For this was what Franz had read, amid much else of the same cheap laudatory3 strain, in the theatrical4 column of the Daily Telephone.
“The first performance of Mr W. Deverill’s new English opera, Cophetua’s Adventure, at the Harmony last night marks an epoch5 in the renascence of the poetical6 drama in England. Never has the little house on the Embankment been so crowded before; never has an audience received a new play with more unanimous marks of profound enthusiasm. Both as a work of literature and as a musical composition, this charming piece recalls to mind the best days of the great Italian outburst of song at the beginning of the century.” Franz snorted internally as he ran his eye in haste over the learned digression on the various characteristics of the various operas which Cophetua’s Adventure suggested to the accomplished7 critic who works the drama for that leading newspaper. Then, skipping the gag, he read on once more with deeper interest, “It would be hard to decide whether the chief honours of the night belonged more unmistakably to Mr Deverill himself or to his charming exponent8, Signora Casalmonte. The words of the songs, indeed, possessed9 to a rare degree high literary merit; the music, as might be expected from so accomplished a composer, was light and airy, yet with the genuine ring of artistic10 inspiration; but the ever-delightful soprano rendered her part so admirably that ’twas difficult to disentangle Mr Deverill’s tunes11 from the delicious individualisation conferred upon them by Signora Casalmonte’s voice and acting12. The prima donna’s first appearance on the stage as the Beggar Maid, lightly clad in a graceful13 though ostentatiously simple costume, was the signal for a burst of irrepressible applause from stalls, boxes, and gallery. In the second act, as Cophetua’s Queen, the popular diva looked, if possible, even more enchantingly beautiful; while the exquisite14 na?veté with which she sang the dainty aria15, ‘Now all ye maidens16, matrons, wives, and widows,’ brought down the house in one prolonged outburst of unmixed appreciation17. Our operatic stage has seldom boasted a lady so perfectly18 natural, in manner, gesture, and action, or one who allowed her great native gifts to degenerate19 so little into affectations or prettinesses.”
Franz flung down the paper and sighed. He admitted it; he regretted it. What a fool he had been not to marry that girl, offhand20, when he once had the chance, instead of dawdling21 and hanging about till Hausberger carried the prize off under his nose to St Valentin. It was disgusting, it was silly of him! And now it began to strike him very forcibly indeed that his chance, once gone, was gone for ever. A full year and more had passed since Linnet and her husband first came to London. During that year it had dawned slowly upon Franz’s mind that Linnet had risen into a higher sphere, and could never by any possibility be his in future. He was dimly conscious by this time that he himself was a music-hall gentleman by nature and position, while Linnet was born to be a special star of the higher opera. Never could he recover the ground thus lost; the woman he loved once, and now loved again distractedly, had climbed to a higher plane, and was lost to his horizon.
What annoyed Franz more than anything, however, was his feeling of chagrin22 that he had let himself be cajoled, on the night of Linnet’s first appearance in London, into abandoning his designs against her husband’s person. He knew now he had done wrong; he ought to have stabbed Andreas Hausberger, then and there, as he intended. In a moment of culpable23 weakness, he had allowed himself to be beguiled24 from his fixed25 purpose by the blandishments of Linnet and the rich American widow. That would indeed have been the dramatic time to strike; he had let the psychological moment go by unheeded, and it would never return, or, at least, it would never return in so effectual a fashion. To have struck him then and there, on their very first meeting after Linnet’s marriage, and on the night when Linnet made her earliest bow before an English audience?—?that would have been splendid, that would have been beautiful, that would have been romantic: all London would have rung with it. But now, during those past months, he had met Andreas twice or thrice, on neutral ground, as it were, and the relations between them, though distant and distinctly strained, had been nominally26 friendly. The Robbler felt he had committed a fatal error in accepting Mr Will’s invitation to supper on that critical evening. It had compelled him to treat Andreas as an acquaintance once more; to turn round upon him now, and stab him in pure pique27, would be feeble and self-stultifying. Franz wished he had had strength of mind to resist the women’s wiles28 that first night at the Harmony, and to draw his rival’s blood before their very eyes, as his own better judgment29 had told him he ought to do.
