“Now, I wonder,” he said aloud, “how many bushels there are in a ton. Ach! how am I to find out? These English weights and measures, this English money, when there is a metrical system!”
He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck seven. It was a quiet room this in which he sat, the library of Paul’s London house. The noise of Piccadilly reached his ears as a faint roar, not entirely2 unpleasant, but sociable3 and full of life. Accustomed as he was to the great silence of Russia, where sound seems lost in space, the hum of a crowded humanity was a pleasant change to this philosopher, who loved his kind while fully4 recognizing its little weaknesses.
While he sat there still wondering how many bushels of seed made a ton, Paul Alexis came into the room. The younger man was in evening dress. He looked at the clock rather eagerly.
“Will you dine here?” he asked, and Steinmetz wheeled around in his chair. “I am going out to dinner,” he explained further.
“Ah!” said the elder man.
“I am going to Mrs. Sydney Bamborough’s.”
Steinmetz bowed his head gravely. He said nothing. He was not looking at Paul, but at the pattern of the carpet. There was a short silence. Then Paul said, with entire simplicity5:
“I shall probably ask her to marry me.”
“And she will probably say yes.”
“I am not so sure about that,” said Paul, with a laugh. For this man was without conceit6. He had gradually been forced to admit that there are among men persons whose natural inclination7 is toward evil, persons who value not the truth, nor hold by honesty. But he was guileless enough to believe that women are not so. He actually believed that women are truthful8 and open and honorable. He believes it still, which is somewhat startling. There are a few such dullards yet. “I do not see why she should,” he went on gravely. He was standing9 by the empty fire-place, a manly10, upright figure; one who was not very clever, not brilliant at all, somewhat slow in his speech, but sure, deadly sure, in the honesty of his purpose.
Steinmetz paused, then he told a lie, a good one, well told, deliberately13.
“No.”
“We are going to the opera, Box F2. If you come in I shall have pleasure in introducing you. The sooner you know each other the better. I am sure you will approve.”
“I think you ought to marry money.”
“Why?”
Steinmetz laughed.
“Oh,” he answered, “because every-body does who can. There is Catrina Lanovitch, an estate as big as yours, adjoining yours. A great Russian family, a good girl who—is willing.”
“You are inclined to exaggerate my manifold and obvious qualifications,” he said. “Catrina is a very nice girl, but I do not think she would marry me even if I asked her.”
“Which you do not intend to do.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then you will make an enemy of her,” said Steinmetz quietly. “It may be inconvenient15, but that cannot be helped. A woman scorned—you know. Shakspere or the Bible, I always mix them up. No, Paul; Catrina Lanovitch is a dangerous enemy. She has been making love to you these last four years, and you would have seen it if you had not been a fool! I am afraid, my good Paul, you are a fool, God bless you for it!”
“I think you are wrong,” said Paul rather curtly16; “not about me being a fool, but about Catrina Lanovitch. If you are right, however, it only makes me dislike her instead of being perfectly17 indifferent to her.”
His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away to look at the clock again.
“I hate your way of talking about women, Steinmetz,” he said. “You’re a cynical18 old beast, you know.”
“Heaven forbid, my dear prince! I admire all women—they are so clever, so innocent, so pure-minded. Do not your English novels prove it, your English stage, your newspapers, so high-toned? Who supports the novelist, the play-wright, the actor, who but your English ladies?”
“Better than being cooks—like your German ladies,” retorted Paul stoutly20. “If you are German this evening. Better than being cooks.”
“I doubt it! I very much doubt it, my friend. At what time shall I present myself at Box F2 this evening?”
“About nine—as soon as you like.”
Paul looked at the clock. The pointers lagged horribly. He knew that the carriage was certain to be at the door, waiting in the quiet street with its great restless horses, its two perfectly trained men, its gleaming lamps and shining harness. But he would not allow himself the luxury of being the first arrival. Paul had himself well in hand. At last it was time to go.
“See you later,” he said.
“Thank you—yes,” replied Steinmetz, without looking up.
So Paul Howard Alexis sallied forth21 to seek the hand of the lady of his choice, and as he left his own door that lady was receiving Claude de Chauxville in her drawing-room. The two had not met for some weeks—not indeed since Etta had told the Frenchman that she could not marry him. Her invitation to dine, couched in the usual friendly words, had been the first move in that game commonly called “bluff.” Claude de Chauxville’s acceptance of the same had been the second move. And these two persons, who were not afraid of each other, shook hands with a pleasant smile of greeting, while Paul hurried toward them through the busy streets.
