It was but a small make-believe of freedom, he knew, to go to the station for Sir Luke. Nothing equally free, at all events, had he yet turned over so long. What then was his odious9 position but that again and again he was afraid? He stiffened10 himself under this consciousness as if it had been a tax levied11 by a tyrant12. He hadn't at any time proposed to himself to live long enough for fear to preponderate13 in his life. Such was simply the advantage it had actually got of him. He was afraid for instance that an advance to his distinguished14 friend might prove for him somehow a pledge or a committal. He was afraid of it as a current that would draw him too far; yet he thought with an equal aversion of being shabby, being poor, through fear. What finally prevailed with him was the reflexion that, whatever might happen, the great man had, after that occasion at the palace, their young woman's brief sacrifice to society—and the hour of Mrs. Stringham's appeal had brought it well to the surface—shown him marked benevolence15. Mrs. Stringham's comments on the relation in which Milly had placed them made him—it was unmistakeable—feel things he perhaps hadn't felt. It was in the spirit of seeking a chance to feel again adequately whatever it was he had missed—it was, no doubt, in that spirit, so far as it went a stroke for freedom, that Densher, arriving betimes, paced the platform before the train came in. Only, after it had come and he had presented himself at the door of Sir Luke's compartment16 with everything that followed—only, as the situation developed, the sense of an anti-climax to so many intensities17 deprived his apprehensions18 and hesitations19 even of the scant20 dignity they might claim. He could scarce have said if the visitor's manner less showed the remembrance that might have suggested expectation, or made shorter work of surprise in presence of the fact.
Sir Luke had clean forgotten—so Densher read—the rather remarkable21 young man he had formerly22 gone about with, though he picked him up again, on the spot, with one large quiet look. The young man felt himself so picked, and the thing immediately affected24 him as the proof of a splendid economy. Opposed to all the waste with which he was now connected the exhibition was of a nature quite nobly to admonish25 him. The eminent26 pilgrim, in the train, all the way, had used the hours as he needed, thinking not a moment in advance of what finally awaited him. An exquisite27 case awaited him—of which, in this queer way, the remarkable young man was an outlying part; but the single motion of his face, the motion into which Densher, from the platform, lightly stirred its stillness, was his first renewed cognition. If, however, he had suppressed the matter by leaving Victoria he would at once suppress now, in turn, whatever else suited. The perception of this became as a symbol of the whole pitch, so far as one might one's self be concerned, of his visit. One saw, our friend further meditated28, everything that, in contact, he appeared to accept—if only, for much, not to trouble to sink it: what one missed was the inward use he made of it. Densher began wondering, at the great water-steps outside, what use he would make of the anomaly of their having there to separate. Eugenio had been on the platform, in the respectful rear, and the gondola29 from the palace, under his direction, bestirred itself, with its attaching mixture of alacrity30 and dignity, on their coming out of the station together. Densher didn't at all mind now that, he himself of necessity refusing a seat on the deep black cushions beside the guest of the palace, he had Milly's three emissaries for spectators; and this susceptibility, he also knew, it was something to have left behind. All he did was to smile down vaguely31 from the steps—they could see him, the donkeys, as shut out as they would. "I don't," he said with a sad headshake, "go there now."
"Oh!" Sir Luke Strett returned, and made no more of it; so that the thing was splendid, Densher fairly thought, as an inscrutability quite inevitable32 and unconscious. His friend appeared not even to make of it that he supposed it might be for respect to the crisis. He didn't moreover afterwards make much more of anything—after the classic craft, that is, obeying in the main Pasquale's inimitable stroke from the poop, had performed the manoeuvre33 by which it presented, receding34, a back, so to speak, rendered positively35 graceful36 by the high black hump of its felze. Densher watched the gondola out of sight—he heard Pasquale's cry, borne to him across the water, for the sharp firm swerve37 into a side-canal, a short cut to the palace. He had no gondola of his own; it was his habit never to take one; and he humbly—as in Venice it is humble—walked away, though not without having for some time longer stood as if fixed38 where the guest of the palace had left him. It was strange enough, but he found himself as never yet, and as he couldn't have reckoned, in presence of the truth that was the truest about Milly. He couldn't have reckoned on the force of the difference instantly made—for it was all in the air as he heard Pasquale's cry and saw the boat disappear—by the mere8 visibility, on the spot, of the personage summoned to her aid. He hadn't only never been near the facts of her condition—which counted so as a blessing39 for him; he hadn't only, with all the world, hovered40 outside an impenetrable ring fence, within which there reigned41 a kind of expensive vagueness made up of smiles and silences and beautiful fictions and priceless arrangements, all strained to breaking; but he had also, with every one else, as he now felt, actively42 fostered suppressions which were in the direct interest of every one's good manner, every one's pity, every one's really quite generous ideal. It was a conspiracy43 of silence, as the cliché went, to which no one had made an exception, the great smudge of mortality across the picture, the shadow of pain and horror, finding in no quarter a surface of spirit or of speech that consented to reflect it. "The mere aesthetic44 instinct of mankind—!" our young man had more than once, in the connexion, said to himself; letting the rest of the proposition drop, but touching45 again thus sufficiently46 on the outrage47 even to taste involved in one's having to see. So then it had been—a general conscious fool's paradise, from which the specified48 had been chased like a dangerous animal. What therefore had at present befallen was that the specified, standing49 all the while at the gate, had now crossed the threshold as in Sir Luke Strett's person and quite on such a scale as to fill out the whole precinct. Densher's nerves, absolutely his heart-beats too, had measured the change before he on this occasion moved away.
