A word about ourselves, first of all — a necessary word, to explain the singular situation of our fair young guest.
We are three brothers; and we live in a barbarous, dismal1 old house called The Glen Tower. Our place of abode2 stands in a hilly, lonesome district of South Wales. No such thing as a line of railway runs anywhere near us. No gentleman’s seat is within an easy drive of us. We are at an unspeakably inconvenient3 distance from a town, and the village to which we send for our letters is three miles off.
My eldest4 brother, Owen, was brought up to the Church. All the prime of his life was passed in a populous5 London parish. For more years than I now like to reckon up, he worked unremittingly, in defiance6 of failing health and adverse7 fortune, amid the multitudinous misery8 of the London poor; and he would, in all probability, have sacrificed his life to his duty long before the present time if The Glen Tower had not come into his possession through two unexpected deaths in the elder and richer branch of our family. This opening to him of a place of rest and refuge saved his life. No man ever drew breath who better deserved the gifts of fortune; for no man, I sincerely believe, more tender of others, more diffident of himself, more gentle, more generous, and more simple-hearted than Owen, ever walked this earth.
My second brother, Morgan, started in life as a doctor, and learned all that his profession could teach him at home and abroad. He realized a moderate independence by his practice, beginning in one of our large northern towns and ending as a physician in London; but, although he was well known and appreciated among his brethren, he failed to gain that sort of reputation with the public which elevates a man into the position of a great doctor. The ladies never liked him. In the first place, he was ugly (Morgan will excuse me for mentioning this); in the second place, he was an inveterate9 smoker10, and he smelled of tobacco when he felt languid pulses in elegant bedrooms; in the third place, he was the most formidably outspoken11 teller12 of the truth as regarded himself, his profession, and his patients, that ever imperiled the social standing13 of the science of medicine. For these reasons, and for others which it is not necessary to mention, he never pushed his way, as a doctor, into the front ranks, and he never cared to do so. About a year after Owen came into possession of The Glen Tower, Morgan discovered that he had saved as much money for his old age as a sensible man could want; that he was tired of the active pursuit — or, as he termed it, of the dignified14 quackery15 of his profession; and that it was only common charity to give his invalid16 brother a companion who could physic him for nothing, and so prevent him from getting rid of his money in the worst of all possible ways, by wasting it on doctors’ bills. In a week after Morgan had arrived at these conclusions, he was settled at The Glen Tower; and from that time, opposite as their characters were, my two elder brothers lived together in their lonely retreat, thoroughly17 understanding, and, in their very different ways, heartily18 loving one another.
Many years passed before I, the youngest of the three — christened by the unmelodious name of Griffith — found my way, in my turn, to the dreary19 old house, and the sheltering quiet of the Welsh hills. My career in life had led me away from my brothers; and even now, when we are all united, I have still ties and interests to connect me with the outer world which neither Owen nor Morgan possess.
I was brought up to the Bar. After my first year’s study of the law, I wearied of it, and strayed aside idly into the brighter and more attractive paths of literature. My occasional occupation with my pen was varied20 by long traveling excursions in all parts of the Continent; year by year my circle of gay friends and acquaintances increased, and I bade fair to sink into the condition of a wandering desultory22 man, without a fixed23 purpose in life of any sort, when I was saved by what has saved many another in my situation — an attachment24 to a good and a sensible woman. By the time I had reached the age of thirty-five, I had done what neither of my brothers had done before me — I had married.
As a single man, my own small independence, aided by what little additions to it I could pick up with my pen, had been sufficient for my wants; but with marriage and its responsibilities came the necessity for serious exertion25. I returned to my neglected studies, and grappled resolutely26, this time, with the intricate difficulties of the law. I was called to the Bar. My wife’s father aided me with his interest, and I started into practice without difficulty and without delay.
For the next twenty years my married life was a scene of happiness and prosperity, on which I now look back with a grateful tenderness that no words of mine can express. The memory of my wife is busy at my heart while I think of those past times. The forgotten tears rise in my eyes again, and trouble the course of my pen while it traces these simple lines.
