I had a sense of walking very fast—almost of taking flight—down a long dim corridor, and of a door that opened into an immense room. All that I remember of it, as I saw it then, was a number of pastel portraits of weak, vacuous1 individuals, in dulled, gilt2, oval frames. The heads stood out from the panelling and stared at me from between ringlets, from under powdered hair, simpering, or contemptuous with the expression that must have prevailed in the monde of the time before the Revolution. At a great distance, bent3 over account—books and pink cheques on the flap of an escritoire, sat my aunt, very small, very grey, very intent on her work.
The people who built these rooms must have had some property of the presence to make them bulk large—if they ever really did so—in the eyes of dependents, of lackeys4. Perhaps it was their sense of ownership that gave them the necessary prestige. My aunt, who was only a temporary occupant, certainly had none of it. Bent intently over her accounts, peering through her spectacles at columns of figures, she was nothing but a little old woman alone in an immense room. It seemed impossible that she could really have any family pride, any pride of any sort. She looked round at me over her spectacles, across her shoulder.
“Ah . . . Etchingham,” she said. She seemed to be trying to carry herself back to England, to the England of her land-agent and her select visiting list. Here she was no more superior than if we had been on a desert island. I wanted to enlighten her as to the woman she was sheltering—wanted to very badly; but a necessity for introducing the matter seemed to arise as she gradually stiffened5 into assertiveness6.
“My dear aunt,” I said, “the woman. . . . ” The alien nature of the theme grew suddenly formidable. She looked at me arousedly.
“You got my note then,” she said. “But I don’t think a woman can have brought it. I have given such strict orders. They have such strange ideas here, though. And Madame—the portière—is an old retainer of M. de Luynes, I haven’t much influence over her. It is absurd, but. . . . ” It seems that the old lady in the lodge7 made a point of carrying letters that went by hand. She had an eye for gratuities—and the police, I should say, were concerned. They make a good deal of use of that sort of person in that neighbourhood of infinitesimal and unceasing plotting.
“I didn’t mean that,” I said, “but the woman who calls herself my sister. . . . ”
“My dear nephew,” she interrupted, with tranquil8 force, as if she were taking an arranged line, “I cannot—I absolutely cannot be worried with your quarrels with your sister. As I said to you in my note of this morning, when you are in this town you must consider this house your home. It is almost insulting of you to go to an inn. I am told it is even . . . quite an unfit place that you are stopping at—for a member of our family.”
I maintained for a few seconds a silence of astonishment9.
“But,” I returned to the charge, “the matter is one of importance. You must understand that she. . . . ”
My aunt stiffened and froze. It was as if I had committed some flagrant sin against etiquette10.
“If I am satisfied as to her behaviour,” she said, “I think that you might be.” She paused as if she were satisfied that she had set me hopelessly in the wrong.
“I don’t withdraw my invitation,” she said. “You must understand I wish you to come here. But your quarrels you and she must settle. On those terms. . . . ”
She had the air of conferring an immense favour, as if she believed that I had, all my life through, been waiting for her invitation to come within the pale. As for me, I felt a certain relief at having the carrying out of my duty made impossible for me. I did not want to tell my aunt and thus to break things off definitely and for good. Something would have happened; the air might have cleared as it clears after a storm; I should have learnt where I stood. But I was afraid of the knowledge. Light in these dark places might reveal an abyss at my feet. I wanted to let things slide.
My aunt had returned to her accounts, the accounts which were the cog-wheels that kept running the smooth course of the Etchingham estates. She seemed to wish to indicate that I counted for not very much in the scheme of things as she saw it.
“I should like to make your better acquaintance,” she said, with her head still averted11, “there are reasons. . . . ” It came suddenly into my head that she had an idea of testamentary dispositions12, that she felt she was breaking up, that I had my rights. I didn’t much care for the thing, but the idea of being the heir of Etchingham was—well, was an idea. It would make me more possible to my pseudo-sister. It would be, as it were, a starting-point, would make me potentially a somebody of her sort of ideal. Moreover, I should be under the same roof, near her, with her sometimes. One asks so little more than that, that it seemed almost half the battle. I began to consider phrases of thanks and acceptance and then uttered them.
