“That will be a wonderful chance for me,” said the young man, “for nobody would take so much trouble for me alone.”
“How can you tell that? Miss Tasie, I should think, would be an excellent cicerone,” said Constance. She said it with a light laugh of suggestion, meaning to imply, though, of course, she had said nothing, that Tasie would be too happy to put herself at Captain Gaunt’s disposition3; a suggestion which he, too, received with a laugh—for this is one of the points upon which both boys and girls are always ungenerous.
“And failing Miss Tasie,” said Constance, “suppose you come with papa and me? They say it is a pretty drive. They say, of course, that everything here is lovely, and that the Riviera is paradise. Do you find it so?”
“I can fancy circumstances in which I should find it so,” said the young soldier.{v2-21}
“Ah, yes; every one can do that. I can fancy circumstances in which Bond Street would be paradise—oh, very easily! It is not far from paradise at any time.”
“That is a heaven of which I know very little, Miss Waring.”
“Ah, then, you must learn. The true Elysian fields are in London in May. If you don’t know that, you can form no idea of happiness. An exile from all delights gives you the information, and you may be sure it is true.”
“Why, then, Miss Waring, if you think so——”
“Am I here? Oh, that is easily explained. I have a sister.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Ah, I understand you have heard a great deal about my sister. I suffer here from being compared with her. I am not nearly so good, so wise, as Frances. But is that my fault, Captain Gaunt? You are impartial4; you are a new-comer. If I could, I would, be as nice as Frances, don’t you believe?”
The young man gave Constance a look, which, indeed, she expected, and said with{v2-22} confusion, “I don’t see—any need for improvement,” and blushed as near crimson5 as was possible over the greenish brown of his Indian colour.
Constance for her part did not blush. She laughed, and made him an almost imperceptible curtsey. The ways of flirtation6 are not original, and all the parallels of the early encounters might be stereotyped8, as everybody knows.
“You are very amiable,” she said; “but then you don’t know Frances, and your opinion, accordingly, is less valuable. I did not ask you, however, to believe me to be equal to my sister, but only to believe that I would be as nice if I could. However, all that is no explanation. We have a mother, you know, in England. We are, unfortunately, that sad thing, a household divided against itself.”
Captain Gaunt was not prepared for such confidences. He grew still a little browner with embarrassment9, and muttered something about being very sorry, not knowing what to say.
“Oh, there is not very much to be sorry{v2-23} about. Papa enjoys himself in his way here, and mamma is very happy at home. The only thing is that we must each have our turn, you know—that is only fair. So Frances has gone to mamma, and here am I in Bordighera. We are each dreadfully out of our element. Her friends condemn10 me, to begin with, as if it were my fault that I am not like her; and my friends, perhaps—— But no; I don’t think so. Frances is so good, so nice, so everything a girl ought to be.”
At this she laughed softly again; and young Gaunt’s consciousness that his mother’s much vaunted Frances was the sort of girl to please old ladies rather than young men, a prim11, little, smooth, correct maiden12, with not the least “go” in her, took additional force and certainty. Whereas—— But he had no words in which to express his sense of the advantages on the other side.
“You must find it,” he said, knowing nothing more original to say, “dreadfully dull living here.”
“I have not found anything as yet; I have only just come. I am no more than a few days{v2-24} older than you are. We can compare notes as time goes on. But perhaps you don’t mean to stay very long in these abodes13 of the blest?”
“I don’t know that I did intend it. But I shall stay now as long as ever I can,” said the young man. Then—for he was shy—he added hastily, “It is a long time since I have seen my people, and they like to have me.”
“Naturally. But you need not have spoiled what looked like a very pretty compliment by adding that. Perhaps you didn’t mean it for a compliment? Oh, I don’t mind at all. It is much more original, if you didn’t mean it. Compliments are such common coin. But I don’t pretend to despise them, as some girls do; and I don’t like to see them spoiled,” Constance said seriously.
The young man looked at her with consternation14. After a while, his moustache expanded into a laugh, but it was a confused laugh, and he did not understand. Still less did he know how to reply. Constance had been used to sharper wits, who took her at half a word; and she was half angry to be thus obliged to explain.{v2-25}
“We are going to San Remo, as I told you,” she said. “I am waiting for my father. We are going to look for a piano. Frances is not musical, so there is no piano in the house. You must come too, and give your advice. Oh, are you ready, papa? Captain Gaunt, who does not know San Remo, and who does know music, is coming with us to give us his advice.”
