[00:00.000] 作词 : Edith Wharton
[00:00.000]Newland and his wife had had no idea of obeying this injunction;
[00:04.665]but Mrs. Carfry, with her usual acuteness,
[00:07.406]had run them down
[00:08.414]and sent them an invitation to dine;
[00:10.403]and it was over this invitation
[00:12.152]that May Archer was wrinkling her brows across the tea and muffins.
[00:16.164]
[00:16.417]“It’s all very well for you, Newland;
[00:18.910]you know them.
[00:19.913]But I shall feel so shy among a lot of people I’ve never met.
[00:23.660]And what shall I wear?”
[00:25.414]
[00:25.667]Newland leaned back in his chair
[00:27.909]and smiled at her.
[00:29.150]She looked handsomer
[00:30.415]and more Diana-like than ever.
[00:32.416]The moist English air
[00:34.164]seemed to have deepened the bloom of her cheeks
[00:36.417]and softened the slight hardness of her virginal features;
[00:39.414]or else it was simply the inner glow of happiness,
[00:42.666]shining through like a light under ice.
[00:45.415]
[00:45.658]“Wear, dearest?
[00:47.165]I thought a trunkful of things had come from Paris last week.”
[00:50.656]
[00:50.917]“Yes, of course.
[00:52.414]I meant to say that I shan’t know which to wear.”
[00:55.158]She pouted a little.
[00:56.415]“I’ve never dined out in London;
[00:58.666]and I don’t want to be ridiculous.”
[01:00.666]
[01:00.906]He tried to enter into her perplexity.
[01:03.660]“But don’t Englishwomen dress just like everybody else in the evening?”
[01:07.412]
[01:07.412]“Newland!
[01:08.909]How can you ask such funny questions?
[01:11.414]When they go to the theatre
[01:12.912]in old ball-dresses and bare heads.”
[01:15.415]
[01:15.676]“Well,
[01:16.665]perhaps they wear new ball-dresses at home;
[01:19.167]but at any rate
[01:19.911]Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle won’t.
[01:21.916]They’ll wear caps like my mother’s—
[01:23.915]and shawls;
[01:25.165]very soft shawls.”
[01:26.904]
[01:27.166]“Yes; but how will the other women be dressed?”
[01:30.157]
[01:30.415]“Not as well as you, dear,”
[01:32.166]he rejoined,
[01:33.164]wondering what had suddenly developed in her Janey’s morbid interest in clothes.
[01:38.167]
[01:38.167]She pushed back her chair with a sigh.
[01:40.415]“That’s dear of you, Newland;
[01:42.665]but it doesn’t help me much.”
[01:43.903]
[01:44.166]He had an inspiration.
[01:45.918]“Why not wear your wedding-dress?
[01:48.166]That can’t be wrong, can it?”
[01:49.666]
[01:49.916]“Oh, dearest!
[01:51.418]If I only had it here!
[01:53.165]But it’s gone to Paris to be made over for next winter,
[01:56.160]and Worth hasn’t sent it back.”
[01:58.166]
[01:58.166]“Oh, well—”
[01:59.416]said Archer, getting up.
[02:00.908]“Look here—the fog’s lifting.
[02:02.920]If we made a dash for the National Gallery
[02:05.167]we might manage to catch a glimpse of the pictures.”
[02:07.418]
[02:07.667]
[02:07.916]The Newland Archers were on their way home,
[02:10.917]after a three months’ wedding-tour
[02:13.163]which May, in writing to her girl friends,
[02:15.667]vaguely summarised as “blissful.”
[02:18.661]
[02:18.661]They had not gone to the Italian Lakes:
[02:21.407]on reflection,
[02:22.413]Archer had not been able to picture his wife in that particular setting.
[02:26.165]Her own inclination
[02:27.662](after a month with the Paris dressmakers)
[02:29.906]was for mountaineering in July
[02:31.660]and swimming in August.
[02:33.165]This plan they punctually fulfilled,
[02:35.664]spending July at Interlaken and Grindelwald,
[02:38.596]and August at a little place called Etretat, on the Normandy coast,
[02:42.844]which some one had recommended as quaint and quiet.
[02:46.096]Once or twice, in the mountains,
[02:48.343]Archer had pointed southward and said:
[02:50.597]“There’s Italy”;
[02:52.095]and May, her feet in a gentian-bed,
[02:55.347]had smiled cheerfully, and replied:
[02:57.098]“It would be lovely to go there next winter,
[02:59.850]if only you didn’t have to be in New York.”
[03:02.097]
[03:02.340]But in reality travelling interested her
[03:05.345]even less than he had expected.
