When at last he went back he found to his vexation that he was to run the gauntlet of Madame Clairin’s officious hospitality. It was one of the first mornings of perfect summer, and the drawing-room, through the open windows, was flooded with such a confusion of odours and bird-notes as might warrant the hope that Madame de Mauves would renew with him for an hour or two the exploration of the forest. Her sister-in-law, however, whose hair was not yet dressed, emerged like a brassy discord6 in a maze7 of melody. At the same moment the servant returned with his mistress’s regrets; she begged to be excused, she was indisposed and unable to see Mr. Longmore. The young man knew just how disappointed he looked and just what Madame Clairin thought of it, and this consciousness determined8 in him an attitude of almost aggressive frigidity9. This was apparently10 what she desired. She wished to throw him off his balance and, if she was not mistaken, knew exactly how.
“Put down your hat, Mr. Longmore,” she said, “and be polite for once. You were not at all polite the other day when I asked you that friendly question about the state of your heart.”
“I HAVE no heart—to talk about,” he returned with as little grace.
“As well say you’ve none at all. I advise you to cultivate a little eloquence11; you may have use for it. That was not an idle question of mine; I don’t ask idle questions. For a couple of months now that you’ve been coming and going among us it seems to me you’ve had very few to answer of any sort.”
“I’ve certainly been very well treated,” he still dryly allowed.
His companion waited ever so little to bring out: “Have you never felt disposed to ask any?”
Her look, her tone, were so charged with insidious12 meanings as to make him feel that even to understand her would savour of dishonest complicity. “What is it you have to tell me?” he cried with a flushed frown.
Her own colour rose at the question. It’s rather hard, when you come bearing yourself very much as the sibyl when she came to the Roman king, to be treated as something worse than a vulgar gossip. “I might tell you, monsieur,” she returned, “that you’ve as bad a ton as any young man I ever met. Where have you lived—what are your ideas? A stupid one of my own—possibly!—has been to call your attention to a fact that it takes some delicacy13 to touch upon. You’ve noticed, I suppose, that my sister-in-law isn’t the happiest woman in the world.”
“Oh!”—Longmore made short work of it.
She seemed to measure his intelligence a little uncertainly. “You’ve formed, I suppose,” she nevertheless continued, “your conception of the grounds of her discontent?”
“It hasn’t required much forming. The grounds—or at least a specimen14 or two of them—have simply stared me in the face.”
Madame Clairin considered a moment with her eyes on him. “Yes—ces choses-la se voient. My brother, in a single word, has the deplorable habit of falling in love with other women. I don’t judge him; I don’t judge my sister-in-law. I only permit myself to say that in her position I would have managed otherwise. I’d either have kept my husband’s affection or I’d have frankly15 done without it. But my sister’s an odd compound; I don’t profess16 to understand her. Therefore it is, in a measure, that I appeal to you, her fellow countryman. Of course you’ll be surprised at my way of looking at the matter, and I admit that it’s a way in use only among people whose history—that of a race—has cultivated in them the sense for high political solutions.” She paused and Longmore wondered where the history of her race was going to lead her. But she clearly saw her course. “There has never been a galant homme among us, I fear, who has not given his wife, even when she was very charming, the right to be jealous. We know our history for ages back, and the fact’s established. It’s not a very edifying17 one if you like, but it’s something to have scandals with pedigrees—if you can’t have them with attenuations. Our men have been Frenchmen of France, and their wives—I may say it—have been of no meaner blood. You may see all their portraits at our poor charming old house—every one of them an ‘injured’ beauty, but not one of them hanging her head. Not one of them ever had the bad taste to be jealous, and yet not one in a dozen ever consented to an indiscretion—allowed herself, I mean, to be talked about. Voila comme elles ont su s’arranger. How they did it—go and look at the dusky faded canvases and pastels and ask. They were dear brave women of wit. When they had a headache they put on a little rouge19 and came to supper as usual, and when they had a heart-ache they touched up that quarter with just such another brush. These are great traditions and charming precedents20, I hold, and it doesn’t seem to me fair that a little American bourgeoise should come in and pretend to alter them—all to hang her modern photograph and her obstinate21 little air penche in the gallery of our shrewd great-grandmothers. She should fall into line, she should keep up the tone. When she married my brother I don’t suppose she took him for a member of a societe de bonnes oeuvres. I don’t say we’re right; who IS right? But we are as history has made us, and if any one’s to change it had better be our charming, but not accommodating, friend.” Again Madame Clairin paused, again she opened and closed her great modern fan, which clattered22 like the screen of a shop-window. “Let her keep up the tone!” she prodigiously23 repeated.
