“Still,” as a passenger remarked, when she steamed into the dock at Liverpool, “we might all be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean this morning. Just think what columns there would have been in the newspapers. Imagine Miss Vanderpoel's being drowned.”
“I was very rude to Louise, when I found her wringing6 her hands over you, and I was rude to Blanche,” Bettina said to Mrs. Worthington. “In fact I believe I was rude to a number of people that night. I am rather ashamed.”
“You called me a donkey,” said Blanche, “but it was the best thing you could have done. You frightened me into putting on my shoes, instead of trying to comb my hair with them. It was startling to see you march into the stateroom, the only person who had not been turned into a gibbering idiot. I know I was gibbering, and I know Marie was.”
“We both gibbered at the red-haired man when he came in,” said Marie. “We clutched at him and gibbered together. Where is the red-haired man, Betty? Perhaps we made him ill. I've not seen him since that moment.”
“He is in the second cabin, I suppose,” Bettina answered, “but I have not seen him, either.”
“We ought to get up a testimonial and give it to him, because he did not gibber,” said Blanche. “He was as rude and as sensible as you were, Betty.”
They did not see him again, in fact, at that time. He had reasons of his own for preferring to remain unseen. The truth was that the nearer his approach to his native shores, the nastier, he was perfectly7 conscious, his temper became, and he did not wish to expose himself by any incident which might cause him stupidly and obviously to lose it.
The maid, Louise, however, recognised him among her companions in the third-class carriage in which she travelled to town. To her mind, whose opinions were regulated by neatly8 arranged standards, he looked morose9 and shabbily dressed. Some of the other second-cabin passengers had made themselves quite smart in various, not too distinguished10 ways. He had not changed his dress at all, and the large valise upon the luggage rack was worn and battered11 as if with long and rough usage. The woman wondered a little if he would address her, and inquire after the health of her mistress. But, being an astute12 creature, she only wondered this for an instant, the next she realised that, for one reason or another, it was clear that he was not of the tribe of second-rate persons who pursue an accidental acquaintance with their superiors in fortune, through sociable13 interchange with their footmen or maids.
When the train slackened its speed at the platform of the station, he got up, reaching down his valise and leaving the carriage, strode to the nearest hansom cab, waving the porter aside.
. . . . .
During the years which had passed since Rosalie Vanderpoel first came to London as Lady Anstruthers, numbers of huge luxurious15 hotels had grown up, principally, as it seemed, that Americans should swarm16 into them and live at an expense which reminded them of their native land. Such establishments would never have been built for English people, whose habit it is merely to “stop” at hotels, not to LIVE in them. The tendency of the American is to live in his hotel, even though his intention may be only to remain in it two days. He is accustomed to doing himself extremely well in proportion to his resources, whether they be great or small, and the comforts, as also the luxuries, he allows himself and his domestic appendages17 are in a proportion much higher in its relation to these resources than it would be were he English, French, German, or Italians. As a consequence, he expects, when he goes forth18, whether holiday-making or on business, that his hostelry shall surround him, either with holiday luxuries and gaiety, or with such lavishness19 of comfort as shall alleviate20 the wear and tear of business cares and fatigues21. The rich man demands something almost as good as he has left at home, the man of moderate means something much better. Certain persons given to regarding public wants and desires as foundations for the fortune of business schemes having discovered this, the enormous and sumptuous22 hotel evolved itself from their astute knowledge of common facts. At the entrances of these hotels, omnibuses and cabs, laden23 with trunks and packages frequently bearing labels marked with red letters “S. S. So-and-So, Stateroom—Hold—Baggage-room,” drew up and deposited their contents and burdens at regular intervals24. Then men with keen, and often humorous faces or almost painfully anxious ones, their exceedingly well-dressed wives, and more or less attractive and vivacious-looking daughters, their eager little girls, and un-English-looking little boys, passed through the corridors in flocks and took possession of suites25 of rooms, sometimes for twenty-four hours, sometimes for six weeks.
The Worthingtons took possession of such a suite26 in such a hotel. Bettina Vanderpoel's apartments faced the Embankment. From her windows she could look out at the broad splendid, muddy Thames, slowly rolling in its grave, stately way beneath its bridges, bearing with it heavy lumbering27 barges28, excited tooting little penny steamers and craft of various shapes and sizes, the errand or burden of each meaning a different story.
