公爵夫人与珠宝商
弗吉尼亚·沃尔夫
导读
弗吉尼亚．沃尔夫(1882—1941)是英国女作家。出生于书香门第，父亲是著名的学者和不可知沦哲学家，也是传记作家和出版家。弗吉尼亚自幼体弱多病，常呆在家里阅读父亲的藏书，接受父亲的教育。她与报界人士雷奥那德·沃尔夫志趣相投，于1902年结婚。1904年父亲去世后，她迁居伦敦，她的住所成为布鲁姆斯伯里文学团体的活动场所。在这个团体中，有对她文学创作影响很大的小说家爱·摩·福斯特和著名后期印象派画家、美术理论家罗杰·弗赖伊。
弗吉尼亚是现代小说的先驱之一。她努力试验新的创作方法，着重揭示人物的内心活动，鄙弃对客观活动的琐碎描写。她企图改革传统的时间观念，漠视钟表时间，注重心理时间。她的第一部实验产物是《雅各布的房间》(Jacob’s Room， 1922)。在这部作品中，她第一次使用意识流手法，使时间、场景频繁更迭。在短暂的钟表时间内再现了主人公的成长活动。她的《黛洛维夫人》(Mrs．Dalloway，1925)则表明她已彻底摆脱传统创作的轨迹。《到灯塔去》(To the Lighthouse，1927)通常被认为是沃尔夫夫人最出色的作品。小说以作者幼年生活为基础，具有自传成分。在这部作品中，沃尔夫夫人发展了自己的写作技巧，运用象征手法来表现人物的深层意识。沃尔夫夫人的其他作品有历史幻想小说《奥尔兰多》(Orlando， 1928)，《浪》(TheWaves，1931)，《岁月》(The Years，1937)，《幕间》(Between the Acts，1941)等。《浪》是一部典型的意识流小说。小说由于使用大量内心独白，十分晦涩难读。沃尔夫夫人还是一位著名的小说评论家，她对现代小说的开拓与探索作出了很大努力。
《公爵夫人与珠宝商》是沃尔夫夫人的短篇佳作之一。小说的主人公是一位被财富和地位吸引的伦敦大珠宝商。他非常富有，事业有成，然而总是无法摆脱对童年贫穷生活的回忆，因此愈发渴望得到尊贵的地位，于是与公爵夫人进行了一桩桩交易。虽然这篇小说篇幅不长，但读者仍然能够一窥沃尔夫夫人的意识流手法。故事发生在某天上午的一小段时间内，但通过主人公的内心活动，读者了解到他的童年生活、成长经历乃至今后的打算。让表面的活动压缩在很短的时间内，而让人物内心活动的心理时间无限扩展，这是沃尔夫夫人处理时间的一大特点。
小说开头向读者展现的是处于伦敦闹市区的一间陈设豪华的住所，极力渲染主人公培根——大珠宝商——的富有和奢侈。然而在考究的衣着和华丽的外表之下却是另一番情景的心理活动。培根无法忘记自己在肮脏的小巷中长大，偷人家的狗卖，偷人家的钱包，然后靠三颗钻石起了家，逐渐成为无人不晓的伦敦乃至世界的大珠宝商。他没有在母亲的哀求下过穷孩子循规蹈矩的生活，而是按照自己的方式成功了——用他的话说：“打赌打赢了!”这段回忆后培根先生很满足，毕竟他现在极为富有了。他踌躇满志地来到他的店铺，在他的私人房间里欣赏他的宝藏。这时，公爵夫人来了。仗着自己的财富，他无故让公爵夫人在店堂里候了十分钟。可是讨厌的童年回忆又爬上了心头。为了克服童年生活带来的自卑感，为自己增添气势，培根先生摆出了最昂贵的奢侈品。