The facts of physical suffering, of incurable50 pain, of the chance grimly narrowed, had been made, at a stroke, intense, and this was to be the way he was now to feel them. The clearance51 of the air, in short, making vision not only possible but inevitable, the one thing left to be thankful for was the breadth of Sir Luke's shoulders, which, should one be able to keep in line with them, might in some degree interpose. It was, however, far from plain to Densher for the first day or two that he was again to see his distinguished friend at all. That he couldn't, on any basis actually serving, return to the palace—this was as solid to him, every whit52, as the other feature of his case, the fact of the publicity53 attaching to his proscription54 through his not having taken himself off. He had been seen often enough in the Leporelli gondola. As, accordingly, he was not on any presumption55 destined56 to meet Sir Luke about the town, where the latter would have neither time nor taste to lounge, nothing more would occur between them unless the great man should surprisingly wait upon him. His doing that, Densher further reflected, wouldn't even simply depend on Mrs. Stringham's having decided57 to—as they might say—turn him on. It would depend as well—for there would be practically some difference to her—on her actually attempting it; and it would depend above all on what Sir Luke would make of such an overture58. Densher had for that matter his own view of the amount, to say nothing of the particular sort, of response it might expect from him. He had his own view of the ability of such a personage even to understand such an appeal. To what extent could he be prepared, and what importance in fine could he attach? Densher asked himself these questions, in truth, to put his own position at the worst. He should miss the great man completely unless the great man should come to see him, and the great man could only come to see him for a purpose unsupposable. Therefore he wouldn't come at all, and consequently there was nothing to hope.
It wasn't in the least that Densher invoked59 this violence to all probability; but it pressed on him that there were few possible diversions he could afford now to miss. Nothing in his predicament was so odd as that, incontestably afraid of himself, he was not afraid of Sir Luke. He had an impression, which he clung to, based on a previous taste of the visitor's company, that he would somehow let him off. The truth about Milly perched on his shoulders and sounded in his tread, became by the fact of his presence the name and the form, for the time, of everything in the place; but it didn't, for the difference, sit in his face, the face so squarely and easily turned to Densher at the earlier season. His presence on the first occasion, not as the result of a summons, but as a friendly whim60 of his own, had had quite another value; and though our young man could scarce regard that value as recoverable he yet reached out in imagination to a renewal61 of the old contact. He didn't propose, as he privately62 and forcibly phrased the matter, to be a hog63; but there was something he after all did want for himself. It was something—this stuck to him—that Sir Luke would have had for him if it hadn't been impossible. These were his worst days, the two or three; those on which even the sense of the tension at the palace didn't much help him not to feel that his destiny made but light of him. He had never been, as he judged it, so down. In mean conditions, without books, without society, almost without money, he had nothing to do but to wait. His main support really was his original idea, which didn't leave him, of waiting for the deepest depth his predicament could sink him to. Fate would invent, if he but gave it time, some refinement64 of the horrible. It was just inventing meanwhile this suppression of Sir Luke. When the third day came without a sign he knew what to think. He had given Mrs. Stringham during her call on him no such answer as would have armed her faith, and the ultimatum65 she had described as ready for him when he should be ready was therefore—if on no other ground than her want of this power to answer for him—not to be presented. The presentation, heaven knew, was not what he desired.
