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'What a pity Lance isn't with us to rejoice！'Mrs Mallow on this occasion sighed at supper.
'We'll drink to the health of the absent，'her husband replied，filling his friend's glass and his own and giving a drop to their companion；'but we must hope he's preparing himself for a happiness much less like this of ours this evening—excusable as I grant it to be！—than like the comfort we have always （whatever has happened or has not happened）been able to trust ourselves to enjoy.The comfort，'the Master explained，leaning back in the pleasant lamplight and firelight，holding up his glass and looking round at his marble family，quartered more or less，a monstrous brood，in every room—'the comfort of art in itself！'
Peter looked a little shyly at his wine.'Well—I don't care what you may call it when a fellow doesn't—but Lance must learn to sell，you know.I drink to his acquisition of the secret of a base popularity！'
'Oh yes，he must sell，'the boy's mother，who was still more，however，this seemed to give out，the Master's wife，rather artlessly allowed.
'Ah，'the sculptor after a moment confidently pronounced，'Lance will.Don't be afraid.He'll have learnt.'
'Which is exactly what Peter，'Mrs Mallow gaily returned—'why in the world were you so perverse，Peter？—wouldn't，when he told him，hear of.'
Peter，when this lady looked at him with accusatory affection—a grace on her part not infrequent—could never find a word；but the Master，who was always all amenity and tact，helped him out now as he had often helped him before.'That's his old idea，you know—on which we've so often differed：his theory that the artist should be all impulse and instinct.I go in of course for a certain amount of school.Not too much—but a due proportion.There's where his protest came in，'he continued to explain to his wife，'as against what might，don't you see？be in question for Lance.'
'Ah，well'—and Mrs Mallow turned the violet eyes across the table at the subject of this discourse—'he's sure to have meant of course nothing but good.Only that wouldn't have prevented him，if Lance had taken his advice，from being in effect horribly cruel.'
They had a sociable way of talking of him to his face as if he had been in the clay or—at most—in the plaster，and the Master was unfailingly generous.He might have been waving Egidio to make him revolve.'Ah，but poor Peter wasn't so wrong as to what it may after all come to that he will learn.'
'Oh，but nothing artistically bad，'she urged—still，for poor Peter，arch and dewy.
'Why just the little French tricks，'said the Master：on which their friend had to pretend to admit，when pressed by Mrs Mallow，that these æsthetic vices had been the objects of his dread.
III
'I know now，'Lance said to him the next year，'why you were so much against it.'He had come back supposedly for a mere interval and was looking about him at Carrara Lodge，where indeed he had already on two or three occasions since his expatriation briefly reappeared.This had the air of a longer holiday.'Something rather awful has happened to me.It isn't so very good to know.'
'I'm bound to say high spirits don't show in your face，'Peter was rather ruefully forced to confess.'Still，are you very sure you do know？'
'Well，I at least know about as much as I can bear.'These remarks were exchanged in Peter's den，and the young man，smoking cigarettes，stood before the fire with his back against the mantel.Something of his bloom seemed really to have left him.
Poor Peter wondered.'You're clear then as to what in particular I wanted you not to go for？'
'In particular？'Lance thought.'It seems to me that in particular there can have been only one thing.'
They stood for a little sounding each other.'Are you quite sure？'
'Quite sure I'm a beastly duffer？Quite—by this time.'
'Oh！'—and Peter turned away as if almost with relief.
'It's that that isn't pleasant to find out.'
'Oh I don't care for “that”，'said Peter，presently coming round again.'I mean I personally don't.'
'Yet I hope you can understand a little that I myself should！'
'Well，what do you mean by it？'Peter sceptically asked.
And on this Lance had to explain—how the upshot of his studies in Paris had inexorably proved a mere deep doubt of his means.These studies had so waked him up that a new light was in his eyes；but what the new light did was really to show him too much.'Do you know what's the matter with me？I'm too horribly intelligent.Paris was really the last place for me.I've learnt what I can't do.'
