Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
I to the world am like a drop of water,
That in the ocean seeks another drop;
Unseen, inquisitive2, confounds himself.
?? ?? ?? Comedy of Errors.
Three eventful years have passed, and a general peace is giving rest to exhausted3 Europe. The war has cut off many a brave man; but it remained for peace to terminate the military career of a rising soldier in L'Isle's person; and sad to say, before he was either Major general or knight4 of the Bath; though sought in many a dangerous path, he had not found his golden spurs.
Regiments5 have been disbanded, his comrades are scattered6, and he himself has nothing to do, not even the poor resource of having to study economy on half-pay, or of looking for more additional means to eke7 out a living.
It is the curse of those entirely8 engrossing9 pursuits, which excite all our enthusiasm, and task every energy, and of which the statesman's and the soldier's callings are the best examples, that, when they fail us, we can find no substitute. All things else are, by comparison, stale, flat, and unprofitable. Can the brandy drinker cheer himself with draughts10 of small beer? Screw up his nervous energies to their accustomed tone with slops?
Tired to death of fox-hunting, pleasant shooting, and country neighbors; all the means of excitement around him exhausted, L'Isle lounged in the library at C——d Hall, with half a dozen open but discarded volumes before him, revolving11 in his mind all possible means of occupation. At one time he would resolve to travel the world over, and get up a personal narrative12, attractive as that of Humboldt, and views of nature, that should look through nature's surface to the recognition of Nature's God, whom the philosopher seems never to have found in all his works. At another time, in order more effectively to counteract13 the ill effects, on mind and habits, of the soldier's exciting and unsettled life, he resolves to subject himself to still severer regimen: not to go rambling14 about the world, an idling philosopher, but to tie himself down to one spot, and take violently to a course of high farming; grow the largest turnips15, breed the fattest South-downs, and the heaviest Devonshires, and carry off agricultural prizes as substitutes for additional Waterloo medals.
But this was too severe a contrast to his late mode of life, and the prospect16 soon disgusted him utterly17. Having strong influence to back him, he now thought of getting a seat in Parliament, and for a moment the prophetic cries of 'Hear! hear!' arose from both sides of a full House of Commons. But he knew that the occasion, even more than the man, makes the orator18; and in 'this weak piping time of peace,' these cost-counting, debt-paying days, he foresaw no occasion that could call forth the thunders of Demosthenes or Burke.—But although a new light shines in upon him, and he suddenly makes up his mind that, since he can no longer take the field, because all the world is tired of fighting, and yet more of paying the bills run up in that expensive diversion, he will write the narrative of the campaigns in which he had taken part, without letting the 'quorum19 pars20 magna fui' fill too large a place in the picture.—Where can he find so much of the materials needed in the construction of his work as in London? So to London he went.
The season was at its height, and the town was full. L'Isle's object required that he should not only examine many musty papers, but see many persons; as some of his gayer friends soon found him out, and induced him to look in upon the inner circles of London fashionable life, to which his early and long absence from England had kept him a stranger.
It so happened that Lord Strathern had come up from his moors21, where the winter had got too cold for him (the climate had changed much since he was a boy), to visit the clubs and meet old comrades. But these proved too much for the old veteran, who soon had to shut himself up, in order to stave off an attack of his old enemy, the gout. He would not, however, permit Lady Mabel to stand the siege with him. The consequence was, that not long after L'Isle had come up to London, he found himself in one of Lady D——'s thronged22 rooms, within four steps of Lady Mabel.
In three years she had become, if we may be pardoned the bull, more like herself than ever, for she was now all that she had promised to be. She shone out in a richer and riper beauty, and a more sedate23 and womanly deportment set it off, retaining not the least trace of that somewhat cavalier manner she had picked up in the brigade. She was more than three years wiser, and certainly more dangerous than ever.
