He said to her:
“You are not cross now, my dear?”
And, as he insisted upon having an answer, she said:
“What do you wish me to say, my friend? I can only repeat what I said at first. I think it strange that I have to learn of your projects from General Lariviere.”
He knew very well that she had not forgiven him; that she had remained cold and reserved toward him. But he affected6 to think that she only pouted7.
“My dear, I have explained it to you. I have told you that when I met Lariviere I had just received a letter from Caumont, recalling my promise to hunt the fox in his woods, and I replied by return post. I meant to tell you about it to-day. I am sorry that General Lariviere told you first, but there was no significance in that.”
Her arms were lifted like the handles of a vase. She turned toward him a glance from her tranquil8 eyes, which he did not understand.
“Then you are going?”
“Next week, Tuesday or Wednesday. I shall be away only ten days at most.”
She put on her sealskin toque, ornamented9 with a branch of holly10.
“Is it something that you can not postpone11?”
“Oh, yes. Fox-skins would not be worth anything in a month. Moreover, Caumont has invited good friends of mine, who would regret my absence.”
Fixing her toque on her head with a long pin, she frowned.
“Is fox-hunting interesting?”
“Oh, yes, very. The fox has stratagems12 that one must fathom13. The intelligence of that animal is really marvellous. I have observed at night a fox hunting a rabbit. He had organized a real hunt. I assure you it is not easy to dislodge a fox. Caumont has an excellent cellar. I do not care for it, but it is generally appreciated. I will bring you half a dozen skins.”
“What do you wish me to do with them?”
“Oh, you can make rugs of them.”
“And you will be hunting eight days?”
“Not all the time. I shall visit my aunt, who expects me. Last year at this time there was a delightful14 reunion at her house. She had with her her two daughters and her three nieces with their husbands. All five women are pretty, gay, charming, and irreproachable15. I shall probably find them at the beginning of next month, assembled for my aunt’s birthday, and I shall remain there two days.”
“My friend, stay as long as it may please you. I should be inconsolable if you shortened on my account a sojourn16 which is so agreeable.”
“But you, Therese?”
“I, my friend? I can take care of myself.”
The fire was languishing17. The shadows were deepening between them. She said, in a dreamy tone:
“It is true, however, that it is never prudent18 to leave a woman alone.”
He went near her, trying to see her eyes in the darkness. He took her hand.
“You love me?” he said.
“Oh, I assure you that I do not love another but —”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I am thinking — I am thinking that we are separated all through the summer; that in winter you live with your parents and your friends half the time; and that, if we are to see so little of each other, it is better not to see each other at all.”
He lighted the candelabra. His frank, hard face was illuminated19. He looked at her with a confidence that came less from the conceit20 common to all lovers than from his natural lack of dignity. He believed in her through force of education and simplicity21 of intelligence.
“Therese, I love you, and you love me, I know. Why do you torment22 me? Sometimes you are painfully harsh.”
She shook her little head brusquely.
“What will you have? I am harsh and obstinate23. It is in the blood. I take it from my father. You know Joinville; you have seen the castle, the ceilings, the tapestries24, the gardens, the park, the hunting-grounds, you have said that none better were in France; but you have not seen my father’s workshop — a white wooden table and a mahogany bureau. Everything about me has its origin there. On that table my father made figures for forty years; at first in a little room, then in the apartment where I was born. We were not very wealthy then. I am a parvenu’s daughter, or a conqueror’s daughter, it’s all the same. We are people of material interests. My father wanted to earn money, to possess what he could buy — that is, everything. I wish to earn and keep — what? I do not know — the happiness that I have — or that I have not. I have my own way of being exacting25. I long for dreams and illusions. Oh, I know very well that all this is not worth the trouble that a woman takes in giving herself to a man; but it is a trouble that is worth something, because my trouble is myself, my life. I like to enjoy what I like, or think what I like. I do not wish to lose. I am like papa: I demand what is due to me. And then —”
She lowered her voice:
“And then, I have — impulses! Now, my dear, I bore you. What will you have? You shouldn’t have loved me.”
This language, to which she had accustomed him, often spoiled his pleasure. But it did not alarm him. He was sensitive to all that she did, but not at all to what she said; and he attached no importance to a woman’s words. Talking little himself, he could not imagine that often words are the same as actions.
Although he loved her, or, rather, because he loved her with strength and confidence, he thought it his duty to resist her whims26, which he judged absurd. Whenever he played the master, he succeeded with her; and, naively27, he always ended by playing it.
