He knew that he was the only young man from the shop who had been invited, not counting the foreman, who was sixty years old and wore a wig18 which constituted in itself a kind of social position, besides being accompanied by a little frightened, furtive19 wife, who closed her eyes, as if in the presence of a blinding splendour, when Mrs Crookenden spoke20 to her. The Poupins were not there – which, however, was not a surprise to Hyacinth, who knew that (even if they had been asked, which they were not) they had objections of principle to putting their feet chez les bourgeois21. They were not asked because, in spite of the place Eustache had made for himself in the prosperity of the business, it had come to be known that his wife was somehow not his wife (though she was certainly no one’s else); and the evidence of this irregularity was conceived to reside, vaguely22, in the fact that she had never been seen save in a camisole. There had doubtless been an apprehension23 that if she had come to the villa she would not have come with the proper number of hooks and eyes, though Hyacinth, on two or three occasions, notably24 the night he took the pair to Mr Vetch’s theatre, had been witness of the proportions to which she could reduce her figure when she wished to give the impression of a lawful25 tie.
It was not clear to him how the distinction conferred upon him became known in Soho, where, however, it excited no sharpness of jealousy26 – Grugan, Roker, and Hotchkin being hardly more likely to envy a person condemned27 to spend a genteel evening than they were to envy a monkey performing antics on a barrel-organ: both forms of effort indicated an urbanity painfully acquired. But Roker took his young comrade’s breath half away with his elbow and remarked that he supposed he saw the old man had spotted28 him for one of the darlings at home; inquiring, furthermore, what would become in that case of the little thing he took to France, the one to whom he had stood champagne29 and lobster30. This was the first allusion31 Hyacinth had heard made to the idea that he might some day marry his master’s daughter, like the virtuous32 apprentice33 of tradition; but the suggestion, somehow, was not inspiring, even when he had thought of an incident or two which gave colour to it. None of the Miss Crookendens spoke to him – they all had large faces and short legs and a comical resemblance to that elderly male with wide nostrils34, their father, and, unlike the Miss Marchants, at Medley, they knew who he was – but their mother, who had on her head the plumage of a cockatoo, mingled35 with a structure of glass beads36, looked at him with an almost awful fixedness37 and asked him three distinct times if he would have a glass of negus.
He had much difficulty in getting his books from the Princess; for when he reminded her of the promise she had given him at Medley to make over to him as many volumes as he should require, she answered that everything was changed since then, that she was completely dépouillée, that she had now no pretension39 to have a library, and that, in fine, he had much better leave the matter alone. He was welcome to any books that were in the house, but, as he could see for himself, these were cheap editions, on which it would be foolish to expend40 such work as his. He asked Madame Grandoni to help him – to tell him, at least, whether there were not some good volumes among the things the Princess had sent to be warehoused; it being known to him, through casual admissions of her own, that she had allowed her maid to save certain articles from the wreck41 and pack them away at the Pantechnicon. This had all been Assunta’s work, the woman had begged so hard for a few reservations – a loaf of bread for their old days; but the Princess herself had washed her hands of the business. “Chè, chè, there are boxes, I am sure, in that place, with a little of everything,” said the old lady, in answer to his inquiry42; and Hyacinth conferred with Assunta, who took a sympathetic, talkative, Italian interest in his undertaking43 and promised to fish out for him whatever worthy volumes should remain. She came to his lodging44, one evening, in a cab, with an armful of pretty books, and when he asked her where they had come from waved her forefinger45 in front of her nose, in a manner both mysterious and expressive46. He brought each volume to the Princess, as it was finished; but her manner of receiving it was to shake her head over it with a kind, sad smile. “It’s beautiful, I am sure, but I have lost my sense for such things. Besides, you must always remember what you once told me, that a woman, even the most cultivated, is incapable47 of feeling the difference between a bad binding48 and a good. I remember your once saying that fine ladies had brought shoemaker’s bindings to your shop, and wished them imitated. Certainly those are not the differences I most feel. My dear fellow, such things have ceased to speak to me; they are doubtless charming, but they leave me cold. What will you have? One can’t serve God and mammon.” Her thoughts were fixed38 on far other matters than the delight of dainty covers, and she evidently considered that in caring so much for them Hyacinth resembled the mad emperor who fiddled49 in the flames of Rome. European society, to her mind, was in flames, and no frivolous50 occupation could give the measure of the emotion with which she watched them. It produced occasionally demonstrations51 of hilarity52, of joy and hope, but these always took some form connected with the life of the people. It was the people she had gone to see, when she accompanied Hyacinth to a music-hall in the Edgware Road; and all her excursions and pastimes, this winter, were prompted by her interest in the classes on whose behalf the revolution was to be wrought53.
