With these ideas in his mind he went down-stairs, possessed14 by a kind of sweet love-in-idleness; not the passion of a young man for a girl; a tenderness made up of many things,—of that soft reverence15 just touched with pity, which a man of generous temper has for a woman in such a position; and yet pity is not the word,—or else it was a kind of pity in which there was all the softness and none of the superiority which usually mingles16 with that sentiment; and of admiration17 for the brave creature who had gradually grown the central figure in his landscape; and of a longing9 to help her; and of pride in the regard she gave him and the sympathy between them. There was perfect sympathy between them, though he had never, Laurie thought, seen any woman worthy18 to stand by her side. This was part of his delusion19, for there were women as good, and with far greater gifts than the padrona, to be met with in the world. But still it was not wonderful if the young man was proud of her friendship. Friendship,—that was the word; with no result to come, no thickening of the plot towards a climax20; but only a delicious accompaniment to life, an interchange of every thought and sentiment, a soft but strong support in every chance that might befall a man. This was all that was in{84} Laurie’s mind. It was something more akin11 to worship than the passion which appropriates can ever be. It had not occurred to him to seize, to take possession of, to secure her as his own; the idea itself would have been a profanity; only to be nearer to her than any one else, to be her subject and yet her counsellor; an indescribable perfect relationship such as exists only in imagination. Laurie himself had never gone any deeper. The padrona’s life and condition were to him as settled and everlasting21 as the skies, the ordinary constitution of the world. And all would go on as it was going on. And at the present moment he would not have exchanged that visionary tie for anything actual in life.
Mr. Welby was standing22 before his picture when Laurie went in, looking at it with that intense inspection23 of the cultivated eye, which no uneducated critic can give. He held out his hand to his visitor, but did not change his attitude. Welby, R.A., had his anxieties about the Academy’s Exhibition as well as another. True, his picture was sure of a place on ‘the line,’ and every advantage a benign24 Hanging Committee could give it; but there were other dangers before the face of the Academician from which the younger men were safe. Mr. Welby knew that if there was a faltering25 line in his canvas, or one neglected detail, even the critics who were his friends would say he was growing old. ‘It would{85} ill become us, who are indebted to Mr. Welby for so many noble pictures, to be eager to mark the indications of approaching decadence26; but, alas27! no man can remain of primitive28 strength for ever,’ would be the philosophical29 comment of the ‘Looker-on.’ And the ‘Sword’ would be still sharper in its judgment30. Such words as these were echoing in the old painter’s ear as he looked at his picture. He was aware he was old, and life had no such charm to him that he should cling to it unduly,—but such criticisms were hard to bear. He was going over the picture himself, criticising its every detail, and he held up his hand with an unspoken warning to Laurie, who understood, as he had a faculty31 of doing, and waited behind till the inspection was over.
‘I think that will do,’ said Mr. Welby at last, with a long and deeply-drawn sigh. ‘Come here, Renton, and give me your opinion.’ Laurie was full of the natural instinct of admiring and believing in the work of the old man,—who was leader and patriarch, as it were, of his own special party;—and, besides, it was a fine picture, and he thought it so, though very different no doubt from Suffolk’s ‘Saxon Maiden,’ or from the lovely children in the padrona’s pictures upstairs. Art, to be the everlasting thing it is, is as yet as much bound by fashion as any silly woman. The fashion of the day had changed; but yet old Welby’s picture was a fine picture still.{86}
‘I don’t want those fellows to be picking holes in my coat,’ said the R.A., ‘though of course they will do it all the same.’
‘I don’t see what holes there are to pick,’ said Laurie, strong in his esprit de corps32, and ready to swear to the excellence33 of his master in contradiction of all the critics in the world. ‘We have just sold Suffolk’s picture,’ he added suddenly, glad to deliver himself of the wonderful news, which had been burning holes, as it were, for want of utterance34, in his heart.
‘Sold Suffolk’s picture!’ the Academician said with a start. It was the most wonderful piece of news that had been heard in the artists’ quarter for many a year. For no man had gone so consistently in the face of popular opinion as Suffolk, or held so obstinately35 by his own style. Laurie, nothing loth, told the whole story, with excitement and a natural satisfaction; and how it was old Rich, the City man, who was well known to be the padrona’s special property. And as he told it he looked down upon the bit of cobweb, by this time gone to the merest speck,—the sign in that particular matter, of his close partnership36 with the padrona,—which was still on his coat.
‘So she sent him her own patron?’ said Mr. Welby; ‘that was good of her, Renton,—that was very good of her. To be sure, he had just given her a commission. I suppose you heard of that. A private{87} patron is a great institution, my dear fellow,—there is more satisfaction in it than in dealers37. He has given her a commission to fill one room with pictures. There are to be twelve of them I think, and the subjects from the fairy tales. She’ll do it very well. She has wonderful invention, you know, in her way, and Cinderella and little Red Riding Hood1, and all the rest will just suit her; and there is a year’s living secured at once. I am sorry for that woman, Renton. I am more sorry for her than I can tell,’ cried the R.A., with unquestionable emotion in his voice.
