“Your friend is spending her vacation in travelling, I hear?”
“Friend, forsooth!” thought I to myself: but it would not do to contradict; he must have his own way; I must own the soft impeachment5: friend let it be. Still, by way of experiment, I could not help asking whom he meant?
He had taken a seat at my work-table; he now laid hands on a reel of thread which he proceeded recklessly to unwind.
“Ginevra — Miss Fanshawe, has accompanied the Cholmondeleys on a tour through the south of France?”
“She has.”
“Do you and she correspond?”
“It will astonish you to hear that I never once thought of making application for that privilege.”
“You have seen letters of her writing?”
“Yes; several to her uncle.”
“They will not be deficient6 in wit and na?veté; there is so much sparkle, and so little art in her soul?”
“She writes comprehensively enough when she writes to M. de Bassompierre: he who runs may read.” (In fact, Ginevra’s epistles to her wealthy kinsman7 were commonly business documents, unequivocal applications for cash.)
“And her handwriting? It must be pretty, light, ladylike, I should think?”
It was, and I said so.
“I verily believe that all she does is well done,” said Dr. John; and as I seemed in no hurry to chime in with this remark, he added “You, who know her, could you name a point in which she is deficient?”
“She does several things very well.” (“Flirtation amongst the rest,” subjoined I, in thought.)
“When do you suppose she will return to town?” he soon inquired.
“Pardon me, Dr. John, I must explain. You honour me too much in ascribing to me a degree of intimacy8 with Miss Fanshawe I have not the felicity to enjoy. I have never been the depositary of her plans and secrets. You will find her particular friends in another sphere than mine: amongst the Cholmondeleys, for instance.”
He actually thought I was stung with a kind of jealous pain similar to his own!
“Excuse her,” he said; “judge her indulgently; the glitter of fashion misleads her, but she will soon find out that these people are hollow, and will return to you with augmented9 attachment10 and confirmed trust. I know something of the Cholmondeleys: superficial, showy, selfish people; depend on it, at heart Ginevra values you beyond a score of such.”
“You are very kind,” I said briefly11.
A disclaimer of the sentiments attributed to me burned on my lips, but I extinguished the flame. I submitted to be looked upon as the humiliated12, cast-off, and now pining confidante of the distinguished13 Miss Fanshawe: but, reader, it was a hard submission14.
“Yet, you see,” continued Graham, “while I comfort you, I cannot take the same consolation15 to myself; I cannot hope she will do me justice. De Hamal is most worthless, yet I fear he pleases her: wretched delusion16!”
My patience really gave way, and without notice: all at once. I suppose illness and weakness had worn it and made it brittle17.
“Dr. Bretton,” I broke out, “there is no delusion like your own. On all points but one you are a man, frank, healthful, right-thinking, clear-sighted: on this exceptional point you are but a slave. I declare, where Miss Fanshawe is concerned, you merit no respect; nor have you mine.”
I got up, and left the room very much excited.
This little scene took place in the morning; I had to meet him again in the evening, and then I saw I had done mischief18. He was not made of common clay, not put together out of vulgar materials; while the outlines of his nature had been shaped with breadth and vigour19, the details embraced workmanship of almost feminine delicacy20: finer, much finer, than you could be prepared to meet with; than you could believe inherent in him, even after years of acquaintance. Indeed, till some over-sharp contact with his nerves had betrayed, by its effects, their acute sensibility, this elaborate construction must be ignored; and the more especially because the sympathetic faculty21 was not prominent in him: to feel, and to seize quickly another’s feelings, are separate properties; a few constructions possess both, some neither. Dr. John had the one in exquisite22 perfection; and because I have admitted that he was not endowed with the other in equal degree, the reader will considerately refrain from passing to an extreme, and pronouncing him un_sympathizing, unfeeling: on the contrary, he was a kind, generous man. Make your need known, his hand was open. Put your grief into words, he turned no deaf ear. Expect refinements23 of perception, miracles of intuition, and realize disappointment. This night, when Dr. John entered the room, and met the evening lamp, I saw well and at one glance his whole mechanism24.