Poor Peter stared—it was a staggerer；but even after they had had，on the subject，a longish talk in which the boy brought out to the full the hard truth of his lesson，his friend betrayed less pleasure than usually breaks into a face to the happy tune of 'I told you so！'Poor Peter himself made now indeed so little a point of having told him so that Lance broke ground in a different place a day or two after.'What was it then that—before I went—you were afraid I should find out？'This，however，Peter refused to tell him—on the ground that if he hadn't yet guessed perhaps he never would，and that in any case nothing at all for either of them was to be gained by giving the thing a name.Lance eyed him on this an instant with the bold curiosity of youth—with the air indeed of having in his mind two or three names，of which one or other would be right.Peter nevertheless，turning his back again，offered no encouragement，and when they parted afresh it was with some show of impatience on the side of the boy.Accordingly on their next encounter Peter saw at a glance that he had now，in the interval，divined and that，to sound his note，he was only waiting till they should find themselves alone.This he had soon arranged and he then broke straight out.'Do you know your conundrum has been keeping me awake？But in the watches of the night the answer came over me—so that，upon my honour，I quite laughed out.Had you been supposing I had to go to Paris to learn that？'Even now，to see him still so sublimely on his guard，Peter's young friend had to laugh afresh.'You won't give a sign till you're sure？Beautiful old Peter！'But Lance at last produced it.'Why，hang it，the truth about the Master.'
It made between them for some minutes a lively passage，full of wonder for each at the wonder of the other.'Then how long have you understood—'
'The true value of his work？I understood it，'Lance recalled，'as soon as I began to understand anything.But I didn't begin fully to do that，I admit，till I got la—bas.'
'Dear，dear！'—Peter gasped with retrospective dread.
'But for what have you taken me？I'm a hopeless muff—that I had to have rubbed in.But I'm not such a muff as the Master！'Lance declared.
'Then why did you never tell me—？'
'That I hadn't，after all'—the boy took him up—'remained such an idiot？Just because I never dreamed you knew.But I beg your pardon.I only wanted to spare you.And what I don't now understand is how the deuce then for so long you've managed to keep bottled.'
Peter produced his explanation，but only after some delay and with a gravity not void of embarrassment.'It was for your mother.'
'Oh！'said Lance.
'And that's the great thing now—since the murder is out.I want a promise from you.I mean'—and Peter almost feverishly followed it up—'a vow from you，solemn and such as you owe me here on the spot，that you'll sacrifice anything rather than let her ever guess—'
'That I've guessed？'—Lance took it in.'I see.'He evidently after a moment had taken in much.'But what is it you've in mind that I may have a chance to sacrifice？'
'Oh，one has always something.'
Lance looked at him hard.'Do you mean that you've had—？'The look he received back，however，so put the question by that he found soon enough another.'Are you really sure my mother doesn't know？'
Peter，after renewed reflexion，was really sure.'If she does she's too wonderful.'
'But aren't we all too wonderful？'
'Yes，'Peter granted—'but in different ways.The thing's so desperately important because your father's little public consists only，as you know then，'Peter developed—'well，of how many？'
'First of all，'the Master's son risked，'of himself.And last of all too.I don't quite see of whom else.'
Peter had an approach to impatience.'Of your mother，I say—always.'
Lance cast it all up.'You absolutely feel that？'
'Absolutely.'
'Well then with yourself that makes three.'
'Oh me！'—and Peter，with a wag of his kind old head，modestly excused himself.'The number's at any rate small enough for any individual dropping out to be too dreadfully missed.Therefore，to put it in a nutshell，take care，my boy—that's all—that you're not！'
'I've got to keep on humbugging？'Lance wailed.
'It's just to warn you of the danger of your failing of that that I've seized this opportunity.'
'And what do you regard in particular，'the young man asked，'as the danger？'
'Why this certainty：that the moment your mother，who feels so strongly，should suspect your secret—well，'said Peter desperately，'the fat would be on the fire.'
Lance for a moment seemed to stare at the blaze.'She'd throw me over？'
'She'd throw him over.'
'And come round to us？'
Peter，before he answered，turned away.'Come round to you.'But he had said enough to indicate—and，as he evidently trusted，to avert—the horrid contingency.
IV
Within six months again，none the less，his fear was on more occasions than one all before him.Lance had returned to Paris for another trial；then had reappeared at home and had had，with his father，for the first time in his life，one of the scenes that strike sparks.He described it with much expression to Peter，touching whom （since they had never done so before）it was the sign of a new reserve on the part of the pair at Carrara Lodge that they at present failed，on a matter of intimate interest，to open themselves—if not in joy then in sorrow—to their good friend.This produced perhaps practically between the parties a shade of alienation and a slight intermission of commerce—marked mainly indeed by the fact that to talk at his ease with his old playmate Lance had in general to come to see him.The closest if not quite the gayest relation they had yet known together was thus ushered in.The difficulty for poor Lance was a tension at home—begotten by the fact that his father wished him to be at least the sort of success he himself had been.He hadn't 'chucked'Paris—though nothing appeared more vivid to him than that Paris had chucked him：he would go back again because of the fascination in trying，in seeing，in sounding the depths—in learning one's lesson，briefly，even if the lesson were simply that of one's impotence in the presence of one's larger vision.But what did the Master，all aloft in his senseless fluency，know of impotence，and what vision—to be called such—had he in all his blind life ever had？Lance，heated and indignant，frankly appealed to his godparent on this score.
