Confidence. Генри Джеймс
Bernard asked.
Gordon Wright stared a moment.
“I ‘m sure I don’t know!”
“Of course you can’t be interested in that,” said Bernard smiling. “Who is Captain Lovelock?”
“He is an Englishman. I believe he is what ‘s called aristocratically connected—the younger brother of a lord, or something of that sort.”
“Is he a clever man?”
“I have n’t talked with him much, but I doubt it. He is rather rakish; he plays a great deal.”
“But is that considered here a proof of rakishness?” asked Bernard. “Have n’t you played a little yourself?”
Gordon hesitated a moment.
“Yes, I have played a little. I wanted to try some experiments. I had made some arithmetical calculations of probabilities, which I wished to test.”
Bernard gave a long laugh.
“I am delighted with the reasons you give for amusing yourself! Arithmetical calculations!”
“I assure you they are the real reasons!” said Gordon, blushing a little.
“That ‘s just the beauty of it. You were not afraid of being ‘drawn in,’ as little Miss Evers says?”
“I am never drawn in, whatever the thing may be. I go in, or I stay out; but I am not drawn,” said Gordon Wright.
“You were not drawn into coming with Mrs. Vivian and her daughter from Dresden to this place?”
“I did n’t come with them; I came a week later.”
“My dear fellow,” said Bernard, “that distinction is unworthy of your habitual candor.”
“Well, I was not fascinated; I was not overmastered. I wanted to come to Baden.”
“I have no doubt you did. Had you become very intimate with your friends in Dresden?”
“I had only seen them three times.”
“After which you followed them to this place? Ah, don’t say you were not fascinated!” cried Bernard, laughing and springing to his feet.
CHAPTER VI
That evening, in the gardens of the Kursaal, he renewed acquaintance with Angela Vivian. Her mother came, as usual, to sit and listen to the music, accompanied by Blanche Evers, who was in turn attended by Captain Lovelock. This little party found privacy in the crowd; they seated themselves in a quiet corner in an angle of one of the barriers of the terrace, while the movement of the brilliant Baden world went on around them. Gordon Wright engaged in conversation with Mrs. Vivian, while Bernard enjoyed an interview with her daughter. This young lady continued to ignore the fact of their previous meeting, and our hero said to himself that all he wished was to know what she preferred—he would rigidly conform to it. He conformed to her present programme; he had ventured to pronounce the word Siena the evening before, but he was careful not to pronounce it again. She had her reasons for her own reserve; he wondered what they were, and it gave him a certain pleasure to wonder. He enjoyed the consciousness of their having a secret together, and it became a kind of entertaining suspense to see how long she would continue to keep it. For himself, he was in no hurry to let the daylight in; the little incident at Siena had been, in itself, a charming affair; but Miss Vivian’s present attitude gave it a sort of mystic consecration. He thought she carried it off very well—the theory that she had not seen him before; last evening she had been slightly confused, but now she was as self-possessed as if the line she had taken were a matter of conscience. Why should it be a matter of conscience? Was she in love with Gordon Wright, and did she wish, in consequence, to forget—and wish him not to suspect—that she had ever received an expression of admiration from another man? This was not likely; it was not likely, at least, that Miss Vivian wished to pass for a prodigy of innocence; for if to be admired is to pay a tribute to corruption, it was perfectly obvious that so handsome a girl must have tasted of the tree of knowledge. As for her being in love with Gordon Wright, that of course was another affair, and Bernard did not pretend, as yet, to have an opinion on this point, beyond hoping very much that she might be.
He was not wrong in the impression of her good looks that he had carried away from the short interview at Siena. She had a charmingly chiselled face, with a free, pure outline, a clear, fair complexion, and the eyes and hair of a dusky beauty. Her features had a firmness which suggested tranquillity, and yet her expression was light and quick, a combination—or a contradiction—which gave an original stamp to her beauty. Bernard remembered that he had thought it a trifle “bold”; but he now perceived that this had been but a vulgar misreading of her dark, direct, observant eye. The eye was a charming one; Bernard discovered in it, little by little, all sorts of things; and Miss Vivian was, for the present, simply a handsome, intelligent, smiling girl. He gave her an opportunity to make an allusion to Siena; he said to her that his friend told him that she and her mother had been spending the winter in Italy.
“Oh yes,” said Angela Vivian; “we were in the far south; we were five months at Sorrento.”
“And nowhere else?”
“We spent a few days in Rome. We usually prefer the quiet places; that is my mother’s taste.”
“It was not your mother’s taste, then,” said Bernard, “that brought you to Baden?”
She looked at him a moment.
“You mean that Baden is not quiet?”
Longueville glanced about at the moving, murmuring crowd, at the lighted windows of the Conversation-house, at the great orchestra perched up in its pagoda.
“This is not my idea of absolute tranquillity.”
“Nor mine, either,” said Miss Vivian. “I am not fond of absolute tranquillity.”
“How do you arrange it, then, with your mother?”
Again she looked at him a moment, with her clever, slightly mocking smile.
“As you see. By making her come where I wish.”
“You have a strong will,” said Bernard. “I see that.”
“No. I have simply a weak mother. But I make sacrifices too, sometimes.”
“What do you call sacrifices?”
“Well, spending the winter at Sorrento.”
Bernard began to laugh, and then he told her she must have had a very happy life—“to call a winter at Sorrento a sacrifice.”
“It depends upon what one gives up,” said Miss Vivian.
“What did you give up?”
She touched him with her mocking smile again.
“That is not a very civil question, asked in that way.”
“You mean that I seem to doubt your abnegation?”
“You seem to insinuate that I had nothing to renounce. I gave up—I gave up—” and she looked about her, considering a little—“I gave up society.”
“I am glad you remember what it was,” said Bernard. “If I have seemed uncivil, let me make it up. When a woman speaks of giving up society, what she means is giving up admiration. You can never have given up that—you can never have escaped from it. You must have found it even at Sorrento.”
“It may have been there, but I never found it. It was very respectful—it never expressed itself.”
“That