章节正文
"My friend?"
"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico."
"Wrote to YOU?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently.
"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your
coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent
to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end."
"Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly.
"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and
the one to whom it is written."
"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?"
"It was written about you, not to you. `Have you seen Mrs.
Pontellier? How is she looking?' he asks. `As Mrs. Pontellier
says,' or `as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' `If Mrs. Pontellier
should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my
favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play
it. I should like to know how it affects her,' and so on, as if he
supposed we were constantly in each other's society."
"Let me see the letter."
"Oh, no."
"Have you answered it?"
"No."
"Let me see the letter."
"No, and again, no."
"Then play the Impromptu for me."
"It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?"
"Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude.
Play the Impromptu."
"But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?"
"Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!"
"Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame."
"Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?"
"I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your
talent or your temperament" target="_blank" title="n.气质；性格">temperament. To be an artist includes much;
one must possess many gifts--absolute gifts--which have not
been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the
artist must possess the courageous soul."
"What do you mean by the courageous soul?"
"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares
and defies."
"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that
I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?"
"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,"
replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.
The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little
table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle
opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She
placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and
went to the piano.
Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an
improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body
settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an
appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude
melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu.
Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat
in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light.
Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering
lovenotes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its
soulful and poignant longing.
The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew
strange and fantastic--turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft
with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the
room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the
crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper
air.
Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand
Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation
to take her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked
at the threshold.
"Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and
landings are dark; don't stumble."
Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was
on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and
damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it
to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer.
XXII
One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the
house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The
Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is,
upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than
skill--leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants
and younger contemporaries--and was much sought for in matters of
consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of
friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a
physician. The Pontelliers were among these.
Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of
his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the
center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at
the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He
stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier
entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour
of the morning.
"Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat.
What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a
profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed
of much of their brightness but none of their penetration.
"Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough
fiber--of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and
finally blow away. I came to consult--no, not precisely to
consult--to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her."
"Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I
saw her--I think it was a week ago--walking along Canal Street, the
picture of health, it seemed to me."
"Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning
forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she
doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make
her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me."
"How does she act?" inquired the Doctor.
"Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier,
throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go
to the dickens."
"Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier.
We've got to consider--"
"I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole
attitude--toward me and everybody and everything--has changed. You
know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude
to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like
ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making
it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's
got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights
of women; and--you understand--we meet in the morning at the
breakfast table."
The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his
thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his
cushioned fingertips.
"What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?"
"Doing! Parbleu!"
"Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating
of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women--super-spiritual
superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them."
"That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't
been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at
home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping
about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark.
I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little
worried over it."
This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?"
he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family
antecedents, is there?"
"Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky
stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone
for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact,
that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of
Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret--you know
Margaret--she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the
youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a
couple of weeks from now."
"Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor,
foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people
for a while; it will do her good."
"That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage.
She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on
earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed
Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection.
"Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection,
"let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let
her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and
delicate organism--a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as
I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would
require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them.
And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with
their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody
and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some
cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom.
But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone.
Send her around to see me."
"Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it,"
objected Mr. Pontellier.
"Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll
drop in to dinner some evening en bon ami.
"Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will
you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?" he asked, rising
to take his leave.
"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some
engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know.
Otherwise, you may expect me."
Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:
"I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big
scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the
ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if
you say so, Doctor," he laughed.
"No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave
such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in
your blood."
"What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his
hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you
advise me to take Edna along?"
"By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here.
Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may
take a month, two, three months--possibly longer, but it will pass;
have patience."
"Well, good-by, a jeudi, " said Mr. Pontellier, as he let
himself out.
The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation
to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too
well to make such a blunder as that.
He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while
meditatively looking out into the garden.
XXIII
Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several
days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they
had certain tastes in common, and when together they were
"Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico."
"Wrote to YOU?" repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently.
"Yes, to me. Why not? Don't stir all the warmth out of your
coffee; drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent
to you; it was nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end."
"Let me see it," requested the young woman, entreatingly.
"No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and
the one to whom it is written."
"Haven't you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?"
"It was written about you, not to you. `Have you seen Mrs.
Pontellier? How is she looking?' he asks. `As Mrs. Pontellier
says,' or `as Mrs. Pontellier once said.' `If Mrs. Pontellier
should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin's, my
favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play
it. I should like to know how it affects her,' and so on, as if he
supposed we were constantly in each other's society."
"Let me see the letter."
"Oh, no."
"Have you answered it?"
"No."
"Let me see the letter."
"No, and again, no."
"Then play the Impromptu for me."
"It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?"
"Time doesn't concern me. Your question seems a little rude.
Play the Impromptu."