It had been to Bettina one of her pleasures of the finest epicurean flavour to reflect that she had never had any brief and superficial knowledge of England, as she had never been to the country at all in those earlier years, when her knowledge of places must necessarily have been always the incomplete one of either a schoolgirl traveller or a schoolgirl resident, whose views were limited by the walls of restriction29 built around her.
If relations of the usual ease and friendliness30 had existed between Lady Anstruthers and her family, Bettina would, doubtless, have known her sister's adopted country well. It would have been a thing so natural as to be almost inevitable31, that she would have crossed the Channel to spend her holidays at Stornham. As matters had stood, however, the child herself, in the days when she had been a child, had had most definite private views on the subject of visits to England. She had made up her young mind absolutely that she would not, if it were decently possible to avoid it, set her foot upon English soil until she was old enough and strong enough to carry out what had been at first her passionately32 romantic plans for discovering and facing the truth of the reason for the apparent change in Rosy33. When she went to England, she would go to Rosy. As she had grown older, having in the course of education and travel seen most Continental34 countries, she had liked to think that she had saved, put aside for less hasty consumption and more delicate appreciation35 of flavours, as it were, the country she was conscious she cared for most.
“It is England we love, we Americans,” she had said to her father. “What could be more natural? We belong to it—it belongs to us. I could never be convinced that the old tie of blood does not count. All nationalities have come to us since we became a nation, but most of us in the beginning came from England. We are touching36 about it, too. We trifle with France and labour with Germany, we sentimentalise over Italy and ecstacise over Spain—but England we love. How it moves us when we go to it, how we gush37 if we are simple and effusive38, how we are stirred imaginatively if we are of the perceptive39 class. I have heard the commonest little half-educated woman say the prettiest, clumsy, emotional things about what she has seen there. A New England schoolma'am, who has made a Cook's tour, will almost have tears in her voice as she wanders on with her commonplaces about hawthorn40 hedges and thatched cottages and white or red farms. Why are we not unconsciously pathetic about German cottages and Italian villas41? Because we have not, in centuries past, had the habit of being born in them. It is only an English cottage and an English lane, whether white with hawthorn blossoms or bare with winter, that wakes in us that little yearning42, grovelling43 tenderness that is so sweet. It is only nature calling us home.”
Mrs. Worthington came in during the course of the morning to find her standing44 before her window looking out at the Thames, the Embankment, the hansom cabs themselves, with an absolutely serious absorption. This changed to a smile as she turned to greet her.
“I am delighted,” she said. “I could scarcely tell you how much. The impression is all new and I am excited a little by everything. I am so intensely glad that I have saved it so long and that I have known it only as part of literature. I am even charmed that it rains, and that the cabmen's mackintoshes are shining and wet.” She drew forward a chair, and Mrs. Worthington sat down, looking at her with involuntary admiration45.
“You look as if you were delighted,” she said. “Your eyes—you have amazing eyes, Betty! I am trying to picture to myself what Lady Anstruthers will feel when she sees you. What were you like when she married?”
Bettina sat down, smiling and looking, indeed, quite incredibly lovely. She was capable of a warmth and a sweetness which were as embracing as other qualities she possessed46 were powerful.
“I was eight years old,” she said. “I was a rude little girl, with long legs and a high, determined47 voice. I know I was rude. I remember answering back.”
“I seem to have heard that you did not like your brother-in-law, and that you were opposed to the marriage.”
“Imagine the undisciplined audacity48 of a child of eight 'opposing' the marriage of her grown-up sister. I was quite capable of it. You see in those days we had not been trained at all (one had only been allowed tremendous liberty), and interfered49 conversationally50 with one's elders and betters at any moment. I was an American little girl, and American little girls were really—they really were!” with a laugh, whose musical sound was after all wholly non-committal.
“You did not treat Sir Nigel Anstruthers as one of your betters.”
“He was one of my elders, at all events, and becomingness of bearing should have taught me to hold my little tongue. I am giving some thought now to the kind of thing I must invent as a suitable apology when I find him a really delightful51 person, full of virtues52 and accomplishments53. Perhaps he has a horror of me.”
“I should like to be present at your first meeting,” Mrs. Worthington reflected. “You are going down to Stornham to-morrow?”
“That is my plan. When I write to you on my arrival, I will tell you if I encountered the horror.” Then, with a swift change of subject and a lifting of her slender, velvet54 line of eyebrow55, “I am only deploring56 that I have not time to visit the Tower.”