To ask himself whether she were in earnest was now an old story to him, and, indeed, the conviction he might arrive at on this head had ceased to have any practical relevancy. It was just as she was, superficial or profound, that she held him, and she was, at any rate, sufficiently54 animated55 by a purpose for her doings to have consequences, actual and possible. Some of these might be serious, even if she herself were not, and there were times when Hyacinth was much visited by the apprehension of them. On the Sundays that she had gone with him into the darkest places, the most fetid holes, in London, she had always taken money with her, in considerable quantities, and always left it behind. She said, very naturally, that one couldn’t go and stare at people, for an impression, without paying them, and she gave alms right and left, indiscriminately, without inquiry or judgment56, as simply as the abbess of some beggar-haunted convent, or a lady-bountiful of the superstitious57, unscientific ages who should have hoped to be assisted to heaven by her doles58. Hyacinth never said to her, though he sometimes thought it, that since she was so full of the modern spirit her charity should be administered according to the modern lights, the principles of economical science; partly because she was not a woman to be directed and regulated – she could take other people’s ideas, but she could never take their way. Besides, what did it matter? To himself, what did it matter to-day whether he were drawn59 into right methods or into wrong ones, his time being too short for regret or for cheer? The Princess was an embodied60 passion – she was not a system; and her behaviour, after all, was more addressed to relieving herself than to relieving others. And then misery61 was sown so thick in her path that wherever her money was dropped it fell into some trembling palm. He wondered that she should still have so much cash to dispose of, until she explained to him that she came by it through putting her personal expenditure62 on a rigid63 footing. What she gave away was her savings64, the margin65 she had succeeded in creating; and now that she had tasted of the satisfaction of making little hoards66 for such a purpose she regarded her other years, with their idleness and waste, their merely personal motives67, as a long, stupid sleep of the conscience. To do something for others was not only so much more human, but so much more amusing!
She made strange acquaintances, under Hyacinth’s conduct; she listened to extraordinary stories, and formed theories about them, and about the persons who narrated68 them to her, which were often still more extraordinary. She took romantic fancies to vagabonds of either sex, attempted to establish social relations with them, and was the cause of infinite agitation69 to the gentleman who lived near her in the Crescent, who was always smoking at the window, and who reminded Hyacinth of Mr Micawber. She received visits that were a scandal to the Crescent, and Hyacinth neglected his affairs, whatever they were, to see what tatterdemalion would next turn up at her door. This intercourse71, it is true, took a more fruitful form as her intimacy72 with Lady Aurora73 deepened; her ladyship practised discriminations which she brought the Princess to recognise, and before the winter was over Hyacinth’s services in the slums were found unnecessary. He gave way with relief, with delight, to Lady Aurora, for he had not in the least understood his behaviour for the previous four months, nor taken himself seriously as a cicerone. He had plunged75 into a sea of barbarism without having any civilising energy to put forth76. He was conscious that the people were miserable77 – more conscious, it often seemed to him, than they themselves were; so frequently was he struck with their brutal78 insensibility, a grossness impervious79 to the taste of better things or to any desire for them. He knew it so well that the repetition of contact could add no vividness to the conviction; it rather smothered80 and befogged his impression, peopled it with contradictions and difficulties, a violence of reaction, a sense of the inevitable81 and insurmountable. In these hours the poverty and ignorance of the multitude seemed so vast and preponderant, and so much the law of life, that those who had managed to escape from the black gulf82 were only the happy few, people of resource as well as children of luck; they inspired in some degree the interest and sympathy that one should feel for survivors83 and victors, those who have come safely out of a shipwreck84 or a battle. What was most in Hyacinth’s mind was the idea, of which every pulsation85 of the general life of his time was a syllable86, that the flood of democracy was rising over the world; that it would sweep all the traditions of the past before it; that, whatever it might fail to bring, it would at least carry in its bosom87 a magnificent energy; and that it might be trusted to look after its own. When democracy should have its way everywhere, it would be its fault (whose else?) if want and suffering and crime should continue to be ingredients of the human lot. With his mixed, divided nature, his conflicting sympathies, his eternal habit of swinging from one view to another, Hyacinth regarded this prospect88, in different moods, with different kinds of emotion. In spite of the example Eustache Poupin gave him of the reconcilement of disparities, he was afraid the democracy wouldn’t care for perfect bindings or for the finest sort of conversation. The Princess gave up these things in proportion as she advanced in the direction she had so audaciously chosen; and if the Princess could give them up it would take very transcendent natures to stick to them. At the same time there was joy, exultation89, in the thought of surrendering one’s self to the wave of revolt, of floating in the tremendous tide, of feeling one’s self lifted and tossed, carried higher on the sun-touched crests90 of billows than one could ever be by a dry, lonely effort of one’s own. That vision could deepen to a kind of ecstasy91; make it indifferent whether one’s ultimate fate, in such a heaving sea, were not almost certainly to be submerged in bottomless depths or dashed to pieces on resisting cliffs. Hyacinth felt that, whether his personal sympathy should rest finally with the victors or the vanquished92, the victorious93 force was colossal94 and would require no testimony95 from the irresolute96.
