the unbearable bassington- 第1部分

The　Unbearable　Bassington



by　〃Saki〃　＇H。　H。　Munro＇












CHAPTER　I







FRANCESCA　BASSINGTON　sat　in　the　drawing…room　of　her　house　in　Blue　

Street；　W。；　regaling　herself　and　her　estimable　brother　Henry　with　

China　tea　and　small　cress　sandwiches。　　The　meal　was　of　that　elegant　

proportion　which；　while　ministering　sympathetically　to　the　desires　

of　the　moment；　is　happily　reminiscent　of　a　satisfactory　luncheon　

and　blessedly　expectant　of　an　elaborate　dinner　to　come。



In　her　younger　days　Francesca　had　been　known　as　the　beautiful　Miss　

Greech；　at　forty；　although　much　of　the　original　beauty　remained；　

she　was　just　dear　Francesca　Bassington。　　No　one　would　have　dreamed　

of　calling　her　sweet；　but　a　good　many　people　who　scarcely　knew　her　

were　punctilious　about　putting　in　the　〃dear。〃



Her　enemies；　in　their　honester　moments；　would　have　admitted　that　

she　was　svelte　and　knew　how　to　dress；　but　they　would　have　agreed　

with　her　friends　in　asserting　that　she　had　no　soul。　　When　one's　

friends　and　enemies　agree　on　any　particular　point　they　are　usually　

wrong。　　Francesca　herself；　if　pressed　in　an　unguarded　moment　to　

describe　her　soul；　would　probably　have　described　her　drawing…room。　　

Not　that　she　would　have　considered　that　the　one　had　stamped　the　

impress　of　its　character　on　the　other；　so　that　close　scrutiny　might　

reveal　its　outstanding　features；　and　even　suggest　its　hidden　

places；　but　because　she　might　have　dimly　recognised　that　her　

drawing…room　was　her　soul。



Francesca　was　one　of　those　women　towards　whom　Fate　appears　to　have　

the　best　intentions　and　never　to　carry　them　into　practice。　　With　

the　advantages　put　at　her　disposal　she　might　have　been　expected　to　

command　a　more　than　average　share　of　feminine　happiness。　　So　many　

of　the　things　that　make　for　fretfulness；　disappointment　and　

discouragement　in　a　woman's　life　were　removed　from　her　path　that　

she　might　well　have　been　considered　the　fortunate　Miss　Greech；　or　

later；　lucky　Francesca　Bassington。　　And　she　was　not　of　the　perverse　

band　of　those　who　make　a　rock…garden　of　their　souls　by　dragging　

into　them　all　the　stoney　griefs　and　unclaimed　troubles　they　can　

find　lying　around　them。　　Francesca　loved　the　smooth　ways　and　

pleasant　places　of　life；　she　liked　not　merely　to　look　on　the　bright　

side　of　things　but　to　live　there　and　stay　there。　　And　the　fact　that　

things　had；　at　one　time　and　another；　gone　badly　with　her　and　

cheated　her　of　some　of　her　early　illusions　made　her　cling　the　

closer　to　such　good　fortune　as　remained　to　her　now　that　she　seemed　

to　have　reached　a　calmer　period　of　her　life。　　To　undiscriminating　

friends　she　appeared　in　the　guise　of　a　rather　selfish　woman；　but　it　

was　merely　the　selfishness　of　one　who　had　seen　the　happy　and　

unhappy　sides　of　life　and　wished　to　enjoy　to　the　utmost　what　was　

left　to　her　of　the　former。　　The　vicissitudes　of　fortune　had　not　

soured　her；　but　they　had　perhaps　narrowed　her　in　the　sense　of　

making　her　concentrate　much　of　her　sympathies　on　things　that　

immediately　pleased　and　amused　her；　or　that　recalled　and　

perpetuated　the　pleasing　and　successful　incidents　of　other　days。　　

And　it　was　her　drawing…room　in　particular　that　enshrined　the　

memorials　or　tokens　of　past　and　present　happiness。



Into　that　comfortable　quaint…shaped　room　of　angles　and　bays　and　

alcoves　had　sailed；　as　into　a　harbour；　those　precious　personal　

possessions　and　trophies　that　had　survived　the　buffetings　and　

storms　of　a　not　very　tranquil　married　life。　　Wherever　her　eyes　

might　turn　she　saw　the　embodied　results　of　her　successes；　

economies；　good　luck；　good　management　or　good　taste。　　The　battle　

had　more　than　once　gone　against　her；　but　she　had　somehow　always　

contrived　to　save　her　baggage　train；　and　her　complacent　gaze　could　

roam　over　object　after　object　that　represented　the　spoils　of　

victory　or　the　salvage　of　honourable　defeat。　　The　delicious　bronze　

Fremiet　on　the　mantelpiece　had　been　the　outcome　of　a　Grand　Prix　

sweepstake　of　many　years　ago；　a　group　of　Dresden　figures　of　some　

considerable　value　had　been　bequeathed　to　her　by　a　discreet　

admirer；　who　had　added　death　to　his　other　kindnesses；　another　group　

had　been　a　self…bestowed　present；　purchased　in　blessed　and　unfading　

memory　of　a　wonderful　nine…days'　bridge　winnings　at　a　country…house　

party。　　There　were　old　Persian　and　Bokharan　rugs　and　Worcester　tea…

services　of　glowing　colour；　and　little　treasures　of　antique　silver　