I never quite understood the bearings of that scene; never quite whether my aunt really knew that my sister was not my sister. She was a wonderfully clever woman of the unscrupulous order, with a sang-froid and self-possession well calculated to let her cut short any inconvenient13 revelations. It was as if she had had long practice in the art, though I cannot say what occasion she can have had for its practice—perhaps for the confounding of wavering avowers of Dissent14 at home.
I used to think that she knew, if not all, at least a portion; that the weight that undoubtedly15 was upon her mind was nothing else but that. She broke up, was breaking up from day to day, and I can think of no other reason. She had the air of being disintegrated16, like a mineral under an immense weight—quartz in a crushing mill; of being dulled and numbed17 as if she were under the influence of narcotics18.
There is little enough wonder, if she actually carried that imponderable secret about with her. I used to look at her sometimes, and wonder if she, too, saw the oncoming of the inevitable19. She was limited enough in her ideas, but not too stupid to take that in if it presented itself. Indeed they have that sort of idea rather grimly before them all the time—that class.
It must have been that that was daily, and little by little, pressing down her eyelids20 and deepening the quivering lines of her impenetrable face. She had a certain solitary21 grandeur22, the pathos23 attaching to the last of a race, of a type; the air of waiting for the deluge24, of listening for an inevitable sound—the sound of oncoming waters.
It was weird25, the time that I spent in that house—more than weird—deadening. It had an extraordinary effect on me—an effect that my “sister,” perhaps, had carefully calculated. She made pretensions26 of that sort later on; said that she had been breaking me in to perform my allotted27 task in the bringing on of the inevitable.
I have nowhere come across such an intense solitude28 as there was there, a solitude that threw one so absolutely upon one’s self and into one’s self. I used to sit working in one of those tall, panelled rooms, very high up in the air. I was writing at the series of articles for the Bi–Monthly, for Polehampton. I was to get the atmosphere of Paris, you remember. It was rather extraordinary, that process. Up there I seemed to be as much isolated29 from Paris as if I had been in-well, in Hampton Court. It was almost impossible to write; I had things to think about: preoccupations, jealousies30. It was true I had a living to make, but that seemed to have lost its engrossingness as a pursuit, or at least to have suspended it.
The panels of the room seemed to act as a sounding-board, the belly32 of an immense ‘cello. There were never any noises in the house, only whispers coming from an immense distance—as when one drops stones down an unfathomable well and hears ages afterward33 the faint sound of disturbed waters. When I look back at that time I figure myself as forever sitting with uplifted pen, waiting for a word that would not come, and that I did not much care about getting. The panels of the room would creak sympathetically to the opening of the entrance-door of the house, the faintest of creaks; people would cross the immense hall to the room in which they plotted; would cross leisurely34, with laughter and rustling35 of garments that after a long time reached my ears in whispers. Then I should have an access of mad jealousy36. I wanted to be part of her life, but I could not stand that Salon37 of suspicious conspirators38. What could I do there? Stand and look at them, conscious that they all dropped their voices instinctively39 when I came near them?
That was the general tone of that space of time, but, of course, it was not always that. I used to emerge now and then to breakfast sympathetically with my aunt, sometimes to sit through a meal with the two of them. I danced attendance on them singly; paid depressing calls with my aunt; calls on the people in the Faubourg; people without any individuality other than a kind of desiccation, the shrivelled appearance and point of view of a dried pippin. In revenge, they had names that startled one, names that recalled the generals and flaneurs of an impossibly distant time; names that could hardly have had any existence outside the memoirs40 of Madame de Sévigné, the names of people that could hardly have been fitted to do anything more vigorous than be reflected in the mirrors of the Salle des Glaces. I was so absolutely depressed41, so absolutely in a state of suspended animation42, that I seemed to conform exactly to my aunt’s ideas of what was desirable in me as an attendant on her at these functions. I used to stand behind chairs and talk, like a good young man, to the assorted43 Pères and Abbés who were generally present.
And then I used to go home and get the atmospheres of these people. I must have done it abominably44 badly, for the notes that brought Polehampton’s cheques were accompanied by the bravos of that gentleman and the assurances that Miss Polehampton liked my work—liked it very much.
I suppose I exhibited myself in the capacity of the man who knew—who could let you into a thing or two. After all, anyone could write about students’ balls and the lakes in the Bois, but it took someone to write “with knowledge” of the interiors of the barred houses in the Rue31 de l’Université.