然而公爵夫人那无可比拟的高贵和气焰一下子压倒了大珠宝商。在随后两人无言的较量中，珠宝商虽力求保住自我，无奈还是被公爵夫人牵着鼻子走，因为她手里攥着地位的诱惑一一培根先生眼前浮现出与首相大人和公爵家的小姐一同泛舟的美好情景。大珠宝商虽然已经很富有，但贫苦的出身总是折磨着他，他只有牺牲金钱以求向权贵们靠拢，最终达到又富又贵的至高境地。因此，这位精明的商人屡次受骗，却无法中断与公爵夫人的交易。
这篇小说除了成功地体现心理活动外，对情节的描写也很有特色，作者把读者的视、听、嗅觉全都调动了起来。小说中有一大段和另外几处突出描写培根先生的鼻子，并把他对名利的索求比作公猪嗅松露根，逼真地刻画出贪婪精明的珠宝商形象。文中两次提到从培根先生又暗又静的私人房间里听到庞德大街的喧嚣，这与富有的商人独自品味自己的成功和财富时的惬意心境正相符。此外，文章中对光的描写就更多了，光是“闪光的”就有十几处之多。所有这些闪动的光彩渲染了财富和地位的诱人耀眼之处。读者在读这篇小说时，会感到不仅是在读书，而且也是在嗅气味、听声音、看光彩，十分生动。
(参考译文)
公爵夫人与珠宝商
奥立弗·培根住在一座俯瞰格林公园的房屋的顶楼。他拥有一套公寓。在公寓里，椅子靠前摆放着，角度得当，上面盖着毛皮；沙发填补了窗前的空档，上面铺着花毯。三面大长窗户上垂着精致的纱窗和华丽的花缎窗帘，颇为适宜。红木餐具柜里精心布置得满满当当，全是高级白兰地、威土忌和烈酒。从中间那扇窗户往下看，可以看到停放在皮卡得利大街上的时髦轿车，车顶闪闪发光。还有什么地方能比他的住所更显赫呢?早上八点，他会叫男仆把早餐用托盘端进来，男仆会为他展开猩红色的晨楼。他用尖尖的长指甲将信件挑开，从中抽出厚厚的白色请柬，请柬上盖着公爵夫人、伯爵夫人、子爵夫人以及宫廷命妇们的印章。然后他洗浴、进餐，在辉煌的电灯光下读报。
“瞧瞧奥立弗，”他时常喊着自己的名字说，“你出生在肮脏小巷，你……”这时，他会低头看看自己的双腿，裤子裁剪合体，做工多么考究；然后再看看皮鞋和鞋罩。他浑身的穿戴都是挺刮刮、亮闪闪的，出自萨维大街的名师之手，用的是最上乘的料子。然而，他常常解除掉自己的装备，把自己还原成那条黑巷子里的小男孩。他曾经以为最大的奢望莫过于把偷来的小狗卖给怀特查布尔的摩登妇女们。一次，他出了事，他的母亲嚎啕大哭：“哦，奥立弗，你什么时候才能懂事呀，儿子?”那以后，他站过柜台，出售廉价手表，偷过钱包，并且带着它去了阿姆斯特丹……每每想起这些经历，他总会得意地窃笑 —一老奥立弗在回忆年轻的奥立弗呢。不错。靠了三颗金刚钻他狠赚了一笔，卖那块祖母绿得的佣金也不少。打那以后，他便搬进了哈顿花园店铺后面的私人房间里，房间里摆着天平、保险柜．还有厚厚的放大镜。然后……然后……他忍不住又笑了。在炎热的夜晚，每当珠宝商们聚在一起讨沦价格、金矿、钻石以及来自南非的消息时，如果他从他们身边走过，其中必定有人用-尹掩住鼻翼悄悄地“嗯”一声。那不过是轻轻地“嗯”一声，不过是碰一下肩膀，或用手指按一下鼻子，或者是炎热的下午聚集在哈顿花园的珠宝商中间发出的一阵叽叽喳喳声。啊！那是许多年前的事了，可是现在他仍然觉得那悄悄的“嗯”声和碰肩膀如同一杯清凉的甘露，沁人心脾，因为它们是在说：“瞧他，年轻的奥立弗，那个年轻的珠宝商，他来啦。”那时他很年轻。他的衣着越来越华贵；先是有辆双轮小马车，接着买了辆轿车，开始去戏院时坐楼座，后来坐在正厅的前排头等座。他在里奇蒙德有座临河的别墅，院中搭着玫瑰花架，那时每天早上法国小姐都摘一朵花别在他的胸前。