The reader will doubtless smile at his mental debates and oscillations, and not understand why a little bastard97 bookbinder should attach importance to his conclusions. They were not important for either cause, but they were important for himself, if only because they would rescue him from the torment98 of his present life, the perpetual laceration of the rebound99. There was no peace for him between the two currents that flowed in his nature, the blood of his passionate100, plebeian101 mother and that of his long-descended, supercivilised sire. They continued to toss him from one side to the other; they arrayed him in intolerable defiances and revenges against himself. He had a high ambition: he wanted neither more nor less than to get hold of the truth and wear it in his heart. He believed, with the candour of youth, that it is brilliant and clear-cut, like a royal diamond; but in whatever direction he turned in the effort to find it, he seemed to know that behind him, bent on him in reproach, was a tragic102, wounded face. The thought of his mother had filled him, originally, with the vague, clumsy fermentation of his first impulses toward social criticism; but since the problem had become more complex by the fact that many things in the world as it was constituted grew intensely dear to him, he had tried more and more to construct some conceivable and human countenance103 for his father – some expression of honour, of tenderness and recognition, of unmerited suffering, or at least of adequate expiation104. To desert one of these presences for the other – that idea had a kind of shame in it, as an act of treachery would have had; for he could almost hear the voice of his father ask him if it were the conduct of a gentleman to take up the opinions and emulate105 the crudities of fanatics106 and cads. He had got over thinking that it would not have become his father to talk of what was proper to gentlemen, and making the mental reflection that from him, at least, the biggest cad in London could not have deserved less consideration. He had worked himself round to allowances, to interpretations107, to such hypotheses as the evidence in the Times, read in the British Museum on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon, did not exclude; though they had been frequent enough, and too frequent, his hours of hot resentment108 against the man who had attached to him the stigma109 he was to carry for ever, he threw himself, in other conditions, and with a certain success, into the effort to find condonations, excuses, for him. It was comparatively easy for him to accept himself as the son of a terribly light Frenchwoman; there seemed a deeper obloquy110 even than that in his having for his other parent a nobleman altogether wanting in nobleness. He was too poor to afford it. Sometimes, in his imagination, he sacrificed one to the other, throwing over Lord Frederick much the oftener; sometimes, when the theory failed that his father would have done great things for him if he had lived, or the assumption broke down that he had been Florentine Vivier’s only lover, he cursed and disowned them alike; sometimes he arrived at conceptions which presented them side by side, looking at him with eyes infinitely111 sad but quite unashamed – eyes which seemed to tell him that they had been hideously112 unfortunate but had not been base. Of course his worst moments now, as they had always been the worst, were those in which his grounds for thinking that Lord Frederick had really been his father perversely113 fell away from him. It must be added that they always passed, for the mixture that he felt himself so tormentingly114, so insolubly, to be could be accounted for in no other manner.