He had seen Linnet, too, and there came the unkindest cut of all; for he recognised at once that the girl he had described to Will Deverill as beneath his exalted30 notice since he rose to the front ranks of the profession at the London Pavilion, was now so much above him that she scarcely thought of him at all, and evidently regarded him only in the light of the man who had threatened her husband’s life when they came to England.
Yes; Linnet thought nothing of him now; how could you expect it to be otherwise? She had money and rank and position at her feet; was it likely, being a woman, she would care greatly, when things were thus, for a music-hall singer who earned as much in six months as she herself could earn in one easy fortnight? And yet . . . Franz rose, and gazed abstractedly at his own face in the glass over the mantelpiece. No fault to find there! Many women did worse. He was excellently pleased with his black moustache, his flashing dark eyes, his well-turned figure; he even thought not ill of his blazing blue necktie. And Andreas was fifty if he was a day, Franz felt sure; old Andreas with his solid cut, his square-set shoulders, his steely-grey eyes, his heavy, unimpassioned, inexpressive countenance31! Ach, if only he himself had the money to cut a dash?—?the mere32 wretched rhino33?—?the miserable34 oof?—?for Franz had lived long enough in England now to have picked up a choice collection of best British slang?—?he might stand a chance still against that creature Andreas!
It was one o’clock by this time, though Franz had only just risen from his morning coffee. What would you have? A professional man must needs sing till late at night, and take his social pleasures at his café afterwards. So Franz was seldom in bed till two or three in the morning, recouping himself next day by sleeping on till mid-day. ’Twas the hour of the promenade35. He went into his bedroom, doffed36 his flannel37 smoking-coat, and arrayed himself in the cheaply-fashionable broadcloth suit in which it was his wont38 to give the daily treat of seeing him to the girls in Bond Street. Then he lighted a bad cigar, and strolled out towards Piccadilly. At the Circus, he met a friend, an English betting man, who was a constant patron of the London Pavilion.
“Hello, Fred!” he cried, with a start, “how spruce you look to-day! Ze favourite must have lost. You have ze appearance of ze man who is flush of money. And yet, ze winter, is it not your off season?”
The bookmaker smiled a most self-contented smile. He certainly had the air of being in the very best of spirits. He was one of those over-fed, full-faced, knowing-eyed creatures who lurk39 round racecourses with a flower in their buttonholes, smoke the finest cigars, drink Heidsieck’s Dry Monopole, and drop their H’s over the grand stand with surprising unanimity40. But his aspect just then was even more prosperous than usual. He seized Signor Francesco’s arm with good-humoured effusiveness41. “Flush!” he cried, with a bounce. “Well, my boy, I should rather think so. Wy, I ain’t on the turf any longer, that’s jest w’ere it is. I’ve retired42 from business. Jest you look ’ere, Frenchy; that’s gold, that is; I’ve been over in your country for six weeks, I ’ave; and danged if I ain’t come back with my pockets ’arf bust43 with furrineerin’ money!”
“To my country! To Tyrol?” Franz put in, greatly astonished. “Zer ain’t moch money going zere, I fancy. We’re as poor as ze church mice. But, perhaps,” he added, with an afterthought, “you mean Vienna.”
“Vienna be ’anged!” the bookmaker responded, with a hearty44 slap on the Frenchy’s back. To him, as to all his kind, the Continent was the Continent, one and indivisible. He made and encouraged no petty distinctions between France and Austria. “Vienna be ’anged. It’s Monty Carlo I’ve been to. By George, sir, that’s the place to rake the looees in! You puts down your cash on red or black or numbers, or ong cheval they calls it; wh’rr, wh’rr, goes the roolett?—?pop, out jumps the pea?—?‘Rooge gang!’ sez the croopyer;?—?and you hauls in your money! I tell you, Frenchy, that’s the place to make your pile in! Wy, I haven’t been there more ’n jest six weeks?—?an’ I come back last night with a cool twenty thou’ in my britches pocket!”
“Twenty sousand francs?” Franz cried, fairly dazzled.
