Endymion had to encounter a rather sharp volley when he went to the office next morning. After some general remarks as to the distinguished1 party which he had accompanied to the races, Seymour Hicks could not resist inquiring, though with some circumlocution2, whether the lady was a countess. The lady was not a countess. Who was the lady? The lady was Mrs. Rodney. Who was Mrs. Rodney? She was the wife of Mr. Rodney, who accompanied her. Was Mr. Rodney a relation of Lord Rodney? Endymion believed he was not a relation of Lord Rodney. Who was Mr. Rodney then?
“Mr. Rodney is an old friend of my father.”
This natural solution of doubts and difficulties arrested all further inquiry3. Generally speaking, the position of Endymion in his new life was satisfactory. He was regular and assiduous in his attendance at office, was popular with his comrades, and was cherished by his chief, who had even invited him to dinner. His duties were certainly at present mechanical, but they were associated with an interesting profession; and humble4 as was his lot, he began to feel the pride of public life. He continued to be a regular guest at Joe’s, and was careful not to seem to avoid the society of his fellow-clerks in the evenings, for he had an instinctive5 feeling that it was as well they should not become acquainted with his circle in Warwick Street. And yet to him the attractions of that circle became daily more difficult to resist. And often when he was enduring the purgatory6 of the Divan7, listening to the snarls8 of St. Barbe over the shameful9 prosperity of everybody in this world except the snarler10, or perhaps went half-price to the pit of Drury Lane with the critical Trenchard, he was, in truth, restless and absent, and his mind was in another place, indulging in visions which he did not care to analyse, but which were very agreeable.
One evening, shortly after the expedition to Epsom, while the rest were playing a rubber, Imogene said to him, “I wish you to be friends with Mr. Vigo; I think he might be of use to you.”
Mr. Vigo was playing whist at this moment; his partner was Sylvia, and they were playing against Mr. Rodney and Waldershare.
Waldershare was a tenant11 of the second floor. He was the young gentleman “who might some day be a peer.” He was a young man of about three or four and twenty years; fair, with short curly brown hair and blue eyes; not exactly handsome, but with a countenance12 full of expression, and the index of quick emotions, whether of joy or of anger. Waldershare was the only child of a younger son of a patrician13 house, and had inherited from his father a moderate but easy fortune. He had been the earliest lodger14 of the Rodneys, and, taking advantage of the Tory reaction, had just been returned to the House of Commons.
What he would do there was a subject of interesting speculation15 to his numerous friends, and it may be said admirers. Waldershare was one of those vivid and brilliant organisations which exercise a peculiarly attractive influence on youth. He had been the hero of the debating club at Cambridge, and many believed in consequence that he must become prime minister. He was witty16 and fanciful, and, though capricious and bad-tempered17, could flatter and caress18. At Cambridge he had introduced the new Oxford19 heresy20, of which Nigel Penruddock was a votary21. Waldershare prayed and fasted, and swore by Laud22 and Strafford. He took, however, a more eminent23 degree at Paris than at his original Alma Mater, and becoming passionately24 addicted26 to French literature, his views respecting both Church and State became modified—at least in private. His entrance into English society had been highly successful, and as he had a due share of vanity, and was by no means free from worldliness, he had enjoyed and pursued his triumphs. But his versatile27 nature, which required not only constant, but novel excitement, became palled28, even with the society of duchesses. There was a monotony in the splendour of aristocratic life which wearied him, and for some time he had persuaded himself that the only people who understood the secret of existence were the family under whose roof he lodged29.
Waldershare was profligate30, but sentimental31; unprincipled, but romantic; the child of whim32, and the slave of an imagination so freakish and deceptive33, that it was always impossible to foretell34 his course. He was alike capable of sacrificing all his feelings to worldly considerations or of forfeiting35 the world for a visionary caprice. At present his favourite scheme, and one to which he seemed really attached, was to educate Imogene. Under his tuition he had persuaded himself that she would turn out what he styled “a great woman.” An age of vast change, according to Waldershare, was impending36 over us. There was no male career in which one could confide37. Most men of mark would probably be victims, but “a great woman” must always make her way. Whatever the circumstances, she would adapt herself to them; if necessary, would mould and fashion them. His dream was that Imogene should go forth38 and conquer the world, and that in the sunset of life he should find a refuge in some corner of her palace.
