In his sitting-room4, the tacit connivance5 of the inanimate had centred the lamp-light on a photograph of Alexa Trent, placed, in the obligatory6 silver frame, just where, as memory officiously reminded him, Margaret Aubyn’s picture had long throned in its stead. Miss Trent’s features cruelly justified7 the usurpation8. She had the kind of beauty that comes of a happy accord of face and spirit. It is not given to many to have the lips and eyes of their rarest mood, and some women go through life behind a mask expressing only their anxiety about the butcher’s bill or their inability to see a joke. With Miss Trent, face and mind had the same high serious contour. She looked like a throned Justice by some grave Florentine painter; and it seemed to Glennard that her most salient attribute, or that at least to which her conduct gave most consistent expression, was a kind of passionate9 justice—the intuitive feminine justness that is so much rarer than a reasoned impartiality10. Circumstances had tragically11 combined to develop this instinct into a conscious habit. She had seen more than most girls of the shabby side of life, of the perpetual tendency of want to cramp13 the noblest attitude. Poverty and misfortune had overhung her childhood and she had none of the pretty delusions14 about life that are supposed to be the crowning grace of girlhood. This very competence15, which gave her a touching16 reasonableness, made Glennard’s situation more difficult than if he had aspired17 to a princess bred in the purple. Between them they asked so little—they knew so well how to make that little do—but they understood also, and she especially did not for a moment let him forget, that without that little the future they dreamed of was impossible.
The sight of her photograph quickened Glennard’s exasperation18. He was sick and ashamed of the part he was playing. He had loved her now for two years, with the tranquil19 tenderness that gathers depth and volume as it nears fulfilment; he knew that she would wait for him—but the certitude was an added pang20. There are times when the constancy of the woman one cannot marry is almost as trying as that of the woman one does not want to.
Glennard turned up his reading-lamp and stirred the fire. He had a long evening before him and he wanted to crowd out thought with action. He had brought some papers from his office and he spread them out on his table and squared himself to the task....
It must have been an hour later that he found himself automatically fitting a key into a locked drawer. He had no more notion than a somnambulist of the mental process that had led up to this action. He was just dimly aware of having pushed aside the papers and the heavy calf21 volumes that a moment before had bounded his horizon, and of laying in their place, without a trace of conscious volition22, the parcel he had taken from the drawer.
The letters were tied in packets of thirty or forty. There were a great many packets. On some of the envelopes the ink was fading; on others, which bore the English post-mark, it was still fresh. She had been dead hardly three years, and she had written, at lengthening23 intervals24, to the last....
He undid25 one of the earlier packets—little notes written during their first acquaintance at Hillbridge. Glennard, on leaving college, had begun life in his uncle’s law office in the old university town. It was there that, at the house of her father, Professor Forth26, he had first met the young lady then chiefly distinguished27 for having, after two years of a conspicuously28 unhappy marriage, returned to the protection of the paternal29 roof.
Mrs. Aubyn was at that time an eager and somewhat tragic12 young woman, of complex mind and undeveloped manners, whom her crude experience of matrimony had fitted out with a stock of generalizations30 that exploded like bombs in the academic air of Hillbridge. In her choice of a husband she had been fortunate enough, if the paradox31 be permitted, to light on one so signally gifted with the faculty32 of putting himself in the wrong that her leaving him had the dignity of a manifesto—made her, as it were, the spokeswoman of outraged33 wifehood. In this light she was cherished by that dominant34 portion of Hillbridge society which was least indulgent to conjugal35 differences, and which found a proportionate pleasure in being for once able to feast openly on a dish liberally seasoned with the outrageous36. So much did this endear Mrs. Aubyn to the university ladies that they were disposed from the first to allow her more latitude37 of speech and action than the ill-used wife was generally accorded in Hillbridge, where misfortune was still regarded as a visitation designed to put people in their proper place and make them feel the superiority of their neighbors. The young woman so privileged combined with a kind of personal shyness an intellectual audacity38 that was like a deflected39 impulse of coquetry: one felt that if she had been prettier she would have had emotions instead of ideas. She was in fact even then what she had always remained: a genius capable of the acutest generalizations, but curiously40 undiscerning where her personal susceptibilities were concerned. Her psychology41 failed her just where it serves most women and one felt that her brains would never be a guide to her heart. Of all this, however, Glennard thought little in the first year of their acquaintance. He was at an age when all the gifts and graces are but so much undiscriminated food to the ravening42 egoism of youth. In seeking Mrs. Aubyn’s company he was prompted by an intuitive taste for the best as a pledge of his own superiority. The sympathy of the cleverest woman in Hillbridge was balm to his craving43 for distinction: it was public confirmation44 of his secret sense that he was cut out for a bigger place. It must not be understood that Glennard was vain. Vanity contents itself with the coarsest diet; there is no palate so fastidious as that of self-distrust. To a youth of Glennard’s aspirations45 the encouragement of a clever woman stood for the symbol of all success. Later, when he had begun to feel his way, to gain a foothold, he would not need such support; but it served to carry him lightly and easily over what is often a period of insecurity and discouragement.
