All this, however, had changed for him as for his brother. Even Laurie’s modest establishment could not be kept on two hundred a-year; and he had been used to be liberal, and manage his money matters with an easy hand, always ready to help a comrade in distress26. So that it was absolutely necessary for him now to{v.1-221} work. He went into his Kensington rooms with feelings not unlike those which moved Ben when he made his melancholy27 inventory28 of his things at the Albany. There were accumulations of all kinds in the place. Bits of old carpet, bits of ‘drapery,’ bits of still life, a little china, a little of everything; and a north light, perfect of its kind, in the studio. He had fitted it all up to suit himself, with a hundred handy devices,—stands for his portfolios29, velvet30-covered shelves, all sorts of nooks for the artistic trumpery31 which is supposed to be necessary in a studio; and the tiny little sitting-room32 into which the studio opened had a queer, little, round bow-window, looking into the Park, which was something like a box at the opera without the music. All the world streamed under Laurie’s bow-window coming and going, and many a nod and pleasant smile reached the artist.—save the mark!—in his velvet coat, as he came now and then from behind his fresh flowers to look out upon the fashion and beauty, sometimes with a palette in his hand or maul-stick, on which he leaned as he looked out. It gave him a certain pleasure to pose in this professional way. Perhaps it was as well for the consistency33 of Laurie’s philosophy that it was September when he came back to Kensington Gore34. He went and sat down in his bow-window, and nobody passed,—nobody except the unknown people who stream about London streets all day long, and of whom no one takes any notice. No{v.1-222} doubt there were human figures enough; but the trees were very shabby in the Park, and the grass, as far as he could see, was burnt to a pale yellow, and two nursemaids and one Guardsman had all the expanse to themselves. In these circumstances, perhaps, it was easier to take leave of his pleasant little hermitage. He sat in his window and looked carelessly out, and mused35 on the change. A pot of China asters, showy enough, yet betokening36 the winter which approached, replaced all the roses and bright geraniums which generally filled the stand. The season was over, and this kind of thing was over, and the first part of life.
Well! he said to himself,—and no particular harm either. Life was not Kensington Gore. Many admirable artists had lived and died in Fitzroy Square; and there was Turner in Queen Anne Street,—not that one would choose to be like Turner. After all, it was but for half the year that Kensington Gore was desirable. When people were out of town, what did it matter? And then a smile crossed his face as it occurred to him that henceforward he was not likely to be one of those who go out of town. Looking down, his vacant eye caught the succession of figures passing along the pavement; many very well-dressed, well-looking people, not having the least appearance of being outcasts of society. And yet such they must be, or else they would scarcely be there in such numbers in September. Then he went{v.1-223} on to reflect what heaps of people he himself knew who lived in London all the year round, with the exception of a month or two, or a week or two, somewhere for health’s sake. Most painters were of this class. It was but identifying himself more entirely37 with the art he had chosen; and in that point of view it would be good for him. An amateur is never good for anything, thought Laurie; but a man who has to devote himself to his work without any vain interruptions has a chance to make something of it. Then a gleam of pleasant and conscious vanity, for which he smiled at himself, flitted over his meditations38. He could almost see the people pausing before a picture in the Academy,—or two or three pictures for that matter,—why not?—when he had nothing else to do,—and telling each other how the painter had been maltreated by fortune, and how this was the result of it,—hard work and success, and substantial pudding and sweetest praise;—ay, and a reputation very different from that of the dilettante39 who strolled from his studio to the bow-window, and looked out in his professional costume to receive the salutations of the ladies. ‘There is poor Laurie Renton, who has been so foolish as to take to art and nonsense; but, fortunately, he will never need to be dependent on it.’ That was what the ladies used to say as they passed. How different it would be when they stood before the great picture in the Academy, and read the name in the catalogue.{v.1-224} He saw the expression on certain faces as they read that name. ‘What, Laurie Renton! who would have thought he could ever have been good for anything?’ This was what Laurie called thinking over his changed affairs.