“嗯……”奥立弗·培根站起来仲了伸腿：“嗯……”
他站在壁炉上方一位老妇人的画像前，举起双手，“我实现了我的诺言，”他双手合什，仿佛在向她顶礼膜拜：“我打赌打赢了。”事实的确如此，他成了英格兰最富有的珠宝商。然而，他那像象鼻一样富于弹性的长鼻子的鼻孔奇怪地扇动了一下(可看上去似乎整个鼻子都颤动了，不仅仅是鼻孔)，好像在说他仍不满足，因为他在前面不远处的地上又嗅到了什么。想象一头大公猪吧。它在一块藏着丰富的松露根的草地上拱出了无数块松露根，但它嗅到前方不远处的地下还藏着更大更熟的松露根。就这样，奥立弗总能在“五月市”富饶的：土地上嗅到前方更大更熟的松露根。
他扶正领带上的珍珠，套上那件潇洒的蓝大衣，拿过黄手套和手杖，大摇大摆地下了楼，一路上用他又长又尖的鼻子嗅着、哼着来到皮卡得利大街。他虽然打睹打赢了，可仍然不快活，不满足，所以不断索求那些尚未挖掘出的宝藏。
他一摇一摆地走着，那样子与动物园的骆驼摇摆着走在沥青路上的神情很相似。沥青路上挤满了杂货商和他们的老婆，他们从纸袋里掏东西出来吃，把锡泊纸片揉成团扔到路上。骆驼瞧不起这些杂货商，也不满意自己的命运，它憧憬着前方湛蓝的湖水和棕榈树林。因此，这位大珠宝商，这位世界上最大的珠宝商，一晃一晃地走在皮卡得利大街上，虽然衣着考究，戴着手套，拄着手杖，心里却依然不满足。他就这样来到他那又小又暗，但闻名于法、德、奥、意、美，离庞德大街不远的店铺。
像往常一样，他大步穿过店堂，不发一言，四个店员，两老——马歇尔、斯宾塞，和两少——哈蒙德、威克斯，都站得笔直地注视着他，心里羡慕得不得了。他只将戴着黄褐色手套的一根指头摇了摇，表示知道他们的存在，然后就走进他的私人房间，关上门。
他打开窗上的防盗格，立刻传来了庞德大街的喧闹和远处车辆的鸣笛。日光从店铺后面的反光镜里反射上来。窗外有棵树，已经是六月了，所以树上挂满了绿叶。然而法国小姐却嫁了当地啤酒厂的培得先生，再也没人往他胸前别玫瑰花了。
“所以，”他似乎在叹息，又似乎在哼哼，“所以……”
他按动墙上的一个按钮，镶板徐徐打开，里面全是钢制的保险柜，有五个，不，是六个，它们全都是用锃亮的钢做的。他转动钥匙，打开了一个，然后把其余的也打开。每个柜子里都衬着深红色天鹅绒垫，每个都盛着珠宝——手镯、项链、戒指、头冠、公爵冠冕；玻璃夹子中还有零散的宝石，红宝石、祖母绿、珍珠、金刚钻。件件珠宝都保管得安全妥当，件件都在熠熠发光，虽然摸着冰凉，但却燃烧着浓缩了的、永不熄灭的火焰。
“眼泪!”奥立弗看着珍珠说。
“心脏里流出的血!”他看着红宝石说。
“火药!”他接着说，并且把钻石拨弄得哗哗作响，好让它们光芒四射。
“这些火药能把‘五月市’炸上天!炸上天!炸上天!”他仰起头，发出像马一样的嘶鸣。