It would be unjust, however, to represent his interest in Mrs. Aubyn as a matter of calculation. It was as instinctive46 as love, and it missed being love by just such a hair-breadth deflection from the line of beauty as had determined47 the curve of Mrs. Aubyn’s lips. When they met she had just published her first novel, and Glennard, who afterward48 had an ambitious man’s impatience49 of distinguished women, was young enough to be dazzled by the semi-publicity it gave her. It was the kind of book that makes elderly ladies lower their voices and call each other “my dear” when they furtively50 discuss it; and Glennard exulted51 in the superior knowledge of the world that enabled him to take as a matter of course sentiments over which the university shook its head. Still more delightful52 was it to hear Mrs. Aubyn waken the echoes of academic drawing-rooms with audacities53 surpassing those of her printed page. Her intellectual independence gave a touch of comradeship to their intimacy54, prolonging the illusion of college friendships based on a joyous55 interchange of heresies56. Mrs. Aubyn and Glennard represented to each other the augur’s wink57 behind the Hillbridge idol58: they walked together in that light of young omniscience59 from which fate so curiously excludes one’s elders.
Husbands who are notoriously inopportune, may even die inopportunely, and this was the revenge that Mr. Aubyn, some two years after her return to Hillbridge, took upon his injured wife. He died precisely60 at the moment when Glennard was beginning to criticise61 her. It was not that she bored him; she did what was infinitely62 worse—she made him feel his inferiority. The sense of mental equality had been gratifying to his raw ambition; but as his self-knowledge defined itself, his understanding of her also increased; and if man is at times indirectly63 flattered by the moral superiority of woman, her mental ascendency is extenuated64 by no such oblique65 tribute to his powers. The attitude of looking up is a strain on the muscles; and it was becoming more and more Glennard’s opinion that brains, in a woman, should be merely the obverse of beauty. To beauty Mrs. Aubyn could lay no claim; and while she had enough prettiness to exasperate66 him by her incapacity to make use of it, she seemed invincibly67 ignorant of any of the little artifices68 whereby women contrive69 to palliate their defects and even to turn them into graces. Her dress never seemed a part of her; all her clothes had an impersonal70 air, as though they had belonged to someone else and been borrowed in an emergency that had somehow become chronic71. She was conscious enough of her deficiencies to try to amend72 them by rash imitations of the most approved models; but no woman who does not dress well intuitively will ever do so by the light of reason, and Mrs. Aubyn’s plagiarisms73, to borrow a metaphor74 of her trade, somehow never seemed to be incorporated with the text.
Genius is of small use to a woman who does not know how to do her hair. The fame that came to Mrs. Aubyn with her second book left Glennard’s imagination untouched, or had at most the negative effect of removing her still farther from the circle of his contracting sympathies. We are all the sport of time; and fate had so perversely75 ordered the chronology of Margaret Aubyn’s romance that when her husband died Glennard felt as though he had lost a friend.
It was not in his nature to be needlessly unkind; and though he was in the impregnable position of the man who has given a woman no more definable claim on him than that of letting her fancy that he loves her, he would not for the world have accentuated76 his advantage by any betrayal of indifference77. During the first year of her widowhood their friendship dragged on with halting renewals78 of sentiment, becoming more and more a banquet of empty dishes from which the covers were never removed; then Glennard went to New York to live and exchanged the faded pleasures of intercourse79 for the comparative novelty of correspondence. Her letters, oddly enough, seemed at first to bring her nearer than her presence. She had adopted, and she successfully maintained, a note as affectionately impersonal as his own; she wrote ardently80 of her work, she questioned him about his, she even bantered81 him on the inevitable82 pretty girl who was certain before long to divert the current of his confidences. To Glennard, who was almost a stranger in New York, the sight of Mrs. Aubyn’s writing was like a voice of reassurance83 in surroundings as yet insufficiently84 aware of him. His vanity found a retrospective enjoyment85 in the sentiment his heart had rejected, and this factitious emotion drove him once or twice to Hillbridge, whence, after scenes of evasive tenderness, he returned dissatisfied with himself and her. As he made room for himself in New York and peopled the space he had cleared with the sympathies at the disposal of agreeable and self-confident young men, it seemed to him natural to infer that Mrs. Aubyn had refurnished in the same manner the void he was not unwilling86 his departure should have left. But in the dissolution of sentimental87 partnerships88 it is seldom that both associates are able to withdraw their funds at the same time; and Glennard gradually learned that he stood for the venture on which Mrs. Aubyn had irretrievably staked her all. It was not the kind of figure he cared to cut. He had no fancy for leaving havoc89 in his wake and would have preferred to sow a quick growth of oblivion in the spaces wasted by his unconsidered inroads; but if he supplied the seed it was clearly Mrs. Aubyn’s business to see to the raising of the crop. Her attitude seemed indeed to throw his own reasonableness into distincter relief: so that they might have stood for thrift90 and improvidence91 in an allegory of the affections.
