Undine did not fulfil her threat. The month of May saw her back in the rooms she had declared she would never set foot in, and after her long sojourn1 among the echoing vistas2 of Saint Desert the exiguity3 of her Paris quarters seemed like cosiness4.
In the interval5 many things had happened. Hubert, permitted by his anxious relatives to anticipate the term of the family mourning, had been showily and expensively united to his heiress; the Hotel de Chelles had been piped, heated and illuminated6 in accordance with the bride's requirements; and the young couple, not content with these utilitarian7 changes had moved doors, opened windows, torn down partitions, and given over the great trophied and pilastered dining-room to a decorative8 painter with a new theory of the human anatomy9. Undine had silently assisted at this spectacle, and at the sight of the old Marquise's abject10 acquiescence11; she had seen the Duchesse de Dordogne and the Princesse Estradina go past her door to visit Hubert's premier12 and marvel13 at the American bath-tubs and the Annamite bric-a-brac; and she had been present, with her husband, at the banquet at which Hubert had revealed to the astonished Faubourg the prehistoric14 episodes depicted15 on his dining-room walls. She had accepted all these necessities with the stoicism which the last months had developed in her; for more and more, as the days passed, she felt herself in the grasp of circumstances stronger than any effort she could oppose to them. The very absence of external pressure, of any tactless assertion of authority on her husband's part, intensified16 the sense of her helplessness. He simply left it to her to infer that, important as she might be to him in certain ways, there were others in which she did not weigh a feather.
Their outward relations had not changed since her outburst on the subject of Hubert's marriage. That incident had left her half-ashamed, half-frightened at her behaviour, and she had tried to atone17 for it by the indirect arts that were her nearest approach to acknowledging herself in the wrong. Raymond met her advances with a good grace, and they lived through the rest of the winter on terms of apparent understanding. When the spring approached it was he who suggested that, since his mother had consented to Hubert's marrying before the year of mourning was over, there was really no reason why they should not go up to Paris as usual; and she was surprised at the readiness with which he prepared to accompany her.
A year earlier she would have regarded this as another proof of her power; but she now drew her inferences less quickly. Raymond was as "lovely" to her as ever; but more than once, during their months in the country, she had had a startled sense of not giving him all he expected of her. She had admired him, before their marriage, as a model of social distinction; during the honeymoon18 he had been the most ardent19 of lovers; and with their settling down at Saint Desert she had prepared to resign herself to the society of a country gentleman absorbed in sport and agriculture. But Raymond, to her surprise, had again developed a disturbing resemblance to his predecessor20. During the long winter afternoons, after he had gone over his accounts with the bailiff, or written his business letters, he took to dabbling21 with a paint-box, or picking out new scores at the piano; after dinner, when they went to the library, he seemed to expect to read aloud to her from the reviews and papers he was always receiving; and when he had discovered her inability to fix her attention he fell into the way of absorbing himself in one of the old brown books with which the room was lined. At first he tried--as Ralph had done--to tell her about what he was reading or what was happening in the world; but her sense of inadequacy22 made her slip away to other subjects, and little by little their talk died down to monosyllables. Was it possible that, in spite of his books, the evenings seemed as long to Raymond as to her, and that he had suggested going back to Paris because he was bored at Saint Desert? Bored as she was herself, she resented his not finding her company all-sufficient, and was mortified23 by the discovery that there were regions of his life she could not enter.
But once back in Paris she had less time for introspection, and Raymond less for books. They resumed their dispersed24 and busy life, and in spite of Hubert's ostentatious vicinity, of the perpetual lack of money, and of Paul's innocent encroachments on her freedom, Undine, once more in her element, ceased to brood upon her grievances25. She enjoyed going about with her husband, whose presence at her side was distinctly ornamental26. He seemed to have grown suddenly younger and more animated27, and when she saw other women looking at him she remembered how distinguished28 he was. It amused her to have him in her train, and driving about with him to dinners and dances, waiting for him on flower-decked landings, or pushing at his side through blazing theatre-lobbies, answered to her inmost ideal of domestic intimacy29.
He seemed disposed to allow her more liberty than before, and it was only now and then that he let drop a brief reminder30 of the conditions on which it was accorded. She was to keep certain people at a distance, she was not to cheapen herself by being seen at vulgar restaurants and tea-rooms, she was to join with him in fulfilling certain family obligations (going to a good many dull dinners among the number); but in other respects she was free to fill her days as she pleased.
"Not that it leaves me much time," she admitted to Madame de Trezac; "what with going to see his mother every day, and never missing one of his sisters' jours, and showing myself at the Hotel de Dordogne whenever the Duchess gives a pay-up party to the stuffy31 people Lili Estradina won't be bothered with, there are days when I never lay eyes on Paul, and barely have time to be waved and manicured; but, apart from that, Raymond's really much nicer and less fussy32 than he was."
Undine, as she grew older, had developed her mother's craving33 for a confidante, and Madame de Trezac had succeeded in that capacity to Mabel Lipscomb and Bertha Shallum.
