He found himself therefore saying, with gaiety, even to Fanny Assingham, for their common, concerned glance at Eaton Square, the glance that was so markedly never, as it might have been, a glance at Portland Place: “What WOULD our cari sposi have made of it here? what would they, you know, really?”— which overflow1 would have been reckless if, already, and surprisingly perhaps even to himself, he had not got used to thinking of this friend as a person in whom the element of protest had of late been unmistakably allayed2. He exposed himself of course to her replying: “Ah, if it would have been so bad for them, how can it be so good for you?”— but, quite apart from the small sense the question would have had at the best, she appeared already to unite with him in confidence and cheer. He had his view, as well — or at least a partial one — of the inner spring of this present comparative humility3, which was all consistent with the retraction4 he had practically seen her make after Mr. Verver’s last dinner. Without diplomatising to do so, with no effort to square her, none to bribe5 her to an attitude for which he would have had no use in her if it were not sincere, he yet felt how he both held her and moved her by the felicity of his taking pity, all instinctively6, on her just discernible depression. By just so much as he guessed that she felt herself, as the slang was, out of it, out of the crystal current and the expensive picture, by just so much had his friendship charmingly made up to her, from hour to hour, for the penalties, as they might have been grossly called, of her mistake. Her mistake had only been, after all, in her wanting to seem to him straight; she had let herself in for being — as she had made haste, for that matter, during the very first half-hour, at tea, to proclaim herself — the sole and single frump of the party. The scale of everything was so different that all her minor7 values, her quainter8 graces, her little local authority, her humour and her wardrobe alike, for which it was enough elsewhere, among her bons amis, that they were hers, dear Fanny Assingham’s — these matters and others would be all, now, as nought9: five minutes had sufficed to give her the fatal pitch. In Cadogan Place she could always, at the worst, be picturesque10 — for she habitually11 spoke12 of herself as “local” to Sloane Street whereas at Matcham she should never be anything but horrible. And it all would have come, the disaster, from the real refinement13, in her, of the spirit of friendship. To prove to him that she wasn’t really watching him — ground for which would have been too terribly grave — she had followed him in his pursuit of pleasure: SO she might, precisely14, mark her detachment. This was handsome trouble for her to take — the Prince could see it all: it wasn’t a shade of interference that a good-natured man would visit on her. So he didn’t even say, when she told him how frumpy she knew herself, how frumpy her very maid, odiously15 going back on her, rubbed it into her, night and morning, with unsealed eyes and lips, that she now knew her — he didn’t then say “Ah, see what you’ve done: isn’t it rather your own fault?” He behaved differently altogether: eminently16 distinguished17 himself — for she told him she had never seen him so universally distinguished — he yet distinguished her in her obscurity, or in what was worse, her objective absurdity18, and frankly19 invested her with her absolute value, surrounded her with all the importance of her wit. That wit, as discriminated20 from stature21 and complexion22, a sense for “bridge” and a credit for pearls, could have importance was meanwhile but dimly perceived at Matcham; so that his “niceness” to her — she called it only niceness, but it brought tears into her eyes — had the greatness of a general as well as of a special demonstration23.
“She understands,” he said, as a comment on all this, to Mrs. Verver —“she understands all she needs to understand. She has taken her time, but she has at last made it out for herself: she sees how all we can desire is to give them the life they prefer, to surround them with the peace and quiet, and above all with the sense of security, most favourable24 to it. She can’t of course very well put it to us that we have, so far as she is concerned, but to make the best of our circumstances; she can’t say in so many words ‘Don’t think of me, for I too must make the best of mine: arrange as you can, only, and live as you must.’ I don’t get quite THAT from her, any more than I ask for it. But her tone and her whole manner mean nothing at all unless they mean that she trusts us to take as watchful25, to take as artful, to take as tender care, in our way, as she so anxiously takes in hers. So that she’s — well,” the Prince wound up, “what you may call practically all right.” Charlotte in fact, however, to help out his confidence, didn’t call it anything; return as he might to the lucidity26, the importance, or whatever it was, of this lesson, she gave him no aid toward reading it aloud. She let him, two or three times over, spell it out for himself; only on the eve of their visit’s end was she, for once, clear or direct in response. They had found a minute together in the great hall of the house during the half-hour before dinner; this easiest of chances they had already, a couple of times, arrived at by waiting persistently27 till the last other loiterers had gone to dress, and by being prepared themselves to dress so expeditiously28 that they might, a little later on, be among the first to appear in festal array. The hall then was empty, before the army of rearranging, cushion-patting housemaids were marshalled in, and there was a place by the forsaken29 fire, at one end, where they might imitate, with art, the unpremeditated. Above all, here, for the snatched instants, they could breathe so near to each other that the interval30 was almost engulfed31 in it, and the intensity32 both of the union and the caution became a workable substitute for contact. They had prolongations of instants that counted as visions of bliss33; they had slow approximations that counted as long caresses34. The quality of these passages, in truth, made the spoken word, and especially the spoken word about other people, fall below them; so that our young woman’s tone had even now a certain dryness. “It’s very good of her, my dear, to trust us. But what else can she do?”
