Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a billet of the performance. It announced in striking characters the début of Mademoiselle Flora10. A principal servant, bearing branch lights, came forward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately to the Grand-duke, and notified to his Imperial Highness that the comedy was ready. The Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest were following; Coningsby was called; Madame Colonna wished him to be her beau.
It was a pretty theatre; had been rapidly rubbed up and renovated12 here and there; the painting just touched; a little gilding13 on a cornice. There were no boxes, but the ground-floor, which gradually ascended14, was carpeted and covered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre with a new and rich curtain of green velvet15.
They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, accompanied by another great artist on the piano. The lights rise; somebody evidently crosses the stage behind the curtain. They are disposing the scene. In a moment the curtain will rise also.
‘Have you seen Lucretia?’ said the Princess to Coningsby. ‘She is so anxious to resume her acquaintance with you.’
But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose.
The old man, who had a droll16 part to-night, came forward and maintained a conversation with his housekeeper17; not bad. The young woman who played the grave matron performed with great finish. She was a favourite, and was ever applauded. The second scene came; a saloon tastefully furnished; a table with flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a lap-dog on a cushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially the ladies; they like to recognise signs of bon ton in the details of the scene. A rather awful pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was greeted with even vehement19 approbation20. Her agitation21 is extreme; she curtseys and bows her head, as if to hide her face. The face was pleasing, and pretty enough, soft and engaging. Her figure slight and rather graceful22. Nothing could be more perfect than her costume; purely23 white, but the fashion consummate24; a single rose her only ornament25. All admitted that her hair was arranged to admiration26.
At length she spoke27; her voice trembled, but she had a good elocution, though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked at each other, and nodded approbation. There was something so unobtrusive in her mien28, that she instantly became a favourite with the ladies. The scene was not long, but it was successful.
Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final one of the act, she had to make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and rather of an impassioned character; Villebecque was her suitor. He entered first on the stage. Never had he looked so well, or performed with more spirit. You would not have given him five-and-twenty years; he seemed redolent of youth. His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied the most distinguished of his audience for the occasion, and had outdone them all. The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great connoisseur29, a celebrated30 French nobleman, Count D’O——y, who had been one of the guests. The thing was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch of snuff, and tapped approbation on the top of his box.
Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. It did not seem, however, that in the interval31 she had gained courage; she looked agitated32. She spoke, she proceeded with her part; it became impassioned. She had to speak of her feelings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to confess that she loved another; her emotion was exquisitely33 performed, the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilling. There was, throughout the audience, a dead silence; all were absorbed in their admiration of the unrivalled artist; all felt a new genius had visited the stage; but while they were fascinated by the actress, the woman was in torture. The emotion was the disturbance34 of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilled from the heart: suddenly she clasped her hands with all the exhaustion35 of woe36; an expression of agony flitted over her countenance37; and she burst into tears. Villebecque rushed forward, and carried, rather than led, her from the stage; the audience looking at each other, some of them suspecting that this movement was a part of the scene.
‘She has talent,’ said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress, ‘but wants practice. Villebecque should send her for a time to the provinces.’
At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep regret that the sudden and severe indisposition of Mlle. Flora rendered it impossible for the company to proceed with the piece; but that the curtain would descend38 to rise again for the second and last piece announced.
All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer who acted the heroines now came forward and disported39 most jocundly40. The failure of Flora had given fresh animation41 to her perpetual liveliness. She seemed the very soul of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured in male attire42; and in air, fashion, and youth, beat Villebecque out of the field. She looked younger than Coningsby when he went up to his grandpapa.
The comedy was over, the curtain fell; the audience, much amused, chattered43 brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to repair to the saloon, where they were to be diverted tonight with Russian dances. Nobody thought of the unhappy Flora; not a single message to console her in her grief, to compliment her on what she had done, to encourage her future. And yet it was a season for a word of kindness; so, at least, thought one of the audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd, absorbed in their coming amusements.
Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed, with great advantage and attention, the countenance and movements of Flora from the beginning. He was fully18 persuaded that her woe was genuine and profound. He had felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled44 from the cruelty and the callousness45 that, without the slightest symptom of sympathy, could leave a young girl who had been labouring for their amusement, and who was suffering for her trial.
He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for Mlle. Flora. They pointed46 to a door; he requested permission to enter. Flora was sitting at a table, with her face resting on her hands. Villebecque was there, resting on the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress in which he had performed in the last piece.
‘I took the liberty,’ said Coningsby, ‘of inquiring after Mlle. Flora;’ and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, he added, ‘I am sure my grandfather must feel much indebted to you, Mademoiselle, for making such exertions47 when you were suffering under so much indisposition.’
‘Mademoiselle has too much sensibility,’ said Villebecque, making an observation by way of diversion.
‘And yet that must be the soul of fine acting,’ said Coningsby; ‘I look forward, all look forward, with great interest to the next occasion on which you will favour us.’
‘Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment,’ said Coningsby, ‘how much her talent is appreciated. I assure you, sir,’ he added, turning to Villebecque, ‘I heard but one opinion, but one expression of gratification at her feeling and her fine taste.’
‘The talent is hereditary,’ said Villebecque.
‘Indeed you have reason to say so,’ said Coningsby.