[03:07.087]She regarded it
[03:08.343](once her clothes were ordered)
[03:10.093]as merely an enlarged opportunity for walking, riding, swimming,
[03:14.348]and trying her hand at the fascinating new game of lawn tennis;
[03:17.847]and when they finally got back to London
[03:19.847](where they were to spend a fortnight
[03:21.833]while he ordered his clothes)
[03:23.096]she no longer concealed the eagerness with which she looked forward to sailing.
[03:27.346]
[03:27.597]In London
[03:28.597]nothing interested her but the theatres and the shops;
[03:31.346]and she found
[03:32.093]the theatres less exciting than the Paris cafés chantants
[03:35.283]where, under the blossoming horse-chestnuts of the Champs Élysées,
[03:38.784]she had had the novel experience
[03:40.280]of looking down from the restaurant terrace on an audience of “cocottes,”
[03:44.531]and having her husband interpret to her as much
[03:47.032]of the songs as he thought suitable for bridal ears.
[03:50.522]
[03:50.780]Archer had reverted to all his old inherited ideas about marriage.
[03:55.020]It was less trouble to conform with the tradition
[03:57.782]and treat May exactly as all his friends treated their wives
[04:01.279]than to try to put into practice the theories with which his untrammelled bachelorhood had dallied.
[04:06.282]There was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free;
[04:12.275]and he had long since discovered
[04:14.283]that May’s only use of the liberty she supposed herself to possess
[04:17.282]would be to lay it on the altar of her wifely adoration.
[04:20.528]Her innate dignity
[04:22.031]would always keep her from making the gift abjectly;
[04:24.529]and a day might even come
[04:26.532](as it once had)
[04:28.031]when she would find strength to take it altogether back
[04:30.521]if she thought she were doing it for his own good.
[04:33.031]But with a conception of marriage
[04:35.254]so uncomplicated and incurious as hers
[04:37.757]such a crisis could be brought about only
[04:39.996]by something visibly outrageous in his own conduct;
[04:42.751]and the fineness of her feeling for him
[04:45.256]made that unthinkable.
[04:46.751]Whatever happened, he knew,
[04:48.755]she would always be loyal, gallant and unresentful;
[04:52.249]and that pledged him to the practice of the same virtues.
[04:56.000]
[04:56.250]All this tended to draw him back into his old habits of mind.
[05:00.255]If her simplicity had been the simplicity of pettiness
[05:03.503]he would have chafed and rebelled;
[05:05.499]but since the lines of her character, though so few,
[05:08.506]were on the same fine mould as her face,
[05:11.007]she became the tutelary divinity of all his old traditions and reverences.
[05:16.006]
[05:16.253]Such qualities were scarcely of the kind to enliven foreign travel,
[05:20.005]though they made her so easy and pleasant a companion;
[05:23.248]but he saw at once how they would fall into place in their proper setting.
[05:27.009]He had no fear of being oppressed by them,
[05:29.507]for his artistic and intellectual life would go on, as it always had,
[05:33.254]outside the domestic circle;
[05:35.254]and within it there would be nothing small and stifling—
[05:38.756]coming back to his wife would never be like
[05:40.997]entering a stuffy room after a tramp in the open.
[05:44.006]And when they had children
[05:45.498]the vacant corners in both their lives would be filled.
[05:49.005]
[05:49.256]All these things went through his mind
[05:51.996]during their long slow drive from Mayfair to South Kensington, where Mrs. Carfry and her sister lived.
[05:58.292]Archer too would have preferred to escape their friends’ hospitality:
[06:01.789]in conformity with the family tradition
[06:04.028]he had always travelled as a sight-seer and looker-on,
[06:06.786]affecting a haughty unconsciousness of the presence of his fellow-beings.
[06:10.540]Once only,
[06:12.041]just after Harvard,
[06:13.529]he had spent a few gay weeks at Florence with a band of queer Europeanised Americans,
[06:18.291]dancing all night with titled ladies in palaces,
[06:21.539]and gambling half the day with the rakes and dandies of the fashionable club;
[06:25.780]but it had all seemed to him,
[06:27.791]though the greatest fun in the world,
[06:29.797]as unreal as a carnival.

作词 : Edith Wharton
Newland and his wife had had no idea of obeying this injunction;
but Mrs. Carfry, with her usual acuteness,
had run them down
and sent them an invitation to dine;
and it was over this invitation
that May Archer was wrinkling her brows across the tea and muffins.
“It’s all very well for you, Newland;
you know them.
But I shall feel so shy among a lot of people I’ve never met.
And what shall I wear?”
Newland leaned back in his chair
and smiled at her.
She looked handsomer
and more Diana-like than ever.
The moist English air
seemed to have deepened the bloom of her cheeks
and softened the slight hardness of her virginal features;
or else it was simply the inner glow of happiness,
shining through like a light under ice.
“Wear, dearest?
I thought a trunkful of things had come from Paris last week.”
“Yes, of course.
I meant to say that I shan’t know which to wear.”