桌上的电话也似乎在讨好，低声下气地嗡嗡响起来。他关上保险柜。
“十分钟后，”他说，“这之前来不行。”他在写字台前坐下，双眼注视着袖子链扣上刻着的罗马皇帝的头像。他又一次卸下装备，把自己还原为巷子里玩石子的小男孩，星期天人们在那条巷子里出售偷来的狗。他又变成了那个嘴唇如湿漉漉的樱桃般红润的狡猾的机灵鬼了。他把手伸进牛肚盆里，拈起几块，在煎鱼的锅里醮。他在人群中窜来窜去。他身材纤细，行动敏捷，一双眼睛炯炯有神。而如今——如今——指针“嘀嗒嘀嗒”地走着，一、二、三、四……。兰伯思公爵夫人在候见。兰伯恩公爵夫人——她的父亲比一百个伯爵还要尊贵，她会在柜台边的椅子上等十分钟，在那儿候见。她要等到他愿意见她的时候。他看了看珠皮罩里的时钟，指针还在不停地走着，每走一下就有一件奢侈晶出现，一杯香槟，一杯上好的白兰地，一支价值一基尼的雪茄。这些东西随着时钟的嘀嗒声一一出现在桌上，十分钟后全摆在他身边。这时他听到由远而近的轻缓的脚步声，过道里一阵窸窸窣窣，门开了，哈蒙德笔直地靠墙而立。
“公爵夫人驾到！”宣告完毕，他便将身子笔直地贴在墙上候着。
奥立弗听见公爵夫人裙子的惠宰声，站起身，她正从过道那头走来，然后在门口耸现，带来一阵香气，带来她的显赫、气焰、浮华，以及所有公爵和公爵夫人加在一起的高傲，所有这些汇成一股巨浪，冲进房间。她坐了下来，这股巨浪随即扩展开来，溅起层层浪花，淹没了奥立弗·培根，这位大珠宝商。绿色、玫瑰红、紫色……各种眩目的色彩，各种袭人的芬芳，各种令人眼花撩乱的闪光物将他罩住。她手上的戒指光芒闪烁，头上的羽毛频频颤动，身上的绸缎闪闪发光。她是个庞然大物。紧紧地裹在塔夫绸里，青春已逝。她深深地陷在皮沙发里，像一把收起了荷叶边的阳伞，又像一只敛起了羽毛的孔雀。
“早上好，培根先生。”公爵夫人说着，从白手套里抽出手来，奥立弗俯身将它握住。两人的手一接触，他们之间的关系就又建立起来。他们是朋友．同时也是敌人；他是主人，她是情妇，他们互相欺骗，相互需要，相互惧怕，这一点两人都清楚，每次在这间又小又暗的房间里握手时两人都能意识到这点。这种时候外面总是日光灿烂，绿树成荫，远处车水马龙，他俩总是在保险柜之前。
“今天，公爵夫人——今天我能为您做些什么呢?”奥兰弗轻声问。
公爵夫人道出了她的苦衷，她很少向人透露的苦衷。她嘴张得大大地，叹了口气，一言不发地从包里掏出一个狭长的小羊皮皮包，它看上去像一只黄色的瘦雪貂。从雪貂的肚皮里掉出了珍珠，十粒珍珠，一粒、两粒、三粒、四粒——它们从雪貂肚皮里滚出来，像某种仙鸟的卵。
“我只有这些了，亲爱的培根先生，”她痛苦地说。五粒、六粒、七粒，珍珠一粒粒顺着她的双膝间滚落下来，像是从半山坡滚进狭谷里．八粒、九粒、十粒，最后滚到耀跟的桃红色塔夫绸里，共十粒。
“这是阿卜勒拜腰带上的，”她嘟哝道，“就这几粒了。”
奥立弗伸出手，用食指和拇指拈起其中一粒珠子，的确是珠圆玉润。可它是真的，还是假的?她是否又在撒谎呢?她敢吗?
她把肉鼓鼓的手指按在嘴唇上，轻声说：“如果公爵知道了……，亲爱的培根先生，这次我有点不走运……”
她又去赌钱了?