“You know very well, Therese, that I wish to do nothing except to be agreeable to you. Don’t be capricious with me.”
“And why should I not be capricious? If I gave myself to you, it was not because I was logical, nor because I thought I must. It was because I was capricious.”
He looked at her, astonished and saddened.
“The word is not pleasant to you, my friend? Well let us say that it was love. Truly it was, with all my heart, and because I felt that you loved me. But love must be a pleasure, and if I do not find in it the satisfaction of what you call my capriciousness, but which is really my desire, my life, my love, I do not want it; I prefer to live alone. You are astonishing! My caprices! Is there anything else in life? Your foxhunt, isn’t that capricious?”
He replied, very sincerely:
“If I had not promised, I swear to you, Therese, that I would sacrifice that small pleasure with great joy.”
She felt that he spoke28 the truth. She knew how exact he was in filling the most trifling29 engagements, yet realized that if she insisted he would not go. But it was too late: she did not wish to win. She would seek hereafter only the violent pleasure of losing. She pretended to take his reason seriously, and said:
“Ah, you have promised!”
And she affected to yield.
Surprised at first, he congratulated himself at last on having made her listen to reason. He was grateful to her for not having been stubborn. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the neck and eyelids30 as a reward. He said:
“We may meet three or four times before I go, and more, if you wish. I will wait for you as often as you wish to come. Will you meet me here to-morrow?”
She gave herself the satisfaction of saying that she could not come the next day nor any other day.
Softly she mentioned the things that prevented her.
The obstacles seemed light; calls, a gown to be tried on, a charity fair, exhibitions. As she dilated31 upon the difficulties they seemed to increase. The calls could not be postponed32; there were three fairs; the exhibitions would soon close. In fine, it was impossible for her to see him again before his departure.
As he was well accustomed to making excuses of that sort, he failed to observe that it was not natural for Therese to offer them. Embarrassed by this tissue of social obligations, he did not persist, but remained silent and unhappy.
With her left arm she raised the portiere, placed her right hand on the key of the door; and, standing against the rich background of the sapphire33 and ruby-colored folds of the Oriental draperies, she turned her head toward the friend she was leaving, and said, a little mockingly, yet with a touch of tragic34 emotion:
“Good-by, Robert. Enjoy yourself. My calls, my errands, your little visits are nothing. Life is made up of just such trifles. Good-by!”
She went out. He would have liked to accompany her, but he made it a point not to show himself with her in the street, unless she absolutely forced him to do so.
In the street, Therese felt suddenly that she was alone in the world, without joy and without pain. She returned to her house on foot, as was her habit. It was night; the air was frozen, clear, and tranquil. But the avenues through which she walked, in shadows studded with lights, enveloped35 her with that mild atmosphere of the queen of cities, so agreeable to its inhabitants, which makes itself felt even in the cold of winter. She walked between the lines of huts and old houses, remains36 of the field-days of Auteuil, which tall houses interrupted here and there. These small shops, these monotonous37 windows, were nothing to her. Yet she felt that she was under the mysterious spell of the friendship of inanimate things; and it seemed to her that the stones, the doors of houses, the lights behind the windowpanes, looked kindly38 upon her. She was alone, and she wished to be alone. The steps she was taking between the two houses wherein her habits were almost equal, the steps she had taken so often, to-day seemed to her irrevocable. Why? What had that day brought? Not exactly a quarrel. And yet the words spoken that day had left a subtle, strange, persistent39 sting, which would never leave her. What had happened? Nothing. And that nothing had effaced40 everything. She had a sort of obscure certainty that she would never return to that room which had so recently enclosed the most secret and dearest phases of her life. She had loved Robert with the seriousness of a necessary joy. Made to be loved, and very reasonable, she had not lost in the abandonment of herself that instinct of reflection, that necessity for security, which was so strong in her. She had not chosen: one seldom chooses. She had not allowed herself to be taken at random42 and by surprise. She had done what she had wished to do, as much as one ever does what one wishes to do in such cases. She had nothing to regret. He had been to her what it was his duty to be. She felt, in spite of everything, that all was at an end. She thought, with dry sadness, that three years of her life had been given to an honest man who had loved her and whom she had loved. “For I loved him. I must have loved him in order to give myself to him.” But she could not feel again the sentiments of early days, the movements of her mind when she had yielded. She recalled small and insignificant43 circumstances: the flowers on the wall-paper and the pictures in the room. She recalled the words, a little ridiculous and almost touching44, that he had said to her. But it seemed to her that the adventure had occurred to another woman, to a stranger whom she did not like and whom she hardly understood. And what had happened only a moment ago seemed far distant now. The room, the lilacs in the crystal vase, the little cup of Bohemian glass where she found her pins — she saw all these things as if through a window that one passes in the street. She was without bitterness, and even without sadness. She had nothing to forgive, alas45! This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against her; it was nothing, yet it was everything. It was the end. She knew it. She wished to cease. It was the consent of all the forces of her being. She said to herself: “I have no reason to love him less. Do I love him no more? Did I ever love him?” She did not know and she did not care to know. Three years, during which there had been months when they had seen each other every day — was all this nothing? Life is not a great thing. And what one puts in it, how little that is!