The young soldier stammered15 forth16 that to go to San Remo was the thing he most desired in the world. “But I don’t think my advice will be good for much,” he said, conscientiously17. “I do a little on the violin; but as for pretending to be a judge of a piano——”
“Come; we are all ready,” said Constance, leading the way.
Waring had to let the young fellow precede him, to see him get into the carriage without any articulate murmur18. As a matter of fact, a sort of stupor19 seized the father, altogether unaccustomed to be the victim of accidents. Frances might have lived by his side till she was fifty before she would have thought of inviting20 a stranger to be of their party—a stranger, a young man, which was a class of{v2-26} being with which Waring had little patience, a young soldier, proverbially frivolous21, and occupied with foolish matters. Young Gaunt respectfully left to his senior the place beside Constance; but he placed himself opposite to her, and kept his eyes upon her with a devout22 attention, which Waring would have thought ridiculous had he not been irritated by it. The young fellow was a great deal too much absorbed to contribute much to the amusement of the party; and it irritated Waring beyond measure to see his eyes gleam from under his eyebrows23, opening wider with delight, half closing with laughter, the ends of his moustache going up to his ears. Waring, an impartial spectator, was not so much impressed by his daughter’s wit. He thought he had heard a great deal of the same before, or even better, surely better, for he could recollect24 that he had in his day been charmed by a similar treatment, which must have been much lighter25 in touch, much less commonplace in subject, because—he was charmed. Thus we argue in our generations. In the meantime, young Gaunt, though he had not been without some experi{v2-27}ence, looked at Constance from under his brows, and listened as if to the utterances26 of the gods. If only they could have had it all to themselves; if only the old father had been out of the way!
The sunshine, the sea, the beautiful colour, the unexpected vision round every corner of another and another picturesque27 cluster of towns and roofs; all that charm and variety which give to Italy above every country on earth the admixture of human interest, the endless chain of association which adds a grace to natural beauty, made very little impression upon this young pair. She would have been amused and delighted by the exercise of her own power, and he would have been enthralled28 by her beauty, and what he considered her wit and high spirits, had their progress been along the dullest streets. It was only Waring’s eyes, disgusted by the prospect29 before him of his daughter’s little artifices30, and young Gaunt’s imbecile subjection, which turned with any special consciousness to the varying blues31 of the sea, to the endless developments of the landscape.{v2-28} Flirtation is one of the last things in the world to brook32 a spectator. Its little absurdities33, which are so delightful34 to the actors in the drama, and which at a distance the severest critic may smile at and forgive, excite the wrath35 of a too close looker-on, in a way quite disproportioned to their real offensiveness. The interchange of chatter36 which prevents, as that observer would say, all rational conversation, the attempts to charm, which are so transparent37, the response of silly admiration38, which is only another form of vanity—how profoundly sensible we all are of their folly39! Had Constance taken as much pains to please her father, he would, in all probability, have yielded altogether to the spell; but he was angry, ashamed, furious, that she should address those wiles40 to the young stranger, and saw through him with a clearsightedness which was exasperating41. It was all the more exasperating that he could not tell what she meant by it. Was it possible that she had already formed an inclination42 towards this tawny43 young stranger? Had his bilious44 hues45 affected46 her imagination? Love{v2-29} at first sight is a very respectable emotion, and commands in many cases both sympathy and admiration. But no man likes to see the working of this sentiment in a woman who belongs to him. Had Constance fallen in love? He grew angry at the very suggestion, though breathed only in the recesses47 of his own mind. A girl who had been brought up in the world, who had seen all kinds of people, was it possible that she should fall a victim in a moment to the attractions of a young nobody—a young fellow who knew nothing but India? That he should be subjected, was simple enough; but Constance! Waring’s brow clouded more and more. He kept silent, taking no part in the talk, and the young fools did not so much as remark it, but went on with their own absurdity48 more and more.