To one who had named him “slave,” and, on any point, banned him from respect, he must now have peculiar25 feelings. That the epithet26 was well applied27, and the ban just, might be; he put forth28 no denial that it was so: his mind even candidly29 revolved30 that unmanning possibility. He sought in this accusation31 the cause of that ill-success which had got so galling32 a hold on his mental peace: Amid the worry of a self-condemnatory soliloquy, his demeanour seemed grave, perhaps cold, both to me and his mother. And yet there was no bad feeling, no malice33, no rancour, no littleness in his countenance34, beautiful with a man’s best beauty, even in its depression. When I placed his chair at the table, which I hastened to do, anticipating the servant, and when I handed him his tea, which I did with trembling care, he said: “Thank you, Lucy,” in as kindly35 a tone of his full pleasant voice as ever my ear welcomed.
For my part, there was only one plan to be pursued; I must expiate36 my culpable37 vehemence38, or I must not sleep that night. This would not do at all; I could not stand it: I made no pretence39 of capacity to wage war on this footing. School solitude40, conventual silence and stagnation41, anything seemed preferable to living embroiled42 with Dr. John. As to Ginevra, she might take the silver wings of a dove, or any other fowl43 that flies, and mount straight up to the highest place, among the highest stars, where her lover’s highest flight of fancy chose to fix the constellation44 of her charms: never more be it mine to dispute the arrangement. Long I tried to catch his eye. Again and again that eye just met mine; but, having nothing to say, it withdrew, and I was baffled. After tea, he sat, sad and quiet, reading a book. I wished I could have dared to go and sit near him, but it seemed that if I ventured to take that step, he would infallibly evince hostility45 and indignation. I longed to speak out, and I dared not whisper. His mother left the room; then, moved by insupportable regret, I just murmured the words “Dr. Bretton.”
He looked up from his book; his eyes were not cold or malevolent46, his mouth was not cynical47; he was ready and willing to hear what I might have to say: his spirit was of vintage too mellow48 and generous to sour in one thunder-clap.
“Dr. Bretton, forgive my hasty words: do, do forgive them.”
He smiled that moment I spoke49. “Perhaps I deserved them, Lucy. If you don’t respect me, I am sure it is because I am not respectable. I fear, I am an awkward fool: I must manage badly in some way, for where I wish to please, it seems I don’t please.”
“Of that you cannot be sure; and even if such be the case, is it the fault of your character, or of another’s perceptions? But now, let me unsay what I said in anger. In one thing, and in all things, I deeply respect you. If you think scarcely enough of yourself, and too much of others, what is that but an excellence50?”
“Can I think too much of Ginevra?”
“I believe you may; you believe you can’t. Let us agree to differ. Let me be pardoned; that is what I ask.”
“Do you think I cherish ill-will for one warm word?”
“I see you do not and cannot; but just say, ‘Lucy, I forgive you!’ Say that, to ease me of the heart-ache.”
“Put away your heart-ache, as I will put away mine; for you wounded me a little, Lucy. Now, when the pain is gone, I more than forgive: I feel grateful, as to a sincere well-wisher.”
“I am your sincere well-wisher: you are right.”
Thus our quarrel ended.
Reader, if in the course of this work, you find that my opinion of Dr. John undergoes modification51, excuse the seeming inconsistency. I give the feeling as at the time I felt it; I describe the view of character as it appeared when discovered.
He showed the fineness of his nature by being kinder to me after that misunderstanding than before. Nay52, the very incident which, by my theory, must in some degree estrange53 me and him, changed, indeed, somewhat our relations; but not in the sense I painfully anticipated. An invisible, but a cold something, very slight, very transparent54, but very chill: a sort of screen of ice had hitherto, all through our two lives, glazed55 the medium through which we exchanged intercourse56. Those few warm words, though only warm with anger, breathed on that frail57 frost-work of reserve; about this time, it gave note of dissolution. I think from that day, so long as we continued friends, he never in discourse58 stood on topics of ceremony with me. He seemed to know that if he would but talk about himself, and about that in which he was most interested, my expectation would always be answered, my wish always satisfied. It follows, as a matter of course, that I continued to hear much of “Ginevra.”
“Ginevra!” He thought her so fair, so good; he spoke so lovingly of her charms, her sweetness, her innocence59, that, in spite of my plain prose knowledge of the reality, a kind of reflected glow began to settle on her idea, even for me. Still, reader, I am free to confess, that he often talked nonsense; but I strove to be unfailingly patient with him. I had had my lesson: I had learned how severe for me was the pain of crossing, or grieving, or disappointing him. In a strange and new sense, I grew most selfish, and quite powerless to deny myself the delight of indulging his mood, and being pliant60 to his will. He still seemed to me most absurd when he obstinately61 doubted, and desponded about his power to win in the end Miss Fanshawe’s preference. The fancy became rooted in my own mind more stubbornly than ever, that she was only coquetting to goad62 him, and that, at heart, she coveted63 everyone of his words and looks. Sometimes he harassed64 me, in spite of my resolution to bear and hear; in the midst of the indescribable gall-honey pleasure of thus bearing and hearing, he struck so on the flint of what firmness I owned, that it emitted fire once and again. I chanced to assert one day, with a view to stilling his impatience65, that in my own mind, I felt positive Miss Fanshawe must intend eventually to accept him.