That was not, either, we hasten to declare—as Densher then soon enough saw—the idea with which Sir Luke finally stood before him again. For stand before him again he finally did; just when our friend had gloomily embraced the belief that the limit of his power to absent himself from London obligations would have been reached. Four or five days, exclusive of journeys, represented the largest supposable sacrifice—to a head not crowned—on the part of one of the highest medical lights in the world; so that really when the personage in question, following up a tinkle66 of the bell, solidly rose in the doorway67, it was to impose on Densher a vision that for the instant cut like a knife. It spoke68, the fact, and in a single dreadful word, of the magnitude—he shrank from calling it anything else—of Milly's case. The great man had not gone then, and an immense surrender to her immense need was so expressed in it that some effect, some help, some hope, were flagrantly part of the expression. It was for Densher, with his reaction from disappointment, as if he were conscious of ten things at once—the foremost being that just conceivably, since Sir Luke was still there, she had been saved. Close upon its heels, however, and quite as sharply, came the sense that the crisis—plainly even now to be prolonged for him—was to have none of that sound simplicity69. Not only had his visitor not dropped in to gossip about Milly, he hadn't dropped in to mention her at all; he had dropped in fairly to show that during the brief remainder of his stay, the end of which was now in sight, as little as possible of that was to be looked for. The demonstration70, such as it was, was in the key of their previous acquaintance, and it was their previous acquaintance that had made him come. He was not to stop longer than the Saturday next at hand, but there were things of interest he should like to see again meanwhile. It was for these things of interest, for Venice and the opportunity of Venice, for a prowl or two, as he called it, and a turn about, that he had looked his young man up—producing on the latter's part, as soon as the case had, with the lapse71 of a further twenty-four hours, so defined itself, the most incongruous, yet most beneficent revulsion. Nothing could in fact have been more monstrous72 on the surface—and Densher was well aware of it—than the relief he found during this short period in the tacit drop of all reference to the palace, in neither hearing news nor asking for it. That was what had come out for him, on his visitor's entrance, even in the very seconds of suspense73 that were connecting the fact also directly and intensely with Milly's state. He had come to say he had saved her—he had come, as from Mrs. Stringham, to say how she might be saved—he had come, in spite of Mrs. Stringham, to say she was lost: the distinct throbs75 of hope, of fear, simultaneous for all their distinctness, merged76 their identity in a bound of the heart just as immediate23 and which remained after they had passed. It simply did wonders for him—this was the truth—that Sir Luke was, as he would have said, quiet.
The result of it was the oddest consciousness as of a blest calm after a storm. He had been trying for weeks, as we know, to keep superlatively still, and trying it largely in solitude77 and silence; but he looked back on it now as on the heat of fever. The real, the right stillness was this particular form of society. They walked together and they talked, looked up pictures again and recovered impressions—Sir Luke knew just what he wanted; haunted a little the dealers78 in old wares79; sat down at Florian's for rest and mild drinks; blessed above all the grand weather, a bath of warm air, a pageant80 of autumn light. Once or twice while they rested the great man closed his eyes—keeping them so for some minutes while his companion, the more easily watching his face for it, made private reflexions on the subject of lost sleep. He had been up at night with her—he in person, for hours; but this was all he showed of it and was apparently81 to remain his nearest approach to an allusion82. The extraordinary thing was that Densher could take it in perfectly83 as evidence, could turn cold at the image looking out of it; and yet that he could at the same time not intermit a throb74 of his response to accepted liberation. The liberation was an experience that held its own, and he continued to know why, in spite of his deserts, in spite of his folly84, in spite of everything, he had so fondly hoped for it. He had hoped for it, had sat in his room there waiting for it, because he had thus divined in it, should it come, some power to let him off. He was being let off; dealt with in the only way that didn't aggravate85 his responsibility. The beauty was also that this wasn't on system or on any basis of intimate knowledge; it was just by being a man of the world and by knowing life, by feeling the real, that Sir Luke did him good. There had been in all the case too many women. A man's sense of it, another man's, changed the air; and he wondered what man, had he chosen, would have been more to his purpose than this one. He was large and easy—that was the benediction86; he knew what mattered and what didn't; he distinguished between the essence and the shell, the just grounds and the unjust for fussing. One was thus—if one were concerned with him or exposed to him at all—in his hands for whatever he should do, and not much less affected by his mercy than one might have been by his rigour. The grand thing—it did come to that—was the way he carried off, as one might fairly call it, the business of making odd things natural. Nothing, if they hadn't taken it so, could have exceeded the unexplained oddity, between them, of Densher's now complete detachment from the poor ladies at the palace; nothing could have exceeded the no less marked anomaly of the great man's own abstentions of speech. He made, as he had done when they met at the station, nothing whatever of anything; and the effect of it, Densher would have said, was a relation with him quite resembling that of doctor and patient. One took the cue from him as one might have taken a dose—except that the cue was pleasant in the taking.
