Nothing more vexatious had ever happened to me than to become aware before Corvick’s arrival in England that I shouldn’t be there to put him through. I found myself abruptly1 called to Germany by the alarming illness of my younger brother, who, against my advice, had gone to Munich to study, at the feet indeed of a great master, the art of portraiture2 in oils. The near relative who made him an allowance had threatened to withdraw it if he should, under specious3 pretexts4, turn for superior truth to Paris — Paris being somehow, for a Cheltenham aunt, the school of evil, the abyss. I deplored5 this prejudice at the time, and the deep injury of it was now visible — first in the fact that it hadn’t saved the poor boy, who was clever, frail6 and foolish, from congestion7 of the lungs, and second in the greater break with London to which the event condemned8 me. I’m afraid that what was uppermost in my mind during several anxious weeks was the sense that if we had only been in Paris I might have run over to see Corvick. This was actually out of the question from every point of view: my brother, whose recovery gave us both plenty to do, was ill for three months, during which I never left him and at the end of which we had to face the absolute prohibition9 of a return to England. The consideration of climate imposed itself, and he was in no state to meet it alone. I took him to Meran and there spent the summer with him, trying to show him by example how to get back to work and nursing a rage of another sort that I tried NOT to show him.
The whole business proved the first of a series of phenomena10 so strangely interlaced that, taken together — which was how I had to take them — they form as good an illustration as I can recall of the manner in which, for the good of his soul doubtless, fate sometimes deals with a man’s avidity. These incidents certainly had larger bearings than the comparatively meagre consequence we are here concerned with — though I feel that consequence also a thing to speak of with some respect. It’s mainly in such a light, I confess, at any rate, that the ugly fruit of my exile is at this hour present to me. Even at first indeed the spirit in which my avidity, as I have called it, made me regard that term owed no element of ease to the fact that before coming back from Rapallo George Corvick addressed me in a way I objected to. His letter had none of the sedative11 action I must today profess12 myself sure he had wished to give it, and the march of occurrences was not so ordered as to make up for what it lacked. He had begun on the spot, for one of the quarterlies, a great last word on Vereker’s writings, and this exhaustive study, the only one that would have counted, have existed, was to turn on the new light, to utter — oh, so quietly! — the unimagined truth. It was in other words to trace the figure in the carpet through every convolution, to reproduce it in every tint13. The result, according to my friend, would be the greatest literary portrait ever painted, and what he asked of me was just to be so good as not to trouble him with questions till he should hang up his masterpiece before me. He did me the honour to declare that, putting aside the great sitter himself, all aloft in his indifference14, I was individually the connoisseur15 he was most working for. I was therefore to be a good boy and not try to peep under the curtain before the show was ready: I should enjoy it all the more if I sat very still.
I did my best to sit very still, but I couldn’t help giving a jump on seeing in The Times, after I had been a week or two in Munich and before, as I knew, Corvick had reached London, the announcement of the sudden death of poor Mrs. Erme. I instantly, by letter, appealed to Gwendolen for particulars, and she wrote me that her mother had yielded to long-threatened failure of the heart. She didn’t say, but I took the liberty of reading into her words, that from the point of view of her marriage and also of her eagerness, which was quite a match for mine, this was a solution more prompt than could have been expected and more radical16 than waiting for the old lady to swallow the dose. I candidly17 admit indeed that at the time — for I heard from her repeatedly — I read some singular things into Gwendolen’s words and some still more extraordinary ones into her silences. Pen in hand, this way, I live the time over, and it brings back the oddest sense of my having been, both for months and in spite of myself, a kind of coerced18 spectator. All my life had taken refuge in my eyes, which the procession of events appeared to have committed itself to keep astare. There were days when I thought of writing to Hugh Vereker and simply throwing myself on his charity. But I felt more deeply that I hadn’t fallen quite so low — besides which, quite properly, he would send me about my business. Mrs. Erme’s death brought Corvick straight home, and within the month he was united “very quietly” — as quietly, I seemed to make out, as he meant in his article to bring out his trouvaille — to the young lady he had loved and quitted. I use this last term, I may parenthetically say, because I subsequently grew sure that at the time he went to India, at the time of his great news from Bombay, there had been no positive pledge between them whatever. There had been none at the moment she was affirming to me the very opposite. On the other hand he had certainly become engaged the day he returned. The happy pair went down to Torquay for their honeymoon19, and there, in a reckless hour, it occurred to poor Corvick to take his young bride a drive. He had no command of that business: this had been brought home to me of old in a little tour we had once made together in a dogcart. In a dogcart he perched his companion for a rattle20 over Devonshire hills, on one of the likeliest of which he brought his horse, who, it was true, had bolted, down with such violence that the occupants of the cart were hurled21 forward and that he fell horribly on his head. He was killed on the spot; Gwendolen escaped unhurt.
I pass rapidly over the question of this unmitigated tragedy, of what the loss of my best friend meant for me, and I complete my little history of my patience and my pain by the frank statement of my having, in a postscript22 to my very first letter to her after the receipt of the hideous23 news, asked Mrs. Corvick whether her husband mightn’t at least have finished the great article on Vereker. Her answer was as prompt as my question: the article, which had been barely begun, was a mere24 heartbreaking scrap25. She explained that our friend, abroad, had just settled down to it when interrupted by her mother’s death, and that then, on his return, he had been kept from work by the engrossments into which that calamity26 was to plunge27 them. The opening pages were all that existed; they were striking, they were promising28, but they didn’t unveil the idol29. That great intellectual feat30 was obviously to have formed his climax31. She said nothing more, nothing to enlighten me as to the state of her own knowledge — the knowledge for the acquisition of which I had fancied her prodigiously32 acting33. This was above all what I wanted to know: had SHE seen the idol unveiled? Had there been a private ceremony for a palpitating audience of one? For what else but that ceremony had the nuptials34 taken place? I didn’t like as yet to press her, though when I thought of what had passed between us on the subject in Corvick’s absence her reticence35 surprised me. It was therefore not till much later, from Meran, that I risked another appeal, risked it in some trepidation36, for she continued to tell me nothing. “Did you hear in those few days of your blighted37 bliss,” I wrote, “what we desired so to hear?” I said, “we,” as a little hint and she showed me she could take a little hint; “I heard everything,” she replied, “and I mean to keep it to myself!”
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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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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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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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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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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