“是那个恶棍!那个骗子!”她嘶叫道。
那个颧骨尖如刀片的家伙吧，他可是个十足的坏蛋。要是那位腰板挺直，留着络腮胡子的公爵知道了我所知道的一切，一定会剥夺她的继承权，并把她禁锢起来，奥立弗这样想着，眼睛瞟了瞟保险柜。
“艾拉明达、达芙妮、黛安娜”，她哼道，“是为他们。”
艾拉明达小姐、达夫妮小姐、黛安娜小姐是她的女儿，他认识她们，崇拜她们，而他的心上人是黛安娜！
“我的秘密你全知道了。”在羞涩的眼波中泪珠滚落下来，像一粒粒钻石冲去了脸上的脂粉，在红如樱桃的双颊上冲出一道道泪沟。
“老朋友，”她喃喃地说，“老朋友!”
“老朋友，”他重复道：“老朋友。”他似乎在揣摩这个词的意义。
“要多少钱?”他问。
她用手盖住珍珠。
“两万。”她悄声说。
然而，他手里拿的这粒是真的，还是假的?阿卜勒拜腰带上的珠子——她不是已经卖过吗?他想按铃叫斯宾塞和哈蒙德来，然后对他们说：“拿去验验。”他的手伸向了电铃。
“明天来我们家玩吧?”她急切地打断了他，“首相阁下要来……，”她顿了顿，然后接道：“还有黛安娜……”
奥立弗把手从电铃上移开。
他的目光越过她停在庞德大街的那些楼房的背面上，但他看到的不是庞德大街的房屋，而是一条泛着涟猗的小溪，溪中鳟鱼和鲑鱼在腾跃；他看到了首相，还有穿着白色马甲的自己，还有黛安娜。他低头瞅了瞅手中的珠子。在小溪灿灿的波光中，在黛安娜盈盈的顾盼下，他如何能检验这粒珍珠的真假?然而，此时正盯着他的却是公爵夫人的眼睛。“值两万!”她嘀咕道，“以我的名誉担保。”用黛安娜母亲的名誉担保!他拿过支票簿，取出钢笔。“贰——”他写着，却又停了下来，画像中的老妇人正盯着他一那是他母亲的眼睛。“奥立弗!”她发出警告，“清醒点，别做傻瓜!”“奥立弗广公爵夫人恳求道——她的称呼是“奥立弗”了，不再是“培根先生”，“你一定得来我家度一个长长的周末呀!”
单独和黛安娜待在林子里！单独和黛安娜在林中骑马!
“——万，”他写完，签上名。
“拿去吧，”他说。
公爵夫人从椅子里站起身来，霎时太阳伞所有的荷叶边打开了，孔雀所有的羽毛也展开了，波光四射，剑影闪动。当他引她穿过店堂来到门口时，两位老伙计和两位年轻的伙计，斯宾塞和马歇尔，威克斯和哈蒙德，都在柜台后站得笔直，羡慕地瞧着他。他在他们面前晃了晃黄手套，而她则紧紧攥着她的名誉——他签了名的两万镑支票。
“这些珠子是真的呢，还是假的呢?”奥立弗关上自己房间的门时问道。那十粒珍珠正躺在桌上的吸墨纸上。他拿着珠子走到窗前，对着阳光用透光镜照。……那么，这就是他从泥中掘的松露根了!烂了心的松露根!烂透了心!
“哦，原谅我，母亲，”他叹道，举起一只手，好像在乞求画中老妇人的原谅，他又变成了巷子里的小男孩了，星期天人们在那条巷子里出售偷来的狗。
“因为，”他双手合什喃喃地说，“那将是一个长长的周末啊!”
