It played for him—certainly in this prime afterglow—the part of a treasure kept at home in safety and sanctity, something he was sure of finding in its place when, with each return, he worked his heavy old key in the lock. The door had but to open for him to be with it again and for it to be all there; so intensely there that, as we say, no other act was possible to him than the renewed act, almost the hallucination, of intimacy15. Wherever he looked or sat or stood, to whatever aspect he gave for the instant the advantage, it was in view as nothing of the moment, nothing begotten16 of time or of chance could be, or ever would; it was in view as, when the curtain has risen, the play on the stage is in view, night after night, for the fiddlers. He remained thus, in his own theatre, in his single person, perpetual orchestra to the ordered drama, the confirmed "run"; playing low and slow, moreover, in the regular way, for the situations of most importance. No other visitor was to come to him; he met, he bumped occasionally, in the Piazza17 or in his walks, against claimants to acquaintance, remembered or forgotten, at present mostly effusive18, sometimes even inquisitive19; but he gave no address and encouraged no approach; he couldn't for his life, he felt, have opened his door to a third person. Such a person would have interrupted him, would have profaned20 his secret or perhaps have guessed it; would at any rate have broken the spell of what he conceived himself—in the absence of anything "to show"—to be inwardly doing. He was giving himself up—that was quite enough—to the general feeling of his renewed engagement to fidelity21. The force of the engagement, the quantity of the article to be supplied, the special solidity of the contract, the way, above all, as a service for which the price named by him had been magnificently paid, his equivalent office was to take effect—such items might well fill his consciousness when there was nothing from outside to interfere22. Never was a consciousness more rounded and fastened down over what filled it; which is precisely23 what we have spoken of as, in its degree, the oppression of success, the somewhat chilled state—tending to the solitary—of supreme25 recognition. If it was slightly awful to feel so justified26, this was by the loss of the warmth of the element of mystery. The lucid27 reigned28 instead of it, and it was into the lucid that he sat and stared. He shook himself out of it a dozen times a day, tried to break by his own act his constant still communion. It wasn't still communion she had meant to bequeath him; it was the very different business of that kind of fidelity of which the other name was careful action.
Nothing, he perfectly29 knew, was less like careful action than the immersion30 he enjoyed at home. The actual grand queerness was that to be faithful to Kate he had positively31 to take his eyes, his arms, his lips straight off her—he had to let her alone. He had to remember it was time to go to the palace—which in truth was a mercy, since the check was not less effectual than imperative32. What it came to, fortunately, as yet, was that when he closed the door behind him for an absence he always shut her in. Shut her out—it came to that rather, when once he had got a little away; and before he reached the palace, much more after hearing at his heels the bang of the greater portone, he felt free enough not to know his position as oppressively false. As Kate was all in his poor rooms, and not a ghost of her left for the grander, it was only on reflexion that the falseness came out; so long as he left it to the mercy of beneficent chance it offered him no face and made of him no claim that he couldn't meet without aggravation33 of his inward sense. This aggravation had been his original horror; yet what—in Milly's presence, each day—was horror doing with him but virtually letting him off? He shouldn't perhaps get off to the end; there was time enough still for the possibility of shame to pounce34. Still, however, he did constantly a little more what he liked best, and that kept him for the time more safe. What he liked best was, in any case, to know why things were as he felt them; and he knew it pretty well, in this case, ten days after the retreat of his other friends. He then fairly perceived that—even putting their purity of motive35 at its highest—it was neither Kate nor he who made his strange relation to Milly, who made her own, so far as it might be, innocent; it was neither of them who practically purged36 it—if practically purged it was. Milly herself did everything—so far at least as he was concerned—Milly herself, and Milly's house, and Milly's hospitality, and Milly's manner, and Milly's character, and, perhaps still more than anything else, Milly's imagination, Mrs. Stringham and Sir Luke indeed a little aiding: whereby he knew the blessing37 of a fair pretext38 to ask himself what more he had to do. Something incalculable wrought39 for them—for him and Kate; something outside, beyond, above themselves, and doubtless ever so much better than they: which wasn't a reason, however—its being so much better—for them not to profit by it. Not to profit by it, so far as profit could be reckoned, would have been to go directly against it; and the spirit of generosity40 at present engendered41 in Densher could have felt no greater pang42 than by his having to go directly against Milly.