“Why, whatever people do when they don’t trust. Let one see they don’t.”
“But let whom see?”
“Well, let ME, say, to begin with.”
“And should you mind that?”
He had a slight show of surprise. “Shouldn’t you?”
“Her letting you see? No,” said Charlotte; “the only thing I can imagine myself minding is what you yourself, if you don’t look out, may let HER see.” To which she added: “You may let her see, you know, that you’re afraid.”
“I’m only afraid of you, a little, at moments,” he presently returned. “But I shan’t let Fanny see that.”
It was clear, however, that neither the limits nor the extent of Mrs. Assingham’s vision were now a real concern to her, and she gave expression to this as she had not even yet done. “What in the world can she do against us? There’s not a word that she can breathe. She’s helpless; she can’t speak; she would be herself the first to be dished by it.” And then as he seemed slow to follow: “It all comes back to her. It all began with her. Everything, from the first. She introduced you to Maggie. She made your marriage.”
The Prince might have had his moment of demur35, but at this, after a little, as with a smile dim but deep, he came on. “Mayn’t she also be said, a good deal, to have made yours? That was intended, I think, wasn’t it? for a kind of rectification36.”
Charlotte, on her side, for an instant, hesitated; then she was prompter still. “I don’t mean there was anything to rectify37; everything was as it had to be, and I’m not speaking of how she may have been concerned for you and me. I’m speaking of how she took, in her way, each time, THEIR lives in hand, and how, therefore, that ties her up today. She can’t go to them and say ‘It’s very awkward of course, you poor dear things, but I was frivolously38 mistaken.’”
He took it in still, with his long look at her. “All the more that she wasn’t. She was right. Everything’s right,” he went on, “and everything will stay so.”
“Then that’s all I say.”
But he worked it out, for the deeper satisfaction, even to superfluous39 lucidity. “We’re happy, and they’re happy. What more does the position admit of? What more need Fanny Assingham want?”
“Ah, my dear,” said Charlotte, “it’s not I who say that she need want anything. I only say that she’s FIXED40, that she must stand exactly where everything has, by her own act, placed her. It’s you who have seemed haunted with the possibility, for her, of some injurious alternative, something or other we must be prepared for.” And she had, with her high reasoning, a strange cold smile. “We ARE prepared — for anything, for everything; and AS we are, practically, so she must take us. She’s condemned41 to consistency42; she’s doomed43, poor thing, to a genial44 optimism. That, luckily for her, however, is very much the law of her nature. She was born to soothe45 and to smooth. Now then, therefore,” Mrs. Verver gently laughed, “she has the chance of her life!”
“So that her present professions may, even at the best, not be sincere?— may be but a mask for doubts and fears, and for gaining time?”
The Prince had looked, with the question, as if this, again, could trouble him, and it determined46 in his companion a slight impatience47. “You keep talking about such things as if they were our affair at all. I feel, at any rate, that I’ve nothing to do with her doubts and fears, or with anything she may feel. She must arrange all that for herself. It’s enough for me that she’ll always be, of necessity, much more afraid for herself, REALLY, either to see or to speak, than we should be to have her do it even if we were the idiots and cowards we aren’t.” And Charlotte’s face, with these words — to the mitigation of the slightly hard ring there might otherwise have been in them — fairly lightened, softened48, shone out. It reflected as really never yet the rare felicity of their luck. It made her look for the moment as if she had actually pronounced that word of unpermitted presumption49 — so apt is the countenance50, as with a finer consciousness than the tongue, to betray a sense of this particular lapse51. She might indeed, the next instant, have seen her friend wince52, in advance, at her use of a word that was already on her lips; for it was still unmistakable with him that there were things he could prize, forms of fortune he could cherish, without at all proportionately liking53 their names. Had all this, however, been even completely present to his companion, what other term could she have applied54 to the strongest and simplest of her ideas but the one that exactly fitted it? She applied it then, though her own instinct moved her, at the same time, to pay her tribute to the good taste from which they hadn’t heretofore by a hair’s breadth deviated55. “If it didn’t sound so vulgar I should say that we’re — fatally, as it were — SAFE. Pardon the low expression — since it’s what we happen to be. We’re so because they are. And they’re so because they can’t be anything else, from the moment that, having originally intervened for them, she wouldn’t now be able to bear herself if she didn’t keep them so. That’s the way she’s inevitably56 WITH us,” said Charlotte over her smile. “We hang, essentially57, together.”