（完）
附英语原文：
The Duchess and the Jeweller
by Virginia Woolf
Oliver Bacon lived at the top of a house overlooking the Green Park. He had a flat; chairs jutted out at the right angles—chairs covered in hide. Sofas filled the bays of the windows—sofas covered in tapestry. The windows, the three long windows, had the proper allowance of discreet net and figured satin. The mahogany sideboard bulged discreetly with the right brandies, whiskeys and liqueurs. And from the middle window he looked down upon the glossy roofs of fashionable cars packed in the narrow straits of Piccadilly. A more Central position could not be imagined. And at eight in the morning he would have his breakfast brought in on a tray by a manservant: the manservant would unfold his crimson dressing-gown; he would rip his letters open with his long pointed nails and would extract thick white cards of invitation upon which the engraving stood up roughly from duchesses, countesses, viscountesses and Honourable Ladies. Then he would wash; then he would eat his toast; then he would read his paper by the bright burning fire of electric coals.
“Behold Oliver,” he would say, addressing himself. “You who began life in a filthy little alley, you who . . .” and he would look down at his legs, so shapely in their perfect trousers; at his boots; at his spats. They were all shapely, shining; cut from the best cloth by the best scissors in Savile Row. But he dismantled himself often and became again a little boy in a dark alley. He had once thought that the height of his ambition—selling stolen dogs to fashionable women in Whitechapel. And once he had been done. “Oh, Oliver,” his mother had wailed. “Oh, Oliver! When will you have sense, my son?” . . . Then he had gone behind a counter; had sold cheap watches; then he had taken a wallet to Amsterdam. . . . At that memory he would churckle—the old Oliver remembering the young. Yes, he had done well with the three diamonds; also there was the commission on the emerald. After that he went into the private room behind the shop in Hatton Garden; the room with the scales, the safe, the thick magnifying glasses. And then . . . and then . . . He chuckled. When he passed through the knots of jewellers in the hot evening who were discussing prices, gold mines, diamonds, reports from South Africa, one of them would lay a finger to the side of his nose and murmur, “Hum—m—m,” as he passed. It was no more than a murmur; no more than a nudge on the shoulder, a finger on the nose, a buzz that ran through the cluster of jewellers in Hatton Garden on a hot afternoon—oh, many years ago now! But still Oliver felt it purring down his spine, the nudge, the murmur that meant, “Look at him—young Oliver, the young jeweller—there he goes.” Young he was then. And he dressed better and better; and had, first a hansom cab; then a car; and first he went up to the dress circle, then down into the stalls. And he had a villa at Richmond, overlooking the river, with trellises of red roses; and Mademoiselle used to pick one every morning and stick it in his buttonhole.
“So,” said Oliver Bacon, rising and stretching his legs. “So . . .”
And he stood beneath the picture of an old lady on the mantelpiece and raised his hands. “I have kept my word,” he said, laying his hands together, palm to palm, as if he were doing homage to her. “I have won my bet.” That was so; he was the richest jeweller in England; but his nose, which was long and flexible, like an elephant’s trunk, seemed to say by its curious quiver at the nostrils (but it seemed as if the whole nose quivered, not only the nostrils) that he was not satisfied yet; still smelt something under the ground a little further off. Imagine a giant hog in a pasture rich with truffles; after unearthing this truffle and that, still it smells a bigger, a blacker truffle under the ground further off. So Oliver snuffed always in the rich earth of Mayfair another truffle, a blacker, a bigger further off.
Now then he straightened the pearl in his tie, cased himself in his smart blue overcoat; took his yellow gloves and his cane; and swayed as he descended the stairs and half snuffed, half sighed through his long sharp nose as he passed out into Piccadilly. For was he not still a sad man, a dissatisfied man, a man who seeks something that is hidden, though he had won his bet?
He swayed slightly as he walked, as the camel at the zoo sways from side to side when it walks along the asphalt paths laden with grocers and their wives eating from paper bags and throwing little bits of silver paper crumpled up on to the path. The camel despises the grocers; the camel is dissatisfied with its lot; the camel sees the blue lake and the fringe of palm trees in front of it. So the great jeweller, the greatest jeweller in the whole world, swung down Piccadilly, perfectly dressed, with his gloves, with his cane; but dissatisfied still, till he reached the dark little shop, that was famous in France, in Germany, in Austria, in Italy, and all over America—the dark little shop in the street off Bond Street.
