eugene pickering-第6章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



next　chair。　　Recognition　and　mutual　greetings　followed；　and　I　was

forced　to　postpone　my　visit　to　Madame　Blumenthal。　　I　was　not　sorry；

for　it　very　soon　occurred　to　me　that　Niedermeyer　would　be　just　the

man　to　give　me　a　fair　prose　version　of　Pickering's　lyric　tributes　to

his　friend。　　He　was　an　Austrian　by　birth；　and　had　formerly　lived

about　Europe　a　great　deal　in　a　series　of　small　diplomatic　posts。

England　especially　he　had　often　visited；　and　he　spoke　the　language

almost　without　accent。　　I　had　once　spent　three　rainy　days　with　him　in

the　house　of　an　English　friend　in　the　country。　　He　was　a　sharp

observer；　and　a　good　deal　of　a　gossip；　he　knew　a　little　something

about　every　one；　and　about　some　people　everything。　　His　knowledge　on

social　matters　generally　had　the　quality　of　all　German　science；　it

was　copious；　minute；　exhaustive。



〃Do　tell　me；〃　I　said；　as　we　stood　looking　round　the　house；　〃who　and

what　is　the　lady　in　white；　with　the　young　man　sitting　behind　her。〃



〃Who？〃　he　answered；　dropping　his　glass。　　〃Madame　Blumenthal！　　What！

It　would　take　long　to　say。　　Be　introduced；　it's　easily　done；　you　will

find　her　charming。　　Then；　after　a　week；　you　will　tell　me　what　she

is。〃



〃Perhaps　I　should　not。　　My　friend　there　has　known　her　a　week；　and　I

don't　think　he　is　yet　able　to　give　a　coherent　account　of　her。〃



He　raised　his　glass　again；　and　after　looking　a　while；　〃I　am　afraid

your　friend　is　a　littlewhat　do　you　call　it？a　little　'soft。'　　Poor

fellow！　he's　not　the　first。　　I　have　never　known　this　lady　that　she

has　not　had　some　eligible　youth　hovering　about　in　some　such　attitude

as　that；　undergoing　the　softening　process。　　She　looks　wonderfully

well；　from　here。　　It's　extraordinary　how　those　women　last！〃



〃You　don't　mean；　I　take　it；　when　you　talk　about　'those　women；'　that

Madame　Blumenthal　is　not　embalmed；　for　duration；　in　a　certain

infusion　of　respectability？〃



〃Yes　and　no。　　The　atmosphere　that　surrounds　her　is　entirely　of　her

own　making。　　There　is　no　reason　in　her　antecedents　that　people　should

drop　their　voice　when　they　speak　of　her。　　But　some　women　are　never　at

their　ease　till　they　have　given　some　damnable　twist　or　other　to　their

position　before　the　world。　　The　attitude　of　upright　virtue　is

unbecoming；　like　sitting　too　straight　in　a　fauteuil。　　Don't　ask　me

for　opinions；　however；　content　yourself　with　a　few　facts　and　with　an

anecdote。　　Madame　Blumenthal　is　Prussian；　and　very　well　born。　　I

remember　her　mother；　an　old　Westphalian　Grafin；　with　principles

marshalled　out　like　Frederick　the　Great's　grenadiers。　　She　was　poor；

however；　and　her　principles　were　an　insufficient　dowry　for　Anastasia；

who　was　married　very　young　to　a　vicious　Jew；　twice　her　own　age。　　He

was　supposed　to　have　money；　but　I　am　afraid　he　had　less　than　was

nominated　in　the　bond；　or　else　that　his　pretty　young　wife　spent　it

very　fast。　　She　has　been　a　widow　these　six　or　eight　years；　and　has

lived；　I　imagine；　in　rather　a　hand…to…mouth　fashion。　　I　suppose　she

is　some　six　or　eight　and　thirty　years　of　age。　　In　winter　one　hears　of

her　in　Berlin；　giving　little　suppers　to　the　artistic　rabble　there；　in

summer　one　often　sees　her　across　the　green　table　at　Ems　and

Wiesbaden。　　She's　very　clever；　and　her　cleverness　has　spoiled　her。　　A

year　after　her　marriage　she　published　a　novel；　with　her　views　on

matrimony；　in　the　George　Sand　mannerbeating　the　drum　to　Madame

Sand's　trumpet。　　No　doubt　she　was　very　unhappy；　Blumenthal　was　an　old

beast。　　Since　then　she　has　published　a　lot　of　literaturenovels　and

poems　and　pamphlets　on　every　conceivable　theme；　from　the　conversion