Then, too, I attended the more showy entertainments with my sister. I had by now become so used to hearing her styled “your sister” that the epithet45 had the quality of a name. She was “mademoiselle votre soeur,” as she might have been Mlle. Patience or Hope, without having anything of the named quality. What she did at the entertainments, the charitable bazaars46, the dismal47 dances, the impossibly bad concerts, I have no idea. She must have had some purpose, for she did nothing without. I myself descended48 into fulfilling the functions of a rudimentarily developed chaperon—functions similar in importance to those performed by the eyes of a mole49. I had the maddest of accesses of jealousy if she talked to a man—and such men—or danced with one. And then I was forever screwing my courage up and feeling it die away. We used to drive about in a coupe, a thing that shut us inexorably together, but which quite as inexorably destroyed all opportunities for what one calls making love. In smooth streets its motion was too glib50, on the pavé it rattled52 too abominably. I wanted to make love to her—oh, immensely, but I was never in the mood, or the opportunity was never forthcoming. I used to have the wildest fits of irritation53; not of madness or of depression, but of simple wildness at the continual recurrence54 of small obstacles. I couldn’t read, couldn’t bring myself to it. I used to sit and look dazedly55 at the English newspapers—at any newspaper but the Hour. De Mersch had, for the moment, disappeared. There were troubles in his elective grand duchy—he had, indeed, contrived56 to make himself unpopular with the electors, excessively unpopular. I used to read piquant57 articles about his embroglio in an American paper that devoted58 itself to matters of the sort. All sorts of international difficulties were to arise if de Mersch were ejected. There was some other obscure prince of a rival house, Prussian or Russian, who had desires for the degree of royalty59 that sat so heavily on de Mersch. Indeed, I think there were two rival princes, each waiting with portmanteaux packed and manifestos in their breast pockets, ready to pass de Mersch’s frontiers.
The grievances60 of his subjects—so the Paris–American Gazette said—were intimately connected with matters of finance, and de Mersch’s personal finances and his grand ducal were inextricably mixed up with the wild-cat schemes with which he was seeking to make a fortune large enough to enable him to laugh at half a dozen elective grand duchies. Indeed, de Mersch’s own portmanteau was reported to be packed against the day when British support of his Greenland schemes would let him afford to laugh at his cantankerous61 Diet.
The thing interested me so little that I never quite mastered the details of it. I wished the man no good, but so long as he kept out of my way I was not going to hate him actively62. Finally the affairs of Holstein–Launewitz ceased to occupy the papers—the thing was arranged and the Russian and Prussian princes unpacked63 their portmanteaux, and, I suppose, consigned64 their manifestos to the flames, or adapted them to the needs of other principalities. De Mersch’s affairs ceded65 their space in the public prints to the topic of the dearness of money. Somebody, somewhere, was said to be up to something. I used to try to read the articles, to master the details, because I disliked finding a whole field of thought of which I knew absolutely nothing. I used to read about the great discount houses and other things that conveyed absolutely nothing to my mind. I only gathered that the said great houses were having a very bad time, and that everybody else was having a very much worse.
One day, indeed, the matter was brought home to me by the receipt from Polehampton of bills instead of my usual cheques. I had a good deal of trouble in cashing the things; indeed, people seemed to look askance at them. I consulted my aunt on the subject, at breakfast. It was the sort of thing that interested the woman of business in her, and we were always short of topics of conversation.
We breakfasted in rather a small room, as rooms went there; my aunt sitting at the head of the table, with an early morning air of being en famille that she wore at no other time of day. It was not a matter of garments, for she was not the woman to wear a peignoir; but lay, I supposed, in her manner, which did not begin to assume frigidity66 until several watches of the day had passed.
I handed her Polehampton’s bills and explained that I was at a loss to turn them to account; that I even had only the very haziest67 of ideas as to their meaning. Holding the forlorn papers in her hand, she began to lecture me on the duty of acquiring the rudiments68 of what she called “business habits.”
“Of course you do not require to master details to any considerable extent,” she said, “but I always have held that it is one of the duties of a. . . . ”
She interrupted herself as my sister came into the room; looked at her, and then held out the papers in her hand. The things quivered a little; the hand must have quivered too.
“You are going to Halderschrodt’s?” she said, interrogatively. “You could get him to negotiate these for Etchingham?”
Miss Granger looked at the papers negligently69.
“I am going this afternoon,” she answered. “Etchingham can come. . . . ” She suddenly turned to me: “So your friend is getting shaky,” she said.
