Gaston Probert desired nothing better than to be a man; what worried him — and it is perhaps a proof that his instinct was gravely at fault — was a certain vagueness as to the constituents16 of that character. He should approximate more nearly, as it seemed to him, to the brute17 were he to sacrifice in such an effort the decencies and pieties18 — holy things all of them — in which he had been reared. It was very well for Waterlow to say that to be a “real” man it was necessary to be a little of a brute; his friend was willing, in theory, to assent19 even to that. The difficulty was in application, in practice — as to which the painter declared that all would be easy if such account hadn’t to be taken of the marquise, the comtesse and — what was the other one? — the princess. These young amenities20 were exchanged between the pair — while Gaston explained, almost as eagerly as if he were scoring a point, that the other one was only a baronne — during that brief journey to Spain of which mention has already been made, during the later weeks of the summer, after their return (the friends then spent a fortnight together on the coast of Brittany), and above all during the autumn, when they were settled in Paris for the winter, when Mr. Dosson had reappeared, according to the engagement with his daughters, when the sittings for the portrait had multiplied (the painter was unscrupulous as to the number he demanded), and the work itself, born under a happy star, seemed to take more and more the turn of a great thing. It was at Granada that Gaston had really broken out; there, one balmy night, he had dropped into his comrade’s ear that he would marry Francina Dosson or would never marry at all. The declaration was the more striking as it had come after such an interval22; many days had elapsed since their separation from the young lady and many new and beautiful objects appealed to them. It appeared that the smitten23 youth had been thinking of her all the while, and he let his friend know that it was the dinner at Saint–Germain that had finished him. What she had been there Waterlow himself had seen: he wouldn’t controvert24 the lucid25 proposition that she showed a “cutting” equal to any Greek gem21.
In November, in Paris — it was months and weeks before the artist began to please himself — Gaston came often to the Avenue de Villiers toward the end of a sitting and, till it was finished, not to disturb the lovely model, cultivated conversation with the elder sister: the representative of the Proberts was capable of that. Delia was always there of course, but Mr. Dosson had not once turned up and the newspaper-man happily appeared to have faded from view. The new aspirant26 learned in fact from Miss Dosson that a crisis in the history of his journal had recalled Mr. Flack to the seat of that publication. When the young ladies had gone — and when he didn’t go with them; he accompanied them not rarely — the visitor was almost lyrical in his appreciation27 of his friend’s work; he had no jealousy28 of the act of appropriation29 that rendered possible in its turn such an act of handing over, of which the canvas constituted the field. He was sure Waterlow painted the girl too well to be in love with her and that if he himself could have dealt with her in that fashion he mightn’t have wanted to deal in any other. She bloomed there on the easel with all the purity of life, and the artist had caught the very secret of her beauty. It was exactly the way in which her lover would have chosen to see her shown, and yet it had required a perfectly30 independent hand. Gaston mused31 on this mystery and somehow felt proud of the picture and responsible for it, though it was no more his property as yet than the young lady herself. When in December he put before Waterlow his plan of campaign the latter made a comment. “I’ll do anything in the world you like — anything you think will help you — but it passes me, my dear fellow, why in the world you don’t go to them and say: ‘I’ve seen a girl who is as good as cake and pretty as fire, she exactly suits me, I’ve taken time to think of it and I know what I want; therefore I propose to make her my wife. If you happen to like her so much the better; if you don’t be so good as to keep it to yourselves.’ That’s much the most excellent way. Why in the name of goodness all these mysteries and machinations?”
“Oh you don’t understand, you don’t understand!” sighed Gaston, who had never pulled so long a face. “One can’t break with one’s traditions in an hour, especially when there’s so much in them that one likes. I shan’t love her more if they like her, but I shall love THEM more, and I care about that. You talk as a man who has nothing to consider. I’ve everything to consider — and I’m glad I have. My pleasure in marrying her will be double if my father and my sisters accept her, and I shall greatly enjoy working out the business of bringing them round.”