"Less fussy?" Madame de Trezac's long nose lengthened34 thoughtfully. "H'm--are you sure that's a good sign?"
Undine stared and laughed. "Oh, my dear, you're so quaint35! Why, nobody's jealous any more."
"No; that's the worst of it." Madame de Trezac pondered. "It's a thousand pities you haven't got a son."
"Yes; I wish we had." Undine stood up, impatient to end the conversation. Since she had learned that her continued childlessness was regarded by every one about her as not only unfortunate but somehow vaguely36 derogatory to her, she had genuinely begun to regret it; and any allusion37 to the subject disturbed her.
"Especially," Madame de Trezac continued, "as Hubert's wife--"
"Oh, if THAT'S all they want, it's a pity Raymond didn't marry Hubert's wife," Undine flung back; and on the stairs she murmured to herself: "Nettie has been talking to my mother-in-law."
But this explanation did not quiet her, and that evening, as she and Raymond drove back together from a party, she felt a sudden impulse to speak. Sitting close to him in the darkness of the carriage, it ought to have been easy for her to find the needed word; but the barrier of his indifference38 hung between them, and street after street slipped by, and the spangled blackness of the river unrolled itself beneath their wheels, before she leaned over to touch his hand.
"What is it, my dear?"
She had not yet found the word, and already his tone told her she was too late. A year ago, if she had slipped her hand in his, she would not have had that answer.
"Your mother blames me for our not having a child. Everybody thinks it's my fault."
He paused before answering, and she sat watching his shadowy profile against the passing lamps.
"My mother's ideas are old-fashioned; and I don't know that it's anybody's business but yours and mine."
"Yes, but--"
"Here we are." The brougham was turning under the archway of the hotel, and the light of Hubert's tall windows fell across the dusky court. Raymond helped her out, and they mounted to their door by the stairs which Hubert had recarpeted in velvet39, with a marble nymph lurking40 in the azaleas on the landing.
In the antechamber Raymond paused to take her cloak from her shoulders, and his eyes rested on her with a faint smile of approval.
"You never looked better; your dress is extremely becoming. Good-night, my dear," he said, kissing her hand as he turned away.
Undine kept this incident to herself: her wounded pride made her shrink from confessing it even to Madame de Trezac. She was sure Raymond would "come back"; Ralph always had, to the last. During their remaining weeks in Paris she reassured41 herself with the thought that once they were back at Saint Desert she would easily regain42 her lost hold; and when Raymond suggested their leaving Paris she acquiesced43 without a protest. But at Saint Desert she seemed no nearer to him than in Paris. He continued to treat her with unvarying amiability44, but he seemed wholly absorbed in the management of the estate, in his books, his sketching45 and his music. He had begun to interest himself in politics and had been urged to stand for his department. This necessitated46 frequent displacements47: trips to Beaune or Dijon and occasional absences in Paris. Undine, when he was away, was not left alone, for the dowager Marquise had established herself at Saint Desert for the summer, and relays of brothers and sisters-in-law, aunts, cousins and ecclesiastical friends and connections succeeded each other under its capacious roof. Only Hubert and his wife were absent. They had taken a villa48 at Deauville, and in the morning papers Undine followed the chronicle of Hubert's polo scores and of the Countess Hubert's racing49 toilets.
The days crawled on with a benumbing sameness. The old Marquise and the other ladies of the party sat on the terrace with their needle-work, the cure or one of the visiting uncles read aloud the Journal des Debats and prognosticated dark things of the Republic, Paul scoured50 the park and despoiled51 the kitchen-garden with the other children of the family, the inhabitants of the adjacent chateaux drove over to call, and occasionally the ponderous52 pair were harnessed to a landau as lumbering53 as the brougham, and the ladies of Saint Desert measured the dusty kilometres between themselves and their neighbours.
It was the first time that Undine had seriously paused to consider the conditions of her new life, and as the days passed she began to understand that so they would continue to succeed each other till the end. Every one about her took it for granted that as long as she lived she would spend ten months of every year at Saint Desert and the remaining two in Paris. Of course, if health required it, she might go to les eaux with her husband; but the old Marquise was very doubtful as to the benefit of a course of waters, and her uncle the Duke and her cousin the Canon shared her view. In the case of young married women, especially, the unwholesome excitement of the modern watering-place was more than likely to do away with the possible benefit of the treatment. As to travel--had not Raymond and his wife been to Egypt and Asia Minor54 on their wedding-journey? Such reckless enterprise was unheard of in the annals of the house! Had they not spent days and days in the saddle, and slept in tents among the Arabs? (Who could tell, indeed, whether these imprudences were not the cause of the disappointment which it had pleased heaven to inflict55 on the young couple?) No one in the family had ever taken so long a wedding-journey. One bride had gone to England (even that was considered extreme), and another--the artistic56 daughter--had spent a week in Venice; which certainly showed that they were not behind the times, and had no old-fashioned prejudices. Since wedding-journeys were the fashion, they had taken them; but who had ever heard of travelling afterward57?