‘Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded me so much of another this evening. But that is nothing. I am glad you are here, sir, to reassure50 Mademoiselle.’
‘I came only to congratulate her, and to lament51, for our sakes as well as her own, her indisposition.’
‘It is not indisposition,’ said La Petite, in a low tone, with her eyes cast down.
‘Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to a first appearance,’ said Villebecque.
‘A last appearance,’ said La Petite: ‘yes, it must be the last.’ She rose gently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her head on his breast, and placed her arms round his neck, ‘My father, my best father, yes, say it is the last.’
‘You are the mistress of your lot, Flora,’ said Villebecque; ‘but with such a distinguished talent—’
‘No, no, no; no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know myself. I am not of those to whom nature gives talents. I am born only for still life. I have no taste except for privacy. The convent is more suited to me than the stage.’
‘But you hear what this gentleman says,’ said Villebecque, returning her embrace. ‘He tells you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I believe, sir, that every one, that—’
‘Oh, no, no, no!’ said Flora, shaking her head. ‘He comes here because he is generous, because he is a gentleman; and he wished to soothe52 the soul that he knew was suffering. Thank him, my father, thank him for me and before me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your daughter have parted for ever.’
‘Nay, Mademoiselle,’ said Coningsby, advancing and venturing to take her hand, a soft hand, ‘make no such resolutions to-night. M. Villebecque can have no other thought or object but your happiness; and, believe me, ‘tis not I only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were here, must respect you.’
‘I prefer respect to admiration,’ said Flora; ‘but I fear that respect is not the appanage of such as I am.’
‘All must respect those who respect themselves,’ said Coningsby. ‘Adieu, Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself.’ He bowed to Villebecque and retired53.
In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very different character from those behind the scenes. Coningsby returned to brilliancy, groups apparently54 gushing55 with light-heartedness, universal content, and Russian dances!
‘And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?’ said Madame Colonna.
‘I cannot dance at all,’ said Coningsby, beginning a little to lose his pride in the want of an accomplishment56 which at Eton he had thought it spirited to despise.
‘Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall teach you,’ said the Princess; ‘nothing will please her so much.’
On the present occasion the ladies were not so experienced in the entertainment as the gentlemen; but there was amusement in being instructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian Princess was all very well; but what even good-tempered Lady Gaythorp could not pardon was, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all of them trying to put down and to keep down, on this, as almost on every other occasion, proved herself a more finished performer than even the Russians themselves.
Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a Roman winter. They were people of some position in society. Mr. Guy Flouncey was a man of good estate, a sportsman, proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was even very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she could sing, dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress of the art of flirtation57. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and had taken care to call at Monmouth House the instant the Morning Post apprised58 her he had arrived in England; the consequence was an invitation to Coningsby. She came with a wardrobe which, in point of variety, fancy, and fashion, never was surpassed. Morning and evening, every day a new dress equally striking; and a riding habit that was the talk and wonder of the whole neighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created far more sensation in the borough59 when she rode down the High Street, than what the good people called the real Princesses.
At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her over their shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatal question, ‘Who is she?’ After dinner they formed always into polite groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded; and if ever the Princess Colonna, impelled60 partly by goodnature, and partly from having known her on the Continent, did kindly61 sit by her, Lady St. Julians, or some dame11 equally benevolent62, was sure, by an adroit63 appeal to Her Highness on some point which could not be decided64 without moving, to withdraw her from her pretty and persecuted65 companion.
It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first few days for Mrs. Guy Flouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not soothing66 to one’s self-love to find oneself sitting alone, pretending to look at prints, in a fine drawing-room, full of fine people who don’t speak to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby Castle by storm, was not to be driven out of its drawing-room by the tactics even of a Lady St. Julians. Experience convinced her that all that was required was a little patience. Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her quickness, her ever ready accomplishments67, and her practised powers of attraction. And she was right. She was always sure of an ally the moment the gentlemen appeared. The cavalier who had sat next to her at dinner was only too happy to meet her again. More than once, too, she had caught her noble host, though a whole garrison68 was ever on the watch to prevent her, and he was greatly amused, and showed that he was greatly amused by her society. Then she suggested plans to him to divert his guests. In a country-house the suggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow or other, before a week passed, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of everything, was always surrounded by a cluster of admirers, and with what are called ‘the best men’ ever ready to ride with her, dance with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The fine ladies found it absolutely necessary to thaw69: they began to ask her questions after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an opening. She was an adroit flatterer, with a temper imperturbable70, and gifted with a ceaseless energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent them patterns for new fashions, in all which mysteries she was very versant; and what with some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar for their tongues and salt for their tails, she contrived71 pretty well to catch them all.
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1
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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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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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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5
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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7
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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8
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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17
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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18
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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19
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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20
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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21
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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22
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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26
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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30
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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34
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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37
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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38
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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disported
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
jocundly
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| adv.愉快地，快活地 | |
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41
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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42
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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43
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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44
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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45
callousness
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46
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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47
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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48
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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49
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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50
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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51
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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52
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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53
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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55
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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56
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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57
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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58
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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59
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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60
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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62
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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63
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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64
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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65
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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66
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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67
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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68
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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69
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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70
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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71
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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