I mention these dim broodings not because they belong in an especial degree to the history of our young man during the winter of the Princess’s residence in Madeira Crescent, but because they were a constant element in his moral life and need to be remembered in any view of him at a given time. There were nights of November and December, as he trod the greasy115 pavements that lay between Westminster and Paddington, groping his way through the baffled lamp-light and tasting the smoke-seasoned fog, when there was more happiness in his heart than he had ever known. The influence of his permeating116 London had closed over him again; Paris and Milan and Venice had shimmered117 away into reminiscence and picture; and as the great city which was most his own lay round him under her pall118, like an immeasurable breathing monster, he felt, with a vague excitement, as he had felt before, only now with more knowledge, that it was the richest expression of the life of man. His horizon had been immensely widened, but it was filled, again, by the expanse that sent dim night-gleams and strange blurred119 reflections and emanations into a sky without stars. He suspended, as it were, his small sensibility in the midst of it, and it quivered there with joy and hope and ambition, as well as with the effort of renunciation. The Princess’s quiet fireside glowed with deeper assurances, with associations of intimacy, through the dusk and the immensity; the thought of it was with him always, and his relations with the mistress of it were more organised than they had been in his first vision of her. Whether or no it was better for the cause she cherished that she should have been reduced to her present simplicity120, it was better, at least, for Hyacinth. It made her more near and him more free; and if there had been a danger of her nature seeming really to take the tone of the vulgar things about her, he would only have had to remember her as she was at Medley to restore the perspective. In truth, her beauty always appeared to have the setting that best became it; her fairness made the element in which she lived and, among the meanest accessories, constituted a kind of splendour. Nature had multiplied the difficulties in the way of her successfully representing herself as having properties in common with the horrible populace of London. Hyacinth used to smile at this pretension in his night-walks to Paddington, or homeward; the populace of London were scattered121 upon his path, and he asked himself by what wizardry they could ever be raised to high participations. There were nights when every one he met appeared to reek122 with gin and filth123, and he found himself elbowed by figures as foul124 as lepers. Some of the women and girls, in particular, were appalling125 – saturated126 with alcohol and vice74, brutal, bedraggled, obscene. ‘What remedy but another deluge127, what alchemy but annihilation?’ he asked himself, as he went his way; and he wondered what fate there could be, in the great scheme of things, for a planet overgrown with such vermin, what redemption but to be hurled128 against a ball of consuming fire. If it was the fault of the rich, as Paul Muniment held, the selfish, congested rich, who allowed such abominations to flourish, that made no difference, and only shifted the shame; for the terrestrial globe, a visible failure, produced the cause as well as the effect.
It did not occur to Hyacinth that the Princess had withdrawn130 her confidence from him because, for the work of investigating still further the condition of the poor, she placed herself in the hands of Lady Aurora. He could have no jealousy of the noble spinster; he had too much respect for her philanthropy, the thoroughness of her knowledge, and her capacity to answer any question it could come into the Princess’s extemporising head to ask, and too acute a consciousness of his own desultory131 and superficial attitude toward the great question. It was enough for him that the little parlour in Madeira Crescent was a spot round which his thoughts could revolve132, and toward which his steps could direct themselves, with an unalloyed sense of security and privilege. The picture of it hung before him half the time, in colours to which the feeling of the place gave a rarity that doubtless did not literally133 characterise the scene. His relations with the Princess had long since ceased to appear to him to belong to the world of fable134; they were as natural as anything else (everything in life was queer enough); he had by this time assimilated them, as it were, and they were an indispensable part of the happiness of each. ‘Of each’ – Hyacinth risked that, for there was no particular vanity now involved in his perceiving that the most remarkable135 woman in Europe was, simply, very fond of him. The quiet, familiar, fraternal welcome he found on the nasty winter nights was proof enough of that. They sat together like very old friends, whom long pauses, during which they simply looked at each other with kind, acquainted eyes, could not make uncomfortable. Not that the element of silence was the principal part of their conversation, for it interposed only when they had talked a great deal. Hyacinth, on the opposite side of the fire, felt at times almost as if he were married to his hostess, so many things were taken for granted between them. For intercourse of that sort, intimate, easy, humorous, circumscribed136 by drawn curtains and shaded lamp-light, and interfused with domestic embarrassments137 and confidences, all turning to the jocular, the Princess was incomparable. It was her theory of her present existence that she was picnicking; but all the accidents of the business were happy accidents. There was a household quietude in her steps and gestures, in the way she sat, in the way she listened, in the way she played with the cat, or looked after the fire, or folded Madame Grandoni’s ubiquitous shawl; above all, in the inveteracy138 with which she spent her evenings at home, never dining out nor going to parties, ignorant of the dissipations of the town. There was something in the isolation139 of the room, when the kettle was on the hob and he had given his wet umbrella to the maid and the Princess made him sit in a certain place near the fire, the better to dry his shoes – there was something that evoked140 the idea of the vie de province, as he had read about it in French works. The French term came to him because it represented more the especial note of the Princess’s company, the cultivation141, the facility, of talk. She expressed herself often in the French tongue itself; she could borrow that convenience, for certain shades of meaning, though she had told Hyacinth that she didn’t like the people to whom it was native. Certainly, the quality of her conversation was not provincial142; it was singularly free and unrestricted; there was nothing one mightn’t say to her or that she was not liable to say herself. She had cast off prejudices and gave no heed143 to conventional danger-posts. Hyacinth admired the movement – his eyes seemed to see it – with which, in any direction, intellectually, she could fling open her windows. There was an extraordinary charm in this mixture of liberty and humility144 – in seeing a creature capable, socially, of immeasurable flights sit dove-like, with folded wings.