‘Sorry for—the padrona?’ cried Laurie, half laughing, half angry. He would have liked to have knocked down the man who presumed,—and yet to be sorry for that hopeful, dauntless woman, so full of life, and strength, and energy, seemed too good a joke.
‘Yes, sorry for her,’ said Mr. Welby, severely38, ‘though you don’t know what I mean, of course. She is at her best now, and I suppose she is making a good deal of money; but look at her principles, sir. Her principles are,—you need not contradict me, I know her better than you do,—never to shut her heart nor her purse against anybody she can help. What kind of an idea is that, I ask you, for this world? Of course, she can’t lay by a penny; and when the fellows in the newspapers begin to {88}say of her as they say already of me——’
‘But you!’ cried Laurie, ‘you——’ and then he stopped, not knowing how to end his sentence.
‘I am old, that is what you were going to say,’ said Mr. Welby. ‘I am two-and-twenty years older than she is,—just two-and-twenty years. It’s almost as long as you have been in the world, my dear fellow, and you think it’s centuries; but two-and-twenty years pass very quickly after thirty-five. And she’ll age sooner than I did,—never having been, you know, so thoroughly39 trained a painter. Her quick eye will fail her, and her fine touch, and she will not have knowledge and experience to fall back upon; and the public will tire of those pretty pictures. Her genius will pall40, and then her courage will fail, though she has pluck at present for anything. Do you think I’ve never seen such things happen? If she has ten years more of success it will be all she can hope for; and the boys will scarcely be doing for themselves by that time; and she will have to reduce her living, which will go sadly against the grain, and struggle with all sorts of anxieties. When I look at that woman, sir, my heart bleeds. It’s all very pleasant just now,—plenty of work and plenty of strength, and a light heart, and her friends round her, and her children; and she feels she is up to her work,—knows she is up to her work. But when they come to say of her what they are beginning to say of me——’
Laurie raised his hand with a speechless protest{89} and denial of the possibility, but the words he would have spoken died in his throat. What could he say against this prophet of evil?—only that every pulse in him and every nerve thrilled fiercely at the suggestion;—and that was no answer, heaven knows.
‘Even if she did keep on long enough to get the boys launched in the world,’ said Mr. Welby, who seemed, Laurie thought, to take a certain pleasure in the torture he was inflicting,—‘what is to become of her afterwards, unless she were to die off-hand, which is not likely? People don’t die at the convenient moment. Most likely she’ll linger for years, poor, and old, and unable to work, on some pittance41 or other,—lucky if she has that. It’s hard upon such a woman, Renton. I tell you, when I look at that fine creature and think what’s before her, it makes my heart bleed.’
‘But, good heavens! why should you imagine such things?’ cried Laurie, when he could speak. ‘Of course we may all go mad, or get ruined, or perish miserably,—one as well as another;—but to forebode such a fate for her——’
‘I said nothing about getting ruined or going mad,’ said Mr. Welby, pettishly42. ‘I said Mrs. Severn would outlive her market,—ay, and outlive her powers,—and that my heart ached for her, poor thing! I declare to you, Laurie, my heart so aches for her, that if I thought she could make up her mind to it, I would marry her to-morrow,—though{90} it would break in upon all my habits,’ said the R.A., sinking his voice, ‘in a most annoying way.’
‘Marry—her—to-morrow!’ cried Laurie, and he made a step towards the old painter with a savage43 impulse which he could scarcely restrain. He was wild with sudden passion. ‘Marry her!’ It was hard to tell what kept him from raising the hand which he had clenched44 in spite of himself. But he did not, though it was a courageous45 thing of old Welby to keep facing the young fellow with that sudden transport of fury in his eye.
‘Yes,’ he said, calmly. ‘I am getting old, and I have saved a little money, and I have no near relations. If I thought she could make up her mind to it, I would ask her to marry me to-morrow. I have thought of it often. For her sake, that is what I would do.’
Laurie made no answer; he walked away from the old man to the very end of the studio, and stood there staring at the Angelichino which stood against the wall. His blood seemed to be boiling in all his veins46, and his heart throbbing47 as if it would burst. Why should he be angry? Why should he object to old Welby for his desire to shield the padrona from even a possible evil? But Laurie’s mind was in too great a ferment48 to permit him to think articulately. He did not understand what was the meaning of the sudden tumult49 within him,—the sharp shock which his nature seemed to have sustained.{91} To get away and be alone was the immediate50 necessity upon him. If he could have gone through the wall, or leaped out of the window, probably he would have done it. But that being impossible, he composed himself as well as he could, and returned to where old Welby stood calmly, taking no notice of him, looking once more at his picture. At the sight of the old man’s tranquillity51 Laurie felt ashamed of himself.
‘I suppose my nerves are more easily affected52 than most people’s,’ he said, with an attempt at a laugh. ‘I can’t think of all those dreadful things happening,—to—the padrona,—and take it calmly. Good-night! I must go now.’
‘If such a thing as I said should ever happen,’ said Welby, shaking hands with him,—‘I may as well warn you,—I’d have no more padronas. How poor Severn put up with it is more than I can say.’