In fine, she had nothing of which to complain. But it was better to end it all. All these reflections brought her back to that point. It was not a resolution; resolutions may be changed. It was graver: it was a state of the body and of the mind.
When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain, and on one side of which stands a church of rustic46 style, showing its bell in an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet47 of violets that he had given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame48. They had loved each other that day — perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened49 at that reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor little flower skeleton, in her memory.
While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a crisis. She thought: “How do other women manage such things? And I, who promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?”
Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made of a narrow flexible plank50. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her; she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface41 themselves, and reveal a glimpse of the sky.
He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively.
“Graceful51 movements,” he added, “are like music for the eyes.”
She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause of her good health.
He, too, liked to walk in populous52 towns and beautiful fields. The mystery of highways tempted53 him. He liked to travel. Although voyages had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm. He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother country of his mind.
“I shall go there next week,” he said. “I long to see again Ravenna asleep among the black pines of its sterile54 shore. Have you seen Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted55 tomb where sparkling phantoms56 appear. The magic of death lies there. The mosaic57 works of Saint Vitale, with their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one feel the monstrous58 delights of the Orient. Despoiled59 to-day of its silver lamels, the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful60 under its crypt, luminous61 yet gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius, seated on her golden chair, erect62 in her gown studded with stones and embroidered63 with scenes from the Old Testament64; her beautiful, cruel face preserved hard and black with aromatic65 plants, and her ebony hands immovable on her knees. For thirteen centuries she retained this funereal66 majesty67, until one day a child passed a candle through the opening of the grave and burned the body.”
Madame Martin-Belleme asked what that dead woman, so obstinate in her conceit, had done during her life.
“Twice a slave,” said Dechartre, “she became twice an empress.”
“She must have been beautiful,” said Madame Martin. “You have made me see her too vividly68 in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to Venice, Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas69, of canals bordered by palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I still like Venice, after being there three times.”
He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice.
Whenever he went there, from a sculptor70 he became a painter, and made studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere.
“Elsewhere,” he said, “even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice it is everywhere; it caresses71 the earth and the water. It envelops72 lovingly the leaden domes73 and the marble facades74, and throws into the iridescent75 atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women are! Their forms are so slender and supple76 under their black shawls. If nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that bone the charm of their exquisite77 structure. Sundays, at church, they form laughing groups, agitated78, with hips79 a little pointed80, elegant necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming81 glances. And all bend, with the suppleness82 of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice83, preceded by two choir-boys.”
He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas, sometimes quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost outstripped84 him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and supple carriage. He observed the little shake which at moments her obstinate head gave to the holly on her toque.
Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate, with a young woman almost unknown.
They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of boxwood, which entirely85 hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay86. One felt the presence of the river by the milky87 atmosphere which in misty88 days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights of the city were mingled89 with the stars. At the south shone the three golden nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued:
“Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora, fragrant90 as a flower. She smiled. What a mouth! The richest jewel in the most beautiful light. I realized in time that this smile was addressed to a butcher standing behind me with his basket on his head.”
At the corner of the short street which goes to the quay, between two lines of small gardens, Madame Martin walked more slowly.
“It is true that at Venice,” she said, “all women are pretty.”
“They are almost all pretty, Madame. I speak of the common girls — the cigar-girls, the girls among the glass-workers. The others are commonplace enough.”
“By others you mean society women; and you don’t like these?”
“Society women? Oh, some of them are charming. As for loving them, that’s a different affair.”
“Do you think so?”
She extended her hand to him, and suddenly turned the corner.
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收听单词发音
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1
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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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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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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11
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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14
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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16
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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23
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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28
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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29
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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30
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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31
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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39
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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40
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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41
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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42
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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43
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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44
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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45
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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46
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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47
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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48
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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49
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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50
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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51
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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52
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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53
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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54
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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55
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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envelops
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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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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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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