“Positive! It was easy to say so, but had I any grounds for such assurance?”
“The best grounds.”
“Now, Lucy, do tell me what!”
“You know them as well as I; and, knowing them, Dr. John, it really amazes me that you should not repose66 the frankest confidence in her fidelity67. To doubt, under the circumstances, is almost to insult.”
“Now you are beginning to speak fast and to breathe short; but speak a little faster and breathe a little shorter, till you have given an explanation — a full explanation: I must have it.”
“You shall, Dr. John. In some cases, you are a lavish68, generous man: you are a worshipper ever ready with the votive offering should Père Silas ever convert you, you will give him abundance of alms for his poor, you will supply his altar with tapers69, and the shrine70 of your favourite saint you will do your best to enrich: Ginevra, Dr. John —”
“Hush!” said he, “don’t go on.”
“Hush, I will not: and go on I will: Ginevra has had her hands filled from your hands more times than I can count. You have sought for her the costliest71 flowers; you have busied your brain in devising gifts the most delicate: such, one would have thought, as only a woman could have imagined; and in addition, Miss Fanshawe owns a set of ornaments72, to purchase which your generosity73 must have verged74 on extravagance.”
The modesty75 Ginevra herself had never evinced in this matter, now flushed all over the face of her admirer.
“Nonsense!” he said, destructively snipping76 a skein of silk with my scissors. “I offered them to please myself: I felt she did me a favour in accepting them.”
“She did more than a favour, Dr. John: she pledged her very honour that she would make you some return; and if she cannot pay you in affection, she ought to hand out a business-like equivalent, in the shape of some rouleaux of gold pieces.”
“But you don’t understand her; she is far too disinterested77 to care for my gifts, and too simple-minded to know their value.”
I laughed out: I had heard her adjudge to every jewel its price; and well I knew money-embarrassment, money-schemes; money’s worth, and endeavours to realise supplies, had, young as she was, furnished the most frequent, and the favourite stimulus78 of her thoughts for years.
He pursued. “You should have seen her whenever I have laid on her lap some trifle; so cool, so unmoved: no eagerness to take, not even pleasure in contemplating79. Just from amiable80 reluctance81 to grieve me, she would permit the bouquet82 to lie beside her, and perhaps consent to bear it away. Or, if I achieved the fastening of a bracelet83 on her ivory arm, however pretty the trinket might be (and I always carefully chose what seemed to me pretty, and what of course was not valueless), the glitter never dazzled her bright eyes: she would hardly cast one look on my gift”
“Then, of course, not valuing it, she would unloose, and return it to you?”
“No; for such a repulse84 she was too good-natured. She would consent to seem to forget what I had done, and retain the offering with lady-like quiet and easy oblivion. Under such circumstances, how can a man build on acceptance of his presents as a favourable85 symptom? For my part, were I to offer her all I have, and she to take it, such is her incapacity to be swayed by sordid86 considerations, I should not venture to believe the transaction advanced me one step.”
“Dr. John,” I began, “Love is blind;” but just then a blue subtle ray sped sideways from Dr. John’s eye: it reminded me of old days, it reminded me of his picture: it half led me to think that part, at least, of his professed87 persuasion88 of Miss Fanshawe’s na?veté was assumed; it led me dubiously89 to conjecture90 that perhaps, in spite of his passion for her beauty, his appreciation91 of her foibles might possibly be less mistaken, more clear-sighted, than from his general language was presumable. After all it might be only a chance look, or at best the token of a merely momentary92 impression. Chance or intentional93 real or imaginary, it closed the conversation.
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1
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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cornucopia
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| n.象征丰收的羊角 | |
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replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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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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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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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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expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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embroiled
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| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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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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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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estrange
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| v.使疏远，离间，使离开 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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71
costliest
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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72
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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74
verged
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| 接近，逼近（verge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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76
snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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77
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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78
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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79
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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80
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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81
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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82
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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83
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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84
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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85
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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86
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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87
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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88
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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89
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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90
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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91
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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92
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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93
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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