bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第44章
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and glances up； and glances down； and don’t know where to look；
but looks all the prettier。
“How old are you？”
“Nineteen； my Lady。”
“Nineteen；” repeats my Lady； thoughtfully。 “Take care they
don’t spoil you by flattery。”
“Yes； my Lady。”
My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved
fingers； and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase； where Sir
Leicester pauses for her as her knightly escort。 A staring old
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Dedlock in a panel； as large as life and as dull； looks as if he didn’t
know what to make of it—which was probably his general state of
mind in the days of Queen Elizabeth。
That evening； in the housekeeper’s room； Rosa can do nothing
but murmur Lady Dedlock’s praises。 She is so affable； so graceful；
so beautiful； so elegant； has such a sweet voice； and such a
thrilling touch； that Rosa can feel it yet！ Mr Rouncewell confirms
all this； not without personal pride； reserving only the one point of
affability。 Mrs Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that。 Heaven
forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of
that excellent family； above all； of my Lady； whom the whole world
admires； but if my Lady would only be “a little more free；” not
quite so cold and distant； Mrs Rouncewell thinks she would be
more affable。
“’Tis almost a pity；” Mrs Rouncewell adds—only “almost；”
because its borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be
better than it is； in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock
affairs； “that my Lady has no family。 If she had had a daughter
now； a grown young lady； to interest her； I think she would have
had the only kind of excellence she wants。”
“Might not that have made her still more proud；
grandmother？” says Watt； who has been home and come back
again； he is such a good grandson。
“More and most； my dear；” returns the housekeeper with
dignity； “are words it’s not my place to use—nor so much as to
hear—applied to any drawback on my Lady。”
“I beg your pardon； grandmother。 But she is proud； is she not？”
“If she is； she has reason to be。 The Dedlock family have always
reason to be。”
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“Well！” says Watt； “it’s to be hoped they line out of their Prayer…
Books a certain passage for the common people about pride and
vainglory。 Forgive me； grandmother！ Only a joke！”
“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock； my dear； are not fit subjects
for joking。”
“Sir Leicester is no joke by any means；” says Watt； “and I
humbly ask his pardon。 I suppose； grandmother； that； even with
the family and their guests down here； there is no objection to my
prolonging my stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two； as any
other traveller might？”
“Surely； none in the world； child。”
“I am glad of that；” says Watt； “because I—because I have an
inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful
neighbourhood。”
He happens to glance at Rosa； who looks down； and is very shy；
indeed。 But； according to the old superstition； it should be Rosa’s
ears that burn； and not her fresh bright cheeks； for my Lady’s
maid is holding forth about her at this moment； with surpassing
energy。
My Lady’s maid is a Frenchwoman of two…and…thirty； from
somewhere in the Southern country about Avignon and
Marseilles—a large…eyed brown woman with black hair； who
would be handsome； but for a certain feline mouth and general
uncomfortable tightness of face； rendering the jaws too eager； and
the skull too prominent。 There is something indefinably keen and
wan about her anatomy； and she has a watchful way of looking out
of the corners of her eyes without turning her head； which could
be pleasantly dispensed with—especially when she is in an ill…
humour and near knives。 Through all the good taste of her dress
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and little adornments； these objections so express themselves； that
she seems to go about like a very neat She…Wolf imperfectly
tamed。 Besides being accomplished in all the knowledge
appertaining to her post； she is almost an Englishwoman in her
acquaintance with the language—consequently； she is in no want
of words to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady’s
attention； and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she
sits at dinner； that her companion； the affectionate man； is rather
relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance。
Ha； ha； ha！ She； Hortense； been in my Lady’s service since five
years； and always kept at the distance； and this doll； this puppet；
caressed—absolutely caressed—by my Lady on the moment of her
arriving at the house！ Ha； ha； ha！ “And do you know how pretty
you are； child？”—“No； my Lady。”—You are right there！ “And how
old are you； child！ And take care they do not spoil you by flattery；
child！” O how droll！ It is the best thing altogether。
In short； it is such an admirable thing； that Mademoiselle
Hortense can’t forget it； but at meals for days afterwards； even
among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to
the troop of visitors； relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke—an
enjoyment expressed； in her own convivial manner； by an
additional tightness of face； thin elongation of compressed lips；
and sidewise look： which intense appreciation of humour is
frequently reflected in my Lady’s mirrors； when my Lady is not
among them。
All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now： many
of them after a long blank。 They reflect handsome faces； simpering
faces； youthful faces； faces of threescore…and…ten that will not
submit to be old； the entire collection of faces that have come to
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pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold； and which the
fashionable intelligence； a mighty hunter before the Lord； hunts
with a keen scent； from their breaking cover at the Court of Saint
James’s to their being run down to Death。 The place in
Lincolnshire is all alive。 By day； guns and voices are heard ringing
in the woods； horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads；
servants and hangers…on pervade the Village and the Dedlock
Arms。 Seen by night； from distant openings in the trees； the row of
windows in the long drawing…room； where my Lady’s picture
hangs over the great chimney…piece； is like a row of jewels set in a
black frame。 On Sunday； the chill little church is almost warmed
by so much gallant company； and the general flavour of the
Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes。
The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it； no
contracted amount of education； sense； courage； honour； beauty；
and virtue。 Yet there is something a little wrong about it； in
despite of its immense advantages。 What can it be？
Dandyism？ There is no King George the Fourth now （more’s
the pity！） to set the dandy fashion； there are no clear…starched
jack…towel neckcloths； no short…waisted coats； no false calves； no
stays。 There are no caricatures； now； of effeminate Exquisites so
arrayed； swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight； and being
revived by other dainty creatures； poking long…necked scent…
bottles at their noses。 There is no beau whom it takes four men at
once to shake into his buckskins； or who goes to see all the
executions； or who is troubled with the self…reproach of having
once consumed a pea。 But is there Dandyism in the brilliant and
distinguished circle notwithstanding； Dandyism of a more
mischievous sort； that has got below the surface and is doing less
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harmless things than jack…towelling itself and stopping its own
digestion； to which no rational person need particularly object？
Why； yes。 It cannot be disguised。 There are； at Chesney Wold
this January week； some ladies and gentlemen of the newest
fashion； who have set up a Dandyism—in Religion； for instance。
Who； in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion； have agreed upon
a little dandy talk about the Vulgar wanting faith in things in
general； meaning； in the things that have been tried and found
wanting； as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in
a bad shilling； after finding it out！ Who would make the Vulgar
very picturesque and faithful； by putting back the hands upon the
Clock of Time； and cancelling a few hundred years of history。
There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion； not so
new； but very elegant； who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on
the world； and to keep down all its realities。 For whom everything