It was not that Mrs. Aubyn permitted herself to be a pensioner92 on his bounty93. He knew she had no wish to keep herself alive on the small change of sentiment; she simply fed on her own funded passion, and the luxuries it allowed her made him, even then, dimly aware that she had the secret of an inexhaustible alchemy.
Their relations remained thus negatively tender till she suddenly wrote him of her decision to go abroad to live. Her father had died, she had no near ties in Hillbridge, and London offered more scope than New York to her expanding personality. She was already famous and her laurels94 were yet unharvested.
For a moment the news roused Glennard to a jealous sense of lost opportunities. He wanted, at any rate, to reassert his power before she made the final effort of escape. They had not met for over a year, but of course he could not let her sail without seeing her. She came to New York the day before her departure, and they spent its last hours together. Glennard had planned no course of action—he simply meant to let himself drift. They both drifted, for a long time, down the languid current of reminiscence; she seemed to sit passive, letting him push his way back through the overgrown channels of the past. At length she reminded him that they must bring their explorations to an end. He rose to leave, and stood looking at her with the same uncertainty95 in his heart. He was tired of her already—he was always tired of her—yet he was not sure that he wanted her to go.
“I may never see you again,” he said, as though confidently appealing to her compassion96.
“Why go then—?” escaped him.
“To be nearer you,” she answered; and the words dismissed him like a closing door.
The door was never to reopen; but through its narrow crack Glennard, as the years went on, became more and more conscious of an inextinguishable light directing its small ray toward the past which consumed so little of his own commemorative oil. The reproach was taken from this thought by Mrs. Aubyn’s gradual translation into terms of universality. In becoming a personage she so naturally ceased to be a person that Glennard could almost look back to his explorations of her spirit as on a visit to some famous shrine98, immortalized, but in a sense desecrated99, by popular veneration100.
Her letters, from London, continued to come with the same tender punctuality; but the altered conditions of her life, the vistas101 of new relationships disclosed by every phrase, made her communications as impersonal as a piece of journalism102. It was as though the state, the world, indeed, had taken her off his hands, assuming the maintenance of a temperament103 that had long exhausted104 his slender store of reciprocity.
In the retrospective light shed by the letters he was blinded to their specific meaning. He was not a man who concerned himself with literature, and they had been to him, at first, simply the extension of her brilliant talk, later the dreaded105 vehicle of a tragic importunity106. He knew, of course, that they were wonderful; that, unlike the authors who give their essence to the public and keep only a dry rind for their friends, Mrs. Aubyn had stored of her rarest vintage for this hidden sacrament of tenderness. Sometimes, indeed, he had been oppressed, humiliated107 almost, by the multiplicity of her allusions108, the wide scope of her interests, her persistence109 in forcing her superabundance of thought and emotion into the shallow receptacle of his sympathy; but he had never thought of the letters objectively, as the production of a distinguished woman; had never measured the literary significance of her oppressive prodigality110. He was almost frightened now at the wealth in his hands; the obligation of her love had never weighed on him like this gift of her imagination: it was as though he had accepted from her something to which even a reciprocal tenderness could not have justified his claim.
He sat a long time staring at the scattered111 pages on his desk; and in the sudden realization112 of what they meant he could almost fancy some alchemistic process changing them to gold as he stared. He had the sense of not being alone in the room, of the presence of another self observing from without the stirring of subconscious113 impulses that sent flushes of humiliation114 to his forehead. At length he stood up, and with the gesture of a man who wishes to give outward expression to his purpose—to establish, as it were, a moral alibi—swept the letters into a heap and carried them toward the grate. But it would have taken too long to burn all the packets. He turned back to the table and one by one fitted the pages into their envelopes; then he tied up the letters and put them back into the locked drawer.
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1
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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3
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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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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10
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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25
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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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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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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42
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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43
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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45
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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46
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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49
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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50
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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51
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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53
audacities
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| n.大胆( audacity的名词复数 )；鲁莽；胆大妄为；鲁莽行为 | |
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54
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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55
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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56
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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57
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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62
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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extenuated
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| v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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invincibly
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| adv.难战胜地，无敌地 | |
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68
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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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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71
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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72
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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73
plagiarisms
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| n.剽窃( plagiarism的名词复数 )；抄袭；剽窃物；抄袭物 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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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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renewals
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| 重建( renewal的名词复数 )； 更新； 重生； 合同的续订 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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81
bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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82
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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83
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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84
insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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85
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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86
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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88
partnerships
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| n.伙伴关系( partnership的名词复数 )；合伙人身份；合作关系 | |
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89
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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90
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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95
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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101
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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102
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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103
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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104
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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105
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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106
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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107
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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108
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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109
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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110
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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111
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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112
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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113
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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114
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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