To go with her was the thing, so far as she could herself go; which, from the moment her tenure43 of her loved palace stretched on, was possible but by his remaining near her. This remaining was of course on the face of it the most "marked" of demonstrations—which was exactly why Kate had required it; it was so marked that on the very evening of the day it had taken effect Milly herself hadn't been able not to reach out to him, with an exquisite45 awkwardness, for some account of it. It was as if she had wanted from him some name that, now they were to be almost alone together, they could, for their further ease, know it and call it by—it being, after all, almost rudimentary that his presence, of which the absence of the others made quite a different thing, couldn't but have for himself some definite basis. She only wondered about the basis it would have for himself, and how he would describe it; that would quite do for her—it even would have done for her, he could see, had he produced some reason merely trivial, had he said he was waiting for money or clothes, for letters or for orders from Fleet Street, without which, as she might have heard, newspaper men never took a step. He hadn't in the event quite sunk to that; but he had none the less had there with her, that night, on Mrs. Stringham's leaving them alone—Mrs. Stringham proved really prodigious—his acquaintance with a shade of awkwardness darker than any Milly could know. He had supposed himself beforehand, on the question of what he was doing or pretending, in possession of some tone that would serve; but there were three minutes of his feeling incapable47 of promptness quite in the same degree in which a gentleman whose pocket has been picked feels incapable of purchase. It even didn't help him, oddly, that he was sure Kate would in some way have spoken for him—or rather not so much in some way as in one very particular way. He hadn't asked her, at the last, what she might, in the connexion, have said; nothing would have induced him to put such a question after she had been to see him: his lips were so sealed by that passage, his spirit in fact so hushed, in respect to any charge upon her freedom. There was something he could only therefore read back into the probabilities, and when he left the palace an hour afterwards it was with a sense of having breathed there, in the very air, the truth he had been guessing.
Just this perception it was, however, that had made him for the time ugly to himself in his awkwardness. It was horrible, with this creature, to be awkward; it was odious48 to be seeking excuses for the relation that involved it. Any relation that involved it was by the very fact as much discredited49 as a dish would be at dinner if one had to take medicine as a sauce. What Kate would have said in one of the young women's last talks was that—if Milly absolutely must have the truth about it—Mr. Densher was staying because she had really seen no way but to require it of him. If he stayed he didn't follow her—or didn't appear to her aunt to be doing so; and when she kept him from following her Mrs. Lowder couldn't pretend, in scenes, the renewal50 of which at this time of day was painful, that she after all didn't snub him as she might. She did nothing in fact but snub him—wouldn't that have been part of the story?—only Aunt Maud's suspicions were of the sort that had repeatedly to be dealt with. He had been, by the same token, reasonable enough—as he now, for that matter, well might; he had consented to oblige them, aunt and niece, by giving the plainest sign possible that he could exist away from London. To exist away from London was to exist away from Kate Croy—which was a gain, much appreciated, to the latter's comfort. There was a minute, at this hour, out of Densher's three, during which he knew the terror of Milly's uttering some such allusion51 to their friend's explanation as he must meet with words that wouldn't destroy it. To destroy it was to destroy everything, to destroy probably Kate herself, to destroy in particular by a breach52 of faith still uglier than anything else the beauty of their own last passage. He had given her his word of honour that if she would come to him he would act absolutely in her sense, and he had done so with a full enough vision of what her sense implied. What it implied for one thing was that to-night in the great saloon, noble in its half-lighted beauty, and straight in the white face of his young hostess, divine in her trust, or at any rate inscrutable in her mercy—what it implied was that he should lie with his lips. The single thing, of all things, that could save him from it would be Milly's letting him off after having thus scared him. What made her mercy inscrutable was that if she had already more than once saved him it was yet apparently53 without knowing how nearly he was lost.
These were transcendent motions, not the less blest for being obscure; whereby yet once more he was to feel the pressure lighten. He was kept on his feet in short by the felicity of her not presenting him with Kate's version as aversion to adopt. He couldn't stand up to lie—he felt as if he should have to go down on his knees. As it was he just sat there shaking a little for nervousness the leg he had crossed over the other. She was sorry for his suffered snub, but he had nothing more to subscribe54 to, to perjure55 himself about, than the three or four inanities56 he had, on his own side, feebly prepared for the crisis. He scrambled57 a little higher than the reference to money and clothes, letters and directions from his manager; but he brought out the beauty of the chance for him—there before him like a temptress painted by Titian—to do a little quiet writing. He was vivid for a moment on the difficulty of writing quietly in London; and he was precipitate58, almost explosive, on his idea, long cherished, of a book.