“Am I forgiven—that I am invited to dinner?” asked De Chauxville imperturbably22, when the servant had left them alone.
Etta was one of those women who are conscious of their dress. Some may protest that a lady moving in such circles would not be so. But in all circles women are only women, and in every class of life we meet such as Etta Bamborough. Women who, while they talk, glance down and rearrange a flower or a piece of lace. It is a mere24 habit, seemingly small and unimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart.
Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed—too beautifully dressed, it is possible, to sit down. Her maid had a moment earlier confessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs a vision of luxury, of womanly loveliness. Nevertheless, there appeared to be something amiss. She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulder that she did not answer at once.
“Forgiven for what?” she asked at length, in that preoccupied25 tone of voice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will be considered.
“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed. “For a crime which requires no excuse, and no explanation other than a mirror.”
She looked up at him innocently.
“A mirror?”
“Yours. Have you forgiven me for falling in love with you? It is, I am told, a crime that women sometimes condone28.”
“It was no crime,” she said. She had heard the wheels of Paul’s carriage. “It was a misfortune. Please let us forget that it ever happened.”
De Chauxville twirled his neat mustache, looking keenly at her the while.
“You forget,” he said. “But I—will remember.”
She did not answer, but turned with a smile to greet Paul.
“I think you know each other,” she said gracefully29 when she had shaken hands, and the two men bowed. They were foreigners, be it understood. There were three languages in which they could understand each other with equal ease.
“Where is Maggie?” exclaimed Mrs. Bamborough. “She is always late.”
“When I am here,” reflected De Chauxville. But he did not say it.
Miss Delafield kept them waiting a few minutes, and during that time Etta Sydney Bamborough gave a very fine display of prowess with the double-stringed bow. When a man attempts to handle this delicate weapon, he usually makes, if one may put it thus crudely, an ass23 of himself. He generally succeeds in snapping one and probably both of the strings30, injuring himself most certainly in the process.
Not so, however, this clever lady. She had a smile and an epigram for Claude de Chauxville, a grave air of sympathetic interest in more serious affairs for Paul Alexis. She was bright and amusing, guileless and very worldly wise in the same breath—simple for Paul and a match for De Chauxville, within the space of three seconds. Withal she was a beautiful woman beautifully dressed. A thousand times too wise to scorn her womanhood, as learned fools are prone31 to do in print and on platform in these wordy days, but wielding32 the strongest power on earth, to wit, that same womanhood, with daring and with skill. A learned woman is not of much account in the world. A clever woman moves as much of it as lies in her neighborhood—that is to say, as much as she cares to rule. For women love power, but they do not care to wield33 it at a distance.
Paul was asked to take Mrs. Sydney Bamborough down to dinner by the lady herself.
“Mon ami,” she said in a quiet aside to De Chauxville, before making her request, “it is the first time the prince dines here.”
She spoke34 in French. Maggie and Paul were talking together at the other end of the room. De Chauxville bowed in silence.
At dinner the conversation was necessarily general, and, as such, is not worth reporting. No general conversation, one finds, is of much value when set down in black and white. It is not even grammatical nowadays. To be more correct, let us note that the talk lay between Etta and M. de Chauxville, who had a famous supply of epigrams and bright nothings delivered in such a way that they really sounded like wisdom. Etta was equal to him, sometimes capping his sharp wit, sometimes contenting herself with silvery laughter. Maggie Delafield was rather distraite, as De Chauxville noted35. The girl’s dislike for him was an iron that entered the quick of his vanity anew every time he saw her. There was no petulance36 in the aversion, such as he had perceived with other maidens37 who were only resenting a passing negligence38 or seeking to pique39 his curiosity. This was a steady and, if you will, unmaidenly aversion, which Maggie conscientiously40 attempted to conceal41.
Paul, it is to be feared, was what hostesses call heavy in hand. He laughed where he saw something to laugh at, but not elsewhere, which in some circles is considered morose42 and in bad form. He joined readily enough in the conversation, but originated nothing. Those topics which occupied his mind did not present themselves as suitable to this occasion. His devotion to Etta was quite obvious, and he was simple enough not to care that it should be so.