There were moments when Charles Waterlow resented the very vocabulary of his friend; he hated to hear a man talk about the “acceptance” by any one but himself of the woman he loved. One’s own acceptance — of one’s bliss32 — in such a case ended the matter, and the effort to bring round those who gave her the cold shoulder was scarcely consistent with the highest spirit. Young Probert explained that of course he felt his relatives would only have to know Francina to like her, to delight in her, yet also that to know her they would first have to make her acquaintance. This was the delicate point, for social commerce with such malheureux as Mr. Dosson and Delia was not in the least in their usual line and it was impossible to disconnect the poor girl from her appendages33. Therefore the whole question must be approached by an oblique34 movement — it would never do to march straight up. The wedge should have a narrow end, which Gaston now made sure he had found. His sister Susan was another name for this subtle engine; he would break her in first and she would help him to break in the others. She was his favourite relation, his intimate friend — the most modern, the most Parisian and inflammable member of the family. She had no suite35 dans les idees, but she had perceptions, had imagination and humour, and was capable of generosity36, of enthusiasm and even of blind infatuation. She had in fact taken two or three plunges37 of her own and ought to allow for those of others. She wouldn’t like the Dossons superficially any better than his father or than Margaret or than Jane — he called these ladies by their English names, but for themselves, their husbands, their friends and each other they were Suzanne, Marguerite and Jeanne; but there was a good chance of his gaining her to his side. She was as fond of beauty and of the arts as he — this was one of their bonds of union. She appreciated highly Charles Waterlow’s talent and there had been talk of her deciding to sit to him. It was true her husband viewed the project with so much colder an eye that it had not been carried out.
According to Gaston’s plan she was to come to the Avenue de Villiers to see what the artist had done for Miss Francie; her brother was to have worked upon her in advance by his careful rhapsodies, bearing wholly on the achievement itself, the dazzling example of Waterlow’s powers, and not on the young lady, whom he was not to let her know at first that he had so much as seen. Just at the last, just before her visit, he was to mention to her that he had met the girl — at the studio — and that she was as remarkable38 in her way as the picture. Seeing the picture and hearing this, Mme. de Brecourt, as a disinterested39 lover of charming impressions, and above all as an easy prey40 at all times to a rabid curiosity, would express a desire also to enjoy a sight of so rare a creature; on which Waterlow might pronounce it all arrangeable if she would but come in some day when Miss Francie should sit. He would give her two or three dates and Gaston would see that she didn’t let the opportunity pass. She would return alone — this time he wouldn’t go with her — and she would be as taken as could be hoped or needed. Everything much depended on that, but it couldn’t fail. The girl would have to take her, but the girl could be trusted, especially if she didn’t know who the demonstrative French lady was, with her fine plain face, her hair so blond as to be nearly white, her vividly41 red lips and protuberant42 light-coloured eyes. Their host was to do no introducing and to reveal the visitor’s identity only after she had gone. That was a condition indeed this participant grumbled43 at; he called the whole business an odious44 comedy, though his friend knew that if he undertook it he would acquit45 himself honourably46. After Mme. de Brecourt had been captivated — the question of how Francie would be affected47 received in advance no consideration — her brother would throw off the mask and convince her that she must now work with him. Another meeting would be managed for her with the girl — in which each would appear in her proper character; and in short the plot would thicken.
Gaston’s forecast of his difficulties showed how finely he could analyse; but that was not rare enough in any French connexion to make his friend stare. He brought Suzanne de Brecourt, she was enchanted48 with the portrait of the little American, and the rest of the drama began to follow in its order. Mme. de Brecourt raved49 to Waterlow’s face — she had no opinions behind people’s backs — about his mastery of his craft; she could dispose the floral tributes of homage50 with a hand of practice all her own. She was the reverse of egotistic and never spoke51 of herself; her success in life sprang from a much wiser adoption52 of pronouns. Waterlow, who liked her and had long wanted to paint her ugliness — it was a gold-mine of charm — had two opinions about her: one of which was that she knew a hundred times less than she thought, and even than her brother thought, of what she talked about; and the other that she was after all not such a humbug53 as she seemed. She passed in her family for a rank radical54, a bold Bohemian; she picked up expressions out of newspapers and at the petits theatres, but her hands and feet were celebrated55, and her behaviour was not. That of her sisters, as well, had never been disastrously56 exposed.
“But she must be charming, your young lady,” she said to Gaston while she turned her head this way and that as she stood before Francie’s image. “She’s a little Renaissance57 statuette cast in silver, something of Jean Goujon or Germain Pilon.” The young men exchanged a glance, for this struck them as the happiest comparison, and Gaston replied in a detached way that the girl was well worth seeing.