The young man met Lady Aurora several times in Madeira Crescent (her days, like his own, were filled with work, and she came in the evening), and he knew that her friendship with the Princess had arrived at a rich maturity145. The two ladies were a source of almost rapturous interest to each other, and each rejoiced that the other was not a bit different. The Princess prophesied146 freely that her visitor would give her up – all nice people did, very soon; but to Hyacinth the end of her ladyship’s almost breathless enthusiasm was not yet in view. She was bewildered, but she was fascinated; and she thought the Princess not only the most distinguished147, the most startling, the most edifying148 and the most original person in the world, but the most amusing and the most delightful149 to have tea with. As for the Princess, her sentiment about Lady Aurora was the same that Hyacinth’s had been: she thought her a saint, the first she had ever seen, and the purest specimen7 conceivable; as good in her way as St Francis of Assisi, as tender and na?ve and transparent150, of a spirit of charity as sublime151. She held that when one met a human flower as fresh as that in the dusty ways of the world one should pluck it and wear it; and she was always inhaling152 Lady Aurora’s fragrance153, always kissing her and holding her hand. The spinster was frightened at her generosity, at the way her imagination embroidered154; she wanted to convince her (as the Princess did on her own side) that such exaggerations destroyed their unfortunate subject. The Princess delighted in her clothes, in the way she put them on and wore them, in the economies she practised in order to have money for charity and the ingenuity155 with which these slender resources were made to go far, in the very manner in which she spoke, a kind of startled simplicity. She wished to emulate her in all these particulars; to learn how to economise still more cunningly, to get her bonnets156 at the same shop, to care as little for the fit of her gloves, to ask, in the same tone, “Isn’t it a bore Susan Crotty’s husband has got a ticket-of-leave?” She said Lady Aurora made her feel like a French milliner, and that if there was anything in the world she loathed157 it was a French milliner. Each of these persons was powerfully affected158 by the other’s idiosyncrasies, and each wanted the other to remain as she was while she herself should be transformed into the image of her friend.
One evening, going to Madeira Crescent a little later than usual, Hyacinth met Lady Aurora on the doorstep, leaving the house. She had a different air from any he had seen in her before; appeared flushed and even a little agitated159, as if she had been learning a piece of bad news. She said, “Oh, how do you do?” with her customary quick, vague laugh; but she went her way, without stopping to talk.
Hyacinth, on going in, mentioned to the Princess that he had encountered her, and this lady replied, “It’s a pity you didn’t come a little sooner. You would have assisted at a scene.”
“At a scene?” Hyacinth repeated, not understanding what violence could have taken place between mutual160 adorers.
“She made me a scene of tears, of earnest remonstrance161 – perfectly162 well meant, I needn’t tell you. She thinks I am going too far.”
“I imagine you tell her things that you don’t tell me,” said Hyacinth.
“Oh, you, my dear fellow!” the Princess murmured. She spoke absent-mindedly, as if she were thinking of what had passed with Lady Aurora, and as if the futility163 of telling things to Hyacinth had become a commonplace.