Imogene was only a child when Waldershare first became a lodger. She used to bring his breakfast to his drawing-room and arrange his table. He encountered her one day, and he requested her to remain, and always preside over his meal. He fell in love with her name, and wrote her a series of sonnets39, idealising her past, panegyrising her present, and prophetic of her future life. Imogene, who was neither shy nor obtrusive40, was calm amid all his vagaries41, humoured his fancies, even when she did not understand them, and read his verses as she would a foreign language which she was determined42 to master.
Her culture, according to Waldershare, was to be carried on chiefly by conversations. She was not to read, or at least not to read much, until her taste was formed and she had acquired the due share of previous knowledge necessary to profitable study. As Waldershare was eloquent43, brilliant, and witty, Imogene listened to him with wondering interest and amusement, even when she found some difficulty in following him; but her apprehension44 was so quick and her tact45 so fine, that her progress, though she was almost unconscious of it, was remarkable46. Sometimes in the evening, while the others were smoking together or playing whist, Waldershare and Imogene, sitting apart, were engaged in apparently47 the most interesting converse48. It was impossible not to observe the animation49 and earnestness of Waldershare, and the great attention with which his companion responded to his representations. Yet all this time he was only giving her a lecture on Madame de Sevigne.
Waldershare used to take Imogene to the National Gallery and Hampton Court, and other delightful50 scenes of popular education, but of late Mrs. Rodney had informed her sister that she was no longer young enough to permit these expeditions. Imogene accepted the announcement without a murmur51, but it occasioned Waldershare several sonnets of heartrending remonstrance52. Imogene continued, however, to make his breakfast, and kept his Parliamentary papers in order, which he never could manage, but the mysteries of which Imogene mastered with feminine quickness and precision. Whenever Waldershare was away he always maintained a constant correspondence with Imogene. In this he communicated everything to her without the slightest reserve; describing everything he saw, almost everything he heard, pages teeming53 with anecdotes54 of a world of which she could know nothing—the secrets of courts and coteries56, memoirs57 of princes and ministers, of dandies and dames58 of fashion. “If anything happens to me,” Waldershare would say to Imogene, “this correspondence may be worth thousands to you, and when it is published it will connect your name with mine, and assist my grand idea of your becoming ‘a great woman.’”
“But I do not know Mr. Vigo,” whispered Endymion to Imogene.
“But you have met him here, and you went together to Epsom. It is enough. He is going to ask you to dine with him on Saturday. We shall be there, and Mr. Waldershare is going. He has a beautiful place, and it will be very pleasant.” And exactly as Imogene had anticipated, Mr. Vigo, in the course of the evening, did ask Endymion to do him the honour of being his guest.
The villa59 of Mr. Vigo was on the banks of the Thames, and had once belonged to a noble customer. The Palladian mansion60 contained a suite61 of chambers62 of majestic63 dimensions—lofty ceilings, rich cornices, and vast windows of plate glass; the gardens were rich with the products of conservatories64 which Mr. Vigo had raised with every modern improvement, and a group of stately cedars65 supported the dignity of the scene and gave to it a name. Beyond, a winding66 walk encircled a large field which Mr. Vigo called the park, and which sparkled with gold and silver pheasants, and the keeper lived in a newly-raised habitation at the extreme end, which took the form of a Swiss cottage.
The Rodney family, accompanied by Mr. Waldershare and Endymion, went to the Cedars by water. It was a delightful afternoon of June, the river warm and still, and the soft, fitful western breeze occasionally rich with the perfume of the gardens of Putney and Chiswick. Waldershare talked the whole way. It was a rhapsody of fancy, fun, knowledge, anecdote55, brilliant badinage—even passionate25 seriousness. Sometimes he recited poetry, and his voice was musical; and, then, when he had attuned67 his companions to a sentimental pitch, he would break into mockery, and touch with delicate satire68 every mood of human feeling. Endymion listened to him in silence and admiration69. He had never heard Waldershare talk before, and he had never heard anybody like him. All this time, what was now, and ever, remarkable in Waldershare were his manners. They were finished, even to courtliness. Affable and winning, he was never familiar. He always addressed Sylvia as if she were one of those duchesses round whom he used to linger. He would bow deferentially70 to her remarks, and elicit71 from some of her casual observations an acute or graceful72 meaning, of which she herself was by no means conscious. The bow of Waldershare was a study. Its grace and ceremony must have been organic; for there was no traditionary type in existence from which he could have derived73 or inherited it. He certainly addressed Imogene and spoke74 to her by her Christian75 name; but this was partly because he was in love with the name, and partly because he would persist in still treating her as a child. But his manner to her always was that of tender respect. She was almost as silent as Endymion during their voyage, but not less attentive76 to her friend. Mr. Rodney was generally silent, and never opened his mouth on this occasion except in answer to an inquiry from his wife as to whom a villa might belong, and it seemed always that he knew every villa, and every one to whom they belonged.