that　each　enshrined　a　history　or　a　memory　in　addition　to　its　own　

intrinsic　value。　　It　amused　her　at　times　to　think　of　the　bygone　

craftsmen　and　artificers　who　had　hammered　and　wrought　and　woven　in　

far　distant　countries　and　ages；　to　produce　the　wonderful　and　

beautiful　things　that　had　come；　one　way　and　another；　into　her　

possession。　　Workers　in　the　studios　of　medieval　Italian　towns　and　

of　later　Paris；　in　the　bazaars　of　Baghdad　and　of　Central　Asia；　in　

old…time　English　workshops　and　German　factories；　in　all　manner　of　

queer　hidden　corners　where　craft　secrets　were　jealously　guarded；　

nameless　unremembered　men　and　men　whose　names　were　world…renowned　

and　deathless。



And　above　all　her　other　treasures；　dominating　in　her　estimation　

every　other　object　that　the　room　contained；　was　the　great　Van　der　

Meulen　that　had　come　from　her　father's　home　as　part　of　her　wedding　

dowry。　　It　fitted　exactly　into　the　central　wall　panel　above　the　

narrow　buhl　cabinet；　and　filled　exactly　its　right　space　in　the　

composition　and　balance　of　the　room。　　From　wherever　you　sat　it　

seemed　to　confront　you　as　the　dominating　feature　of　its　

surroundings。　　There　was　a　pleasing　serenity　about　the　great　

pompous　battle　scene　with　its　solemn　courtly　warriors　bestriding　

their　heavily　prancing　steeds；　grey　or　skewbald　or　dun；　all　gravely　

in　earnest；　and　yet　somehow　conveying　the　impression　that　their　

campaigns　were　but　vast　serious　picnics　arranged　in　the　grand　

manner。　　Francesca　could　not　imagine　the　drawing…room　without　the　

crowning　complement　of　the　stately　well…hung　picture；　just　as　she　

could　not　imagine　herself　in　any　other　setting　than　this　house　in　

Blue　Street　with　its　crowded　Pantheon　of　cherished　household　gods。



And　herein　sprouted　one　of　the　thorns　that　obtruded　through　the　

rose…leaf　damask　of　what　might　otherwise　have　been　Francesca's　

peace　of　mind。　　One's　happiness　always　lies　in　the　future　rather　

than　in　the　past。　　With　due　deference　to　an　esteemed　lyrical　

authority　one　may　safely　say　that　a　sorrow's　crown　of　sorrow　is　

anticipating　unhappier　things。　　The　house　in　Blue　Street　had　been　

left　to　her　by　her　old　friend　Sophie　Chetrof；　but　only　until　such　

time　as　her　niece　Emmeline　Chetrof　should　marry；　when　it　was　to　

pass　to　her　as　a　wedding　present。　　Emmeline　was　now　seventeen　and　

passably　good…looking；　and　four　or　five　years　were　all　that　could　

be　safely　allotted　to　the　span　of　her　continued　spinsterhood。　　

Beyond　that　period　lay　chaos；　the　wrenching　asunder　of　Francesca　

from　the　sheltering　habitation　that　had　grown　to　be　her　soul。　　It　

is　true　that　in　imagination　she　had　built　herself　a　bridge　across　

the　chasm；　a　bridge　of　a　single　span。　　The　bridge　in　question　was　

her　schoolboy　son　Comus；　now　being　educated　somewhere　in　the　

southern　counties；　or　rather　one　should　say　the　bridge　consisted　of　

the　possibility　of　his　eventual　marriage　with　Emmeline；　in　which　

case　Francesca　saw　herself　still　reigning；　a　trifle　squeezed　and　

incommoded　perhaps；　but　still　reigning　in　the　house　in　Blue　Street。　　

The　Van　der　Meulen　would　still　catch　its　requisite　afternoon　light　

in　its　place　of　honour；　the　Fremiet　and　the　Dresden　and　Old　

Worcester　would　continue　undisturbed　in　their　accustomed　niches。　　

Emmeline　could　have　the　Japanese　snuggery；　where　Francesca　

sometimes　drank　her　after…dinner　coffee；　as　a　separate　drawing…

room；　where　she　could　put　her　own　things。　　The　details　of　the　

bridge　structure　had　all　been　carefully　thought　out。　　Only　…　it　was　

an　unfortunate　circumstance　that　Comus　should　have　been　the　span　on　

which　everything　balanced。



Francesca's　husband　had　insisted　on　giving　the　boy　that　strange　

Pagan　name；　and　had　not　lived　long　enough　to　judge　as　to　the　

appropriateness；　or　otherwise；　of　its　significance。　　In　seventeen　

years　and　some　odd　months　Francesca　had　had　ample　opportunity　for　

forming　an　opinion　concerning　her　son's　characteristics。　　The　

spirit　of　mirthfulness　which　one　associates　with　the　name　certainly　

ran　riot　in　the　boy；　but　it　was　a　twisted　wayward　sort　of　mirth　of　

which　Francesca　herself　could　seldom　see　the　humorous　side。　　In　her　

brother　Henry；　who　sat　eating　small　cress　sandwiches　as　solemnly　as　

though　they　had　been　ordained　in　some　immemorial　Book　of　

Observances；　fate　had　been　undisguisedly　kind　to　her。　　He　might　so　

easily　have　married　some　pretty　helpless　little　woman；　and　lived　at　

Notting　Hill　Gate；　and　been　the　father　of　a　long　string　of　pale；　

cle