There was no annoyance164 for him in this, his pretension to keep pace with her ‘views’ being quite extinct. The tone they now, for the most part, took with each other was one of mutual derision, of shrugging commiseration165 for insanity166 on the one hand and benightedness167 on the other. In discussing with her he exaggerated deliberately168, went to fantastic lengths in the way of reaction; and it was their habit and their entertainment to hurl129 all manner of denunciation at each other’s head. They had given up serious discussion altogether, and when they were not engaged in bandying, in the spirit of burlesque169, the amenities170 I have mentioned, they talked of matters as to which it could not occur to them to differ. There were evenings when the Princess did nothing but relate her life and all that she had seen of humanity, from her earliest years, in a variety of countries. If the evil side of it appeared mainly to have been presented to her view, this did not diminish the interest and vividness of her reminiscences, nor her power, the greatest Hyacinth had ever encountered, of light pictorial171, dramatic evocation172. She was irreverent and invidious, but she made him hang on her lips; and when she regaled him with anecdotes173 of foreign courts (he delighted to know how sovereigns lived and conversed), there was often, for hours together, nothing to indicate that she would have liked to get into a conspiracy174 and he would have liked to get out of one. Nevertheless, his mind was by no means exempt175 from wonder as to what she was really doing in the dark and in what queer consequences she might find herself landed. When he questioned her she wished to know by what title, with his sentiments, he pretended to inquire. He did so but little, not being himself altogether convinced of the validity of his warrant; but on one occasion, when she challenged him, he replied, smiling and hesitating, “Well, I must say, it seems to me that, from what I have told you, it ought to strike you that I have a title.”
“You mean your famous engagement, your vow176? Oh, that will never come to anything.”
“Why won’t it come to anything?”
“It’s too absurd, it’s too vague. It’s like some silly humbug177 in a novel.”
“Vous me rendez la vie!” said Hyacinth, theatrically178.
“You won’t have to do it,” the Princess went on.
“I think you mean I won’t do it. I have offered, at least; isn’t that a title?”
“Well, then, you won’t do it,” said the Princess; and they looked at each other a couple of minutes in silence.
“You will, I think, at the pace you are going,” the young man resumed.
“What do you know about the pace? You are not worthy to know!”
He did know, however; that is, he knew that she was in communication with foreign socialists179 and had, or believed she had, irons on the fire – that she held in her hand some of the strings180 that are pulled in great movements. She received letters that made Madame Grandoni watch her askance, of which, though she knew nothing of their contents and had only her general suspicions and her scent70 for disaster, now become constant, the old woman had spoken more than once to Hyacinth. Madame Grandoni had begun to have sombre visions of the interference of the police: she was haunted with the idea of a search for compromising papers; of being dragged, herself, as an accomplice181 in direful plots, into a court of justice – possibly into a prison. “If she would only burn – if she would only burn! But she keeps – I know she keeps!” she groaned182 to Hyacinth, in her helpless gloom. Hyacinth could only guess what it might be that she kept; asking himself whether she were seriously entangled183, were being exploited by revolutionary Bohemians, predatory adventurers who counted on her getting frightened at a given moment and offering hush-money to be allowed to slip out (out of a complicity which they, of course, would never have taken seriously); or were merely coquetting with paper schemes, giving herself cheap sensations, discussing preliminaries which, for her, could have no second stage. It would have been easy for Hyacinth to smile at the Princess’s impression that she was ‘in it’, and to conclude that even the cleverest women do not know when they are superficial, had not the vibration184 remained which had been imparted to his nerves two years before, of which he had spoken to his hostess at Medley – the sense, vividly185 kindled186 and never quenched188, that the forces secretly arrayed against the present social order were pervasive189 and universal, in the air one breathed, in the ground one trod, in the hand of an acquaintance that one might touch, or the eye of a stranger that might rest a moment upon one’s own. They were above, below, within, without, in every contact and combination of life; and it was no disproof of them to say it was too odd that they should lurk190 in a particular improbable form. To lurk in improbable forms was precisely191 their strength, and they would doubtless exhibit much stranger incidents than this of the Princess’s being a genuine participant even when she flattered herself that she was.
“You do go too far,” Hyacinth said to her, the evening Lady Aurora had passed him at the door.
To which she answered, “Of course I do – that’s exactly what I mean. How else does one know one has gone far enough? That poor, dear woman! She’s an angel, but she isn’t in the least in it,” she added, in a moment. She would give him no further satisfaction on the subject; when he pressed her she inquired whether he had brought the copy of Browning that he had promised the last time. If he had, he was to sit down and read it to her. In such a case as this Hyacinth had no disposition192 to insist; he was glad enough not to talk about the everlasting193 nightmare. He took Men and Women from his pocket, and read aloud for half an hour; but on his making some remark on one of the poems, at the end of this time he perceived the Princess had been paying no attention. When he charged her with this levity194 she only replied, looking at him musingly195, “How can one, after all, go too far? That’s a word of cowards.”
“Do you mean her ladyship is a coward?”
