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The Arrow of Gold-Part8_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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the intermediary for all those objects. And why? Because every



bald head in this Republican Government gets pink at the top

whenever her dress rustles outside the door. They bow with immense



deference when the door opens, but the bow conceals a smirk because

of those Venetian days. That confounded Versoy shoved his nose



into that business; he says accidentally. He saw them together on

the Lido and (those writing fellows are horrible) he wrote what he



calls a vignette (I suppose accidentally, too) under that very

title. There was in it a Prince and a lady and a big dog. He



described how the Prince on landing from the gondola emptied his

purse into the hands of a picturesque old beggar, while the lady, a



little way off, stood gazing back at Venice with the dog

romantically stretched at her feet. One of Versoy's beautiful



prose vignettes in a great daily that has a literarycolumn. But

some other papers that didn't care a cent for literature rehashed



the mere fact. And that's the sort of fact that impresses your

political man, especially if the lady is, well, such as she is . .



."

He paused. His dark eyes flashed fatally, away from us, in the



direction of the shy dummy; and then he went on with cultivated

cynicism.



"So she rushes down here. Overdone, weary, rest for her nerves.

Nonsense. I assure you she has no more nerves than I have."



I don't know how he meant it, but at that moment, slim and elegant,

he seemed a mere bundle of nerves himself, with the flitting



expressions on his thin, well-bred face, with the restlessness of

his meagre brown hands amongst the objects on the table. With some



pipe ash amongst a little spilt wine his forefinger traced a

capital R. Then he looked into an empty glass profoundly. I have



a notion that I sat there staring and listening like a yokel at a

play. Mills' pipe was lying quite a foot away in front of him,



empty, cold. Perhaps he had no more tobacco. Mr. Blunt assumed

his dandified air - nervously.



"Of course her movements are commented on in the most exclusive

drawing-rooms and also in other places, also exclusive, but where



the gossip takes on another tone. There they are probably saying

that she has got a 'coup de coeur' for some one. Whereas I think



she is utterly incapable of that sort of thing. That Venetian

affair, the beginning of it and the end of it, was nothing but a



coup de tete, and all those activities in which I am involved, as

you see (by order of Headquarters, ha, ha, ha!), are nothing but



that, all this connection, all this intimacy into which I have

dropped . . . Not to speak of my mother, who is delightful, but as



irresponsible as one of those crazy princesses that shock their

Royal families. . . "



He seemed to bite his tongue and I observed that Mills' eyes seemed

to have grown wider than I had ever seen them before. In that



tranquil face it was a great play of feature. "An intimacy," began

Mr. Blunt, with an extremelyrefined grimness of tone, "an intimacy



with the heiress of Mr. Allegre on the part of . . . on my part,

well, it isn't exactly . . . it's open . . . well, I leave it to



you, what does it look like?"

"Is there anybody looking on?" Mills let fall, gently, through his



kindly lips.

"Not actually, perhaps, at this moment. But I don't need to tell a



man of the world, like you, that such things cannot remain unseen.

And that they are, well, compromising, because of the mere fact of



the fortune."

Mills got on his feet, looked for his jacket and after getting into



it made himself heard while he looked for his hat.

"Whereas the woman herself is, so to speak, priceless."



Mr. Blunt muttered the word "Obviously."

By then we were all on our feet. The iron stove glowed no longer



and the lamp, surrounded by empty bottles and empty glasses, had

grown dimmer.



I know that I had a great shiver on getting away from the cushions

of the divan.



"We will meet again in a few hours," said Mr. Blunt.

"Don't forget to come," he said, addressing me. "Oh, yes, do.



Have no scruples. I am authorized to make invitations."

He must have noticed my shyness, my surprise, my embarrassment.



And indeed I didn't know what to say.




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