There was one drop of bitterness, however, in his cup which had not been in Ben’s. We have said that when Mrs. Westbury visited Laurie in his room on the night of his father’s funeral, there were some little notes lying on his table, over which he was making himself miserable40, with his face hidden in his hands. It is not necessary to mention her name, as she has, unfortunately, nothing to do with this story; but the fact was that there had been somebody whose little notes made Laurie’s heart beat. They had been the simplest kind of letters:—‘Dear Mr. Renton,—Mamma bids me say that she will be very glad if you will come to dinner on Thursday;’—nothing more: and yet he had tied them up very carefully together and preserved them,—the foolish fellow,—as if they were pearls and diamonds.
It was one of those might-have-beens, which are in every life. She had very good blood, and very sweet looks, and that perfect homely42 training of an English girl which people try to persuade us has vanished from the world,—had we not eyes of our own to see otherwise. She knew no Latin nor Greek, but she was more brightly intelligent than her brother, for instance, who was a fellow of All{v.1-225} Souls. And she had not a penny; and if Laurie Renton had come in, as seemed likely, to as much money as would have produced him 1500l. or even 1000l. a-year——!
Alas! that is how things happen in this life. Laurie was not the kind of man, like Ben, to dare the impossible and keep his love at all hazards. He knew well enough it would not do. Years must pass before he painted that picture at which his friends should stare in the Academy; and in the interval43 no doubt some one would come in who could give her everything she ought to have, and for whom her sweet face would brighten, and not for him. This had been the first thought that had occurred to Laurie when his father’s will was read. He had seen her standing44 in her bridal veil beside some one else, five minutes after the sound of the lawyer’s voice had died on his ear. It had wrung45 his heart, but he had said, ‘God bless her!’ all the same. Never word of love had passed between them. When the returning season brought her back to the little house in Mayfair, she would wonder, perhaps sigh, perhaps ask what had become of Mr. Renton? But by that time Laurie knew his little boat would have been so long gone down under the sea that there would not be even a circle left on the smooth, treacherous46 water. It might cost her a little gentle expectation or disappointment,—a wistful look here and there for the face that was not to be seen again.{v.1-226} Unselfish as he was, Laurie hoped it would cost her as much as that; but it would not cost her more. And long before the seven years were out or his great picture exhibited in the Academy—to which, perhaps, her friends would object as much as to his poverty—she would be some one else’s wife. And it would be better for her. She had always been too good for Laurie. Some one who could give her rank, wealth, whatever heart could desire——! Poor Laurie’s heart contracted with a sudden pang47, and forced the moisture to his eyes. He was only four-and-twenty, poor fellow! But it was to be so. Not his the force or the passion to resist fate. It was one of the might-have-beens which gave so strange, so shadowy a character to this existence. Strange to stand amid the unalterable laws of nature and see what caprice moves the fate of the chief of nature’s works. If Aunt Lydia had held her peace! If Mr. Renton had not changed his mind! We are such stuff as dreams are made of! Laurie said to himself as he turned from the scentless49 China asters in his window and the empty Park, and this concluded phase of life.
