The French Lieutenant's Woman / Любовница французского лейтенанта. Джон Фаулз

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sees her. Dahn out there.” He jerked his thumb at the window. “Right across the street she calls.”

      “And what did she call?”

      Sam's expression deepened to outrage. “'Ave yer got a bag o' soot?'” He paused. “Sir.”

      Charles grinned.

      “I know the girl. That one in the gray dress? Who is so ugly to look at?” This was unkind of Charles, since he was speaking of the girl he had raised his hat to on the previous afternoon.

      “Not exackly hugly. Leastways in looks.”

      “A-ha. So. Cupid is being unfair to Cockneys.”

      Sam gave an indignant look. “I woulden touch 'er with a bargepole[51]! Bloomin[52]' milkmaid.”

      “I trust you're using the adjective in its literal sense[53], Sam.” “It's the 'oomiliation, Mr. Charles. Hall the hosslers 'eard.” As “all the ostlers” included exactly two persons, one of whom was stone deaf, Charles showed little sympathy. He smiled, then gestured to Sam to pour him his hot water.

      “Now get me my breakfast, there's a good fellow. I'll shave myself this morning. And let me have a double dose of muffins.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      But Charles stopped Sam at the door.

      “These country girls are much too timid to call such rude things at distinguished London gentlemen – unless they've first been provoked. I suspect, Sam, that you've been fast.” Sam stood with his mouth open. “And if you're not doubly fast with my breakfast I shall fasten my boot onto the posterior portion of your miserable anatomy[54].”

      The door was shut then, and none too gently. Charles winked at himself in the mirror. Then he smiled at his own face contemplating his features. He had indeed very regular ones – a wide forehead, a moustache as black as his hair. His skin was rather pale, though less so than that of many London gentlemen – for this was a time when a suntan was not at all a desirable social-sexual status symbol, but the reverse: an indication of low rank. Yes, upon examination, it was a rather foolish face, at such a moment. Too innocent a face, when it was stripped of its formal outdoor mask. There was really only the Doric nose[55], the cool gray eyes. Breeding and self-knowledge, he most certainly had[56].

      He began to cover his face in lather.

      8

      Ernestina had woken in a mood that the brilliant day only worsened. The ill was familiar; but it was out of the question that she should inform Charles about her problem. And so, when he called dutifully at ten o'clock at Aunt Tranter's house, he was greeted only by that lady: Ernestina had passed a slightly disturbed night, and wished to rest. Might he not return that afternoon to take tea, when no doubt she would recover?

      Charles's polite questions – should the doctor not be called? – were politely answered in the negative, and he took his leave[57]. He told Sam to buy flowers and take them to the charming invalid's house, and accompanied his request with the permission and advice to present a blossom or two of his own to his young lady. Now Charles faced his own free hours.

      Lyme is situated in the center of one of the rare outcrops of a stone known as blue lias[58]. To the mere landscape enthusiast this stone is not attractive. Moreover, it is treacherous, since this little stretch of blue lias coast has lost more land to the sea in the course of history than almost any other in England. But it's a Mecca for the British paleontologist.

      Charles had already visited what was perhaps the most famous shop in the Lyme of those days – the Old Fossil Shop. There he paid his cash for various species he kept in the cabinets that walled his study in London.

      This was petrified sea urchin[59]. These beautiful little objects are of great scientific value; and they have the added charm that they are always difficult to find. You may search for days and not come on one; and a morning in which you find two or three is indeed a morning to remember.

      Some half-hour after he had called on Aunt Tranter, Charles was once again at the Cobb[60].

      The great mole was far from isolated that day. There were fishermen, better-class people, early visitors, local residents, walking beside the now mild sea. Of the woman who stared, Charles noted, there was no sign. But he did not give her a second thought[61] and set out for his destination.

      He was carefully equipped for his role. He wore nailed boots and canvas gaiters. There was a tight and absurdly long coat to match; a canvas wideawake hat[62]; and a huge rucksack, from which you might have shaken out hammers, wrappings, notebooks, pillboxes[63], and heaven knows what else.

      As Charles hammered and bent and examined his way along the shore, trying to jump over a wide gap between boulders, he slipped on his back. He didn't mind slipping, for the day was beautiful, the liassic fossils were plentiful and he soon found himself completely alone.

      The sea sparkled, birds cried, and an idea drifted across the poor fellow's brain – would it not be more fun, perhaps to give up London, to live in Lyme… but Ernestina would never allow that.

      Finally he came across a very fine fragment of lias with ammonite impressions, exquisitely clear. Having duly filled a label with the date and place of finding, he once again switched to another theme – this time, to love. He determined to give it to Ernestina when he returned. It was pretty enough for her to like; and after all, very soon it would come back to him, with her. Even better, the increased weight on his back made it a labor, as well as a gift.

      And Charles wandered more slowly than he meant. He unbuttoned his coat and took out his silver half-hunter[64]. Two o'clock! He looked sharply back then, and saw the waves lapping the foot of a point a mile away. He was in no danger of being cut off, since he could see a steep but safe path just ahead of him which led up the cliff to the dense woods above. But he could not return along the shore. His destination had indeed been this path, but he took it much too fast, and had to sit a minute to recover. He heard a little stream nearby and quenched his thirst[65]; wetted his handkerchief and patted his face; and then he began to look around him.

      9

      Sarah was intelligent, but her real intelligence belonged to a rare kind; one that would certainly pass unnoticed in any of our modern tests. It was not in the least analytical or problem-solving, nor did it demonstrate itself in the form of any particular vivacity or wit, even in her happier days. It was rather an unusual – unusual in one who had never been to London, never mixed in the world – ability to classify other people's worth: to understand them, in the fullest sense of that word.

      She had some sort of psychological equivalent of the experienced horse dealer's skill – the ability to know almost at the first glance the good horse from the bad one. She could see people as they were and not as they tried to seem.

      She got her education in a third-rate young ladies' seminary in Exeter, where she had learned during the day and paid for her learning during the evening – and sometimes well into the night – by darning and other small tasks. She did not get on well with the other pupils. They looked down on her; and she looked up through them. Thus it had come about that she had read far more fiction, and far more poetry. They served her as a substitute for experience. Without realizing it she judged people as much by the standards of Walter Scott[66] and Jane Austen[67]. She was a

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