The French Lieutenant's Woman / Любовница французского лейтенанта. Джон ФаулзЧитать онлайн книгу.

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Mr. Forsythe, not too young a person.” He bowed and left the room. But halfway down the stairs to the ground floor, he stopped. He remembered. He reflected. And an impulse made him turn and go back to her drawing room. He stood in the doorway.

      “An eligible[25] has occurred to me. Her name is Sarah Woodruff.”

      5

      Ernestina had exactly the right face for her age; that is, small-chinned, oval, delicate as a violet. At first meetings she could cast down her eyes very prettily, as if she might faint should any gentleman dare to address her. To a man like Charles she was irresistible. When Charles left Aunt Tranter's house in Broad Street to walk a hundred paces or so down to his hotel, there to mount the stairs to his rooms and look at his face in the mirror, Ernestine excused herself and went to her room.

      She wanted to catch a last glimpse[26] of her betrothed through the lace curtains.

      She admired the way he walked and the manner in which he raised his top hat to Aunt Tranter's maid; though she hated him for doing it, because the girl had beautiful eyes and a fine complexion, and Charles had been strictly forbidden ever to look again at any woman under the age of sixty. Then Ernestina turned back into her room. It had been furnished for her and to her taste, which was emphatically French. The rest of Aunt Tranter's house was in the style of a quarter-century before: that is, a museum of objects.

      Nobody could dislike Aunt Tranter as she had the optimism of successful old maids. She had begun by making the best of things for herself, and ended by making the best of them for the rest of the world as well.

      However, Ernestina was angry with her; on the impossibility of having dinner at five; on the subject of her aunt's excessive care for her fair name[27] (she would not believe that the bridegroom and bride-to-be might wish to sit alone, and walk out alone); and above all on the subject of Ernestina's being in Lyme at all.

      The poor girl had suffered the agony of every only child[28] since time began[29] – that is, parental worry. Since birth her slightest cough would bring doctors; since puberty her slightest whim called decorators and dressmakers. This was all very well when it came to new dresses. But not when it was her health. Her mother and father were convinced she was consumptive. They had only to smell damp in a basement to move house[30], only to have two days' rain to change districts. All doctors had examined her, and found nothing; she had never had a serious illness in her life. She could have danced and played all night. They weren't able to see into the future! For Ernestina was to outlive all her generation. She was born in 1846. And she died on the day that Hitler invaded Poland.

      An indispensable part of her life was thus her annual stay with her mother's sister in Lyme. Usually she came to recover from the season; this year she was sent early to gather strength for the marriage. No doubt the Channel[31] breezes did her some good, but she always went to Lyme with the gloom of a prisoner arriving in Siberia. The society of the place was as up-to-date as Aunt Tranter's old furniture; and as for the entertainment, to a young lady familiar with the best that London can offer it was worse than nil[32]. So her relation with Aunt Tranter was much more than what one would expect of niece and aunt. Ernestina had certainly a very strong will of her own. But fortunately she had a deep respect for tradition; and she shared with Charles a sense of self-irony. Without this and a sense of humor she would have been a horrid spoiled child.

      In her room that afternoon she unbuttoned her dress and stood before her mirror in her chemise and petticoats. For a few moments she became lost in a highly narcissistic selfcontemplation. Her neck and shoulders did her face justice; she was really very pretty, one of the prettiest girls she knew. And as if to prove it she raised her arms and unloosed her hair, a thing she knew to be sinful. She imagined herself for a moment as someone wicked – a dancer, an actress. And then, if you had been watching, you would have seen something very curious. For she suddenly stopped turning and admiring herself in profile; gave an abrupt look up at the ceiling. Her lips moved. And she hastily opened one of the wardrobes and drew on a peignoir.

      For what had crossed her mind was a sexual thought. It was not only her profound ignorance of the reality of copulation that frightened her; it was the aura of pain and brutality that the act seemed to require. She had once or twice seen animals couple; the violence haunted her mind. She tried not to think about those things but she wanted a husband, wanted Charles to be that husband, wanted children; but the payment she would have to make for them seemed excessive.

      Ernestina went to her dressing table, unlocked a drawer and there pulled out her diary. From another drawer she took a hidden key and unlocked the book. She turned immediately to the back page. There she had written out, on the day of her betrothal to Charles, the dates of all the months and days that lay between it and her marriage. Some ninety numbers remained till March 26th. Then she turned to the front of the book: some fifteen pages of close handwriting[33] in, there came a blank, upon which she had pressed a sprig of jasmine. She stared at it a moment, then bent to smell it. Her loosened hair fell over the page, and she closed her eyes to see if once again she could imagine the day she had thought she would die of joy…

      But she heard Aunt Tranter's feet on the stairs, hastily put the book away, and began to comb her brown hair.

      6

      Mrs. Poulteney's face, that afternoon when the vicar returned and made the announcement, expressed ignorance. “I do not know her.”

      “I did not suppose you would. She is a Charmouth[34] girl.”

      “A girl?”

      “That is, I am not quite sure of her age, a woman, a lady of some thirty years of age. Perhaps more.” The vicar felt that he was making a poor start. “But a most distressing case. Most deserving of your charity.”

      “Has she an education?”

      “Yes indeed. She was trained to be a governess. She was a governess.”

      “And what is she now?”

      “I believe she is without employment.”

      “Why?”

      “That is a long story.”

      “I should certainly wish to hear it before taking her in.”

      So the vicar sat down again, and told her what he knew of Sarah Woodruff.

      “ The girl's father was a farmer merely, but a man of excellent principles and highly respected in the neighborhood. He most wisely gave the girl a good education.”

      “He is dead?”

      “Some several years ago. The girl became a governess to Captain John Talbot's family at Charmouth.”

      “Will he give a letter of reference[35]?”

      “My dear Mrs. Poulteney, we are discussing, if I understood our earlier conversation right, an object of charity, not an object of employment. No doubt such a letter can be obtained. She left his home at her own request[36]. What happened was this. You will recall the French ship that was driven ashore[37] under Stonebarrow last December? And you will no doubt recall that three of the crew were saved and were taken in by the people of Charmouth? Two were simple sailors. One, I understand, was the lieutenant of the vessel. His leg had been crushed, but he clung to a spar[38] and was washed ashore. You must surely have read of this.”

      “Very probably. I do not like the French.”

      “Captain Talbot, as a naval officer himself, most kindly offered hospitality to the foreign officer.

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