But still things might have been worse. This overthrow50 might have happened a year ago, at the moment when Laurie had pledged all his credit, and given all his money to Geoffrey Sutton,—poor old fellow!—after the brigands51 sacked his little villa52 up{v.1-227} on Lake Nemi, and took everything he had in the world. When old Geoff was going about, wild and penniless, girt round with pistols, to revenge his loss, without thinking that his life might go instead of Masaccio’s, and that nobody would be left to pay his friends at home! What a business it would have been had this happened then! But in the meantime Geoff’s old uncle had been so obliging as to die, and all was right again. Or had it occurred that time when Laurie took his last twenty pounds out of the bank to send Harry53 Wood to Rome to nurse his lungs and pursue his studies! Fortunately at this moment there was nothing in hand to make matters worse than they were by nature, which Laurie reflected was the greatest good luck,—a chance which he scarcely deserved, imprudent as he was. So that on the whole, except for the necessity of leaving Kensington Gore, it would not make much difference. That he should feel a little, of course;—everything was so handy, so nice, so bright, and Mrs. Brown understood his ways. But after all, what did it matter where a man lived? A good light to paint by, any sort of a clean room to sleep in, and a friendly face now and then to look in upon his work. Of that last particular he was always certain. Indeed, Laurie was fully41 aware that among his artist friends he was likely to be rather more than less popular when he ceased to be a ‘swell’ and amateur.{v.1-228}
Such were the young man’s thoughts when he began to feel the ground under his feet again after his overthrow. Poor Ben! how hard it would be upon him! but after all for himself it was no such terrible business. Art is long; and so, for that matter, is life too, at four-and-twenty, or at least appears so, which comes to much the same thing. Laurie for his part would have been very glad to have stood by his brother and given him all the succour that brotherly sympathy can give, had the elder been so inclined; but, to tell the truth, Ben had been morose54 when they parted, and had requested to be left alone, and that no attempt should be made to condole55 with or help him until he himself took the initiative. Laurie went and made a sketch24 of the three fairy princes setting out on their travels, to solace56 himself when he had ‘thought over’ as above for a sufficiently57 long period. Such little sketches were the best things he ever did, his friends said. There was young Frank marching in advance on a noble steed, with the sun shining on his helmet and all his gorgeous apparel; and Laurie himself following after with his easel on his shoulder, his portfolios, half-finished canvases, palettes, colour-boxes, and accompanying trumpery hung about his person. Ben came last, with his coat buttoned, and his face set against the wind. Poor Ben! it was more difficult to make out how he would take it than{v.1-229} how it would affect the others. Thus Laurie, even in the first shock, made light of his own share. There were three beautifully distinct paths on which the three were setting out. In Frank’s case the road was continuous, and led through sundry58 stormy indications of battle, and fantastic,—supposed,—Indian towers, to where a coronet hung in mid48 air,—the infallible reward, as everybody knows, of energetic young soldiers who leave the Guards for the line. In Laurie’s own path, the glorious cupolas of the National Gallery, with laughing little imps59 fondly embracing each pepper-pot, closed the vista60. These were easy of execution; but what was to be the end of Ben’s painful way? It lay up hill in his brother’s sketch, a perfect alp of ascent61. But on the height, though so austere62, stood Renton Manor in full sunshine, at one side; while on the other appeared a stately Tudor interior, full of gentlemen in their hats, where some one with the features of the pedestrian below was addressing the interested audience. ‘For of course that is how it will end,’ Laurie said to himself; and yet his heart melted, poor foolish fellow, over the rocks and glaciers63 in his brother’s way.
‘And I wonder which of them will meet the White Cat,’ Laurie said to himself, hanging over his drawing-block with his pencil in hand, giving here and there a touch; ‘Frank, perhaps, as becomes a{v.1-230} soldier; but I wish it might be Ben.’ And then he bent over his own part of the sketch, and did something to the imps on the National Gallery and sighed. With that soft ache in his heart, poor fellow! enchanted64 primrose-paths were not for him. So the next thing he did was to plant a lovely little ideal figure on the rocks through which his elder brother was to make his way, beckoning65 to Ben and cheering him on. That was how it should be. He spent a great deal of time over his drawing, and took pleasure in the comic burdens which were suspended from his own person,—brushes dangling66 at his heels, a lay figure suspended over his shoulder, and a little dog barking in amaze at the wonderful apparition67. He laughed over it just as he had sighed. Fate was good to Laurie, who could find some way of extracting a little pleasure, a little amusement, out of everything. It was quite late in the afternoon when he put his drawing-block aside, placing it on the mantel-piece, where the drawing might catch his eye whenever he returned, and took his hat and went out. He was going to ask advice of old Welby, an old R.A. of his acquaintance, as to what course of study he should adopt, and what would be best for him in general, in the way of art. ‘And there’s the padrona as well, who understands a fellow better than Welby,’ he added to himself as he went out; and perhaps that was why he put one of Mrs. Brow{v.1-231}n’s monthly roses,—for lack of a better,—in his button-hole as he passed. For he was a young fellow who was fond of the society of women, and liked to appear well in their eyes, notwithstanding that ache in his heart.
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1
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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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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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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dilettantism
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| n.业余的艺术爱好，浅涉文艺，浅薄涉猎 | |
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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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inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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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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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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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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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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