Well, the Prince candidly58 allowed she did bring it home to him. Every way it worked out. “Yes, I see. We hang, essentially, together.”
His friend had a shrug59 — a shrug that had a grace. “Cosa volete?” The effect, beautifully, nobly, was more than Roman. “Ah, beyond doubt, it’s a case.”
He stood looking at her. “It’s a case. There can’t,” he said, “have been many.”
“Perhaps never, never, never any other. That,” she smiled, “I confess I should like to think. Only ours.”
“Only ours — most probably. Speriamo.” To which, as after hushed connections, he presently added: “Poor Fanny!” But Charlotte had already, with a start and a warning hand, turned from a glance at the clock. She sailed away to dress, while he watched her reach the staircase. His eyes followed her till, with a simple swift look round at him, she vanished. Something in the sight, however, appeared to have renewed the spring of his last exclamation60, which he breathed again upon the air. “Poor, poor Fanny!”
It was to prove, however, on the morrow, quite consistent with the spirit of these words that, the party at Matcham breaking up and multitudinously dispersing61, he should be able to meet the question of the social side of the process of repatriation62 with due presence of mind. It was impossible, for reasons, that he should travel to town with the Assinghams; it was impossible, for the same reasons, that he should travel to town save in the conditions that he had for the last twenty-four hours been privately63, and it might have been said profoundly, thinking out. The result of his thought was already precious to him, and this put at his service, he sufficiently64 believed, the right tone for disposing of his elder friend’s suggestion, an assumption in fact equally full and mild, that he and Charlotte would conveniently take the same train and occupy the same compartment65 as the Colonel and herself. The extension of the idea to Mrs. Verver had been, precisely, a part of Mrs. Assingham’s mildness, and nothing could better have characterised her sense for social shades than her easy perception that the gentleman from Portland Place and the lady from Eaton Square might now confess, quite without indiscretion, to simultaneity of movement. She had made, for the four days, no direct appeal to the latter personage, but the Prince was accidental witness of her taking a fresh start at the moment the company were about to scatter66 for the last night of their stay. There had been, at this climax67, the usual preparatory talk about hours and combinations, in the midst of which poor Fanny gently approached Mrs. Verver. She said “You and the Prince, love,”— quite, apparently68, without blinking; she took for granted their public withdrawal69 together; she remarked that she and Bob were alike ready, in the interest of sociability70, to take any train that would make them all one party. “I feel really as if, all this time, I had seen nothing of you”— that gave an added grace to the candour of the dear thing’s approach. But just then it was, on the other hand, that the young man found himself borrow most effectively the secret of the right tone for doing as he preferred. His preference had, during the evening, not failed of occasion to press him with mute insistences; practically without words, without any sort of straight telegraphy, it had arrived at a felt identity with Charlotte’s own. She spoke all for their friend while she answered their friend’s question, but she none the less signalled to him as definitely as if she had fluttered a white handkerchief from a window. “It’s awfully71 sweet of you, darling — our going together would be charming. But you mustn’t mind us — you must suit yourselves we’ve settled, Amerigo and I, to stay over till after luncheon72.”
Amerigo, with the chink of this gold in his ear, turned straight away, so as not to be instantly appealed to; and for the very emotion of the wonder, furthermore, of what divination73 may achieve when winged by a community of passion. Charlotte had uttered the exact plea that he had been keeping ready for the same foreseen necessity, and had uttered it simply as a consequence of their deepening unexpressed need of each other and without the passing between them of a word. He hadn’t, God knew, to take it from her — he was too conscious of what he wanted; but the lesson for him was in the straight clear tone that Charlotte could thus distil74, in the perfect felicity of her adding no explanation, no touch for plausibility75, that she wasn’t strictly76 obliged to add, and in the truly superior way in which women, so situated77, express and distinguish themselves. She had answered Mrs. Assingham quite adequately; she had not spoiled it by a reason a scrap78 larger than the smallest that would serve, and she had, above all, thrown off, for his stretched but covered attention, an image that flashed like a mirror played at the face of the sun. The measure of EVERYTHING, to all his sense, at these moments, was in it — the measure especially of the thought that had been growing with him a positive obsession79 and that began to throb80 as never yet under this brush of her having, by perfect parity81 of imagination, the match for it. His whole consciousness had by this time begun almost to ache with a truth of an exquisite82 order, at the glow of which she too had, so unmistakably then, been warming herself — the truth that the occasion constituted by the last few days couldn’t possibly, save by some poverty of their own, refuse them some still other and still greater beauty. It had already told them, with an hourly voice, that it had a meaning — a meaning that their associated sense was to drain even as thirsty lips, after the plough through the sands and the sight, afar, of the palm-cluster, might drink in at last the promised well in the desert. There had been beauty, day after day, and there had been, for the spiritual lips, something of the pervasive83 taste of it; yet it was all, none the less, as if their response had remained below their fortune. How to bring it, by some brave, free lift, up to the same height was the idea with which, behind and beneath everything, he was restlessly occupied, and in the exploration of which, as in that of the sun-chequered greenwood of romance, his spirit thus, at the opening of a vista84, met hers. They were already, from that moment, so hand-inhand in the place that he found himself making use, five minutes later, of exactly the same tone as Charlotte’s for telling Mrs. Assingham that he was likewise, in the matter of the return to London, sorry for what mightn’t be.