As usual, he strode through the shop without speaking, though the four men, the two old men, Marshall and Spencer, and the two young men, Hammond and Wicks, stood straight behind the counter as he passed and looked at him, envying him. It was only with one finger of the amber-coloured glove, waggling, that he acknowledged their presence. And he went in and shut the door of his private room behind him.
Then he unlocked the grating that barred the window. The cries of Bond Street came in; the purr of the distant traffic. The light from reflectors at the back of the shop struck upwards. One tree waved six green leaves, for it was June. But Mademoiselle had married Mr. Pedder of the local brewery—no one stuck roses in his buttonhole now.
“So,” he half sighed, half snorted, “so. . .”
Then he touched a spring in the wall and slowly the panelling slid open, and behind it were the steel safes, five, no, six of them, all of burnished steel. He twisted a key; unlocked one; then another. Each was lined with a pad of deep crimson velvet; in each lay jewels—bracelets, necklaces, rings, tiaras, ducal coronets; loose stones in glass shells; rubies, emeralds, pearls, diamonds. All safe, shining, cool, yet burning, eternally, with their own compressed light.
“Tears!” said Oliver, looking at the pearls.
“Heart’s blood!” he said, looking at the rubies.
“Gunpowder!” he continued, rattling the diamonds so that they flashed and blazed.
“Gunpowder enough to blow Mayfair—sky high, high, high!” He threw his head back and made a sound like a horse neighing as he said it.
The telephone buzzed obsequiously in a low muted voice on his table. He shut the safe.
“In ten minutes,” he said. “Not before.” And he sat down at his desk and looked at the heads of the Roman emperors that were graved on his sleeve links. And again he dismantled himself and became once more the little boy playing marbles in the alley where they sell stolen dogs on Sunday. He became that wily astute little boy, with lips like wet cherries. He dabbled his fingers in ropes of tripe; he dipped them in pans of frying fish; he dodged in and out among the crowds. He was slim, lissome, with eyes like licked stones. And now—now—the hands of the clock ticked on. One, two, three, four . . . The Duchess of Lambourne waited his pleasure; the Duchess of Lambourne, daughter of a hundred Earls. She would wait for ten minutes on a chair at the counter. She would wait his pleasure. She would wait till he was ready to see her. He watched the clock in its shagreen case. The hand moved on. With each tick the clock handed him—so it seemed—pâté de foie gras, a glass of champagne, another of fine brandy, a cigar costing one guinea. The clock laid them on the table beside him as the ten minutes passed. Then he heard soft slow footsteps approaching; a rustle in the corridor. The door opened. Mr. Hammond flattened himself against the wall.
“Her Grace!” he announced.
And he waited there, flattened against the wall.
And Oliver, rising, could hear the rustle of the dress of the Duchess as she came down the passage. Then she loomed up, filling the door, filling the room with the aroma, the prestige, the arrogance, the pomp, the pride of all the Dukes and Duchesses swollen in one wave. And as a wave breaks, she broke, as she sat down, spreading and splashing and falling over Oliver Bacon, the great jeweller, covering him with sparkling bright colours, green, rose, violet; and odours; and iridescences; and rays shooting from fingers, nodding from plumes, flashing from silk; for she was very large, very fat, tightly girt in pink taffeta, and past her prime. As a parasol with many flounces, as a peacock with many feathers, shuts its flounces, folds its feathers, so she subsided and shut herself as she sank down in the leather armchair.
“Good morning, Mr. Bacon,” said the Duchess. And she held out her hand which came through the slit of her white glove. And Oliver bent low as he shook it. And as their hands touched the link was forged between them once more. They were friends, yet enemies; he was master, she was mistress; each cheated the other, each needed the other, each feared the other, each felt this and knew this every time they touched hands thus in the little back room with the white light outside, and the tree with its six leaves, and the sound of the street in the distance and behind them the safes.
“And today, Duchess—what can I do for you today?” said Oliver, very softly.
