Clementina had been up-stairs for more than an hour, engaged in what was to her one of the most interesting occupations of life—decking out her little person in all the extravagance of fashion. Ernest sat by the window, not that the light by which he read was in any way derived1 from anything outside it; but it amused him to glance up occasionally from his page and look out upon what was to him a novel sight—a regular yellow London fog.
Of the long line of lamps which stretched down the street, only the two or three nearest were visible at all, and they looked like dim stars surrounded by a haze2.
[182]
Loud shouts, sometimes mixed with laughter, were occasionally heard from foot-passengers wishing to give notice of their presence. Now two lights, like a pair of eyes, would slowly approach, marking where a carriage moved on its dangerous way; then torches carried past would throw a strange red glare on the fog, scarcely sufficient to show who bore them.
“We see something like this in life,” said Ernest to himself. “I think that fog is the common weather of Vanity Fair. Let me see in how many points I can find a resemblance between nature’s mists and those raised by ‘the world.’ Both come not from heaven, but belong to things below; both shut out the pure light of day—make us in danger of falling—in danger of striking against others—hardly able to tell friend from foe3. Yet people seem particularly merry in both, as if the very risk were a pleasure. They light those glaring torches, and walk cheerfully on, though they can see neither sun, moon, nor stars. Who would wish to pass all his life in a fog? Yet some choose to live and die amidst the mists of Vanity Fair.”
“Reading, moralizing, reflecting,” said Charles, in his own lively manner, as he entered the room. “Who would take you for a young nobleman going to a ball? It will be your last for a long time, I suspect; for Parliament, I hear, is dissolved, and if so, there will be a new election, and back we must fly to Fontonore.”
[183]
“I am not sorry for it,” replied Ernest.
“Nor I,” said Charles, more gravely. “I am afraid that this is a dangerous sort of life for me. You never seem to be in the same peril4 as myself; I suppose because you are a better pilgrim.”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Ernest; “you cannot look into my heart; but every one knows his own temptations best. The truth is, that I cannot enjoy society so much, because I always feel that I am not sufficiently5 educated, and am in constant fear of exposing myself, and being laughed at. There is no possible merit in this.”
“No; if that is all your protection from worldliness, I should call it a very poor one.”
“Yes; for if it protects me on the one side, it exposes me to danger on the other. Do you know, Charles, that nothing astonishes me so much in myself, as the cowardice6 that I find that I possess.”
“You manage well, for no one finds it out but yourself.”
“I must care for the world, or I should not fear its ridicule7. I was always thought rather courageous8 before I became a peer; I know that I used to speak out truth pretty boldly in our cottage; but there is nothing that I dread9 so much as the quiet sarcastic10 smile on well-bred lips. I sometimes fancy,” he added, laughing, “that I should mind it less if there were any chance of its being followed by a blow.”
[184]
“Well, this much I can say for you, Ernest—I have never yet seen this fear draw you one step from the narrow path.”
“I could not say as much for myself, dear brother. The world is a dangerous place.”
“Which would you call the principal temptations of Vanity Fair?” said Charles.
“Temptations to be insincere, ill-natured, and forgetful of God.”
“Oh, you have not numbered half. Think of all the extravagance, vanity, love of show, love of fashion, love of dress, love of trifles of all sorts.”
“Which do not make us happy,” added Ernest.
“Happy! no. They remind me of the beautiful enchanted11 money in the Eastern tale, which a man put so carefully by, and which he found, a short time after, all turned into leaves. Have you seen Clemmy on this evening of the ball, which she has been looking forward to for so long with such pleasure?”
“No; is she in very high spirits?”
“She is quite miserable12, poor girl. I daresay that she would cry heartily13, did she not know that red eyes are not becoming.”
“What is vexing14 her so much?”
“She has three terrible troubles, which she knows not how to bear. Firstly, she fears that Aunt Matilda may not find her way in the fog, so may never call to take
[185]
us to the ball; secondly15, she fears that even if we should reach Grosvenor Square, we should find the rooms empty on such a night as this, and there would be few to admire her and her new dress; and, thirdly, she is afraid that her pearl ornaments16 will not come in time; and this is her worst misery17 of all.”
“Have they not arrived yet?”
“No; Clemmy has been in a fidget about them all day, starting at the sound of every bell with a cry of, ‘Oh, I hope that’s the jeweller at last?’ And since she went up to dress, Mrs. Clayton has been sent down three times at least to see if the ornaments have come; and as she has had always to return with the same unsatisfactory answer, Clemmy is doubtless by this time in a state of grief which might make her an object of pity to any beggar in the street.”
“Poor Clemmy!” murmured Ernest, with real compassion18 in his tone.
“You do not pity her, surely, for being unhappy at such trifles?”
“I pity her because such trifles can make her unhappy. Charles, do you know that my conscience is not quite easy about our cousin?”
“Your conscience! You have nothing to do with her folly19.”
“We have a good deal to do with one another. I see more of her than of any one but yourself; she is one of
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my nearest relations; and yet I have never tried in any way to help her on in the right path.”
“I do not believe that she is in it,” replied Charles. “She is constantly trying to play us off against each other; nothing would delight her so much as to make us quarrel, all to gratify her selfish vanity.”
“If she is not in the right path, in which must she be? Where will she find herself if she remains20 as she is?”
“We cannot help her wanderings; they are no fault of ours.”
“Oh, Charles, we must not act in the spirit of those words, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ We who meet her so often must have some influence for evil or good; and think of the rapture21 of meeting in heaven with one whom we had been the means of helping22 to reach it!”
“I can hardly fancy any delight greater,” said Charles; “but I do not know anything that we could do for Clemmy. It is foolish in me, but when I look at her, and watch her affected23 manner, and hear her trifling24 talk, I never can realize to myself that she has a soul at all.”
“Yet she has one just as precious as our own.”
“I know that, but I cannot feel it; she seems just like a pretty plaything, made to be dressed up, admired—or laughed at.”
“Would that she could be raised to something nobler, something better!”
[187]
“I do not believe that we can raise her. She only thinks me provoking, and you tiresome25. She never would listen to Mr. Ewart, and I do believe only goes to church to show off the fashions. I do not see what we could do for her.”
“We can pray, dear Charles, we can pray earnestly; if we have not done so before, we have neglected a duty.”
“My neglect has been greater than yours,” said his brother, “since we have been together for so many years. I have thought it enough if I were not led to folly by her society; I never dreamed that I had any other responsibility about her.”
“But now—”
“Now I feel that I have been wrong. I remember, Ernest, that Faithful roused some to become pilgrims even in Vanity Fair; Hopeful himself was one of them. Perhaps poor Clemmy—”
“Here she comes; I hear the rustle26 of her silk down the stairs.”
“Have not the pearls been sent yet? Oh, dear, how vexatious!” exclaimed the young lady on entering the room, most elegantly dressed. She seated herself in an affected attitude on the sofa, with a very melancholy27 expression on her face, as she played with her feather-tipped fan.
“I do believe they are,” cried Charles, as a loud ring was heard at the outer bell.
[188]
DRESSED FOR THE BALL.
Clementina sprang up eagerly, and hurried to the door—so eagerly, so impatiently, that her little feet tripped, and she fell with some violence to the ground!
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1
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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2
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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3
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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4
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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5
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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6
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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7
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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8
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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9
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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10
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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11
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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12
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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13
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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14
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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15
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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16
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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18
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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19
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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20
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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21
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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22
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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23
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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24
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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25
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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26
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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27
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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