She supplied him indeed with much to wonder about, so that he fitted, in his ignorance, a dozen high-flown theories to her apparent history. She had married for love and staked her whole soul on it; of that he was convinced. She hadn’t changed her allegiance to be near Paris and her base of supplies of millinery; he was sure she had seen her perpetrated mistake in a light of which her present life, with its conveniences for shopping and its moral aridity23, was the absolute negation24. But by what extraordinary process of the heart—through what mysterious intermission of that moral instinct which may keep pace with the heart even when this organ is making unprecedented25 time—had she fixed26 her affections on an insolently27 frivolous28 Frenchman? Longmore needed no telling; he knew that M. de Mauves was both cynical29 and shallow; these things were stamped on his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his voice, his gesture, his step. Of Frenchwomen themselves, when all was said, our young man, full of nursed discriminations, went in no small fear; they all seemed to belong to the type of a certain fine lady to whom he had ventured to present a letter of introduction and whom, directly after his first visit to her, he had set down in his note-book as “metallic.” Why should Madame de Mauves have chosen a Frenchwoman’s lot—she whose nature had an atmospheric30 envelope absent even from the brightest metals? He asked her one day frankly31 if it had cost her nothing to transplant herself—if she weren’t oppressed with a sense of irreconcileable difference from “all these people.” She replied nothing at first, till he feared she might think it her duty to resent a question that made light of all her husband’s importances. He almost wished she would; it would seem a proof that her policy of silence had a limit. “I almost grew up here,” she said at last, “and it was here for me those visions of the future took shape that we all have when we begin to think or to dream beyond mere32 playtime. As matters stand one may be very American and yet arrange it with one’s conscience to live in Europe. My imagination perhaps—I had a little when I was younger—helped me to think I should find happiness here. And after all, for a woman, what does it signify? This isn’t America, no—this element, but it’s quite as little France. France is out there beyond the garden, France is in the town and the forest; but here, close about me, in my room and”—she paused a moment—“in my mind, it’s a nameless, and doubtless not at all remarkable33, little country of my own. It’s not her country,” she added, “that makes a woman happy or unhappy.”
Madame Clairin, Euphemia’s sister-in-law, might meanwhile have been supposed to have undertaken the graceful34 task of making Longmore ashamed of his uncivil jottings about her sex and nation. Mademoiselle de Mauves, bringing example to the confirmation35 of precept36, had made a remunerative37 match and sacrificed her name to the millions of a prosperous and aspiring38 wholesale39 druggist—a gentleman liberal enough to regard his fortune as a moderate price for being towed into circles unpervaded by pharmaceutic odours. His system possibly was sound, but his own application of it to be deplored40. M. Clairin’s head was turned by his good luck. Having secured an aristocratic wife he adopted an aristocratic vice41 and began to gamble at the Bourse. In an evil hour he lost heavily, and then staked heavily to recover himself. But he was to learn that the law of compensation works with no such pleasing simplicity42, and he rolled to the dark bottom of his folly43. There he felt everything go—his wits, his courage, his probity44, everything that had made him what his fatuous45 marriage had so promptly46 unmade. He walked up the Rue47 Vivienne with his hands in his empty pockets and stood half an hour staring confusedly up and down the brave boulevard. People brushed against him and half a dozen carriages almost ran over him, until at last a policeman, who had been watching him for some time, took him by the arm and led him gently away. He looked at the man’s cocked hat and sword with tears in his eyes; he hoped for some practical application of the wrath48 of heaven, something that would express violently his dead-weight of self-abhorrence. The sergent de ville, however, only stationed him in the embrasure of a door, out of harm’s way, and walked off to supervise a financial contest between an old lady and a cabman. Poor M. Clairin had only been married a year, but he had had time to measure the great spirit of true children of the anciens preux. When night had fallen he repaired to the house of a friend and asked for a night’s lodging49; and as his friend, who was simply his old head book-keeper and lived in a small way, was put to some trouble to accommodate him, “You must pardon me,” the poor man said, “but I can’t go home. I’m afraid of my wife!” Toward morning he blew his brains out. His widow turned the remnants of his property to better account than could have been expected and wore the very handsomest mourning. It was for this latter reason perhaps that she was obliged to retrench50 at other points and accept a temporary home under her brother’s roof.
