On his return to London, Gavrolles took rooms in one of the bye-streets near Portland Place. They were rather high up, but he had them furnished in the best ?sthetic style, with a few risky13 pictures and a small collection of books. ‘Come and see me,’ he would say; ‘I am only a poor artiste, but I have my books, and in these I live.’ On the whole they were not nice books—a Philistine14 might have even called them nasty; but many of them bore the autographs of the writers, and were priceless accordingly.
About this time the name of Gavrolles began to be a good deal talked about, as that of a young Frenchman with Communist views who had written some delightfully16 wicked volumes of verse. The ‘Megatherium,’ inspired by Ponto, had a good deal to say about him, classing him in the great bagnio of Art somewhere by the side of Gautier and Baudelaire; and taking occasion at the same time to express its horror of realists like Zola, who called a spade a spade, and reduced the fair features of vice17 to a caput mortuum.
One night, Crieff, who knew everybody, took Sutherland to the lodgings18 of Gavrolles, and introduced him. Quite a little symposium19 was there, including Ponto the fatuous20; Cassius Gass, a lean and limp critic from Cambridge; Blanco Serena, and several other painters; young Botticelli Jones, and one or two more callow poets, not to speak of Wallace MacNeill, the editor of the ‘Megatherium.’
Sutherland sat very silent. After the first, quick look at Gavrolles, and a second shock of recognition, he remained quiescent21, but quietly observant.
The talk was of ‘Lily and Rue,’ an anonymous22 poem which had just appeared, and which Ponto had just criticised with admiration23.
‘I wonder who is the writer?’ said Botticelli Jones. ‘There are passages in it which are worthy24 of Byron.’
‘Byron was a Philistine,’ cried Ponto; ‘he could never have written a piece of this kind. Look at the technique of his verse! It would disgrace a schoolboy! No, this is a cameo cut by an artist.’
‘Shall I confess it!’ observed Gavrolles, smiling languidly. ‘I am of Henri Taine’s opinion, and prefer to your Byron our Alfred de Musset.’
Here Crieff, who was puffing25 carelessly at a briar-root pipe, threw himself back in his chair and laughed loudly.
‘I say! Is it possible you don’t know?’
‘What?’ cried several voices.
‘That MacAlpine——’
A shudder26 ran through the assemblage at the mention of the hated name.
‘That MacAlpine has acknowledged the authorship of this poem.’
‘What poem?’ demanded Ponto, trembling and turning pale.
‘Why, of “Lily and Eue.” Go and buy the third edition—you’ll find his name on the title-page.’
A terrible silence followed. The men looked in horror at one another. One man rose, livid and ghastly, put his hand to his head and left without a word. It was the editor of the ‘Megatherium.’
‘Poor MacNeill,’ cried Crieff, with another laugh. ‘This is the second trick of the kind that MacAlpine has played him; this is the second time that he has devoted27 columns of praise to an author whom he would gladly see handed over, like the old heretics, to the secular28 arm. It only shows what humbug29 criticism is!’
‘Excuse me,’ said Gass the critic, hysterically30, ‘criticism is not humbug. It would be easy to show, on a profounder examination of this disagreeable work, that it is the work of a Philistine. The over-accentuation of the sensuous31 passages (which, by the way, are not sensuous, but prurient32 and ponderous), the want of finish in the trochaic couplets, the crudeness of the poetic33 terminology—’
‘Would all have been evident enough,’ interrupted Crieff, dryly, ‘if MacAlpine’s name had been on the title-page. Without that, even superhuman insight, like yours, could not detect them.’
And he laughed again; but no one joined in the laugh except Blanco Serena, who was not a little amused. There was a general feeling of discomfort34, to relieve which Gavrolles went to his bookcase, and took down several new importations from France. Passed from hand to hand, these works were freely and generally discussed; but when they reached Crieff, that rude person again shocked the sensibilities of his companions.
‘The literature of the Lollipop,’ he said with a grin. ‘Somehow I never touch any of it without feeling nasty; “sticky” all over, as it were.’
‘To the mind of a Philistine,’ observed the critic Gass, severely35, ‘such things do not appeal. I regret to see that a certain person, who shall be nameless, is drifting more and more into moral Philistinism. Well, he will at least be able to say, “Et ego36 in Arcadia fui,” when it is too late to return.’
Crieff laughed good-humouredly.