His companion’s eyes gazed unutterable contempt “Twenty thousand francs! Francs be blowed!” he answered, briskly. “None o’ your furrineerin’ reckonin’s for me, if you please, young man! I’m a true-born Briton, and I count in pounds sterlin’. No, no; twenty thousand pounds in good French bank-notes?—?a cool twenty thousand in my britches pocket. I’ve carried ’em home myself, all the way from Monty Carlo, for fear of bein’ robbed?—?there’s a lot o’ shady people down there on the Literal?—?and I’m going down now to my banker’s in the Strand45, with the twenty thousand pound, to pay ’em in and invest ’em!”
“And you earned all zat lot in six weeks!” Franz cried, his mouth watering.
“Well, I didn’t exactly earn it, old chap,” the bookmaker replied, with a knowing wink46; “though I’ve got a System. I just let it flow in, without doing anything pertickler myself to ’elp it, excep’ it might be to rake in the rhino. But I mean to retire now, and do the toff in future, just runnin’ down there again every two or three years, when I feel the shoe pinch, to replenish47 the exchequer48.”
“How much did you start wis?” Franz inquired, eagerly; for a Plan was rising up in indefinite outline before his mind’s eye as they stood there.
“Oh, I took across five ’underd,” the bookmaker replied, with easy confidence, as though five hundred pounds were to him the merest flea-bite. “I wouldn’t advise anybody to try and work his luck on less than that. You want the capital, that’s where it is; the fly ’uns know that; outsiders go smash through not startin’ with the capital.”
He took Franz’s arm in his own. Luck makes men generous. They lunched together at Simpson’s, at the winner’s expense, after he had deposited his gains at the bank in the Strand. The lobster49 salad was good; the asparagus was fine; the iced champagne50 made glad the heart of the bookmaker. Expanding by degrees, he waxed warm in praise of his infallible System. It was fallacious, of course?—?all such Systems are; but its inventor, at any rate, implicitly51 believed in it. Little by little, with the aid of a pencil and paper, and a diagram of a roulette table, he explained to his eager listener the nature of his plan for securing a fortune offhand at Monte Carlo. Franz drank it in open-mouthed. This was really interesting! How could any man be such a fool as to sing for a miserable pittance52 six nights a week in smoky, grimy London, when a turn of fortune’s wheel could bring him a hundred pounds every time the table spun53 in cloudless Monte Carlo? It was clear as mud how to win; the bookmaker was right; no fellow could fail to pull off five strokes out of nine with this infallible martingale! Visions of untold54 wealth floated vague before his eyes. He saw his way to be rich beyond the dreams of avarice55.
But it wasn’t avarice alone that inflamed56 Franz Lindner’s desire; it was love, it was revenge, it was wounded vanity. At once the idea rose up clear in his mind that if he could go to Monte Carlo and win a fortune, as the bookmaker had done, he might come home and lay it all at Linnet’s feet, with a very good chance of final acceptance. His experience at the London Pavilion had led him to believe that women in general, and theatrical stars in particular, had all their price, and might all be bought, if you only bid high enough. He didn’t doubt that Linnet was like the rest of her kind in this matter. She didn’t love Andreas; she couldn’t love Andreas. If a good-looking man, with a very fine figure and a very black moustache, laid the untold gold of Monte Carlo at her feet, could Linnet resist? Would she care to resist him? Franz opined she would not. He didn’t think it likely. There was only one thing needed to break the slender tie that bound her to Andreas. That one thing he would get?—?money, money, money!
So, from that day forth57, Franz Lindner’s life was changed. He began to work on quite a new basis. Hitherto, like most others of his trade and class, he had spent all he earned as fast as he got it. Now, he began to save and lay by for love, with the thrift58 of his countrymen. One great object in life swam clear before his eyes; he must manage to scrape together five hundred pounds, and take it to Monte Carlo, where he could make it by a stroke or two of that wonder-working roulette-table into twenty thousand. And, with twenty thousand pounds, he didn’t for a moment doubt he’d be able to pay his suit once more to Linnet.
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1
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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2
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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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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aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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30
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rhino
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| n.犀牛，钱, 现金 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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38
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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41
effusiveness
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| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
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42
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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43
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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44
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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45
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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46
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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47
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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48
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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49
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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50
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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51
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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52
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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53
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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55
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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56
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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