Longmore felt himself gape24, but he gasped25 an “Ah!” to cover it. Madame Clairin’s dip into the family annals had apparently imparted an honest zeal26 to her indignation. “For a long time,” she continued, “my belle-soeur has been taking the attitude of an injured woman, affecting a disgust with the world and shutting herself up to read free-thinking books. I’ve never permitted myself, you may believe, the least observation on her conduct, but I can’t accept it as the last word either of taste or of tact27. When a woman with her prettiness lets her husband stray away she deserves no small part of her fate. I don’t wish you to agree with me—on the contrary; but I call such a woman a pure noodle. She must have bored him to death. What has passed between them for many months needn’t concern us; what provocation28 my sister has had—monstrous29, if you wish—what ennui30 my brother has suffered. It’s enough that a week ago, just after you had ostensibly gone to Brussels, something happened to produce an explosion. She found a letter in his pocket, a photograph, a trinket, que sais-je? At any rate there was a grand scene. I didn’t listen at the keyhole, and I don’t know what was said; but I’ve reason to believe that my poor brother was hauled over the coals as I fancy none of his ancestors have ever been—even by angry ladies who weren’t their wives.”
Longmore had leaned forward in silent attention with his elbows on his knees, and now, impulsively31, he dropped his face into his hands. “Ah poor poor woman!”
“Voila!” said Madame Clairin. “You pity her.”
“Pity her?” cried Longmore, looking up with ardent32 eyes and forgetting the spirit of the story to which he had been treated in the miserable33 facts. “Don’t you?”
“A little. But I’m not acting34 sentimentally—I’m acting scientifically. We’ve always been capable of ideas. I want to arrange things; to see my brother free to do as he chooses; to see his wife contented36. Do you understand me?”
“Very well, I think,” the young man said. “You’re the most immoral37 person I’ve lately had the privilege of conversing38 with.”
Madame Clairin took it calmly. “Possibly. When was ever a great peacemaker not immoral?”
“Ah no,” Longmore protested. “You’re too superficial to be a great peacemaker. You don’t begin to know anything about Madame de Mauves.”
She inclined her head to one side while her fine eyes kept her visitor in view; she mused39 a moment and then smiled as with a certain compassionate40 patience. “It’s not in my interest to contradict you.”
“It would be in your interest to learn, madam” he resolutely41 returned, “what honest men most admire in a woman—and to recognise it when you see it.”
She was wonderful—she waited a moment. “So you ARE in love!” she then effectively brought out.
For a moment he thought of getting up, but he decided42 to stay. “I wonder if you’d understand me,” he said at last, “if I were to tell you that I have for Madame de Mauves the most devoted43 and most respectful friendship?”
“You underrate my intelligence. But in that case you ought to exert your influence to put an end to these painful domestic scenes.”
“Do you imagine she talks to me about her domestic scenes?” Longmore cried.