of　Lola　Montez　to　the　Hegelian　philosophy。　　Her　talk　is　much　better

than　her　writing。　　Her　conjugophobiaI　can't　call　it　by　any　other

namemade　people　think　lightly　of　her　at　a　time　when　her　rebellion

against　marriage　was　probably　only　theoretic。　　She　had　a　taste　for

spinning　fine　phrases；　she　drove　her　shuttle；　and　when　she　came　to

the　end　of　her　yarn　she　found　that　society　had　turned　its　back。　　She

tossed　her　head；　declared　that　at　last　she　could　breathe　the　sacred

air　of　freedom；　and　formally　announced　that　she　had　embraced　an

'intellectual'　life。　　This　meant　unlimited　camaraderie　with

scribblers　and　daubers；　Hegelian　philosophers　and　Hungarian　pianists。

But　she　has　been　admired　also　by　a　great　many　really　clever　men；

there　was　a　time；　in　fact；　when　she　turned　a　head　as　well　set　on　its

shoulders　as　this　one！〃　　And　Niedermeyer　tapped　his　forehead。　　〃She

has　a　great　charm；　and；　literally；　I　know　no　harm　of　her。　　Yet　for

all　that；　I　am　not　going　to　speak　to　her；　I　am　not　going　near　her

box。　　I　am　going　to　leave　her　to　say；　if　she　does　me　the　honour　to

observe　the　omission；　that　I　too　have　gone　over　to　the　Philistines。

It's　not　that；　it　is　that　there　is　something　sinister　about　the

woman。　　I　am　too　old　for　it　to　frighten　me；　but　I　am　good…natured

enough　for　it　to　pain　me。　　Her　quarrel　with　society　has　brought　her

no　happiness；　and　her　outward　charm　is　only　the　mask　of　a　dangerous

discontent。　　Her　imagination　is　lodged　where　her　heart　should　be！　　So

long　as　you　amuse　it；　well　and　good；　she's　radiant。　　But　the　moment

you　let　it　flag；　she　is　capable　of　dropping　you　without　a　pang。　　If

you　land　on　your　feet　you　are　so　much　the　wiser；　simply；　but　there

have　been　two　or　three；　I　believe；　who　have　almost　broken　their　necks

in　the　fall。〃



〃You　are　reversing　your　promise；〃　I　said；　〃and　giving　me　an　opinion；

but　not　an　anecdote。〃



〃This　is　my　anecdote。　　A　year　ago　a　friend　of　mine　made　her

acquaintance　in　Berlin；　and　though　he　was　no　longer　a　young　man；　and

had　never　been　what　is　called　a　susceptible　one；　he　took　a　great

fancy　to　Madame　Blumenthal。　　He's　a　major　in　the　Prussian　artillery

grizzled；　grave；　a　trifle　severe；　a　man　every　way　firm　in　the　faith

of　his　fathers。　　It's　a　proof　of　Anastasia's　charm　that　such　a　man

should　have　got　into　the　habit　of　going　to　see　her　every　day　of　his

life。　　But　the　major　was　in　love；　or　next　door　to　it！　　Every　day　that

he　called　he　found　her　scribbling　away　at　a　little　ormolu　table　on　a

lot　of　half…sheets　of　note…paper。　　She　used　to　bid　him　sit　down　and

hold　his　tongue　for　a　quarter　of　an　hour；　till　she　had　finished　her

chapter；　she　was　writing　a　novel；　and　it　was　promised　to　a　publisher。

Clorinda；　she　confided　to　him；　was　the　name　of　the　injured　heroine。

The　major；　I　imagine；　had　never　read　a　work　of　fiction　in　his　life；

but　he　knew　by　hearsay　that　Madame　Blumenthal's　literature；　when　put

forth　in　pink　covers；　was　subversive　of　several　respectable

institutions。　　Besides；　he　didn't　believe　in　women　knowing　how　to

write　at　all；　and　it　irritated　him　to　see　this　inky　goddess

correcting　proof…sheets　under　his　noseirritated　him　the　more　that；

as　I　say；　he　was　in　love　with　her　and　that　he　ventured　to　believe　she

had　a　kindness　for　his　years　and　his　honours。　　And　yet　she　was　not

such　a　woman　as　he　could　easily　ask　to　marry　him。　　The　result　of　all

this　was　that　he　fell　into　the　way　of　railing　at　her　intellectual

pursuits　and　saying　he　should　like　to　run　his　sword　through　her　pile

of　papers。　　A　woman　was　clever　enough　when　she　could　guess　her

husband's　wishes；　and　learned　enough　when　she　could　read　him　the

newspapers。　　At　last；　one　day；　Madame　Blumenthal　flung　down　her　pen