L'Isle had long and studiously schooled himself to the conviction that his fair and fascinating companion in Elvas was, after all, but a heartless woman. Yet his vanity, to say nothing of any other feeling, had never quite gotten over the rude shock it had received on Mrs. Shortridge's great night there. His first thought was to withdraw from the dangerous neighborhood. But he blushed at his own cowardice24; and the moment after, having caught her eye, he, self-confident, made his way through the crowd, and greeted her politely as an old acquaintance. It was plain that she was a little nervous on his approach; her lips were compressed for a moment, and she drew more than one deep breath, while watching him closely, and carefully modeling her manner by his. Yet no stranger could have inferred, from word or look, that they had not met for years, still less that they had ever met on terms of intimacy26. If L'Isle needlessly prolonged the conversation, to the annoyance27 of the gentlemen at her elbow, his sole object was to prove to her, beyond the possibility of doubt, by his easy self-possession, that he had now, at least, attained28 to a sublime29 indifference30 where she was concerned.
The ice once broken, accident seemed to throw them frequently into the same company. L'Isle doubtless needed relaxation31 from his historical labors32; and a London season had at least the attraction of novelty for him. He was, too, just the man to win friends among the ladies; yet he still made it a point, whenever he met Lady Mabel, to bestow33 on her a few minutes cold attention and indifferent notice, for old acquaintance sake.
Lady Mabel stood in no need of these attentions. It was not her first season; and many a butterfly, that hovered34 about that garden which blooms in winter at the West-End, had hailed with delight the reappearance of this rare flower. And she liked to have them buzzing about her; it was her due, and yielded pleasant pastime. Yet while busiest dealing35 sentiment, jest, and repartee36 among them, she now had always an ear and a word for L'Isle, when he condescended37 to bestow a few minutes cold consideration on her.
Her gentlemen in waiting wondered at her having so much to say to L'Isle. She seemed to be under an obligation to be at leisure for him; and Sir Charles Moreton, who was argus-eyed where Lady Mabel was concerned, ventured to ask: "What pleasure can you find in talking to this austere38 soldier? His smile is a sneer39; he warms only to grow caustic40, and his cynical41 air betrays how little he cares even for you."
"Were you ever clogged42 with sweet things?" asked Lady Mabel. "At times I tire of bonbons43, and long for vinegar, salt and pepper. My austere friend deals in these articles."
She seemed to have found a special use for him, treating him as a complete thinking machine, of high powers of observation, inflection, thought and reason, but not susceptible44 of aught that savored45 of feeling, sentiment or passion. She quietly threw the mantle46 of Mentor47 over his shoulders, deferred48 to his judgment49, had recourse to him as a store-house of knowledge; and seemed so fully25 impressed with the fact that he had a head, as utterly to forget the probability of his having a heart. With a strange perversity50, L'Isle was at once flattered and annoyed at the use she made of him. It was an unequal game he was playing, like a moth51 fluttering round a candle. His temper began to be worn threadbare, and oftener than ever he repeated to himself, "She is a heartless woman!"
In this mood L'Isle was listening, with a curled lip, to an animated52 discussion between Lady Mabel, Sir Charles Moreton, and another gentleman, as to the merits of a new actress, a dramatic meteor, then briefly53 eminent54 on the London boards. The Honorable Mr. L——, who was a savant in the small sciences that cater55 to amusement, pronounced her the Siddons of the day; Lady Mabel called her a ranter, then, as if alarmed at her temerity56, appealed as usual to L'Isle.
"No one can be a better judge of acting57 than Lady Mabel," said L'Isle. "But for her opinion, I would call your favorite an indifferently good actress."
Thus to "damn with faint praise," displeased58 Mr. L—— more than positive censure59, and he exclaimed: "Then you never saw her play Jane Shore. The illusion is perfect. The house is deceived into forgetting the drama, to witness the living and dying agonies of the desolate60 penitent61. Who can equal her?"
"Many," answered L'Isle; "and Lady Mabel can do better."
"Lady Mabel! She doubtless excels in everything. But I never saw her act."
"I have," said L'Isle bitterly. "The illusion of Mrs. ——'s acting is limited to the spectators. Lady Mabel deceives him who acts with her."
Lady Mabel turned pale, and then red, while the two gentlemen stared at her and L'Isle alternately. Suddenly exclaiming, "There is my friend, Mrs. B——. I have not seen her for a month. I must go and speak to her," she accepted the arm of the savant in small things, and hastened after her friend, who had appeared so opportunely62.
"You set little value on Lady Mabel's favors," said Sir Charles, looking inquisitively63 at L'Isle. "You have certainly offended her greatly."