His companion stared. “Then your friendship isn’t returned?” And as he but ambiguously threw up his hands, “Now, at least,” she added, “she’ll have something to tell you. I happen to know the upshot of my brother’s last interview with his wife.” Longmore rose to his feet as a protest against the indelicacy of the position into which he had been drawn44; but all that made him tender made him curious, and she caught in his averted45 eyes an expression that prompted her to strike her blow. “My brother’s absurdly entangled46 with a certain person in Paris; of course he ought not to be, but he wouldn’t be my brother if he weren’t. It was this irregular passion that dictated47 his words. ‘Listen to me, madam,’ he cried at last; ‘let us live like people who understand life! It’s unpleasant to be forced to say such things outright48, but you’ve a way of bringing one down to the rudiments49. I’m faithless, I’m heartless, I’m brutal50, I’m everything horrible—it’s understood. Take your revenge, console yourself: you’re too charming a woman to have anything to complain of. Here’s a handsome young man sighing himself into a consumption for you. Listen to your poor compatriot and you’ll find that virtue’s none the less becoming for being good-natured. You’ll see that it’s not after all such a doleful world and that there’s even an advantage in having the most impudent51 of husbands.”’ Madame Clairin paused; Longmore had turned very pale. “You may believe it,” she amazingly pursued; “the speech took place in my presence; things were done in order. And now, monsieur”—this with a wondrous52 strained grimace53 which he was too troubled at the moment to appreciate, but which he remembered later with a kind of awe—“we count on you!”
“Her husband said this to her face to face, as you say it to me now?” he asked after a silence.
“Word for word and with the most perfect politeness.”
“And Madame de Mauves—what did she say?”
Madame Clairin smiled again. “To such a speech as that a woman says—nothing. She had been sitting with a piece of needlework, and I think she hadn’t seen Richard since their quarrel the day before. He came in with the gravity of an ambassador, and I’m sure that when he made his demande en mariage his manner wasn’t more respectful. He only wanted white gloves!” said Longmore’s friend. “My belle-soeur sat silent a few moments, drawing her stitches, and then without a word, without a glance, walked out of the room. It was just what she SHOULD have done!”
“Yes,” the young man repeated, “it was just what she should have done.”
“And I, left alone with my brother, do you know what I said?”
Longmore shook his head.
“Mauvals sujet!” he suggested.
“‘You’ve done me the honour,’ I said, ‘to take this step in my presence. I don’t pretend to qualify it. You know what you’re about, and it’s your own affair. But you may confide54 in my discretion18.’ Do you think he has had reason to complain of it?” She received no answer; her visitor had slowly averted himself; he passed his gloves mechanically round the band of his hat. “I hope,” she cried, “you’re not going to start for Brussels!”
Plainly he was much disturbed, and Madame Clairin might congratulate herself on the success of her plea for old-fashioned manners. And yet there was something that left her more puzzled than satisfied in the colourless tone with which he answered, “No, I shall remain here for the present.” The processes of his mind were unsociably private, and she could have fancied for a moment that he was linked with their difficult friend in some monstrous conspiracy55 of asceticism56.
“Come this evening,” she nevertheless bravely resumed. “The rest will take care of itself. Meanwhile I shall take the liberty of telling my sister-in-law that I’ve repeated—in short, that I’ve put you au fait”
He had a start but he controlled himself, speaking quietly enough. “Tell her what you please. Nothing you can tell her will affect her conduct.”
“Voyons! Do you mean to tell me that a woman young, pretty, sentimental35, neglected, wronged if you will—? I see you don’t believe it. Believe simply in your own opportunity!” she went on. “But for heaven’s sake, if it is to lead anywhere, don’t come back with that visage de croquemort. You look as if you were going to bury your heart—not to offer it to a pretty woman. You’re much better when you smile—you’re very nice then. Come, do yourself justice.”
He remained a moment face to face with her, but his expression didn’t change. “I shall do myself justice,” he however after an instant made answer; and abruptly57, with a bow, he took his departure.
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收听单词发音
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1
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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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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4
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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6
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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7
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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8
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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10
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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12
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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13
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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14
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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15
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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16
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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17
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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18
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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19
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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20
precedents
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| 引用单元； 范例( precedent的名词复数 )； 先前出现的事例； 前例； 先例 | |
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21
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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22
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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23
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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24
gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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25
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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26
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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27
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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28
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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29
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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30
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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31
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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32
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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33
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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34
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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35
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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36
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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37
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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38
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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39
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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40
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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41
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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42
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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43
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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45
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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46
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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48
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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49
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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50
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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51
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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52
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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53
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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54
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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55
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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56
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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57
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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