The transformation49 of a series of little Italian municipalities, although in their nature more towns than villages, rendered less rustic50 by the traditions of an exposed coast, and many a crisis of self-defence, into little modern towns full of hotels and tourists, is neither a pleas{v2-30}ant nor a lovely process. San Remo in the old days, before Dr Antonio made it known to the world, lay among its olive-gardens on the edge of the sea, which grew bluer and bluer as it crept to the feet of the human master of the soil, a delight to behold51, a little picture which memory cherished. Wide promenades52 flanked with big hotels, with conventional gardens full of green bushes, and a kiosk for the band, make a very different prospect now. But then, in the old days, there could have been no music-sellers with pianos to let or sell; no famous English chemist with coloured bottles; no big shops in which travellers could be tempted53. Constance forgot Captain Gaunt when she found herself in this atmosphere of the world. She began to remember things she wanted. “Papa, if you don’t despise it too much, you must let me do a little shopping,” she said. She wanted a hat for the sun. She wanted some eau-de-Cologne. She wanted just to run into the jeweller’s to see if the coral was good, to see if there were any peasant-ornaments which would be characteristic. At all this her father smiled some{v2-31}what grimly, taking it as a part of the campaign into which his daughter had chosen to enter for the overthrow54 of the young soldier. But Constance was perfectly55 sincere, and had forgotten her campaign in the new and warmer interest.
“So long as you do not ask me to attend you from shop to shop,” he said.
“Oh no; Captain Gaunt will come,” said Constance.
Captain Gaunt was not a victim who required many wiles. He was less amusing than she had hoped, in so far that he had given in, in an incredibly short space of time. He was now in a condition to be trampled56 on at her pleasure, and this was unexciting. A longer resistance would have been much more to Constance’s mind. Captain Gaunt accompanied her to all the shops. He helped her with his advice about the piano, bending his head over her as she ran through a little air or two, and struck a few chords on one after the other of the music-seller’s stock. They were not very admirable instruments, but one was found that would do.{v2-32}
“You can bring your violin,” Constance said; “we must try to amuse ourselves a little.” This was before her father left them, and he heard it with a groan57.
Waring took a silent walk round the bay while the purchases went on. He thought of past experiences, of the attraction which a shop has for women. Frances, no doubt, after a little of her mother’s training, would be the same. She would find out the charms of shopping. He had not even her return to look forward to, for she would not be the same Frances who had left him, when she came back. When she came back?—if she ever came back. The same Frances, never; perhaps not even a changed Frances. Her mother would quickly see what an advantage she had in getting the daughter whom her husband had brought up. She would not give her back; she would turn her into a second Constance. There had been a time when Waring had concluded that Constance was amusing and Frances dull; but it must be remembered that he was under provocation58 now. If she had been amusing, it had not{v2-33} been for him. She had exerted herself to please a commonplace, undistinguished boy, with an air of being indifferent to everything else, which was beyond measure irritating to her father. And now she had got scent59 of shops, and would never be happy save when she was rushing from one place to another—to Mentone, to Nice perhaps, wherever her fancied wants might lead her. Waring discussed all this with himself as he rambled60 along, his nerves all set on edge, his taste revolted. Flirtations and shops—was he to be brought to this? he who had been free from domestic encumbrance61, who had known nothing for so many years but a little ministrant, who never troubled him, who was ready when he wanted her, but never put forth herself as a restraint or an annoyance62. He had advised Constance to take what good she could find in her life; but he had never imagined that this was the line she would take.
The drive home was scarcely more satisfactory. Young Gaunt had got a little courage by the episode of the shops. He ventured to tell her of the trifles he had brought with him{v2-34} from India, and to ask if Miss Waring would care to see them; and he described to her the progress he had made with his violin, and what his attainments63 were in music. Constance told him that the best thing he could do was to bring the said violin and all his music, so that they might see what they could do together. “If you are not too far advanced for me,” she said with a laugh. “Come in the morning, when we shall not be interrupted.”
Her father listened, but said nothing. His imagination immediately set before him the tuning64 and scraping, the clang of the piano, the shriek65 of the fiddle66, and he himself only two rooms off, endeavouring in vain to collect his thoughts and do his work! Mr Waring’s work was not of the first importance, but still it was his work, and momentous67 to him. He bore, however, a countenance unmoved, if very grave, and even endured without a word the young man’s entrance with them, the consultation68 about where the piano was to stand, and tea afterwards in the loggia. He did not himself want any tea; he left the young people to enjoy this refreshment69 together while he{v2-35} retired70 to his bookroom. But with only two rooms between, and with his senses quickened by displeasure, he heard their voices, the laughter, the continual flow of talk, even the little tinkle71 of the teacups—every sound. He had never been disturbed by Frances’ tea; but then, except Tasie Durant, there had been nobody to share it, no son from the bungalow72, no privileged messenger sent by his mother. Mrs Gaunt’s children, of whom she talked continually, had always been a nuisance, except to the sympathetic soul of Frances. But who could have imagined the prominence73 which they had assumed now?