The explosion lighted her face. "You'll do your book here?"
"I hope to begin it."
"It's something you haven't begun?"
"Well, only just."
"And since you came?"
She was so full of interest that he shouldn't perhaps after all be too easily let off. "I tried to think a few days ago that I had broken ground."
Scarcely anything, it was indeed clear, could have let him in deeper. "I'm afraid we've made an awful mess of your time."
"Then you mustn't mind me, you know."
"You'll see," he tried to say with ease, "how little I shall mind anything."
"You'll want"—Milly had thrown herself into it—"the best part of your days."
He thought a moment: he did what he could to wreathe it in smiles. "Oh I shall make shift with the worst part. The best will be for you." And he wished Kate could hear him. It didn't help him moreover that he visibly, even pathetically, imaged to her by such touches his quest for comfort against discipline. He was to bury Kate's so signal snub, and also the hard law she had now laid on him, under a high intellectual effort. This at least was his crucifixion—that Milly was so interested. She was so interested that she presently asked him if he found his rooms propitious60, while he felt that in just decently answering her he put on a brazen62 mask. He should need it quite particularly were she to express again her imagination of coming to tea with him—an extremity63 that he saw he was not to be spared. "We depend on you, Susie and I, you know, not to forget we're coming"—the extremity was but to face that remainder, yet it demanded all his tact64. Facing their visit itself—to that, no matter what he might have to do, he would never consent, as we know, to be pushed; and this even though it might be exactly such a demonstration44 as would figure for him at the top of Kate's list of his proprieties65. He could wonder freely enough, deep within, if Kate's view of that especial propriety66 had not been modified by a subsequent occurrence; but his deciding that it was quite likely not to have been had no effect on his own preference for tact. It pleased him to think of "tact" as his present prop61 in doubt; that glossed67 his predicament over, for it was of application among the sensitive and the kind. He wasn't inhuman68, in fine, so long as it would serve. It had to serve now, accordingly, to help him not to sweeten Milly's hopes. He didn't want to be rude to them, but he still less wanted them to flower again in the particular connexion; so that, casting about him in his anxiety for a middle way to meet her, he put his foot, with unhappy effect, just in the wrong place. "Will it be safe for you to break into your custom of not leaving the house?"
"'Safe'—?" She had for twenty seconds an exquisite pale glare. Oh but he didn't need it, by that time, to wince69; he had winced70 for himself as soon as he had made his mistake. He had done what, so unforgettably, she had asked him in London not to do; he had touched, all alone with her here, the supersensitive nerve of which she had warned him. He had not, since the occasion in London, touched it again till now; but he saw himself freshly warned that it was able to bear still less. So for the moment he knew as little what to do as he had ever known it in his life. He couldn't emphasise71 that he thought of her as dying, yet he couldn't pretend he thought of her as indifferent to precautions. Meanwhile too she had narrowed his choice. "You suppose me so awfully72 bad?"
He turned, in his pain, within himself; but by the time the colour had mounted to the roots of his hair he had found what he wanted. "I'll believe whatever you tell me."
"Well then, I'm splendid."
"Oh I don't need you to tell me that."
"I mean I'm capable of life."
"I've never doubted it."
"I mean," she went on, "that I want so to live—!"
"Well, that I know I can."
"Whatever you do?" He shrank from solemnity about it.
"Whatever I do. If I want to."
"If you want to do it?"
"If I want to live. I can," Milly repeated.
He had clumsily brought it on himself, but he hesitated with all the pity of it. "Ah then that I believe."
"I will, I will," she declared; yet with the weight of it somehow turned for him to mere46 light and sound.
He felt himself smiling through a mist. "You simply must!"
It brought her straight again to the fact. "Well then, if you say it, why mayn't we pay you our visit?"
"Will it help you to live?"
"Every little helps," she laughed; "and it's very little for me, in general, to stay at home. Only I shan't want to miss it—!"
"Yes?"—she had dropped again.
"Well, on the day you give us a chance."
It was amazing what so brief an exchange had at this point done with him. His great scruple74 suddenly broke, giving way to something inordinately75 strange, something of a nature to become clear to him only when he had left her. "You can come," he said, "when you like."
