Covent Garden was filled from stalls to roof on the night of Styr’s London déb?t, and the pit and the galleries were crowded with the true music lovers, who were mainly Germans. Princess Nachmeister, as well as Ordham and the enthusiasts7 he had enlisted8, both in the fashionable and artistic9 world, had pulled the wires so subtly that practically everybody present fancied himself the discoverer of Styr, and hardly a person in the stalls and boxes but bore a distinguished name, either inherited or made. Ordham sat in his box alone. Mabel was ailing10 and her mother remained with her. He looked as impassive as he was nervous and angry; Styr had stolen into London, no one knew when, and he had not had a glimpse of her in private, although a few moments before he left Grosvenor Square he had received an invitation to lunch with her on the following day.
The opera was Tristan und Isolde, and Styr, delighted to sing it again after her long abstinence, gave the great rendering11 to which Ordham was accustomed. Although the fashionable part of the audience was reduced almost to idiocy12 before the end of the evening, particularly during the long innings of the tenor—second-rate, of course, on such short notice, and at this season—in the last act, there was no question of Styr’s personal triumph. The most bored remained until the end, and then gave “The Great German Prima Donna” an ovation13. She had been called out repeatedly after the two preceding acts, but only twenty appearances after the final curtain satisfied an audience proud of its perspicacity14, and generously happy in paying tribute to genius. The Germans shouted themselves hoarse15, particularly when she dragged Richter out with her. All admired Styr’s manner of receiving homage16 almost as much as her voice and acting17. It was neither effusive18 like that of the Latin song birds to whom they were accustomed; she kissed no bouquets19 and baskets of orchids20, although these tributes were many: nor was she the haughty21 gracious queen of fiction, after the fashion of certain actresses and prime donne, thoroughly22 spoilt or qualifying for social incursions. She merely walked out and showed herself, seeming to tower above them all, with the cold, calm, grave majesty23 of the Sphinx. She was Styr. She was theirs until the opera lights went out. They might look their full. She bent24 her head to the royal box only because custom demanded it; nevertheless, she throbbed25 with exultation26, for she knew that the wires would carry her triumph that night to every capital in the world. Her fortune was made. Once she sought Ordham’s eyes, and her own flashed out the gratitude27 she felt, then lingered for fully28 half a minute. When the ovation subsided29, she obeyed a summons to the royal box, repaid compliments with the suave30 phrases of long experience, then, ignoring the crowd gathered about her dressing31 room, and numerous invitations to supper, went home to her frugal32 meal and bed.
Ordham walked restlessly up and down the large private sitting room in one of the Dover Street hotels where a table was laid for two. The Countess Tann, he had been informed, was dressing, begged him to accept her apologies; she would join him in ten minutes.
He roamed about for half an hour, so torn with annoyance33, doubt, and mortification34, as well as resentment35 against the great and capricious Styr herself, that he was far from that mood of tremulous happiness, stung with fear, which he had achieved in imagination many times. It was abominable36 of Styr to steal into London when he had made up his mind to rise at four of the clock and meet her at the station. With this heroic act he had hoped to atone37 for certain unavoidable derelictions. It was the bitterest mortification of his life that he was unable to introduce his friend to London society under his own roof. His mother-in-law had deftly38 avoided a renewal39 of the subject. Mabel had sweetly vowed40 to break through that Puritan casing in which her mother dwelt like an antediluvian41 mammal (this was Ordham’s image, not Mabel’s); but he had chanced to overhear a scrap42 of conversation between the pair which convinced him that not only did she meditate43 nothing of the sort, but had joined forces with her mother and old Levering in acquainting London society with the variegated44, manifold, and heinous45 iniquities46 of Styr’s past. The favourite story, Ordham discovered soon after, was that “Peggy Hill” had deserted47 her starving and consumptive mother in the native mining town to become the squaw of an Indian chieftain, and had worn paint and feathers and carried pappooses on her back until a Western millionnaire had chanced along, offered her sealskin and diamonds, fought a duel48 unto death with the chieftain—who, wearing only feathers, had many vulnerable points—and carried the heartless mother to New York. There she promptly49 deserted him for a horse jockey, and after having figured as co-respondent in innumerable divorce suits, had opened a disreputable resort, over which she had presided affluently50 (when not in jail) until ordered once for all out of New York by the police. Then she had cultivated her voice, and, finding it a gold mine, conserved51 it with a fairly consistent exercise of virtue52. This richly picturesque53 past, in which any prima donna might rejoice, delighted London, but it was hardly one to open the portals of society. London could stand a good deal—but really! There are lines! They would applaud her in Covent Garden, talk about her over every tea cup; but extend to her the greatest of the world’s hospitalities—hardly! The information that Munich society was at her feet they treated with the contempt it deserved. Munich!
