “there’s a name, if you like, for two Puritan parents to burden the life of their poor innocent child with! Don’t tell Mr Wood?—?or Florian if he wishes it; he’d make fun of it behind my back, I’m perfectly certain. I know his way. To him nothing, not even a woman’s name, is sacred.”
Will glanced at the word curiously97. He couldn’t forbear a quiet smile. “It’s bad enough, I must admit,” he answered, perforce. The Vision of Beauty had been christened Jerusha!
“But I make it Rue90 for short,” she added, after a moment, with a deprecating smile.
Florian caught at the word, enraptured98. “The very thing!” he cried, eagerly. “Capital, capital, capital! ‘There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me: we may call it herb-o’-grace o’ Sundays.’ But Rue shall be your weekday name for the Brotherhood. Let’s read the roll-call! Florian, Will, Rue, Ethel, Eva! Those are our names henceforth among ourselves. We scorn formalities! No mystery for us. We abolish the misters!”
And so indeed it was. As Will, Rue, and Florian, those three of the Elective House knew each other thereafter.
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1
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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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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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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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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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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24
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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irresistibility
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| n.不能抵抗，难敌 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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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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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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43
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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45
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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46
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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47
appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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48
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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49
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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52
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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53
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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54
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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55
impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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56
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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57
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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58
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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59
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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60
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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61
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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62
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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63
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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purgatories
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| n.炼狱( purgatory的名词复数 )；（在炼狱中的）涤罪；暂时受苦的地方；暂时的苦难 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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quainter
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的比较级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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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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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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indicator
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| n.指标；指示物，指示者；指示器 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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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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arrogated
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| v.冒称，妄取( arrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；没来由地把…归属（于） | |
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acquiesces
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的第三人称单数 ) | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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