Fortune had played Madame Clairin a terrible trick, but had found an adversary51 and not a victim. Though quite without beauty she had always had what is called the grand air, and her air from this time forth52 was grander than ever. As she trailed about in her sable53 furbelows, tossing back her well-dressed head and holding up her vigilant54 long-handled eyeglass, she seemed to be sweeping the whole field of society and asking herself where she should pluck her revenge. Suddenly she espied55 it, ready made to her hand, in poor Longmore’s wealth and amiability56. American dollars and American complaisance57 had made her brother’s fortune; why shouldn’t they make hers? She overestimated58 the wealth and misinterpreted the amiability; for she was sure a man could neither be so contented59 without being rich nor so “backward” without being weak. Longmore met her advances with a formal politeness that covered a good deal of unflattering discomposure. She made him feel deeply uncomfortable; and though he was at a loss to conceive how he could be an object of interest to a sharp Parisienne he had an indefinable sense of being enclosed in a magnetic circle, of having become the victim of an incantation. If Madame Clairin could have fathomed60 his Puritanic soul she would have laid by her wand and her book and dismissed him for an impossible subject. She gave him a moral chill, and he never named her to himself save as that dreadful woman—that awful woman. He did justice to her grand air, but for his pleasure he preferred the small air of Madame de Mauves; and he never made her his bow, after standing61 frigidly62 passive for five minutes to one of her gracious overtures63 to intimacy64, without feeling a peculiar65 desire to ramble66 away into the forest, fling himself down on the warm grass and, staring up at the blue sky, forget that there were any women in nature who didn’t please like the swaying tree-tops. One day, on his arrival at the house, she met him in the court with the news that her sister-in-law was shut up with a headache and that his visit must be for HER. He followed her into the drawing-room with the best grace at his command, and sat twirling his hat for half an hour. Suddenly he understood her; her caressing67 cadences68 were so almost explicit69 an invitation to solicit70 the charming honour of her hand. He blushed to the roots of his hair and jumped up with uncontrollable alacrity71; then, dropping a glance at Madame Clairin, who sat watching him with hard eyes over the thin edge of her smile, perceived on her brow a flash of unforgiving wrath. It was not pleasing in itself, but his eyes lingered a moment, for it seemed to show off her character. What he saw in the picture frightened him and he felt himself murmur72 “Poor Madame de Mauves!” His departure was abrupt73, and this time he really went into the forest and lay down on the grass.
After which he admired his young countrywoman more than ever; her intrinsic clearness shone out to him even through the darker shade cast over it. At the end of a month he received a letter from a friend with whom he had arranged a tour through the Low Countries, reminding him of his promise to keep their tryst74 at Brussels. It was only after his answer was posted that he fully75 measured the zeal76 with which he had declared that the journey must either be deferred77 or abandoned—since he couldn’t possibly leave Saint-Germain. He took a walk in the forest and asked himself if this were indeed portentously78 true. Such a truth somehow made it surely his duty to march straight home and put together his effects. Poor Webster, who, he knew, had counted ardently79 on this excursion, was the best of men; six weeks ago he would have gone through anything to join poor Webster. It had never been in his books to throw overboard a friend whom he had loved ten years for a married woman whom he had six weeks—well, admired. It was certainly beyond question that he hung on at Saint-Germain because this admirable married woman was there; but in the midst of so much admiration80 what had become of his fine old power to conclude? This was the conduct of a man not judging but drifting, and he had pretended never to drift. If she were as unhappy as he believed the active sympathy of such a man would help her very little more than his indifference81; if she were less so she needed no help and could dispense82 with his professions. He was sure moreover that if she knew he was staying on her account she would be extremely annoyed. This very feeling indeed had much to do with making it hard to go; her displeasure would be the flush on the snow of the high cold stoicism that touched him to the heart. At moments withal he assured himself that staying to watch her—and what else did it come to?—was simply impertinent; it was gross to keep tugging83 at the cover of a book so intentionally84 closed. Then inclination85 answered that some day her self-support would fail, and he had a vision of this exquisite86 creature calling vainly for help. He would just be her friend to any length, and it was unworthy of either to think about consequences. He was a friend, however, who nursed a brooding regret for his not having known her five years earlier, as well as a particular objection to those who had smartly anticipated him. It seemed one of fortune’s most mocking strokes that she should be surrounded by persons whose only merit was that they threw every side of her, as she turned in her pain, into radiant relief.
