Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated14, new. He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful15 sadness; he awakened16 in her a voluptuousness17 which had been always dormant18. Now she was determined19 never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her lucid20 mind and her temperament21 presented them all to her. For a moment she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer, exalted22, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without being exacting23. But she did not wish to reassure24 herself with that idea. If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare to think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and closing her eyes.
She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope marked with the monogram25 of the Rue11 Royale Club she recognized the handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, when the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson.
In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two or three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her house.
“I was astounded26 to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in persuading you.
“I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary, that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter resort. I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented27 by it. Reassure me at once, I pray you.
“Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your husband and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it annoys him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in Paris. I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister. This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among fashionable people.”
Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand.
In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return soon.
Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire, and calmly watched it burn.
Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer? Should she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so indifferent to her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she had no desire to be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle toward him! Seeing that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn tranquillity28, she became sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was the same man he had been before. She was not the same woman. They were separated now by imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in the air that make one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she had not begun to write an answer.
Anxious, she thought: “He trusts me. He suspects nothing.” This made her more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others.
She went into the parlor29, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The latter said:
“Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you? Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls naturally expressed.”
Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, and said:
“May I look?”
“Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the popular songs of your country.”
“Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me.”
“Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic30 image must have several meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly disengage one’s self from what one has taken into the heart.”
The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism. As they were descending31 among houses pink and white, gardens and terraces ornamented32 with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend the villa33, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers of the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged34 Florence, and diverted one another with tales frivolous35, facetious36, or tragic37. Then she confessed the thought which had come to her the day before.
“You had gone, darling, to Carmine38 with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate and polished woman. She knows many anecdotes39 about persons of distinction who live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my cook Pompaloni does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them, but he puts the salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet’s tongue is very sweet, but the salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like Pompaloni’s dish, my love — each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like Madame Marmet a great deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found her alone and sad in a corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking mournfully of her husband. I said to her: ‘Do you wish me to think of your husband, too? I will think of him with you. I have been told that he was a learned man, a member of the Royal Society of Paris. Madame Marmet, talk to me of him.’ She replied that he had devoted40 himself to the Etruscans, and that he had given to them his entire life. Oh, darling, I cherished at once the memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who lived for the Etruscans. And then a good idea came to me. I said to Madame Marmet, ‘We have at Fiesole, in the Pretorio Palace, a modest little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it with me. Will you?’ She replied it was what she most desired to see in Italy. We went to the Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many little bronze figures, grotesque41, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans were a seriously gay people. They made bronze caricatures. But the monkeys — some afflicted42 with big stomachs, others astonished to show their bones — Madame Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration43. She contemplated44 them like — there is a beautiful French word that escapes me — like the monuments and the trophies45 of Monsieur Marmet.”
Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull, the streets ugly, the passers-by common.
“Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his palace.”
“I do not think so.”
“Why, darling, why?”
“Because I do not please him much.”
Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great admirer of the Countess Martin.
The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade46 were sealed those bronze rings which formerly47, on festival nights, held rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons48 into the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not an attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal49 Giulio Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now fallen, had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering50 the works of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin several paintings which had not displeased51 Miss Bell, among others a Mantegna.
The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal52 and doubtful collection; she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the darkness a bit of armor and a white horse.
A valet presented a card.
The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts53 of Roman emperors. Dechartre was on the staircase.
The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero, but Antinous.
“I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace,” said Miss Bell. “I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery.”
And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos.
Miss Bell babbled54 to the Prince — her usual prattle55 about those old men and those Virgins whose blue mantles56 were agitated57 by an immovable tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated58, approached Therese, and said to her, in a low tone:
“This gallery is a warehouse59 where picture dealers60 of the entire world hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that Jews could not sell.”
He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green velvet61, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo.
“I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London, of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to sell it for fifty thousand francs.”
The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully62.
“There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm that this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old inventories63 attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about it.”
And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures by the pre-Raphaelites.
Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese. He had all night dreamed and yearned64 over her image. He saw her again, delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had imagined in his insomnia65; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy66, and also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her; that he was becoming importunate67 and ridiculous. This irritated him. He murmured bitterly in her ear: “I have reflected. I did not wish to come. Why did I come?” She understood at once what he meant, that he feared her now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her that he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the desires he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed68 faster. But, affecting to understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and look at bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing69 her, he felt reassured70, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said “No, nothing interesting.” The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to breakfast, asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused himself. He was about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found himself alone with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away from her. He had no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled to her that she was the next morning to visit the Bargello. “You have permitted me to accompany you.” She asked him if he had not found her moody71 and tiresome72. Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he feared she was sad.
“Alas,” he added, “your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know them.” She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. “You do not think that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?” And she walked away brusquely.
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1
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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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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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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waxworks
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| n.公共供水系统；蜡制品，蜡像( waxwork的名词复数 ) | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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13
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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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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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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44
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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45
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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46
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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47
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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48
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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49
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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50
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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51
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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52
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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53
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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54
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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55
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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56
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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58
enervated
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| adj.衰弱的，无力的v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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61
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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62
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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63
inventories
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| n.总结( inventory的名词复数 )；细账；存货清单（或财产目录）的编制 | |
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64
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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66
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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67
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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68
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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70
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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71
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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