一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter XV
'A wandering voice.'
Though sheer and intelligible griefs are not charmed away by beingconfided to mere acquaintances, the process is a palliative tocertain ill-humours. Among these, perplexed vexation is one--aspecies of trouble which, like a stream, gets shallower by thesimple operation of widening it in any quarter.
On the evening of the day succeeding that of the meeting in thePark, Elfride and Mrs. Swancourt were engaged in conversation inthe dressing-room of the latter. Such a treatment of such a casewas in course of adoption here.
Elfride had just before received an affectionate letter fromStephen Smith in Bombay, which had been forwarded to her fromEndelstow. But since this is not the case referred to, it is notworth while to pry further into the contents of the letter than todiscover that, with rash though pardonable confidence in comingtimes, he addressed her in high spirits as his darling futurewife. Probably there cannot be instanced a briefer and surer rule-of-thumb test of a man's temperament--sanguine or cautious--thanthis: did he or does he ante-date the word wife in correspondingwith a sweet-heart he honestly loves?
She had taken this epistle into her own room, read a little of it,then SAVED the rest for to-morrow, not wishing to be soextravagant as to consume the pleasure all at once. Nevertheless,she could not resist the wish to enjoy yet a little more, so outcame the letter again, and in spite of misgivings as toprodigality the whole was devoured. The letter was finallyreperused and placed in her pocket.
What was this? Also a newspaper for Elfride, which she hadoverlooked in her hurry to open the letter. It was the old numberof the PRESENT, containing the article upon her book, forwarded ashad been requested.
Elfride had hastily read it through, shrunk perceptibly smaller,and had then gone with the paper in her hand to Mrs. Swancourt'sdressing-room, to lighten or at least modify her vexation by adiscriminating estimate from her stepmother.
She was now looking disconsolately out of the window.
'Never mind, my child,' said Mrs. Swancourt after a carefulperusal of the matter indicated. 'I don't see that the review issuch a terrible one, after all. Besides, everybody has forgottenabout it by this time. I'm sure the opening is good enough forany book ever written. Just listen--it sounds better read aloudthan when you pore over it silently: "THE COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE.A ROMANCE OF THE MIDDLE AGES. BY ERNEST FIELD. In the beliefthat we were for a while escaping the monotonous repetition ofwearisome details in modern social scenery, analyses ofuninteresting character, or the unnatural unfoldings of asensation plot, we took this volume into our hands with a feelingof pleasure. We were disposed to beguile ourselves with the fancythat some new change might possibly be rung upon donjon keeps,chain and plate armour, deeply scarred cheeks, tender maidensdisguised as pages, to which we had not listened long ago." Now,that's a very good beginning, in my opinion, and one to be proudof having brought out of a man who has never seen you.'
'Ah, yes,' murmured Elfride wofully. 'But, then, see further on!'
'Well the next bit is rather unkind, I must own,' said Mrs.Swancourt, and read on. '"Instead of this we found ourselves inthe hands of some young lady, hardly arrived at years ofdiscretion, to judge by the silly device it has been thought worthwhile to adopt on the title-page, with the idea of disguising hersex."'
'I am not "silly"!' said Elfride indignantly. 'He might havecalled me anything but that.'
'You are not, indeed. Well:--"Hands of a young lady...whosechapters are simply devoted to impossible tournaments, towers, andescapades, which read like flat copies of like scenes in thestories of Mr. G. P. R. James, and the most unreal portions ofIVANHOE. The bait is so palpably artificial that the mostcredulous gudgeon turns away." Now, my dear, I don't see overmuchto complain of in that. It proves that you were clever enough tomake him think of Sir Walter Scott, which is a great deal.'
'Oh yes; though I cannot romance myself, I am able to remind himof those who can!' Elfride intended to hurl these wordssarcastically at her invisible enemy, but as she had no moresatirical power than a wood-pigeon, they merely fell in a prettymurmur from lips shaped to a pout.
'Certainly: and that's something. Your book is good enough to bebad in an ordinary literary manner, and doesn't stand by itself ina melancholy position altogether worse than assailable.--"Thatinterest in an historical romance may nowadays have any chance ofbeing sustained, it is indispensable that the reader find himselfunder the guidance of some nearly extinct species of legendary,who, in addition to an impulse towards antiquarian research and anunweakened faith in the mediaeval halo, shall possess an inventivefaculty in which delicacy of sentiment is far overtopped by apower of welding to stirring incident a spirited variety of theelementary human passions." Well, that long-winded effusiondoesn't refer to you at all, Elfride, merely something put in tofill up. Let me see, when does he come to you again;...not tillthe very end, actually. Here you are finally polished off:
'"But to return to the little work we have used as the text ofthis article. We are far from altogether disparaging the author'spowers. She has a certain versatility that enables her to usewith effect a style of narration peculiar to herself, which may becalled a murmuring of delicate emotional trifles, the particulargift of those to whom the social sympathies of a peaceful time areas daily food. Hence, where matters of domestic experience, andthe natural touches which make people real, can be introducedwithout anachronisms too striking, she is occasionally felicitous;and upon the whole we feel justified in saying that the book willbear looking into for the sake of those portions which havenothing whatever to do with the story."
'Well, I suppose it is intended for satire; but don't thinkanything more of it now, my dear. It is seven o'clock.' And Mrs.Swancourt rang for her maid.
Attack is more piquant than concord. Stephen's letter wasconcerning nothing but oneness with her: the review was the veryreverse. And a stranger with neither name nor shape, age norappearance, but a mighty voice, is naturally rather an interestingnovelty to a lady he chooses to address. When Elfride fell asleepthat night she was loving the writer of the letter, but thinkingof the writer of that article.