Our young man’s growing irritation87 made it more and more difficult for him to see any other merit than this in Richard de Mauves. And yet, disinterestedly88, it would have been hard to give a name to the pitiless perversity89 lighted by such a conclusion, and there were times when Longmore was almost persuaded against his finer judgement that he was really the most considerate of husbands and that it was not a man’s fault if his wife’s love of life had pitched itself once for all in the minor90 key. The Count’s manners were perfect, his discretion irreproachable91, and he seemed never to address his companion but, sentimentally92 speaking, hat in hand. His tone to Longmore—as the latter was perfectly93 aware—was that of a man of the world to a man not quite of the world; but what it lacked in true frankness it made up in easy form. “I can’t thank you enough for having overcome my wife’s shyness,” he more than once declared. “If we left her to do as she pleased she would—in her youth and her beauty—bury herself all absurdly alive. Come often, and bring your good friends and compatriots—some of them are so amusing. She’ll have nothing to do with mine, but perhaps you’ll be able to offer her better son affaire.”
M. de Mauves made these speeches with a bright assurance very amazing to our hero, who had an innocent belief that a man’s head may point out to him the shortcomings of his heart and make him ashamed of them. He couldn’t fancy him formed both to neglect his wife and to take the derisive94 view of her minding it. Longmore had at any rate an exasperated95 sense that this nobleman thought rather the less of their interesting friend on account of that very same fine difference of nature which so deeply stirred his own sympathies. He was rarely present during the sessions of the American visitor, and he made a daily journey to Paris, where he had de gros soucis d’affaires as he once mentioned—with an all-embracing flourish and not in the least in the tone of apology. When he appeared it was late in the evening and with an imperturbable96 air of being on the best of terms with every one and every thing which was peculiarly annoying if you happened to have a tacit quarrel with him. If he was an honest man he was an honest man somehow spoiled for confidence. Something he had, however, that his critic vaguely97 envied, something in his address, splendidly positive, a manner rounded and polished by the habit of conversation and the friction98 of full experience, an urbanity exercised for his own sake, not for his neighbour’s, which seemed the fruit of one of those strong temperaments99 that rule the inward scene better than the best conscience. The Count had plainly no sense for morals, and poor Longmore, who had the finest, would have been glad to borrow his recipe for appearing then so to range the whole scale of the senses. What was it that enabled him, short of being a monster with visibly cloven feet and exhaling100 brimstone, to misprize so cruelly a nature like his wife’s and to walk about the world with such a handsome invincible101 grin? It was the essential grossness of his imagination, which had nevertheless helped him to such a store of neat speeches. He could be highly polite and could doubtless be damnably impertinent, but the life of the spirit was a world as closed to him as the world of great music to a man without an ear. It was ten to one he didn’t in the least understand how his wife felt; he and his smooth sister had doubtless agreed to regard their relative as a Puritanical102 little person, of meagre aspirations103 and few talents, content with looking at Paris from the terrace and, as a special treat, having a countryman very much like herself to regale104 her with innocent echoes of their native wit. M. de Mauves was tired of his companion; he liked women who could, frankly, amuse him better. She was too dim, too delicate, too modest; she had too few arts, too little coquetry, too much charity. Lighting105 a cigar some day while he summed up his situation, her husband had probably decided106 she was incurably107 stupid. It was the same taste, in essence, our young man moralised, as the taste for M. Gerome and M. Baudry in painting and for M. Gustave Flaubert and M. Charles Baudelaire in literature. The Count was a pagan and his wife a Christian108, and between them an impassable gulf109. He was by race and instinct a grand seigneur. Longmore had often heard of that historic type, and was properly grateful for an opportunity to examine it closely. It had its elegance110 of outline, but depended on spiritual sources so remote from those of which he felt the living gush111 in his own soul that he found himself gazing at it, in irreconcileable antipathy112, through a dim historic mist. “I’m a modern bourgeois,” he said, “and not perhaps so good a judge of how far a pretty woman’s tongue may go at supper before the mirrors properly crack to hear. But I’ve not met one of the rarest of women without recognising her, without making my reflexion that, charm for charm, such a maniere d’etre is more ‘fetching’ even than the worst of Theresa’s songs sung by a dissipated duchess. Wit for wit, I think mine carries me further.” It was easy indeed to perceive that, as became a grand seigneur, M. de Mauves had a stock of social principles. He wouldn’t especially have desired perhaps that his wife should compete in amateur operettas with the duchesses in question, for the most part of comparatively recent origin; but he held that a gentleman may take his amusement where he finds it, that he is quite at liberty not to find it at home, and that even an adoptive daughter of his house who should hang her head and have red eyes and allow herself to make any other response to officious condolence than that her husband’s amusements were his own affair, would have forfeited113 every claim to having her finger-tips bowed over and kissed. And yet in spite of this definite faith Longmore figured him much inconvenienced by the Countess’s avoidance of betrayals. Did it dimly occur to him that the principle of this reserve was self-control and not self-effacement? She was a model to all the inferior matrons of his line, past and to come, and an occasional “scene” from her at a manageable hour would have had something reassuring—would have attested114 her stupidity rather better than this mere polish of her patience.