This parting speech sent Laurie forth53 in a renewed tempest of rage and indignation. He had meant to return up-stairs after his visit to old Welby, but that was now impossible. He had let himself out, and closed the door sharply behind him, before old Forrester could make his appearance. Daylight by this time was beginning to fail, and the lamps were being lit along the street, twinkling across the Square through the smoky trees, which were swelling54 with the fulness of spring. The look of the outside world{92} as he came thus suddenly into it,—the tall, glimmering55 houses,—the lamps like candies in the pale, waning56 daylight,—the trees all bristling57 with half-opened leaves, and the sky, leaden yet light, with its remoteness, and colourless serenity58, looking down upon all, never went out of Laurie’s mind. He forgot all his displeasure at her absence, all his wondering where she was. He did not even look if she might be coming, or remember that he might meet her suddenly face to face so near her own door. His mind was too full of her idea to remember herself, if we may say so. He went round and round the Square without any particular sense of where he was going, and then took the first street, any street,—what did it matter?—and got out into a crowded thoroughfare, where lights were gleaming, and men hurrying, and every sound and stir of life. It was a long time before he could even make out his own thoughts, what they were. All was dimness and chaos59 and commotion60, like the scene around at first; lights gleaming, cries coming out of the obscurity,—a tumult he could not comprehend. Then by degrees the clouds rolled off, each to its own corner; the foreground cleared, the central figure reappeared. What was it? Laurie stood still for a moment, and looked himself, as it were, in the face, aghast. He had not so much as suspected it till now. She had been his friend; nothing so tender, nothing so near, had ever been in his life; yet he had not dreamed{93} what the truth was until old Welby, with his detestable suggestion, had thrust it thus unveiled in his face.
And Laurie stood aghast. It may injure him in some people’s eyes, yet I cannot but avow61 that when the young man found that he loved a woman much older than himself,—a woman with children, and a separate, independent past, with twice his experience, and,—metaphorically at least,—twice his age,—he was appalled62 by the discovery. He had known her another man’s wife; he had himself been as a child beside her in the first days of their acquaintance. There was less difference in point of age between himself and her daughter than between himself and her; and yet he loved her. No, it was not friendship. Friendship would not have resented hotly and wildly, with a half-murderous passion, old Welby’s suggestion. Friendship would not have moved any man’s heart into such a mad commotion. He loved her. That it never had occurred to himself to change the relationship between them, or seek a closer one, was nothing. Another man had but to talk of marrying her, and lo! the whole world was lit into conflagration63. There was a sweetness in the discovery too. His heart warmed and glowed in that fire; words which he but half understood went whispering through the air about him,—‘There is none like her; none.’ No girl, no young heroine of romance, could be such a creature as was this woman, tried,{94} and proved, and developed, with all the sweetness in her still, and yet all the strength of life. If he had been proud of her regard, proud of her sympathy, how much more proud would he be of her love! If that were possible! Could it be possible? Going on in this distracted range of thoughts, the fact gleamed upon Laurie that no girl could make such sacrifice of pride and natural position in loving him as this woman should,—if she would; and was it likely? It would be as vain to attempt to follow him in the maze64 of passion that possessed him, as in the streets he wound his way through, while the night darkened round him, and the lights shone brighter. A storm of thunder and lightning might have been going on, and he would never have known it. Such a thing had befallen as he had never dreamt of. The soft love which he had put aside with a pang65 of tender regret as a thing impossible,—too sweet for him and too costly,—had come back at unawares, and come in and taken possession, no longer soft and easy to be vanquished66, but twined in with every thread of life. It was so easy to come away from Kensington Gore,—from the world he had lived in for years,—from the pensive-pleasant hopes of his youth; but to leave this place, which had not an attraction but one, would be tearing up his life by the roots. This was the fact, though he had not known it. Wonder, and terror, and delight, and a vague overwhelming dismay, filled Lauri{95}e’s mind as he found himself standing thus after the earthquake, with the solid ground rent under his very feet. There were flowers growing still, so sweet that he was intoxicated67 with their breath; but yet there had been an earthquake, and the sober soil was torn with that convulsion. He walked and walked, charged with those thoughts, till he got to the very skirts of far-reaching London, and came to himself in a gloomy, suburban68 road. It was the rain falling in his face out of the almost invisible skies that roused him first, and then he had to grope his way back to a thoroughfare and get a cab, and go home. When he reached his room and looked at himself in the little glass over the mantel-piece he saw a pale apparition69, with gleaming eyes and a visionary smile; appalled, shaken to the very depths of his being, and yet with a subtle happiness at his heart. He was happier, and more bewildered and utterly70 astray in all his reckonings, than he had ever been in his life.
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1
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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5
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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7
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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8
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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13
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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22
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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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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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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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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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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40
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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41
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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pettishly
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43
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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44
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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46
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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47
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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48
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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49
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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50
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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51
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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52
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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55
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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56
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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57
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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58
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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59
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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60
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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61
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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62
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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63
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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64
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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65
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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66
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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67
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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68
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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69
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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70
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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