"Do you think so?" said L'Isle coldly. "Then I suppose I must apologize and beg my peace."
"If you do it successfully," said his companion, "I will be glad of a lesson from you in the art."
L'Isle was angry with himself. Not that he felt that he owed Lady Mabel any amends64. But he had never until now made the slightest allusion65 to certain scenes in the past. Pride had forbidden it. And he was still reproaching himself with his want of self-control, when, on entering another room, he saw Lady Mabel seated between two old ladies, having ensconced herself there to get rid of the small savant.
She no longer looked discomposed or angry, nor did she turn her eyes away on his approach. She almost seemed to wish to speak to him. So he offered his arm, and they walked toward the room he had just left.
"I know that you are too proud," she said, "to ask any pardon for the attack you made on me just now. So I wish to tell you that I have already forgiven it."
"That is truly generous," said L'Isle, with haughty66 irony67. "You prove the adage68 false which says, 'The injurer never forgives.'"
"Say you so? I see then that you have gone back years to dig up old offences. Although I remember, to repent69 of them, I trusted that you would have willingly forgiven and forgot my folly70, or only recall it to laugh at it. I know now," she said, stealing a look at him, "that you are of an unforgetting, unforgiving temper." Then looking away, she added, "I thought better of you once."
"There are some things," answered L'Isle, but in a softened71 tone, "not to be forgotten, nor easily forgiven."
"I assure you," said Lady Mabel, with the air of a penitent, "I have been terribly ashamed of myself ever since. Had I known that you still viewed my thoughtless conduct as a serious wrong to you, I would willingly have made you any apology, any reparation."
"Apologies would hardly reach the evil," said L'Isle. "But any reparation! That is a broad term."
"Any, I mean, that you ought to ask, or I to make."
"There would be no absolute impropriety in my asking a good deal," said L'Isle, in tones that reminded Lady Mabel of some witching moments in Elvas, "I will not make the blunder of asking too little," he added resolutely72. "Let me first ask when you will be at home to-morrow—at three?"
"Certainly at three; more certainly at two," she answered in a low tone.
"I only meant," she said, yet more confused, "that I am more likely to be at home alone at two." And turning quickly away, she took a vacant seat beside one of her friends, to whom, while fanning herself, she complained of the heated room. She seemed, indeed, quite overcome by it, which accounted for her labored74 breathing and heightened color.
"After all," said Lady Mabel, some days after the morning on which L'Isle found her at home alone, "I was neither so good an actress, nor so great a hypocrite as you took me for. My offence was not so much that I simulated, as that I ceased to dissemble."
L'Isle readily embraced the faith that she was no actress but a true woman, nor did he ever waver from it. But she did not always find so easy a convert. Old Moodie, true to his nature, baffled all her efforts to convince him of his errors. It is true that he became in time, somewhat reconciled to L'Isle, but to his dying day he continued to laud75 that special providence76, which had snatched Lady Mabel from the land of idolatry, at the very last moment before her perversion77 to Rome.
Lady Mabel was not the woman to forget old friends; and now, that she could recur78 with pleasure to her recollections of Elvas, she sought out that companion who had so amiably79 filled the part of duenna and chaperon. She and Mrs. Shortridge fought all their battles over again, by retracing80, step by step, varied81 excursions and toilsome journey, while enjoying all the comforts of an English home. But it never does to tell all that we do, still less, to lay open the spirit in which we do it. Lady Mabel never let Mrs. Shortridge fully into the secret history of the last dark treacherous83 scene in the episode in winter quarters.
Lord Strathern was much pleased to find that L'Isle had greatly modified his opinion, as to the mechanical nature of an army, and hoped in time to dispel84 certain other erroneous notions, to which he had formerly85 clung so stubbornly. It is not known whether or not L'Isle ever finished his narrative of the Peninsular campaigns. It is certain that he never published it. The author often labors harder than the ploughman; and when a man is made happy, he becomes lazy. Let the wretched toil82 to mend his lot, or to forget it.
The End
The End
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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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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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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14
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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quorum
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| n.法定人数 | |
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pars
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| n.部，部分；平均( par的名词复数 )；平价；同等；（高尔夫球中的）标准杆数 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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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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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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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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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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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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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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savored
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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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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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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76
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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80
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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81
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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82
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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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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84
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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