Ordham had discovered with astonishment54 and no little humiliation55, that although with money, energy, and finesse56, he might import German opera to London and induce people to hear it, although he was popular, admired, and wealthy, he had practically no power socially. He reflected bitterly that this was not to be accounted for only by his youth, his brother’s durability57, the fact that he was not established under an imposing58 roof of his own, but that, much as he was liked, he stood for nothing, would be forgotten before he had lived out of London a month. He was a second son married to a rich American girl and living in the house of his mother-in-law. Who was he to presume to dictate59 to London society? Had he attempted it, he would have been put in his place as summarily as had he been an American himself.
And his mother had basely deserted him. Invited to join a driving party to the chateaux of northern France, she had left London with a hurried note of explanation to her son, feigning60 to forget the coming of his friend, but devoutly61 thankful for any escape from what was assuming the contours of a problem. She might rank among the independent women of London, rather weak on the subject of celebrities62; but really! His grandmother doted on him, and he had approached her in the hope that she in her great rank and cynical63 indifference64 to a criticism that never could affect her, would help him out of his difficulty, enable him to return some of those hospitalities now bulking in his tormented65 imagination. But he had merely received a reminder66 of the duke’s aversion from foreigners and disbursements, and much sound advice against making mistakes in his youth; society had cast out its own before. But he had no intention of insulting Styr by entertaining her without the countenance67 of his family.
His only success had been among certain personages in the world of art, letters, and music, who, indeed, did not wait for his gentle manipulation; they were thankful for the opportunity to do homage to one of the world’s great artists. Whether the ridiculous stories current were true or not hardly concerned them, but they assumed as a matter of course that they were incidental, having suffered more or less themselves. Styr was certain to receive a social ovation from the sets that Ordham privately68 thought the best worth while in London, but that by no means satisfied him; after all, they were not of his own class, and it was this class—in the eyes of the world, representative England—that he had set his heart upon honouring his friend.
As he wandered about, glaring at the walls and furniture, far too exclusive to be artistic (it was, indeed, early Victorian), he felt his temper rising every moment; he hated Life, that gave with one hand only to take with the other, that had contracted the habit of late of balking69 his royal pleasure. Nevertheless, he was able to reflect that it was as well many circumstances had combined to stifle70 the lover in him for the moment. This first interview was the only one he had dreaded71. Could they but shoot those breakers even plain speech between them would not be fraught72 with danger. He did not need experience to assure him that when lovers, long inarticulate, meet after a separation not too long, those brain centres that check and regulate human actions are liable to suffocation73 by fire and flood. But, were all barriers razed74, he was in too bad a humour to-day (he had also been forced to swallow effusive regrets from Mabel before leaving home) to find a corner in him for ardours. At the same time he sighed at this new evidence of the eternal contrast between the anticipated and the real; his tremours over this first meeting had been very sweet.
Nothing perhaps is so eloquent75 of the artless respectability of the British race as the composition of its older hotels: drawing-rooms and bedrooms rarely connect. (And yet an Englishwoman, visiting the United States for the first time, innocently remarked that she could see the Americans were a virtuous76 race, as they used portières instead of doors!) The only door of Styr’s sitting room in this expensive hostelry gave entrance to the public corridor. Ordham heard the hissing77 of under-flounces for a full minute before the door opened and Styr entered. Her cheeks were flushed. She wore a Fedora gown of white camel’s-hair and silk, with a yellow flower in her hair and another in her girdle. He had never seen her look so lovely off the stage.
“It is too delightful78 to see you once more!” she cried with the warm hypocrisy79 of a woman who longs to fling herself into a man’s arms and say nothing. “I know I am unforgiven for not letting you come to the station. But did you really think I should let you see me after twenty-four hours in train and boat? That was like a man! And now I have kept you waiting. But of course I expected that you would be late.”
“How can you say such a thing? I wanted above all things to go to that train. I shall never forgive you.”