Maggie was by turns quite silent and very talkative. When Paul and Etta were speaking together she never looked at them, but fixedly43 at her own plate, at a decanter, or a salt-cellar. When she spoke she addressed her remarks—valueless enough in themselves—exclusively to the man she disliked, Claude de Chauxville.
There was something amiss in the pretty little room. There were shadows seated around that pretty little table ` quatre, beside the guests in their pretty dresses and their black coats; silent cold shadows, who ate nothing, while they chilled the dainty food and took the sweetness from the succulent dishes. These shadows had crept in unawares, a silent partie carrie, to take their phantom44 places at the table, and only Etta seemed able to jostle hers aside and talk it down. She took the whole burden of the conversation upon her pretty shoulders, and bore it through the little banquet with unerring skill and unflinching good humor. In the midst of her merriest laughter, the clever gray eyes would flit from one man’s face to the other. Paul had been brought here to ask her to marry him. Claude de Chauxville had been invited that he might be tacitly presented to his successful rival. Maggie was there because she was a woman and made the necessary fourth. Puppets all, and two of them knew it. And some of us know it all our lives. We are living, moving puppets. We let ourselves be dragged here and pushed there, the victim of one who happens to have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastness45 of purpose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. We smirk46 and smile, and lose the game because we have begun by being anvils48, and are afraid of trying to be hammers.
But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal of a harder grain than the majority of us. Claude de Chauxville was for the moment forced to assume the humble49 rtle of anvil47 because he had no choice. Maggie Delafield was passive for the time being, because that which would make her active was no more than a tiny seedling50 in her heart. The girl bid fair to be one of those women who develop late, who ripen51 slowly, like the best fruit.
During the drive to the opera house the two women in Etta’s snug52 little brougham were silent. Etta had her thoughts to occupy her. She was at the crucial point of a difficult game. She could not afford to allow even a friend to see so much as the corners of the cards she held.
In the luxurious53 box it was easily enough arranged—Etta and Paul together in front, De Chauxville and Maggie at the other corner of the box.
“I have asked my friend Karl Steinmetz to come in during the evening,” said Paul to Etta when they were seated. “He is anxious to make your acquaintance. He is my—prime minister over in Russia.”
Etta smiled graciously.
“It is kind of him,” she answered, “to be anxious to make my acquaintance.”
She was apparently54 listening to the music; in reality she was hurrying back mentally over half a dozen years. She had never had much to do with the stout19 German philosopher, but she knew enough of him to scorn the faint hope that he might have forgotten her name and her individuality. Etta Bamborough had never been disconcerted in her life yet; this incident came very near to bringing about the catastrophe55.
“At what time,” she asked, “is he coming in?”
“About half-past nine.”
It was a race, and Etta won it. She had only half an hour. De Chauxville was there, and Maggie with her quiet, honest eyes. But the widow of Sydney Bamborough made Paul ask her to be his wife, and she promised to give him his answer later. She did it despite a thousand difficulties and more than one danger—accomplished it with, as the sporting people say, plenty to spare—before the door behind them was opened by the attendant, and Karl Steinmetz, burly, humorously imperturbable57 and impenetrable, stood smiling gravely on the situation.
He saw Claude de Chauxville, and before the Frenchman had turned round the expression on Steinmetz’s large and placid58 countenance59 had changed from the self-consciousness usually preceding an introduction to one of a dim recognition.
“I have had the pleasure of meeting madame somewhere before, I think. In St. Petersburg, was it not?”
Etta, composed and smiling, said that it was so, and introduced him to Maggie. De Chauxville took the opportunity of leaving that young lady’s side, and placing himself near enough to Paul and Etta to completely frustrate60 any further attempts at confidential61 conversation.
For a moment Steinmetz and Paul were left standing together.
“I have had a telegram,” said Steinmetz in Russian. “We must go back to Tver. There is cholera62 again. When can you come?”
Beneath his heavy mustache Paul bit his lip.
“In three days,” he answered.
“True? You will come with me?” enquired Steinmetz, under cover of the clashing music.
“Of course.”
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1
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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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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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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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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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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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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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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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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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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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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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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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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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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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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anvils
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| n.（铁）砧( anvil的名词复数 )；砧骨 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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50
seedling
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| n.秧苗，树苗 | |
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51
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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52
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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53
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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55
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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58
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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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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frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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62
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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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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