This had become, of a sudden, the simplest thing in the world — the sense of which moreover seemed really to amount to a portent85 that he should feel, forevermore, on the general head, conveniently at his ease with her. He went in fact a step further than Charlotte — put the latter forward as creating his necessity. She was staying over luncheon to oblige their hostess — as a consequence of which he must also stay to see her decently home. He must deliver her safe and sound, he felt, in Eaton Square. Regret as he might, too, the difference made by this obligation, he frankly didn’t mind, inasmuch as, over and above the pleasure itself, his scruple86 would certainly gratify both Mr. Verver and Maggie. They never yet had absolutely and entirely87 learned, he even found deliberation to intimate, how little he really neglected the first — as it seemed nowadays quite to have become — of his domestic duties: therefore he still constantly felt how little he must remit88 his effort to make them remark it. To which he added with equal lucidity that they would return in time for dinner, and if he didn’t, as a last word, subjoin that it would be “lovely” of Fanny to find, on her own return, a moment to go to Eaton Square and report them as struggling bravely on, this was not because the impulse, down to the very name for the amiable89 act, altogether failed to rise. His inward assurance, his general plan, had at moments, where she was concerned, its drops of continuity, and nothing would less have pleased him than that she should suspect in him, however tempted90, any element of conscious “cheek.” But he was always — that was really the upshot — cultivating thanklessly the considerate and the delicate: it was a long lesson, this unlearning, with people of English race, all the little superstitions91 that accompany friendship. Mrs. Assingham herself was the first to say that she would unfailingly “report”; she brought it out in fact, he thought, quite wonderfully — having attained92 the summit of the wonderful during the brief interval that had separated her appeal to Charlotte from this passage with himself. She had taken the five minutes, obviously, amid the rest of the talk and the movement, to retire into her tent for meditation93 — which showed, among several things, the impression Charlotte had made on her. It was from the tent she emerged, as with arms refurbished; though who indeed could say if the manner in which she now met him spoke most, really, of the glitter of battle or of the white waver of the flag of truce94? The parley95 was short either way; the gallantry of her offer was all sufficient.
“I’ll go to our friends then — I’ll ask for luncheon. I’ll tell them when to expect you.”
“That will be charming. Say we’re all right.”
“All right — precisely. I can’t say more,” Mrs. Assingham smiled.
“No doubt.” But he considered, as for the possible importance of it. “Neither can you, by what I seem to feel, say less.”
“Oh, I WON’T say less!” Fanny laughed; with which, the next moment, she had turned away. But they had it again, not less bravely, on the morrow, after breakfast, in the thick of the advancing carriages and the exchange of farewells. “I think I’ll send home my maid from Euston,” she was then prepared to amend96, “and go to Eaton Square straight. So you can be easy.”
“Oh, I think we’re easy,” the Prince returned. “Be sure to say, at any rate, that we’re bearing up.”
“You’re bearing up — good. And Charlotte returns to dinner?”
“To dinner. We’re not likely, I think, to make another night away.”
“Well then, I wish you at least a pleasant day,”
“Oh,” he laughed as they separated, “we shall do our best for it!”— after which, in due course, with the announcement of their conveyance97, the Assinghams rolled off.
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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retraction
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| n.撤消；收回 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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instinctively
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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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quainter
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的比较级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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nought
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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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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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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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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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odiously
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| Odiously | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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absurdity
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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watchful
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lucidity
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persistently
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expeditiously
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| adv.迅速地，敏捷地 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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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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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intensity
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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rectification
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| n. 改正, 改订, 矫正 | |
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rectify
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frivolously
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| adv.轻浮地，愚昧地 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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condemned
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consistency
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doomed
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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53
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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54
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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60
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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62
repatriation
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| n.遣送回国，归国 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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66
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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parity
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| n.平价，等价，比价，对等 | |
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82
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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86
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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87
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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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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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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93
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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95
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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96
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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97
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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