‘I dare say it is my early training,’ he said, ‘and the fact that I was taught to respect all women in the person of my mother. But here is my friend Sutherland, who is a Philistine of Philistines37, for he actually believes, with St. Benedict, that the law of purity is binding38 upon both sexes alike, and in his benighted39 eyes your Gautier, your Baudelaire, and “hoc genus omne” are simply dirty descendants of Sir Pandarus of Troy.’
‘I sincerely hope you are libelling your friend,’ observed the critic, glancing at Sutherland. ‘Personal purity, as you call it, is simply a reminiscence of asceticism41, and one of the many fallacies we owe to the mediaeval perversions42 of Christianity.’
‘Bosh,’ returned Crieff, bluntly.
Sutherland, who throughout the conversation had scarcely taken his eyes off Gavrolles, now spoke43.
‘I am neither an ascetic40 nor a Puritan, but I must frankly44 confess that the literature you are discussing excites my strongest abhorrence45. Whatever is unfit for a pure woman to read is unfit to be read by a pure man. Would you give these books to your wives and sisters—that is the question?’
‘Certainly,’ cried Ponto from the other side of the room. ‘Provided their aesthetic2 education had been complete, they would find nothing but pleasure from the perusal46. Why in Heaven’s name should Woman remain for ever the slave of Virtue47? I would make her the archpriestess of the Beautiful, ministering to mortals in all the passionate48 nudity of Art.’
‘And you, monsieur?’ said Sutherland, turning suddenly to Gavrolles. ‘What is your opinion?’
‘Oh, I am an artiste,’ answered the Frenchman, with a shrug49 of the shoulders and an unpleasant smile. ‘I, too, would make woman the priestess of Beauty. Ah, yes, with the greatest of possible pleasure!’
The words were of little meaning, but the tone was significant, and a titter went round the room. Sutherland’s face darkened.
‘I presume that your experience of the sex is large?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Gentlemen of your nation are generally fortunate——-’
‘I am no exception to the rule,’ answered Gavrolles. ‘My whole life has been une bonne fortune! But look you, as I say, I am an artiste—in affairs of gallantry as in all others. I do not suffer these things to cloud the equanimity50 of my artiste’s soul. When I have plucked a rose—observe! I smell it; I wear it a little while; then I take it from my button-hole and throw it away. You understand?’
‘I think so,’ said Sutherland, rising to his feet. ‘Pray does it ever occur to you what becomes of the rose afterwards! If it is trampled51 underfoot, who is responsible?’
‘Pardon me, that is the rose’s affair, not mine. Au reste, roses must bloom and fade; Art, Art—for which I live—is imperishable and divine.’
It was hard to say whether he was jesting or in earnest, for his manner was peculiar52, a combination of mock-enthusiasm and flippant audacity53. But despite his appearance of sang-froid, something in the face and manner of Sutherland thrilled him, and reminded him of an unpleasant meeting many years before.
He bowed profoundly as Sutherland prepared to go, and held out his hand—which the other did not seem to notice.
‘Au revoir!’he said gaily54; ‘and au revoir, Monsieur Crieff. My friend Ponto will convert you presently; ah, yes!’
In another minute Crieff and Sutherland were in the street. The latter was very pale, and trembled violently.
‘My dear Sutherland, what is the matter?’
‘Nothing; only that man’s face and his talk have upset me. I could have strangled him.’
‘What an excitable fellow you are!’ said Crieff, taking his arm. ‘Upon my life, you take these things far too seriously. The other day you were seriously angry with Lagardère, and here you are actually distressing55 yourself over the prattle56 of a child like Gavrolles.’
‘You do not understand. I know the man, and have reason to remember him.’
‘That alters the case. Where did you meet?’
‘In France—some years ago.’
Crieff listened for further explanations, but none came. Pressed to say more, Sutherland shook his head, and relapsed into silence; so the little journalist proceeded to give his muscular friend a lesson in social philosophy.
‘You are too thoroughly57 in earnest, and in company your earnestness makes other people uncomfortable. Life would be impossible if every bit of idle chit-chat or ad captandum argument were taken au sérieux. Looked at in the proper light, Gavrolles is charming—a droll58 creature with a touch of genius. To you he is merely a dissolute young man, who reads improper59 books.’
‘To me,’ returned Sutherland, fiercely, ‘he is a thorough scoundrel, whom I should like to choke.’