The sisters were in demi-toilette, which seemed artless, though in fact it was profoundly devised. Sylvia was the only person who really understood the meaning of “simplex munditiis,” and this was one of the secrets of her success. There were some ladies, on the lawn of the Cedars when they arrived, not exactly of their school, and who were finely and fully77 dressed. Mrs. Gamme was the wife of a sporting attorney of Mr. Vigo, and who also, having a villa at hand, was looked upon as a country neighbour. Mrs. Gamme was universally recognised to be a fine woman, and she dressed up to her reputation. She was a famous whist-player at high points, and dealt the cards with hands covered with diamond rings. Another country neighbour was the chief partner in the celebrated78 firm of Hooghley, Dacca, and Co., dealers79 in Indian and other shawls. Mr. Hooghley had married a celebrated actress, and was proud and a little jealous of his wife. Mrs. Hooghley had always an opportunity at the Cedars of meeting some friends in her former profession, for Mr. Vigo liked to be surrounded by genius and art. “I must have talent,” he would exclaim, as he looked round at the amusing and motley multitude assembled at his splendid entertainments. And today upon his lawn might be observed the first tenor80 of the opera and a prima-donna who had just arrived, several celebrated members of the English stage of both sexes, artists of great reputation, whose principal works already adorned81 the well-selected walls of the Cedars, a danseuse or two of celebrity82, some literary men, as Mr. Vigo styled them, who were chiefly brethren of the political press, and more than one member of either House of Parliament.
Just as the party were preparing to leave the lawn and enter the dining-room arrived, breathless and glowing, the young earl who had driven the Rodneys to the Derby.
“A shaver, my dear Vigo! Only returned to town this afternoon, and found your invitation. How fortunate!” And then he looked around, and recognising Mrs. Rodney, was immediately at her side. “I must have the honour of taking you into dinner. I got your note, but only by this morning’s post.”
The dinner was a banquet,—a choice bouquet83 before every guest, turtle and venison and piles of whitebait, and pine-apples of prodigious84 size, and bunches of grapes that had gained prizes. The champagne85 seemed to flow in fountains, and was only interrupted that the guests might quaff86 Burgundy or taste Tokay. But what was more delightful than all was the enjoyment87 of all present, and especially of their host. That is a rare sight. Banquets are not rare, nor choice guests, nor gracious hosts; but when do we ever see a person enjoy anything? But these gay children of art and whim, and successful labour and happy speculation, some of them very rich and some of them without a sou, seemed only to think of the festive88 hour and all its joys. Neither wealth nor poverty brought them cares. Every face sparkled, every word seemed witty, and every sound seemed sweet. A band played upon the lawn during the dinner, and were succeeded, when the dessert commenced, by strange choruses from singers of some foreign land, who for the first time aired their picturesque89 costumes on the banks of the Thames.
When the ladies had withdrawn90 to the saloon, the first comic singer of the age excelled himself; and when they rejoined their fair friends, the primo-tenore and the prima-donna gave them a grand scene, succeeded by the English performers in a favourite scene from a famous farce91. Then Mrs. Gamme had an opportunity of dealing92 with her diamond rings, and the rest danced—a waltz of whirling grace, or merry cotillon of jocund93 bouquets94.
“Well, Clarence,” said Waldershare to the young earl, as they stood for a moment apart, “was I right?”
“By Jove! yes. It is the only life. You were quite right. We should indeed be fools to sacrifice ourselves to the conventional.”
The Rodney party returned home in the drag of the last speaker. They were the last to retire, as Mr. Vigo wished for one cigar with his noble friend. As he bade farewell, and cordially, to Endymion, he said, “Call on me tomorrow morning in Burlington Street in your way to your office. Do not mind the hour. I am an early bird.”
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1
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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snarler
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| n.咆哮的人，狂吠的动物 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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forfeiting
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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coteries
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| n.（有共同兴趣的）小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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74
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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75
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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76
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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77
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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78
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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79
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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80
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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81
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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82
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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83
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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84
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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85
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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86
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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87
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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88
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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89
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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90
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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92
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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93
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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94
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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