"But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?"
"Painting!" laughed Edna. "I am becoming an artist. Think of it!"
"Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame."
"Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?"
"I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your
talent or your temperament" target="_blank" title="n.气质；性格">temperament. To be an artist includes much;
one must possess many gifts--absolute gifts--which have not
been acquired by one's own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the
artist must possess the courageous soul."
"What do you mean by the courageous soul?"
"Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares
and defies."
"Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that
I have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?"
"It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,"
replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.
The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little
table upon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle
opened the drawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She
placed it in Edna's hands, and without further comment arose and
went to the piano.
Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an
improvisation. She sat low at the instrument, and the lines of her body
settled into ungraceful curves and angles that gave it an
appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the interlude
melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu.
Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat
in the sofa corner reading Robert's letter by the fading light.
Mademoiselle had glided from the Chopin into the quivering
lovenotes of Isolde's song, and back again to the Impromptu with its
soulful and poignant longing.
The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew
strange and fantastic--turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft
with entreaty. The shadows grew deeper. The music filled the
room. It floated out upon the night, over the housetops, the
crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of the upper
air.
Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand
Isle when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation
to take her departure. "May I come again, Mademoiselle?" she asked
at the threshold.
"Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and
landings are dark; don't stumble."
Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert's letter was
on the floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and
damp with tears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it
to the envelope, and replaced it in the table drawer.
XXII
One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the
house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The
Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is,
upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than
skill--leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants
and younger contemporaries--and was much sought for in matters of
consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of
friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a
physician. The Pontelliers were among these.
Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of
his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the
center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at
the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He
stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier
entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour
of the morning.
"Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat.
What news do you bring this morning?" He was quite portly, with a
profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed
of much of their brightness but none of their penetration.
"Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough
fiber--of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and
finally blow away. I came to consult--no, not precisely to
consult--to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her."
"Madame Pontellier not well," marveled the Doctor. "Why, I
saw her--I think it was a week ago--walking along Canal Street, the
picture of health, it seemed to me."
"Yes, yes; she seems quite well," said Mr. Pontellier, leaning
forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; "but she
doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make
her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me."
"How does she act?" inquired the Doctor.
"Well, it isn't easy to explain," said Mr. Pontellier,
throwing himself back in his chair. "She lets the housekeeping go
to the dickens."
"Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier.
We've got to consider--"
"I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole
attitude--toward me and everybody and everything--has changed. You
know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude
to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like
ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making
it devilishly uncomfortable for me," he went on nervously. "She's
got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights
of women; and--you understand--we meet in the morning at the
breakfast table."
The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his
thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his
cushioned fingertips.
"What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?"
"Doing! Parbleu!"
"Has she," asked the Doctor, with a smile, "has she been associating
of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women--super-spiritual
superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them."
"That's the trouble," broke in Mr. Pontellier, "she hasn't
been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at
home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping
about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark.
I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little
worried over it."
This was a new aspect for the Doctor. "Nothing hereditary?"
he asked, seriously. "Nothing peculiar about her family
antecedents, is there?"
"Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky
stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone
for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact,
that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of
Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret--you know
Margaret--she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the
youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a
couple of weeks from now."
"Send your wife up to the wedding," exclaimed the Doctor,
foreseeing a happy solution. "Let her stay among her own people
for a while; it will do her good."
"That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage.
She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on
earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!" exclaimed
Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection.
"Pontellier," said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection,
"let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let
her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and
delicate organism--a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as
I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would
require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them.
And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with
their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody
and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some
cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom.
But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone.
Send her around to see me."
"Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it,"
objected Mr. Pontellier.
"Then I'll go around and see her," said the Doctor. "I'll
drop in to dinner some evening en bon ami.
"Do! by all means," urged Mr. Pontellier. "What evening will
you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?" he asked, rising
to take his leave.
"Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some
engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know.
Otherwise, you may expect me."
Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:
"I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big
scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the
ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if
you say so, Doctor," he laughed.
"No, I thank you, my dear sir," returned the Doctor. "I leave
such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in
your blood."
"What I wanted to say," continued Mr. Pontellier, with his
hand on the knob; "I may have to be absent a good while. Would you
advise me to take Edna along?"
"By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here.
Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may
take a month, two, three months--possibly longer, but it will pass;
have patience."
"Well, good-by, a jeudi, " said Mr. Pontellier, as he let
himself out.
The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation
to ask, "Is there any man in the case?" but he knew his Creole too
well to make such a blunder as that.
He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while
meditatively looking out into the garden.