His father，it appeared，had come down on him for having，after so long，nothing to show，and hoped that on his next return this deficiency would be repaired.The thing，the Master complacently set forth was—for any artist，however inferior to himself—at least to 'do'something.'What can you do？That's all I ask！'He had certainly done enough，and there was no mistake about what he had to show.Lance had tears in his eyes when it came thus to letting his old friend know how great the strain might be on the 'sacrifice'asked of him.It wasn't so easy to continue humbugging—as from son to parent—after feeling one's self despised for not grovelling in mediocrity.Yet a noble duplicity was what，as they intimately faced the situation，Peter went on requiring；and it was still for a time what his young friend，bitter and sore，managed loyally to comfort him with.Fifty pounds more than once again，it was true，rewarded both in London and in Paris the young friend's loyalty；none the less sensibly，doubtless，at the moment，that the money was a direct advance on a decent sum for which Peter had long since privately prearranged an ultimate function.Whether by these arts or others，at all events，Lance's just resentment was kept for a season—but only for a season—at bay.The day arrived when he warned his companion that he could hold out—or hold in—no longer.Carrara Lodge had had to listen to another lecture delivered from a great height—an infliction really heavier at last than，without striking back or in some way letting the Master have the truth，flesh and blood could bear.
'And what I don't see is，'Lance observed with a certain irritated eye for what was after all，if it came to that，owing to himself too；'what I don't see is，upon my honour，how you，as things are going，can keep the game up.'
'Oh，the game for me is only to hold my tongue，'said placid Peter.'And I have my reason.'
'Still my mother？'
Peter showed a queer face as he had often shown it before—that is by turning it straight away.'What will you have？I haven't ceased to like her.'
'She's beautiful—she's a dear of course，'Lance allowed；'but what is she to you，after all，and what is it to you that，as to anything whatever，she should or she shouldn't？'
Peter，who had turned red，hung fire a little.'Well—it's all simply what I make of it.'
There was now，however，in his young friend a strange，an adopted insistence.'What are you after all to her？'
'Oh，nothing.But that's another matter.'
'She cares only for my father，'said Lance the Parisian.
'Naturally—and that's just why.'
'Why you've wished to spare her？'
'Because she cares so tremendously much.'
Lance took a turn about the room，but with his eyes still on his host.
'How awfully—always—you must have liked her！'
'Awfully.Always，'said Peter Brench.
The young man continued for a moment to muse—then stopped again in front of him.'Do you know how much she cares？'Their eyes met on it，but Peter，as if his own found something new in Lance's，appeared to hesitate，for the first time in an age，to say he did know.'I've only just found out，'said Lance.'She came to my room last night，after being present，in silence and only with her eyes on me，at what I had had to take from him：she came—and she was with me an extraordinary hour.'
He had paused again and they had again for a while sounded each other.
Then something—and it made him suddenly turn pale—came to Peter.
'She does know？'
'She does know.She let it all out to me—so as to demand of me no more than “that”，as she said，of which she herself had been capable.She has always，always known，'said Lance without pity.
Peter was silent a long time；during which his companion might have heard him gently breathe，and on touching him might have felt within him the vibration of a long low sound suppressed.By the time he spoke at last he had taken everything in.'Then I do see how tremendously much.'
'Isn't it wonderful？'Lance asked.
'Wonderful，'Peter mused.
'So that if your original effort to keep me from Paris was to keep me from knowledge—！'Lance exclaimed as if with a sufficient indication of this futility.
It might have been at the futility Peter appeared for a little to gaze.'I think it must have been—without my quite at the time knowing it—to keep me！'he replied at last as he turned away.
Life is too short for a long story.
时间太少，小说太长，不如读一篇短故事。
有的婚姻是一场交易，哪管女儿终身幸福；有的婚姻是一种包容，即便丈夫天资欠奉；有人婚礼在即仍旧犹豫不决，邂逅初恋掀起怎样的波澜？有人迫不及待走进结婚殿堂，热度退却又该何去何从？
城里？城外？婚姻是涓涓流淌的相守岁月，陀思妥耶夫斯基、哈代、亨利·詹姆斯、J.M.巴里……文学大家带来6个精彩短篇，加上全新的译文诠释，邀读者一起探寻婚姻本质，领略两种语言的魅力。