Let me pass rapidly over the one unspeakable misery of my life; let me try to remember now, as I tried to remember then, that she lived to see our only child — our son, who was so good to her, who is still so good to me — grow up to manhood; that her head lay on my bosom27 when she died; and that the last frail28 movement of her hand in this world was the movement that brought it closer to her boy’s lips.
I bore the blow — with God’s help I bore it, and bear it still. But it struck me away forever from my hold on social life; from the purposes and pursuits, the companions and the pleasures of twenty years, which her presence had sanctioned and made dear to me. If my son George had desired to follow my profession, I should still have struggled against myself, and have kept my place in the world until I had seen h im prosperous and settled. But his choice led him to the army; and before his mother’s death he had obtained his commission, and had entered on his path in life. No other responsibility remained to claim from me the sacrifice of myself; my brothers had made my place ready for me by their fireside; my heart yearned29, in its desolation, for the friends and companions of the old boyish days; my good, brave son promised that no year should pass, as long as he was in England, without his coming to cheer me; and so it happened that I, in my turn, withdrew from the world, which had once been a bright and a happy world to me, and retired30 to end my days, peacefully, contentedly31, and gratefully, as my brothers are ending theirs, in the solitude32 of The Glen Tower.
How many years have passed since we have all three been united it is not necessary to relate. It will be more to the purpose if I briefly33 record that we have never been separated since the day which first saw us assembled together in our hillside retreat; that we have never yet wearied of the time, of the place, or of ourselves; and that the influence of solitude on our hearts and minds has not altered them for the worse, for it has not embittered34 us toward our fellow-creatures, and it has not dried up in us the sources from which harmless occupations and innocent pleasures may flow refreshingly35 to the last over the waste places of human life. Thus much for our own story, and for the circumstances which have withdrawn36 us from the world for the rest of our days.
And now imagine us three lonely old men, tall and lean, and white-headed; dressed, more from past habit than from present association, in customary suits of solemn black: Brother Owen, yielding, gentle, and affectionate in look, voice, and manner; brother Morgan, with a quaint21, surface-sourness of address, and a tone of dry sarcasm37 in his talk, which single him out, on all occasions, as a character in our little circle; brother Griffith forming the link between his two elder companions, capable, at one time, of sympathizing with the quiet, thoughtful tone of Owen’s conversation, and ready, at another, to exchange brisk severities on life and manners with Morgan — in short, a pliable38, double-sided old lawyer, who stands between the clergyman-brother and the physician-brother with an ear ready for each, and with a heart open to both, share and share together.
Imagine the strange old building in which we live to be really what its name implies — a tower standing in a glen; in past times the fortress39 of a fighting Welsh chieftain; in present times a dreary land-lighthouse, built up in many stories of two rooms each, with a little modern lean-to of cottage form tacked40 on quaintly41 to one of its sides; the great hill, on whose lowest slope it stands, rising precipitously behind it; a dark, swift-flowing stream in the valley below; hills on hills all round, and no way of approach but by one of the loneliest and wildest crossroads in all South Wales.
Imagine such a place of abode as this, and such inhabitants of it as ourselves, and them picture the descent among us — as of a goddess dropping from the clouds — of a lively, handsome, fashionable young lady — a bright, gay, butterfly creature, used to flutter away its existence in the broad sunshine of perpetual gayety — a child of the new generation, with all the modern ideas whirling together in her pretty head, and all the modern accomplishments42 at the tips of her delicate fingers. Imagine such a light-hearted daughter of Eve as this, the spoiled darling of society, the charming spendthrift of Nature’s choicest treasures of beauty and youth, suddenly flashing into the dim life of three weary old men — suddenly dropped into the place, of all others, which is least fit for her — suddenly shut out from the world in the lonely quiet of the loneliest home in England. Realize, if it be possible, all that is most whimsical and most anomalous43 in such a situation as this, and the startling confession44 contained in the opening sentence of these pages will no longer excite the faintest emotion of surprise. Who can wonder now, when our bright young goddess really descended45 on us, that I and my brothers were all three at our wits’ end what to do with her!
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1
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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34
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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36
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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42
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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43
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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44
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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45
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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