The Duchess opened; her heart, her private heart, gaped wide. And with a sigh, but no words, she took from her bag a long wash-leather pouch—it looked like a lean yellow ferret. And from a slit in the ferret’s belly she dropped pearls—ten pearls. They rolled from the slit in the ferret’s belly—one, two, three, four—like the eggs of some heavenly bird.
“All that’s left me, dear Mr. Bacon,” she moaned. Five, six, seven—down they rolled, down the slopes of the vast mountain sides that fell between her knees into one narrow valley—the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth. There they lay in the glow of the peach–blossom taffeta. Ten pearls.
“From the Appleby cincture,” she mourned. “The last . . . the last of them all.”
Oliver stretched out and took one of the pearls between finger and thumb. It was round, it was lustrous. But real was it, or false? Was she lying again? Did she dare?
She laid her plump padded finger across her lips. “If the Duke knew . . .” she whispered. “Dear Mr. Bacon, a bit of bad luck. . .”
Been gambling again, had she?
“That villain! That sharper!” she hissed.
The man with the chipped cheek bone? A bad ’un. And the Duke was straight as a poker; with side whiskers; would cut her off, shut her up down there if he knew—what I know, thought Oliver, and glanced at the safe.
“Araminta, Daphne, Diana,” she moaned. “It’s for them.”
The ladies Araminta, Daphne, Diana—her daughters. He knew them; adored them. But it was Diana he loved.
“You have all my secrets,” she leered. Tears slid; tears fell; tears, like diamonds, collecting powder in the ruts of her cherry-blossom cheeks.
“Old friend,” she murmured, “old friend.”
“Old friend,” he repeated, “old friend,” as if he licked the words.
“How much?” he queried.
She covered the pearls with her hand.
“Twenty thousand,” she whispered.
But was it real or false, the one he held in his hand? The Appleby cincture—hadn’t she sold it already? He would ring for Spencer or Hammond. “Take it and test it,” he would say. He stretched to the bell.
“You will come down tomorrow?” she urged, she interrupted. “The Prime Minister—His Royal Highness . . .” She stopped. “And Diana . . .” she added.
Oliver took his hand off the bell.
He looked past her, at the backs of the houses in Bond Street. But he saw, not the houses in Bond Street, but a dimpling river; and trout rising and salmon; and the Prime Minister; and himself too, in white waistcoat; and then, Diana. He looked down at the pearl in his hand. But how could he test it, in the light of the river, in the light of the eyes of Diana? But the eyes of the Duchess were on him.
“Twenty thousand,” she moaned. “My honour!”
The honour of the mother of Diana! He drew his cheque book towards him; he took out his pen.
“Twenty—” he wrote. Then he stopped writing. The eyes of the old woman in the picture were on him—of the old woman, his mother.
“Oliver!” she warned him. “Have sense! Don’t be a fool!”
“Oliver!” the Duchess entreated—it was “Oliver” now, not “Mr. Bacon.” “You’ll come for a long weekend?”
Alone in the woods with Diana! Riding alone in the woods with Diana!
“Thousand,” he wrote, and signed it.
“Here you are,” he said.
And there opened all the flounces of the parasol, all the plumes of the peacock, the radiance of the wave, the swords and spears of Agincourt, as she rose from her chair. And the two old men and the two young men, Spencer and Marshall, Wicks and Hammond, flattened themselves behind the counter envying him as he led her through the shop to the door. And he waggled his yellow glove in their faces, and she held her honour—a cheque for twenty thousand pounds with his signature—quite firmly in her hands.
“Are they false or are they real?” asked Oliver, shutting his private door. There they were, ten pearls on the blotting paper on the table. He took them to the window. He held them under his lens to the light. . .. This, then, was the truffle he had routed out of the earth! Rotten at the centre—rotten at the core!
“Forgive me, oh, my mother!” he sighed, raising his hand as if he asked pardon of the old woman in the picture. And again he was a little boy in the alley where they sold dogs on Sunday.
“For,” he murmured, laying the palms of his hands together, “it is to be a long week–end.”