“Ah! but had I let you meet me, I never should have forgiven myself. Shall we sit beside these delightful window boxes? I changed the luncheon80 hour to two o’clock—I woke up so late. Oh, tell me that I was quite wonderful last night. It seemed to me that I never had made a real effort before. I know that I triumphed, but I want to hear that you were satisfied.”
Ordham muttered what banalities he could summon. It was evident that her spirits were high, whether artificial or not. She ran on: “Never, never can I express to you what this sudden and splendid opportunity to sing in London means to me. You are my good angel. What had I ever done that you should take so much trouble for me? Those examinations? Yes, for that I shall take credit till the last of my days. But even so—”
“There was no question of paying any debt.” Ordham was scowling81 at the roses in the carpet. “I could not if I would repay you for many things. I have not the least desire to do so. I wanted you to come here and force London to accept Wagner. Of course you have become the rage in a night. You will reconquer some seventeen times during this too brief visit. It is hardly worth talking about. I wonder if you will like London. Have you ever been here before? I forget.”
“Never. Think of it! I had often visited the Continent before going there to live, but for one reason or another I never got to London. I am as excited at the idea of seeing as of singing to it.”
He had recklessly brought up the subject, but he suddenly felt the meanness of every excuse he had concocted82. Should he tell her the truth? Why not first as last? She would not be long discovering it. While he hesitated, she came to his rescue. Before leaving Munich Princess Nachmeister had casually83 remarked that she feared dear Adela was too puritanical84 to receive a stage artist under her roof; for the matter of that, the Anglo-Saxon races, compared with the continent of Europe, were so provincial85 on many subjects that she never met an English or American woman who did not make her feel as if she were the mistress of every man in Europe. But as regarded stage folk, it must be remembered that Munich was almost exceptional in its catholicity. In Paris, in Rome, in many other capitals, they were anathema86 outside their proper spheres. Therefore was Styr prepared for the dark brow and nervous manner of her friend. She knew that as he had not written her before this of receptions arranged in her honour and begging her to reserve certain dates, his family must have refused point-blank to receive her. She was hardly disappointed, for she had little of the American’s romantic weakness for the social citadels87 of the old world, and she knew Ordham so well that her sympathy in any case would have been for him, not for herself. She leaned forward and said impulsively88:
“Do promise me one thing! This is not only my first visit to England, but it may be a long time before I can come again. I want to be a tourist. I want to see all the sights. And to see them with you! Ah, fancy! Don’t be haughty and tell me that you scorn sight-seeing. Don’t tell me that you want me to meet a lot of tiresome89 people. I have not time for both. Do you hate the idea?”
“Hate it?” He seized her hand and kissed it in his immense relief. “I should love it. I have never been inside the Tower, nor the British Museum, and only once to the Abbey—to a wedding. It will be too enchanting90 to have all those hours alone with you. We will go to Windsor and Hampton Court, Madame Tussaud’s and the National Gallery, exactly like two American tourists. Promise that you will not go to a single place with any one else.”
“I do not expect to see any one else except the opera house people.”
“But—of course!—attentions will be showered upon you. It is most unfortunate that my wife—”
“Oh, do let me forget that you are married. We shall wander about just as we did in Bavaria, and in this crowded city no one will be the wiser. Will you take me to the Tower this afternoon?”
“Will I? Rather!”
His good humour was quite restored, and he spent an entirely91 happy afternoon, even condescending92 to share her interest in that mighty93 volume of tragic94 drama, the Tower of London.
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收听单词发音
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1
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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titillated
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| v.使觉得痒( titillate的过去式和过去分词 )；逗引；激发；使高兴 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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pluming
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| 用羽毛装饰（plume的现在分词形式） | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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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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10
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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19
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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40
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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42
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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43
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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45
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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46
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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47
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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48
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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49
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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50
affluently
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| adv.富裕地，流畅地 | |
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51
conserved
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| v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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53
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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54
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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55
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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56
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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57
durability
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| n.经久性，耐用性 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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59
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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60
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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61
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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63
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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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67
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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68
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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balking
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| n.慢行，阻行v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的现在分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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70
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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71
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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72
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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73
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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74
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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76
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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77
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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78
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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79
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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80
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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81
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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82
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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83
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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84
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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85
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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86
anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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87
citadels
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| n.城堡，堡垒( citadel的名词复数 ) | |
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88
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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89
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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90
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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91
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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92
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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94
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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