She pouted a little.
“I’ve never dined out in London;
and I don’t want to be ridiculous.”
He tried to enter into her perplexity.
“But don’t Englishwomen dress just like everybody else in the evening?”
“Newland!
How can you ask such funny questions?
When they go to the theatre
in old ball-dresses and bare heads.”
“Well,
perhaps they wear new ball-dresses at home;
but at any rate
Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle won’t.
They’ll wear caps like my mother’s—
and shawls;
very soft shawls.”
“Yes; but how will the other women be dressed?”
“Not as well as you, dear,”
he rejoined,
wondering what had suddenly developed in her Janey’s morbid interest in clothes.
She pushed back her chair with a sigh.
“That’s dear of you, Newland;
but it doesn’t help me much.”
He had an inspiration.
“Why not wear your wedding-dress?
That can’t be wrong, can it?”
“Oh, dearest!
If I only had it here!
But it’s gone to Paris to be made over for next winter,
and Worth hasn’t sent it back.”
“Oh, well—”
said Archer, getting up.
“Look here—the fog’s lifting.
If we made a dash for the National Gallery
we might manage to catch a glimpse of the pictures.”

The Newland Archers were on their way home,
after a three months’ wedding-tour
which May, in writing to her girl friends,
vaguely summarised as “blissful.”
They had not gone to the Italian Lakes:
on reflection,
Archer had not been able to picture his wife in that particular setting.
Her own inclination
(after a month with the Paris dressmakers)
was for mountaineering in July
and swimming in August.
This plan they punctually fulfilled,
spending July at Interlaken and Grindelwald,
and August at a little place called Etretat, on the Normandy coast,
which some one had recommended as quaint and quiet.
Once or twice, in the mountains,
Archer had pointed southward and said:
“There’s Italy”;
and May, her feet in a gentian-bed,
had smiled cheerfully, and replied:
“It would be lovely to go there next winter,
if only you didn’t have to be in New York.”
But in reality travelling interested her
even less than he had expected.
She regarded it
(once her clothes were ordered)
as merely an enlarged opportunity for walking, riding, swimming,
and trying her hand at the fascinating new game of lawn tennis;
and when they finally got back to London
(where they were to spend a fortnight
while he ordered his clothes)
she no longer concealed the eagerness with which she looked forward to sailing.
In London
nothing interested her but the theatres and the shops;
and she found
the theatres less exciting than the Paris cafés chantants
where, under the blossoming horse-chestnuts of the Champs Élysées,
she had had the novel experience
of looking down from the restaurant terrace on an audience of “cocottes,”
and having her husband interpret to her as much
of the songs as he thought suitable for bridal ears.
Archer had reverted to all his old inherited ideas about marriage.
It was less trouble to conform with the tradition
and treat May exactly as all his friends treated their wives
than to try to put into practice the theories with which his untrammelled bachelorhood had dallied.
There was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free;
and he had long since discovered
that May’s only use of the liberty she supposed herself to possess
would be to lay it on the altar of her wifely adoration.
Her innate dignity
would always keep her from making the gift abjectly;
and a day might even come
(as it once had)
when she would find strength to take it altogether back
if she thought she were doing it for his own good.
But with a conception of marriage
so uncomplicated and incurious as hers
such a crisis could be brought about only
by something visibly outrageous in his own conduct;
and the fineness of her feeling for him
made that unthinkable.
Whatever happened, he knew,
she would always be loyal, gallant and unresentful;
and that pledged him to the practice of the same virtues.
All this tended to draw him back into his old habits of mind.
If her simplicity had been the simplicity of pettiness
he would have chafed and rebelled;
but since the lines of her character, though so few,
were on the same fine mould as her face,
she became the tutelary divinity of all his old traditions and reverences.
Such qualities were scarcely of the kind to enliven foreign travel,
though they made her so easy and pleasant a companion;
but he saw at once how they would fall into place in their proper setting.
He had no fear of being oppressed by them,
for his artistic and intellectual life would go on, as it always had,
outside the domestic circle;
and within it there would be nothing small and stifling—
coming back to his wife would never be like
entering a stuffy room after a tramp in the open.
And when they had children
the vacant corners in both their lives would be filled.
All these things went through his mind
during their long slow drive from Mayfair to South Kensington, where Mrs. Carfry and her sister lived.
Archer too would have preferred to escape their friends’ hospitality:
in conformity with the family tradition
he had always travelled as a sight-seer and looker-on,
affecting a haughty unconsciousness of the presence of his fellow-beings.
Once only,
just after Harvard,
he had spent a few gay weeks at Florence with a band of queer Europeanised Americans,
dancing all night with titled ladies in palaces,
and gambling half the day with the rakes and dandies of the fashionable club;
but it had all seemed to him,
though the greatest fun in the world,
as unreal as a carnival.