Longmore would have given much to be able to guess how this latter secret worked, and he tried more than once, though timidly and awkwardly enough, to make out the game she was playing. She struck him as having long resisted the force of cruel evidence, and, as though succumbing115 to it at last, having denied herself on simple grounds of generosity116 the right to complain. Her faith might have perished, but the sense of her own old deep perversity remained. He believed her thus quite capable of reproaching herself with having expected too much and of trying to persuade herself out of her bitterness by saying that her hopes had been vanities and follies117 and that what was before her was simply Life. “I hate tragedy,” she once said to him; “I’m a dreadful coward about having to suffer or to bleed. I’ve always tried to believe that—without base concessions—such extremities118 may always somehow be dodged119 or indefinitely postponed120. I should be willing to buy myself off, from having ever to be OVERWHELMED, by giving up—well, any amusement you like.” She lived evidently in nervous apprehension121 of being fatally convinced—of seeing to the end of her deception. Longmore, when he thought of this, felt the force of his desire to offer her something of which she could be as sure as of the sun in heaven.
该作者其它作品
《The Golden Bowl》
《The Wings of the Dove鸽之翼》
《The Jolly Corner欢乐角落》
该作者其它作品
《The Golden Bowl》
《The Wings of the Dove鸽之翼》
《The Jolly Corner欢乐角落》
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1
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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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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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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wholesale
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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retrench
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| v.节省，削减 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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overestimated
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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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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frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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64
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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65
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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66
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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67
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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68
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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69
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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70
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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71
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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72
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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74
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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75
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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76
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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77
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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portentously
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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80
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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81
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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82
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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83
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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85
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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86
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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disinterestedly
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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90
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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91
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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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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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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98
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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99
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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100
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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101
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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102
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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103
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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104
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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105
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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106
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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107
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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108
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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109
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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110
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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111
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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112
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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113
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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115
succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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116
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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117
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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118
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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119
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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120
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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121
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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