What could be the possible object of leaving one's family, one's habits, one's friends? It was natural that the Americans, who had no homes, who were born and died in hotels, should have contracted nomadic58 habits: but the new Marquise de Chelles was no longer an American, and she had Saint Desert and the Hotel de Chelles to live in, as generations of ladies of her name had done before her. Thus Undine beheld59 her future laid out for her, not directly and in blunt words, but obliquely60 and affably, in the allusions61, the assumptions, the insinuations of the amiable62 women among whom her days were spent. Their interminable conversations were carried on to the click of knitting-needles and the rise and fall of industrious63 fingers above embroidery-frames; and as Undine sat staring at the lustrous64 nails of her idle hands she felt that her inability to occupy them was regarded as one of the chief causes of her restlessness. The innumerable rooms of Saint Desert were furnished with the embroidered65 hangings and tapestry66 chairs produced by generations of diligent67 chatelaines, and the untiring needles of the old Marquise, her daughters and dependents were still steadily68 increasing the provision.
It struck Undine as curious that they should be willing to go on making chair-coverings and bed-curtains for a house that didn't really belong to them, and that she had a right to pull about and rearrange as she chose; but then that was only a part of their whole incomprehensible way of regarding themselves (in spite of their acute personal and parochial absorptions) as minor members of a powerful and indivisible whole, the huge voracious69 fetish they called The Family.
Notwithstanding their very definite theories as to what Americans were and were not, they were evidently bewildered at finding no corresponding sense of solidarity70 in Undine; and little Paul's rootlessness, his lack of all local and linear ties, made them (for all the charm he exercised) regard him with something of the shyness of pious71 Christians72 toward an elfin child. But though mother and child gave them a sense of insuperable strangeness, it plainly never occurred to them that both would not be gradually subdued73 to the customs of Saint Desert. Dynasties had fallen, institutions changed, manners and morals, alas74, deplorably declined; but as far back as memory went, the ladies of the line of Chelles had always sat at their needle-work on the terrace of Saint Desert, while the men of the house lamented75 the corruption76 of the government and the cure ascribed the unhappy state of the country to the decline of religious feeling and the rise in the cost of living. It was inevitable77 that, in the course of time, the new Marquise should come to understand the fundamental necessity of these things being as they were; and meanwhile the forbearance of her husband's family exercised itself, with the smiling discretion78 of their race, through the long succession of uneventful days.
Once, in September, this routine was broken in upon by the unannounced descent of a flock of motors bearing the Princess Estradina and a chosen band from one watering-place to another. Raymond was away at the time, but family loyalty79 constrained80 the old Marquise to welcome her kinswoman and the latter's friends; and Undine once more found herself immersed in the world from which her marriage had removed her.
The Princess, at first, seemed totally to have forgotten their former intimacy, and Undine was made to feel that in a life so variously agitated81 the episode could hardly have left a trace. But the night before her departure the incalculable Lili, with one of her sudden changes of humour, drew her former friend into her bedroom and plunged82 into an exchange of confidences. She naturally unfolded her own history first, and it was so packed with incident that the courtyard clock had struck two before she turned her attention to Undine.
"My dear, you're handsomer than ever; only perhaps a shade too stout83. Domestic bliss84, I suppose? Take care! You need an emotion, a drama... You Americans are really extraordinary. You appear to live on change and excitement; and then suddenly a man comes along and claps a ring on your finger, and you never look through it to see what's going on outside. Aren't you ever the least bit bored? Why do I never see anything of you any more? I suppose it's the fault of my venerable aunt--she's never forgiven me for having a better time than her daughters. How can I help it if I don't look like the cure's umbrella? I daresay she owes you the same grudge85. But why do you let her coop you up here? It's a thousand pities you haven't had a child. They'd all treat you differently if you had."
It was the same perpetually reiterated86 condolence; and Undine flushed with anger as she listened. Why indeed had she let herself be cooped up? She could not have answered the Princess's question: she merely felt the impossibility of breaking through the mysterious web of traditions, conventions, prohibitions87 that enclosed her in their impenetrable net-work. But her vanity suggested the obvious pretext88, and she murmured with a laugh: "I didn't know Raymond was going to be so jealous--"
The Princess stared. "Is it Raymond who keeps you shut up here? And what about his trips to Dijon? And what do you suppose he does with himself when he runs up to Paris? Politics?" She shrugged89 ironically. "Politics don't occupy a man after midnight. Raymond jealous of you? Ah, merci! My dear, it's what I always say when people talk to me about fast Americans: you're the only innocent women left in the world..."
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1
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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exiguity
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| n.些须，微小，稀少 | |
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cosiness
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| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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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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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce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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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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displacements
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| n.取代( displacement的名词复数 )；替代；移位；免职 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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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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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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82
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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85
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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86
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prohibitions
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| 禁令，禁律( prohibition的名词复数 )； 禁酒； 禁例 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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89
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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