He went in to have a cup of tea with his sister on the day he knew she would have paid her second visit to the studio, and the first words she greeted him with were: “But she’s admirable — votre petite — admirable, admirable!” There was a lady calling in the Place Beauvau at the moment — old Mme. d’Outreville — who naturally asked for news of the object of such enthusiasm. Gaston suffered Susan to answer all questions and was attentive58 to her account of the new beauty. She described his young friend almost as well as he would have done, from the point of view of her type, her graces, her plastic value, using various technical and critical terms to which the old lady listened in silence, solemnly, rather coldly, as if she thought such talk much of a galimatias: she belonged to the old-fashioned school and held a pretty person sufficiently59 catalogued when it had been said she had a dazzling complexion60 or the finest eyes in the world.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette merveille?” she enquired61; to which Mme. de Brecourt made answer that it was a little American her brother had somewhere dug up. “And what do you propose to do with it, may one ask?” Mme. d’Outreville demanded, looking at Gaston with an eye that seemed to read his secret and that brought him for half a minute to the point of breaking out: “I propose to marry it — there!” But he contained himself, only pleading for the present his wish to ascertain62 the uses to which she was adapted; meanwhile, he added, there was nothing he so much liked as to look at her, in the measure in which she would allow him. “Ah that may take you far!” their visitor cried as she got up to go; and the young man glanced at his sister to see if she too were ironic63. But she seemed almost awkwardly free from alarm; if she had been suspicious it would have been easier to make his confession64. When he came back from accompanying their old friend Outreville to her carriage he asked her if Waterlow’s charming sitter had known who she was and if she had been frightened. Mme. de Brecourt stared; she evidently thought that kind of sensibility implied an initiation65 — and into dangers — which a little American accidentally encountered couldn’t possibly have. “Why should she be frightened? She wouldn’t be even if she had known who I was; much less therefore when I was nothing for her.”
“Oh you weren’t nothing for her!” the brooding youth declared; and when his sister rejoined that he was trop aimable he brought out his lurking66 fact. He had seen the lovely creature more often than he had mentioned; he had particularly wished that SHE should see her. Now he wanted his father and Jane and Margaret to do the same, and above all he wanted them to like her even as she, Susan, liked her. He was delighted she had been taken — he had been so taken himself. Mme. de Brecourt protested that she had reserved her independence of judgement, and he answered that if she thought Miss Dosson repulsive67 he might have expressed it in another way. When she begged him to tell her what he was talking about and what he wanted them all to do with the child he said: “I want you to treat her kindly68, tenderly, for such as you see her I’m thinking of bringing her into the family.”
“Mercy on us — you haven’t proposed for her?” cried Mme. de Brecourt.
“No, but I’ve sounded her sister as to THEIR dispositions69, and she tells me that if I present myself there will be no difficulty.”
“Her sister? — the awful little woman with the big head?”
“Her head’s rather out of drawing, but it isn’t a part of the affair. She’s very inoffensive; she would be devoted70 to me.”
“For heaven’s sake then keep quiet. She’s as common as a dressmaker’s bill.”
“Not when you know her. Besides, that has nothing to do with Francie. You couldn’t find words enough a moment ago to express that Francie’s exquisite71, and now you’ll be so good as to stick to that. Come — feel it all; since you HAVE such a free mind.”
“Do you call her by her little name like that?” Mme. de Brecourt asked, giving him another cup of tea.
“Only to you. She’s perfectly simple. It’s impossible to imagine anything better. And think of the delight of having that charming object before one’s eyes — always, always! It makes a different look-out for life.”
Mme. Brecourt’s lively head tossed this argument as high as if she had carried a pair of horns. “My poor child, what are you thinking of? You can’t pick up a wife like that — the first little American that comes along. You know I hoped you wouldn’t marry at all — what a pity I think it for a man. At any rate if you expect us to like Miss — what’s her name? — Miss Fancy, all I can say is we won’t. We can’t DO that sort of thing!”
“I shall marry her then,” the young man returned, “without your leave given!”
“Very good. But if she deprives you of our approval — you’ve always had it, you’re used to it and depend on it, it’s a part of your life — you’ll hate her like poison at the end of a month.”
“I don’t care then. I shall have always had my month.”
“And she — poor thing?”
“Poor thing exactly! You’ll begin to pity her, and that will make you cultivate charity, and cultivate HER WITH it; which will then make you find out how adorable she is. Then you’ll like her, then you’ll love her, then you’ll see what a perfect sense for the right thing, the right thing for ME, I’ve had, and we shall all be happy together again.”