XXIII
Edna's father was in the city, and had been with them several
days. She was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they
had certain tastes in common, and when together they were
- amazement [ə´meizmənt]
n.惊愕；惊奇 (初中英语单词) - warmth [wɔ:mθ] n.温暖；热情；激动 (初中英语单词)
- beginning [bi´giniŋ] n.开始，开端；起源 (初中英语单词)
- constantly [´kɔnstəntli] ad.经常地；不断地 (初中英语单词)
- moreover [mɔ:´rəuvə] ad.再者，此外，而且 (初中英语单词)
- drawer [drɔ:ə] n.抽屉 (初中英语单词)
- comment [´kɔment] n.&v.评论；评注；注意 (初中英语单词)
- instrument [´instrumənt] n.仪器；手段；乐器 (初中英语单词)
- opening [´əupəniŋ] n.开放；开端 a.开始的 (初中英语单词)
- reading [´ri:diŋ] n.(阅)读；朗读；读物 (初中英语单词)
- midnight [´midnait] n.午夜；漆黑 (初中英语单词)
- departure [di´pɑ:tʃə] n.离开，出发 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- envelope [´envələup] n.信封，封皮 (初中英语单词)
- physician [fi´ziʃən] n.(内科)医生 (初中英语单词)
- wisdom [´wizdəm] n.智慧，聪明，才智 (初中英语单词)
- delightful [di´laitful] a.讨人喜欢的 (初中英语单词)
- peaceful [´pi:sfəl] a.和平的；平静的 (初中英语单词)
- disturb [di´stə:b] vt.扰乱；使不安；打乱 (初中英语单词)
- temper [´tempə] n.韧度 v.锻炼；调和 (初中英语单词)
- driven [´driv(ə)n] drive 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- eternal [i´tə:nəl] a.永远的；永恒的 (初中英语单词)
- circle [´sə:kəl] n.圆圈 v.环绕；盘旋 (初中英语单词)
- peculiar [pi´kju:liə] a.特有的；奇异的 (初中英语单词)
- aspect [´æspekt] n.面貌；神色；方向 (初中英语单词)
- seriously [´siəriəsli] ad.严肃；严重，重大 (初中英语单词)
- solution [sə´lu:ʃən] n.解答；解决；溶解 (初中英语单词)
- wedding [´wediŋ] n.婚礼，结婚 (初中英语单词)
- bother [´bɔðə] v.打扰 n.麻烦(事) (初中英语单词)
- absent [´æbsənt, əb´sent] a.不在的 vt.使缺席 (初中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- concerned [kən´sə:nd] a.有关的；担心的 (高中英语单词)
- temperament [´tempərəmənt] n.气质；性格 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- brightness [´braitnis] n.光明；快乐 (高中英语单词)
- precisely [pri´saisli] ad.精确地；刻板地 (高中英语单词)
- uncomfortable [ʌn´kʌmftəbəl] a.不舒服的，不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- concerning [kən´sə:niŋ] prep.关于 (高中英语单词)
- literally [´litərəli] ad.逐字地；实际上 (高中英语单词)
- sensitive [´sensitiv] a.敏感的；感光的 (高中英语单词)
- successfully [sək´sesfəli] ad.成功地 (高中英语单词)
- blunder [´blʌndə] n.&v.(犯)大错；疏忽 (高中英语单词)
- stirring [´stə:riŋ] a.活跃的；热闹的 (英语四级单词)
- courageous [kə´reidʒəs] a.勇敢的；无畏的 (英语四级单词)
- reputation [repju´teiʃən] n.名誉；名声；信誉 (英语四级单词)
- nervously [´nə:vəsli] ad.神经质地；胆怯地 (英语四级单词)
- shaggy [´ʃægi] a.蓬乱的；多粗毛的 (英语四级单词)
- presbyterian [,prezbi´tiəriən] a.长老会(制)的 (英语四级单词)
- contradict [,kɔntrə´dikt] v.反驳；否认 (英语四级单词)
- mademoiselle [,mædəmə´zel] n.小姐；法国女教师 (英语六级单词)
- deformity [di´fɔ:miti] n.畸形 (英语六级单词)
- insistent [in´sistənt] a.坚持的；逼人注意的 (英语六级单词)
- plaintive [´pleintiv] a.表示哀怨(悲痛) (英语六级单词)
- entreaty [in´tri:ti] n.恳求，哀求 (英语六级单词)
- housekeeping [´haus,ki:piŋ] n.家务管理，家政 (英语六级单词)
- nether [´neðə] a.下面的；地下的 (英语六级单词)
- abandoned [ə´bændənd] a.被抛弃的；无约束的 (英语六级单词)
- lamentable [´læməntəbl, lə´mentəbl] a.可悲的 (英语六级单词)
- psychologist [sai´kɔlədʒist] n.心理学家 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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