What had taken place for him, however—the drop, almost with violence, of everything but a sense of her own reality—apparently showed in his face or his manner, and even so vividly76 that she could take it for something else. "I see how you feel—that I'm an awful bore about it and that, sooner than have any such upset, you'll go. So it's no matter."
"No matter? Oh!"—he quite protested now.
"If it drives you away to escape us. We want you not to go."
It was beautiful how she spoke24 for Mrs. Stringham. Whatever it was, at any rate, he shook his head. "I won't go."
"Then I won't go!" she brightly declared.
"You mean you won't come to me?"
"No—never now. It's over. But it's all right. I mean, apart from that," she went on, "that I won't do anything I oughtn't or that I'm not forced to."
"Oh who can ever force you?" he asked with his hand-to-mouth way, at all times, of speaking for her encouragement. "You're the least coercible77 of creatures."
"Because, you think, I'm so free?"
"The freest person probably now in the world. You've got everything."
"Well," she smiled, "call it so. I don't complain."
On which again, in spite of himself, it let him in. "No I know you don't complain."
As soon as he had said it he had himself heard the pity in it. His telling her she had "everything" was extravagant78 kind humour, whereas his knowing so tenderly that she didn't complain was terrible kind gravity. Milly felt, he could see, the difference; he might as well have praised her outright79 for looking death in the face. This was the way she just looked him again, and it was of no attenuation80 that she took him up more gently than ever. "It isn't a merit—when one sees one's way."
"To peace and plenty? Well, I dare say not."
"I mean to keeping what one has."
"Well, it's my limit. I'm not trying for more." To which then she added with a change: "And now about your book."
"My book—?" He had got in a moment so far from it.
"The one you're now to understand that nothing will induce either Susie or me to run the risk of spoiling."
He cast about, but he made up his mind. "I'm not doing a book."
"Not what you said?" she asked in a wonder. "You're not writing?"
He already felt relieved. "I don't know, upon my honour, what I'm doing."
It made her visibly grave; so that, disconcerted in another way, he was afraid of what she would see in it. She saw in fact exactly what he feared, but again his honour, as he called it, was saved even while she didn't know she had threatened it. Taking his words for a betrayal of the sense that he, on his side, might complain, what she clearly wanted was to urge on him some such patience as he should be perhaps able to arrive at with her indirect help. Still more clearly, however, she wanted to be sure of how far she might venture; and he could see her make out in a moment that she had a sort of test.
"Then if it's not for your book—?"
"What am I staying for?"
"I mean with your London work—with all you have to do. Isn't it rather empty for you?"
"Empty for me?" He remembered how Kate had held that she might propose marriage, and he wondered if this were the way she would naturally begin it. It would leave him, such an incident, he already felt, at a loss, and the note of his finest anxiety might have been in the vagueness of his reply. "Oh well—!"
"I ask too many questions?" She settled it for herself before he could protest. "You stay because you've got to."
He grasped at it. "I stay because I've got to." And he couldn't have said when he had uttered it if it were loyal to Kate or disloyal. It gave her, in a manner, away; it showed the tip of the ear of her plan. Yet Milly took it, he perceived, but as a plain statement of his truth. He was waiting for what Kate would have told her of—the permission from Lancaster Gate to come any nearer. To remain friends with either niece or aunt he mustn't stir without it. All this Densher read in the girl's sense of the spirit of his reply; so that it made him feel he was lying, and he had to think of something to correct that. What he thought of was, in an instant, "Isn't it enough, whatever may be one's other complications, to stay after all for you?"
"Oh you must judge."
He was by this time on his feet to take leave, and was also at last too restless. The speech in question at least wasn't disloyal to Kate; that was the very tone of their bargain. So was it, by being loyal, another kind of lie, the lie of the uncandid profession of a motive. He was staying so little "for" Milly that he was staying positively against her. He didn't, none the less, know, and at last, thank goodness, didn't care. The only thing he could say might make it either better or worse. "Well then, so long as I don't go, you must think of me all as judging!"
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1
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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9
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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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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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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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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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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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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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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perjure
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| v.作伪证；使发假誓 | |
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inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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ravage
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| vt.使...荒废，破坏...；n.破坏，掠夺，荒废 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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coercible
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| adj.可强迫的，可威压的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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attenuation
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| n.变薄；弄细；稀薄化；减少 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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