and　announced　in　triumph　that　she　had　finished　her　novel。　　Clorinda

had　expired　in　the　arms　ofsome　one　else　than　her　husband。　　The

major；　by　way　of　congratulating　her；　declared　that　her　novel　was

immoral　rubbish；　and　that　her　love　of　vicious　paradoxes　was　only　a

peculiarly　depraved　form　of　coquetry。　　He　added；　however；　that　he

loved　her　in　spite　of　her　follies；　and　that　if　she　would　formally

abjure　them　he　would　as　formally　offer　her　his　hand。　　They　say　that

women　like　to　be　snubbed　by　military　men。　　I　don't　know；　I'm　sure；　I

don't　know　how　much　pleasure；　on　this　occasion；　was　mingled　with

Anastasia's　wrath。　　But　her　wrath　was　very　quiet；　and　the　major

assured　me　it　made　her　look　uncommonly　pretty。　　'I　have　told　you

before；'　she　says；　'that　I　write　from　an　inner　need。　　I　write　to

unburden　my　heart；　to　satisfy　my　conscience。　　You　call　my　poor

efforts　coquetry；　vanity；　the　desire　to　produce　a　sensation。　　I　can

prove　to　you　that　it　is　the　quiet　labour　itself　I　care　for；　and　not

the　world's　more　or　less　flattering　attention　to　it！'　　And　seizing

the　history　of　Clorinda　she　thrust　it　into　the　fire。　　The　major

stands　staring；　and　the　first　thing　he　knows　she　is　sweeping　him　a

great　curtsey　and　bidding　him　farewell　for　ever。　　Left　alone　and

recovering　his　wits；　he　fishes　out　Clorinda　from　the　embers；　and　then

proceeds　to　thump　vigorously　at　the　lady's　door。　　But　it　never

opened；　and　from　that　day　to　the　day　three　months　ago　when　he　told　me

the　tale；　he　had　not　beheld　her　again。〃



〃By　Jove；　it's　a　striking　story；〃　I　said。　　〃But　the　question　is；　what

does　it　prove？〃



〃Several　things。　　First　（what　I　was　careful　not　to　tell　my　friend）；

that　Madame　Blumenthal　cared　for　him　a　trifle　more　than　he　supposed；

second；　that　he　cares　for　her　more　than　ever；　third；　that　the

performance　was　a　master…stroke；　and　that　her　allowing　him　to　force

an　interview　upon　her　again　is　only　a　question　of　time。〃



〃And　last？〃　I　asked。



〃This　is　another　anecdote。　　The　other　day；　Unter　den　Linden；　I　saw　on

a　bookseller's　counter　a　little　pink…covered　romance'Sophronia；'　by

Madame　Blumenthal。　　Glancing　through　it；　I　observed　an　extraordinary

abuse　of　asterisks；　every　two　or　three　pages　the　narrative　was

adorned　with　a　portentous　blank；　crossed　with　a　row　of　stars。〃



〃Well；　but　poor　Clorinda？〃　I　objected；　as　Niedermeyer　paused。



〃Sophronia；　my　dear　fellow；　is　simply　Clorinda　renamed　by　the　baptism

of　fire。　　The　fair　author　came　back；　of　course；　and　found　Clorinda

tumbled　upon　the　floor；　a　good　deal　scorched；　but；　on　the　whole；　more

frightened　than　hurt。　　She　picks　her　up；　brushes　her　off；　and　sends

her　to　the　printer。　　Wherever　the　flames　had　burnt　a　hole　she　swings

a　constellation！　　But　if　the　major　is　prepared　to　drop　a　penitent

tear　over　the　ashes　of　Clorinda；　I　shall　not　whisper　to　him　that　the

urn　is　empty。〃



Even　Adelina　Patti's　singing；　for　the　next　half…hour；　but　half

availed　to　divert　me　from　my　quickened　curiosity　to　behold　Madame

Blumenthal　face　to　face。　　As　soon　as　the　curtain　had　fallen　again　I

repaired　to　her　box　and　was　ushered　in　by　Pickering　with　zealous

hospitality。　　His　glowing　smile　seemed　to　say　to　me；　〃Ay；　look　for

yourself；　and　adore！〃　　Nothing　could　have　been　more　gracious　than　the

lady's　greeting；　and　I　found；　somewhat　to　my　surprise；　that　her

prettiness　lost　nothing　on　a　nearer　view。　　Her　eyes　indeed　were　the

finest　I　have　ever　seenthe　softest；　the　deepest；　the　most　intensely

responsive。　　In　spite　of　something　faded　and　jaded　in　her

physiognomy；　her　movements；　her　smile；　and　the　tone　of　her　voice；

especially　when　she　laughed；　had　an　almost　girlish　frankness　and