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The Beast in the Jungle-Part3_HENRY JAMES(1843-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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that, she knew how he looked as well; he knew each of the things of



importance he was insidiously kept from doing, but she could add up

the amount they made, understand how much, with a lighter weight on



his spirit, he might have done, and thereby establish how, clever

as he was, he fell short. Above all she was in the secret of the



difference between the forms he went through--those of his little

office under Government, those of caring for his modest patrimony,



for his library, for his garden in the country, for the people in

London whose invitations he accepted and repaid--and the detachment



that reigned beneath them and that made of all behaviour, all that

could in the least be called behaviour, a long act of



dissimulation. What it had come to was that he wore a mask painted

with the social simper, out of the eye-holes of which there looked



eyes of an expression not in the least matching the other features.

This the stupid world, even after years, had never more than half



discovered. It was only May Bartram who had, and she achieved, by

an art indescribable, the feat of at once--or perhaps it was only



alternately--meeting the eyes from in front and mingling her own

vision, as from over his shoulder, with their peep through the



apertures.

So while they grew older together she did watch with him, and so



she let this association give shape and colour to her own

existence. Beneath HER forms as well detachment had learned to



sit, and behaviour had become for her, in the social sense, a false

account of herself. There was but one account of her that would



have been true all the while and that she could give straight to

nobody, least of all to John Marcher. Her whole attitude was a



virtual statement, but the perception of that only seemed called to

take its place for him as one of the many things necessarily



crowded out of his consciousness. If she had moreover, like

himself, to make sacrifices to their real truth, it was to be



granted that her compensation might have affected her as more

prompt and more natural. They had long periods, in this London



time, during which, when they were together, a stranger might have

listened to them without in the least pricking up his ears; on the



other hand the real truth was equallyliable at any moment to rise

to the surface, and the auditor would then have wondered indeed



what they were talking about. They had from an early hour made up

their mind that society was, luckily, unintelligent, and the margin



allowed them by this had fairly become one of their commonplaces.

Yet there were still moments when the situation turned almost



fresh--usually under the effect of some expression drawn from

herself. Her expressions doubtlessrepeated themselves, but her



intervals were generous. "What saves us, you know, is that we

answer so completely to so usual an appearance: that of the man



and woman whose friendship has become such a daily habit--or

almost--as to be at last indispensable." That for instance was a



remark she had frequently enough had occasion to make, though she

had given it at different times different developments. What we



are especially concerned with is the turn it happened to take from

her one afternoon when he had come to see her in honour of her



birthday. This anniversary had fallen on a Sunday, at a season of

thick fog and general outward gloom; but he had brought her his



customary offering, having known her now long enough to have

established a hundred small traditions. It was one of his proofs



to himself, the present he made her on her birthday, that he hadn't

sunk into real selfishness. It was mostly nothing more than a



small trinket, but it was always fine of its kind, and he was

regularly careful to pay for it more than he thought he could



afford. "Our habit saves you, at least, don't you see?" because it

makes you, after all, for the vulgar, indistinguishable from other



men. What's the most inveterate mark of men in general? Why the

capacity to spend endless time with dull women--to spend it I won't



say without being bored, but without minding that they are, without

being driven off at a tangent by it; which comes to the same thing.



I'm your dull woman, a part of the daily bread for which you pray

at church. That covers your tracks more than anything."



"And what covers yours?" asked Marcher, whom his dull woman could

mostly to this extent amuse. "I see of course what you mean by



your saving me, in this way and that, so far as other people are

concerned--I've seen it all along. Only what is it that saves YOU?






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