“But how can you possibly know, with such people,” Mme. de Brecourt demanded, “what you’ve got hold of?”
“By having a feeling for what’s really, what’s delicately good and charming. You pretend to have it, and yet in such a case as this you try to be stupid. Give that up; you might as well first as last, for the girl’s an exquisite fact, she’ll PREVAIL, and it will be better to accept her than to let her accept you.”
Mme. de Brecourt asked him if Miss Dosson had a fortune, and he said he knew nothing about that. Her father certainly must be rich, but he didn’t mean to ask for a penny with her. American fortunes moreover were the last things to count upon; a truth of which they had seen too many examples. To this his sister had replied: “Papa will never listen to that.”
“Listen to what?”
“To your not finding out, to your not asking for settlements — comme cela se fait.”
“Pardon me, papa will find out for himself; and he’ll know perfectly whether to ask or whether to leave it alone. That’s the sort of thing he does know. And he knows quite as well that I’m very difficult to place.”
“You’ll be difficult, my dear, if we lose you,” Mme. de Brecourt laughed, “to replace!”
“Always at any rate to find a wife for. I’m neither fish nor flesh. I’ve no country, no career, no future; I offer nothing; I bring nothing. What position under the sun do I confer? There’s a fatuity72 in our talking as if we could make grand terms. You and the others are well enough: qui prend mari prend pays, and you’ve names about which your husbands take a great stand. But papa and I— I ask you!”
“As a family nous sommes tres-bien,” said Mme. de Brecourt. “You know what we are — it doesn’t need any explanation. We’re as good as anything there is and have always been thought so. You might do anything you like.”
“Well, I shall never like to marry — when it comes to that — a Frenchwoman.”
“Thank you, my dear”— and Mme. de Brecourt tossed her head.
“No sister of mine’s really French,” returned the young man.
“No brother of mine’s really mad. Marry whomever you like,” Susan went on; “only let her be the best of her kind. Let her be at least a gentlewoman. Trust me, I’ve studied life. That’s the only thing that’s safe.”
“Francie’s the equal of the first lady in the land.”
“With that sister — with that hat? Never — never!”
“What’s the matter with her hat?”
“The sister’s told a story. It was a document — it described them, it classed them. And such a PATOIS73 as they speak!”
“My dear, her English is quite as good as yours. You don’t even know how bad yours is,” the young man went on with assurance.
“Well, I don’t say ‘Parus’ and I never asked an Englishman to marry me. You know what our feelings are,” his companion as ardently74 pursued; “our convictions, our susceptibilities. We may be wrong, we may be hollow, we may be pretentious75, we mayn’t be able to say on what it all rests; but there we are, and the fact’s insurmountable. It’s simply impossible for us to live with vulgar people. It’s a defect, no doubt; it’s an immense inconvenience, and in the days we live in it’s sadly against one’s interest. But we’re made like that and we must understand ourselves. It’s of the very essence of our nature, and of yours exactly as much as of mine or of that of the others. Don’t make a mistake about it — you’ll prepare for yourself a bitter future. I know what becomes of us. We suffer, we go through tortures, we die!”
The accent of passionate76 prophecy was in this lady’s voice, but her brother made her no immediate77 answer, only indulging restlessly in several turns about the room. At last he took up his hat. “I shall come to an understanding with her tomorrow, and the next day, about this hour, I shall bring her to see you. Meanwhile please say nothing to any one.”
Mme. de Brecourt’s eyes lingered on him; he had grasped the knob of the door. “What do you mean by her father’s being certainly rich? That’s such a vague term. What do you suppose his fortune to be?”
“Ah that’s a question SHE would never ask!” her brother cried as he left her.
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1
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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2
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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3
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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6
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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7
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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9
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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10
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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11
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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12
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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13
cliche
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| n./a.陈词滥调(的)；老生常谈(的)；陈腐的 | |
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14
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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15
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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16
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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pieties
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| 虔诚，虔敬( piety的名词复数 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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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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21
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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23
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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24
controvert
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| v.否定；否认 | |
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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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aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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27
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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29
appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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30
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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31
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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32
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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33
appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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34
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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35
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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36
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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37
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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38
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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39
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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40
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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41
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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42
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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43
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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44
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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45
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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46
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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47
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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48
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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49
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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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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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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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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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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