Crieff soon perceived that remonstrance60 was useless, and, mentally determining not to introduce his companion to any more choice spirits, he changed the subject. The pair soon parted, Crieff to stroll down to the gallery of the House of Commons, Sutherland to pace the solitary61 streets, full of the troubled recollections awakened62 by that chance encounter.
Later on that evening Gavrolles sat alone in his lodgings. He now recollected63 Sutherland perfectly64, and roundly cursed the unlucky chance which had occasioned a second meeting. On reflection, however, he felt confident that the Englishman could do him no serious damage in the eyes of his new acquaintances, even if he attempted to do so, which was doubtful.
When the clock struck eight he lit a cigar and strolled out into the streets. As he walked along, his attention was attracted by a theatre bill in one of the shop windows. One of the names struck him immediately as that of the young actress whose portrait he had seen in the studio of Blanco Serena. He looked at the name of the theatre; it was the Theatre Royal Parthenon. He strolled away in the direction of that building.
On arriving at the theatre, however, he found the doors closed, and discovered that the theatrical65 season had ended on the previous Saturday.
Strolling carelessly along, he entered one of the smaller theatres in the Strand66, a house devoted to opera bouffe. He paid his money and got a seat in the back row of the pit. There, perspiring67 and half-suffocated, he was listening to the hideous68 din15 and watching the insane performance upon the stage, when his attention was attracted by a movement in a box above him, and glancing up he beheld69 a face he knew.
The face of a woman, young and very beautiful, though trifle pale and sad. She was plainly clad in black satin, with an opera cloak of snowy white, with fringe of down encircling her white neck. No ornaments70 in her hair, no jewels on her person, and surely she needed neither, for her simple pathetic beauty was better unadorned.
With her was a gentleman, not young, but with the fresh face and manners of a boy. He looked very happy and proud, and gazed less at the stage than at his companion, as, indeed, was natural.
These two were our heroine and her husband, James Forster.
A child might have gathered, from the man’s looks of pleasure and admiration, that Forster loved the beautiful creature by his side. His eyes scarcely left her, he was eager to respond to her slightest look or word. When she talked, he hung upon her speech; and when she was silent he waited for her to speak again.
Gavrolles comprehended the situation directly—almost as rapidly as he recognised Madeline. For the rest of the evening he occupied himself in looking up, with a keen and cat-like gaze. How beautiful she seemed! How much fairer and riper than when he had seen her last, in her wild girlish gaucherie! Pardieu, she was a child then; but now!
As he gazed his thoughts went back to the days when he had seen her first, a giddy schoolgirl, a very will-o’-the-wisp among the decorous young French damsels of the ladies’ seminary. He remembered her wild ways, her odd sayings in schoolgirl’s French, her pretty fits of petulance71, her innocent entanglement72 with him, the ever-seductive Gavrolles—or Belleisle, as he then called himself. He thought of the mad elopement, and the strange days that followed, when the fluttering bird was in his power.
‘After all,’ he reflected, ‘I was a fool to let her go.’
And the man with her, who seemed so greatly to adore her, who was he? Surely her lover; perhaps her husband—but no, that was scarcely possible. A rich man, certainly; yes, with all the style and manner of a rich man. She, too, with her popular fame, her great artistic73 position, was no longer poor. Perhaps, after all, it was for the best that he had let her go, since fortune had been kind to her, and what was lost could be easily regained74.
Gavrolles smiled. Once, when the audience was busy applauding the actors, his exhilaration was so great that he impulsively75 kissed his hand in the direction of the box. The action was unnoticed, of course, but it seemed to place him en rapport76 with his old love.
‘Courage, Gavrolles!’ he said to himself. ‘You are Fortune’s favourite, after all. Just when you were in despair, just when your purse was empty and your great soul in despair, the cards befriend you, and a good angel appears in the distance. Madeline, mon ange, I greet you. You will be my guardian77 spirit after all.’
When the opera was over, Gavrolles stood in the corner of the box lobby, and watched Madeline go past on Forster’s arm. He kept his face well averted78, for he did not wish to be recognised, just yet. Then, following the pair to the theatre door, he saw a brougham draw up, smiled upon the pair as they entered and gaily lit a cigar as they drove away.
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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aesthetics
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| n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学，审美学 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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symposium
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| n.讨论会，专题报告会；专题论文集 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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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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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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perversions
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| n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 )；变坏；变态心理 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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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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49
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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51
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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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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53
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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54
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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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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57
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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62
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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63
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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66
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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70
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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71
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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74
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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75
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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76
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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77
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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78
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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