That was why one could leave it to his tacit discretion87, why for the three or four days Densher again and again did so leave it; merely wondering a little, at the most, on the eve of Saturday, the announced term of the episode. Waiting once more on this latter occasion, the Saturday morning, for Sir Luke's reappearance at the station, our friend had to recognise the drop of his own borrowed ease, the result, naturally enough, of the prospect88 of losing a support. The difficulty was that, on such lines as had served them, the support was Sir Luke's personal presence. Would he go without leaving some substitute for that?—and without breaking, either, his silence in respect to his errand? Densher was in still deeper ignorance than at the hour of his call, and what was truly prodigious89 at so supreme90 a moment was that—as had immediately to appear—no gleam of light on what he had been living with for a week found its way out of him. What he had been doing was proof of a huge interest as well as of a huge fee; yet when the Leporelli gondola again, and somewhat tardily91, approached, his companion, watching from the water-steps, studied his fine closed face as much as ever in vain. It was like a lesson, from the highest authority, on the subject of the relevant, so that its blankness affected Densher of a sudden almost as a cruelty, feeling it quite awfully92 compatible, as he did, with Milly's having ceased to exist. And the suspense continued after they had passed together, as time was short, directly into the station, where Eugenio, in the field early, was mounting guard over the compartment he had secured. The strain, though probably lasting93, at the carriage-door, but a couple of minutes, prolonged itself so for our poor gentleman's nerves that he involuntarily directed a long look at Eugenio, who met it, however, as only Eugenio could. Sir Luke's attention was given for the time to the right bestowal94 of his numerous effects, about which he was particular, and Densher fairly found himself, so far as silence could go, questioning the representative of the palace. It didn't humiliate95 him now; it didn't humiliate him even to feel that that personage exactly knew how little he satisfied him. Eugenio resembled to that extent Sir Luke—to the extent of the extraordinary things with which his facial habit was compatible. By the time, however, that Densher had taken from it all its possessor intended Sir Luke was free and with a hand out for farewell. He offered the hand at first without speech; only on meeting his eyes could our young man see that they had never yet so completely looked at him. It was never, with Sir Luke, that they looked harder at one time than at another; but they looked longer, and this, even a shade of it, might mean on his part everything. It meant, Densher for ten seconds believed, that Milly Theale was dead; so that the word at last spoken made him start.
"I shall come back."
"Then she's better?"
"I shall come back within the month," Sir Luke repeated without heeding96 the question. He had dropped Densher's hand, but he held him otherwise still. "I bring you a message from Miss Theale," he said as if they hadn't spoken of her. "I'm commissioned to ask you from her to go and see her."
Sir Luke had got into the carriage, the door of which the guard had closed; but he spoke again as he stood at the window, bending a little but not leaning out. "She told me she'd like it, and I promised that, as I expected to find you here, I'd let you know."
Densher, on the platform, took it from him, but what he took brought the blood into his face quite as what he had had to take from Mrs. Stringham. And he was also bewildered. "Then she can receive—?"
"She can receive you."
"And you're coming back—?"
"Oh because I must. She's not to move. She's to stay. I come to her."
"I see, I see," said Densher, who indeed did see—saw the sense of his friend's words and saw beyond it as well. What Mrs. Stringham had announced, and what he had yet expected not to have to face, had then come. Sir Luke had kept it for the last, but there it was, and the colourless compact form it was now taking—the tone of one man of the world to another, who, after what had happened, would understand—was but the characteristic manner of his appeal. Densher was to understand remarkably98 much; and the great thing certainly was to show that he did. "I'm particularly obliged, I'll go to-day." He brought that out, but in his pause, while they continued to look at each other, the train had slowly creaked into motion. There was time but for one more word, and the young man chose it, out of twenty, with intense concentration. "Then she's better?"
Sir Luke's face was wonderful. "Yes, she's better." And he kept it at the window while the train receded99, holding him with it still. It was to be his nearest approach to the utter reference they had hitherto so successfully avoided. If it stood for everything; never had a face had to stand for more. So Densher, held after the train had gone, sharply reflected; so he reflected, asking himself into what abyss it pushed him, even while conscious of retreating under the maintained observation of Eugenio.
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1
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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paean
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| n.赞美歌，欢乐歌 | |
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suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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preponderate
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| v.数目超过；占优势 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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scant
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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formerly
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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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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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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vaguely
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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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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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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proscription
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| n.禁止，剥夺权利 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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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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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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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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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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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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tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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99
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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