Mrs. Worthington was betrayed into a momentary57 glance of uncertainty58, almost verging59 in its significance on a gasp60.
“The Tower? Of London? Dear Betty!”
“Ah!” she said. “You don't know my point of view; it's plain enough. You see, when I delight in these things, I think I delight most in my delight in them. It means that I am almost having the kind of feeling the fresh American souls had who landed here thirty years ago and revelled62 in the resemblance to Dickens's characters they met with in the streets, and were historically thrilled by the places where people's heads were chopped off. Imagine their reflections on Charles I., when they stood in Whitehall gazing on the very spot where that poor last word was uttered—'Remember.' And think of their joy when each crossing sweeper they gave disproportionate largess to, seemed Joe All Alones in the slightest disguise.”
“That the charm of my visit, to myself, is that I realise that I am rather like that. I have positively65 preserved something because I have kept away. You have been here so often and know things so well, and you were even so sophisticated when you began, that you have never really had the flavours and emotions. I am sophisticated, too, sophisticated enough to have cherished my flavours as a gourmet66 tries to save the bouquet67 of old wine. You think that the Tower is the pleasure of housemaids on a Bank Holiday. But it quite makes me quiver to think of it,” laughing again. “That I laugh, is the sign that I am not as beautifully, freshly capable of enjoyment68 as those genuine first Americans were, and in a way I am sorry for it.”
Mrs. Worthington laughed also, and with an enjoyment.
“You are very clever, Betty,” she said.
“No, no,” answered Bettina, “or, if I am, almost everybody is clever in these days. We are nearly all of us comparatively intelligent.”
“You are very interesting at all events, and the Anstruthers will exult69 in you. If they are dull in the country, you will save them.”
“I am very interested, at all events,” said Bettina, “and interest like mine is quite passe. A clever American who lives in England, and is the pet of duchesses, once said to me (he always speaks of Americans as if they were a distant and recently discovered species), 'When they first came over they were a novelty. Their enthusiasm amused people, but now, you see, it has become vieux jeu. Young women, whose specialty70 was to be excited by the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, are not novelties any longer. In fact, it's been done, and it's done FOR as a specialty.' And I am excited about the Tower of London. I may be able to restrain my feelings at the sight of the Beef Eaters, but they will upset me a little, and I must brace71 myself, I must indeed.”
“Truly, Betty?” said Mrs. Worthington, regarding her with curiosity, arising from a faint doubt of her entire seriousness, mingled72 with a fainter doubt of her entire levity73.
Betty flung out her hands in a slight, but very involuntary-looking, gesture, and shook her head.
“Ah!” she said, “it was all TRUE, you know. They were all horribly real—the things that were shuddered74 over and sentimentalised about. Sophistication, combined with imagination, makes them materialise again, to me, at least, now I am here. The gulf75 between a historical figure and a man or woman who could bleed and cry out in human words was broad when one was at school. Lady Jane Grey, for instance, how nebulous she was and how little one cared. She seemed invented merely to add a detail to one's lesson in English history. But, as we drove across Waterloo Bridge, I caught a glimpse of the Tower, and what do you suppose I began to think of? It was monstrous76. I saw a door in the Tower and the stone steps, and the square space, and in the chill clear, early morning a little slender, helpless girl led out, a little, fair, real thing like Rosy, all alone—everyone she belonged to far away, not a man near who dared utter a word of pity when she turned her awful, meek77, young, desperate eyes upon him. She was a pious78 child, and, no doubt, she lifted her eyes to the sky. I wonder if it was blue and its blueness broke her heart, because it looked as if it might have pitied such a young, patient girl thing led out in the fair morning to walk to the hacked79 block and give her trembling pardon to the black-visored man with the axe80, and then 'commending her soul to God' to stretch her sweet slim neck out upon it.”
“Oh, Betty, dear!” Mrs. Worthington expostulated.
Bettina sprang to her and took her hand in pretty appeal.
“I beg pardon! I beg pardon, I really do,” she exclaimed. “I did not intend deliberately81 to be painful. But that—beneath the sophistication—is something of what I bring to England.”
该作者的其它作品
《秘密花园 The Secret Garden》
《A Little Princess》
该作者的其它作品
《秘密花园 The Secret Garden》
《A Little Princess》
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1
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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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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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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49
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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58
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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60
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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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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gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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72
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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73
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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74
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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75
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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76
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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77
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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78
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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79
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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80
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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81
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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