Young Gaunt did not go away until shortly before dinner; and Constance, after accompanying him to the anteroom, went along the corridor singing, to her own room, to change her dress. Though her room (Frances’ room that was) was at the extremity74 of the suite75, her father heard her light voice running on in a little operatic air all the time she made her toilet. Had it been described in a book, he thought to himself it would have had a pretty sound. The girl’s voice, sweet and gay,{v2-36} sounding through the house, the voice of happy youth brightening the dull life there, the voice of innocent content betraying its own satisfaction with existence—satisfaction in having a young fool to flirt7 with, and some trumpery76 shops to buy unnecessary appendages77 in! At dinner, however, she made fun of young Gaunt, and the morose78 father was a little mollified. “It is rather dreadful for other people when there is an adoring mother in the background to think everything you do perfection,” Constance said. “I don’t think we shall make much of the violin.”
“These are subjects on which you can speak with more authority than I—both the violin and the mother,” said Waring.
“Oh,” she cried, “you don’t think mamma was one of the adoring kind, I hope! There may be things in her which might be mended; but she is not like that. She kept one in one’s proper place. And as for the violin, I suspect he plays it like an old fiddler in the streets.”
“You have changed your mind about it very rapidly,” said Waring; but on the whole he {v2-37}was pleased. “You seemed much interested both in the hero and the music, a little while ago.”
“Yes; was I not?” said Constance with perfect candour. “And he took it all in, as if it were likely. These young men from India, they are very ingenuous79. It seems wicked to take advantage of them, does it not?”
“More people are ingenuous than the young man from India. I intended to speak to you very seriously as soon as he was gone—to ask you——”
“What were my intentions?” cried Constance, with an outburst of the gayest laughter. “Oh, what a pity I began! How sorry I am to have missed that! Do you think his mother will ask me, papa? It is generally the man, isn’t it, who is questioned? and he says his intentions are honourable80. Mine, I frankly81 allow, are not honourable.”
“No; very much the reverse, I should think. But it had better be clearly defined, for my satisfaction, Constance, which of you is true—the girl who cried over her loneliness last night, or she who made love to Captain Gaunt this morning{v2-38}——”
“No, papa; only was a little nice to him, because he is lonely too.”
“These delicacies82 of expression are too fine for me.—— Who made the poor young fellow believe that she liked his society immensely, was much interested, counted upon him and his violin as her greatest pleasures.”
“You are going too far,” she said. “I think the fiddle will be fun. When you play very badly and are a little conceited83 about it, you are always amusing. And as for Captain Gaunt—so long as he does not complain——”
“It is I who am complaining, Constance.”
“Well, papa—but why? You told me last night to take what I had, since I could not have what I want.”
“And you have acted upon my advice? With great promptitude, I must allow.”
“Yes,” she said with composure. “What is the use of losing time? It is not my fault if there is somebody here quite ready. It amuses him too. And what harm am I doing? A girl can’t be asked—except for fun—those disagreeable questions.”
“And therefore you think a girl can do—what would be dishonourable in a man.{v2-39}”
“Oh, you are so much too serious,” cried Constance. “Are you always as serious as this? You laughed when I told you about Fanny Gervoise. Is it only because it is me that you find fault? And don’t you think it is a little too soon for parental84 interference? The Gaunts would be much surprised. They would think you were afraid for my peace of mind, papa—as her parents were afraid for Miss Tasie.”
This moved the stern father to a smile. He had thought that Constance did not appreciate that joke; but the girl had more humour than he supposed. “I see,” he said, “you will have your own way; but remember, Constance, I cannot allow it to go too far.”
How could he prevent it going as far as she pleased? she said to herself with a little scorn, when she was alone. Parents may be medieval if they will; but the means have never yet been invented of preventing a woman, when she is so minded and has the power in her hands, from achieving her little triumph over a young man’s heart.
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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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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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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eyebrows
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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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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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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48
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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52
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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54
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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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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56
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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57
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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60
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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63
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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64
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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66
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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70
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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71
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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72
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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74
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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76
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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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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81
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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82
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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83
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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84
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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