“It means that?” I asked. “But I’ve heard that he has done the same sort of thing before.”
“He must have been shaky before,” she said, “but I daresay Halderschrodt. . . . ”
“Oh, it’s hardly worth while bothering that personage about such a sum,” I interrupted. Halderschrodt, in those days, was a name that suggested no dealings in any sum less than a million.
“My dear Etchingham,” my aunt interrupted in a shocked tone, “it is quite worth his while to oblige us. . . . ”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
That afternoon we drove to Halderschrodt’s private office, a sumptuous—that is the mot juste—suite of rooms on the first floor of the house next to the Duc de Mersch’s Sans Souci. I sat on a plush-bottomed gilded70 chair, whilst my pseudo-sister transacted71 her business in an adjoining room—a room exactly corresponding with that within which de Mersch had lurked72 whilst the lady was warning me against him. A clerk came after awhile, carried me off into an enclosure, where my bill was discounted by another, and then reconducted me to my plush chair. I did not occupy it, as it happened. A meagre, very tall Alsatian was holding the door open for the exit of my sister. He said nothing at all, but stood slightly inclined as she passed him. I caught a glimpse of a red, long face, very tired eyes, and hair of almost startling whiteness—the white hair of a comparatively young man, without any lustre73 of any sort—a dead white, like that of snow. I remember that white hair with a feeling of horror, whilst I have almost forgotten the features of the great Baron74 de Halderschrodt.
I had still some of the feeling of having been in contact with a personality of the most colossal75 significance as we went down the red carpet of the broad white marble stairs. With one foot on the lowest step, the figure of a perfectly76 clothed, perfectly groomed77 man was standing78 looking upward at our descent. I had thought so little of him that the sight of the Duc de Mersch’s face hardly suggested any train of emotions. It lit up with an expression of pleasure.
“You,” he said.
She stood looking down upon him from the altitude of two steps, looking with intolerable passivity.
“So you use the common stairs,” she said, “one had the idea that you communicated with these people through a private door.” He laughed uneasily, looking askance at me.
“Oh, I . . . ” he said.
She moved a little to one side to pass him in her descent.
“So things have arranged themselves—là bas,” she said, referring, I supposed, to the elective grand duchy.
“Oh, it was like a miracle,” he answered, “and I owed a great deal—a great deal—to your hints. . . . ”
“You must tell me all about it to-night,” she said.
De Mersch’s face had an extraordinary quality that I seemed to notice in all the faces around me—a quality of the flesh that seemed to lose all luminosity, of the eyes that seemed forever to have a tendency to seek the ground, to avoid the sight of the world. When he brightened to answer her it was as if with effort. It seemed as if a weight were on the mind of the whole world—a preoccupation that I shared without understanding. She herself, a certain absent-mindedness apart, seemed the only one that was entirely79 unaffected.
As we sat side by side in the little carriage, she said suddenly:
“They are coming to the end of their tether, you see.” I shrank away from her a little—but I did not see and did not want to see. I said so. It even seemed to me that de Mersch having got over the troubles là bas, was taking a new lease of life.
“I did think,” I said, “a little time ago that . . . ”
The wheels of the coupe suddenly began to rattle51 abominably over the cobbles of a narrow street. It was impossible to talk, and I was thrown back upon myself. I found that I was in a temper—in an abominable80 temper. The sudden sight of that man, her method of greeting him, the intimacy81 that the scene revealed . . . the whole thing had upset me. Of late, for want of any alarms, in spite of groundlessness I had had the impression that I was the integral part of her life. It was not a logical idea, but strictly82 a habit of mind that had grown up in the desolation of my solitude.
We passed into one of the larger boulevards, and the thing ran silently.
“That de Mersch was crumbling83 up,” she suddenly completed my unfinished sentence; “oh, that was only a grumble—premonitory. But it won’t take long now. I have been putting on the screw. Halderschrodt will . . . I suppose he will commit suicide, in a day or two. And then the—the fun will begin.”
I didn’t answer. The thing made no impression—no mental impression at all.
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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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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lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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assertiveness
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| n.过分自信 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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disintegrated
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narcotics
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| n.麻醉药( narcotic的名词复数 )；毒品；毒 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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isolated
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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instinctively
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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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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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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haziest
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| 有薄雾的( hazy的最高级 )； 模糊的； 不清楚的； 糊涂的 | |
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rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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negligently
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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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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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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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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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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