“Yes, in not having the courage of her opinions, of her conclusions. The way the English can go half-way to a thing, and then stick in the middle!” the Princess exclaimed, impatiently.
“That’s not your fault, certainly!” said Hyacinth. “But it seems to me that Lady Aurora, for herself, goes pretty far.”
“We are all afraid of some things, and brave about others,” the Princess went on.
“The thing Lady Aurora is most afraid of is the Princess Casamassima,” Hyacinth remarked.
His companion looked at him, but she did not take this up. “There is one particular in which she would be very brave. She would marry her friend – your friend – Mr Muniment.”
“Marry him, do you think?”
“What else, pray?” the Princess asked. “She adores the ground he walks on.”
“And what would Belgrave Square, and Inglefield, and all the rest of it, say?”
“What do they say already, and how much does it make her swerve196? She would do it in a moment; and it would be fine to see it, it would be magnificent,” said the Princess, kindling197, as she was apt to kindle187, at the idea of any great freedom of action.
“That certainly wouldn’t be a case of what you call sticking in the middle,” Hyacinth rejoined.
“Ah, it wouldn’t be a matter of logic198; it would be a matter of passion. When it’s a question of that, the English, to do them justice, don’t stick!”
This speculation199 of the Princess’s was by no means new to Hyacinth, and he had not thought it heroic, after all, that their high-strung friend should feel herself capable of sacrificing her family, her name, and the few habits of gentility that survived in her life, of making herself a scandal, a fable, and a nine days’ wonder, for Muniment’s sake; the young chemist’s assistant being, to his mind, as we know, exactly the type of man who produced convulsions, made ruptures200 and renunciations easy. But it was less clear to him what ideas Muniment might have on the subject of a union with a young woman who should have come out of her class for him. He would marry some day, evidently, because he would do all the natural, human, productive things; but for the present he had business on hand which would be likely to pass first. Besides – Hyacinth had seen him give evidence of this – he didn’t think people could really come out of their class; he held that the stamp of one’s origin is ineffaceable and that the best thing one can do is to wear it and fight for it. Hyacinth could easily imagine how it would put him out to be mixed up, closely, with a person who, like Lady Aurora, was fighting on the wrong side. “She can’t marry him unless he asks her, I suppose – and perhaps he won’t,” he reflected.
“Yes, perhaps he won’t,” said the Princess, thoughtfully.
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1
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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2
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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3
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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4
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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5
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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6
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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10
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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13
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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14
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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15
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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rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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17
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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18
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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19
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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20
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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21
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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22
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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23
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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24
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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25
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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26
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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27
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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28
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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29
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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30
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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31
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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32
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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33
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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34
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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35
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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36
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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37
fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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38
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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39
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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40
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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41
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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42
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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43
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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44
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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45
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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46
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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47
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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48
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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49
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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50
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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51
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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52
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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53
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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54
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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55
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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56
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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57
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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58
doles
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| 救济物( dole的名词复数 )； 失业救济金 | |
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59
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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60
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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61
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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62
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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63
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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64
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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65
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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66
hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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68
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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70
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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71
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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72
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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73
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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74
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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75
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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76
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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77
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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78
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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79
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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80
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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81
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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82
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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83
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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84
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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85
pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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86
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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87
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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88
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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91
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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92
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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93
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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94
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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95
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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96
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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97
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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98
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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99
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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100
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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101
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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102
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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103
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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104
expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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105
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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106
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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107
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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108
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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109
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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obloquy
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| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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111
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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112
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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113
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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114
tormentingly
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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115
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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116
permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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117
shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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119
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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120
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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121
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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122
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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123
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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124
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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125
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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126
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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127
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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128
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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129
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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130
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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131
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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132
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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133
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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134
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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137
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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138
inveteracy
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| n.根深蒂固，积习 | |
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139
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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141
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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144
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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145
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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146
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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148
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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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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152
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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153
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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154
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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155
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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156
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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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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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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167
benightedness
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| 愚昧的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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172
evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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174
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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175
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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176
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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177
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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178
theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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179
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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180
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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181
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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182
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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183
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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185
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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186
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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187
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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188
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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189
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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190
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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191
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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192
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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193
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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194
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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195
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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196
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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197
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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198
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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199
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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200
ruptures
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| n.（体内组织等的）断裂( rupture的名词复数 )；爆裂；疝气v.（使）破裂( rupture的第三人称单数 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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