I wonder if any other child has been so ruthlessly stabbed by home glances as I. The tale of the Ugly Duckling is, I believe, as common as all the essential legends of human grief and human joy. My dislike of large families is born of the conviction that every large family holds a victim. Amid so many, there is always one isolated10 creature who weeps in frozen secrecy11, while the others shout with laughter. The unshared gaiety of the group is a fresh provocation12 of repulsion on both sides, and not all the good-will of maturity13 can serve to bridge that first sharp division of infancy14. The heart that has been broken with pain in childhood is never sound again, whatever the sequel the years may offer. To escape the blighting16 influence of cynicism and harshness is as much as one may hope for; but the muffled17 apprehension18 of ache, the rooted mistrust bred by early injustice19, can never be effaced20.
I cannot now remember the cause of all those dreadful hours, of all those bitter, bitter tears, nor do I desire to recall them. But I still see myself many and many a day creeping under the bed that none might see me cry, and there sobbing21 as if the veins22 of my throat should burst. Always, I have no doubt, for some [Pg 232]foolish or inadequate23 cause: a hostile look in response to some spontaneous offer of affection, a disagreeable word when a tender one trembled on my lips, some fresh proof of my isolation24, a rough gesture that thrust me out of the home circle as an intruder, and a scornful laugh in front of me as the merry band wandered off among the rocks and left me forlorn in the garden. A robuster and less sensitive nature would have laughed down all these small troubles, and have scampered25 into their midst imperious and importunate26. A healthier child, with sensibilities less on the edge of the skin, not cursed with what the French call an ombrageux temper, would have broken through this unconscious hostility27, and have captured her place on the domestic hearth—would probably not have been aware of an unfriendly atmosphere.
But this same morbid7 sensitiveness, mark of my unblessed race, has been the unsleeping element of martyrdom in my whole existence. "Meet the world with a smile," said a wise and genial friend of mine, "and it will give you back a smile." But how can one smile with every nerve torn in the dumb anguish28 of anticipated pain and slight? How can one smile burdened by the edged sensibilities and nervousness of sex and race, inwardly distraught and forced to face the world, unsupported by fortune, family, or friends, with a brave front? It is already much not to cry. But I shed all my tears in childhood, and left my sadness behind me. When the bigger troubles and tragedies came, as they speedily did, I found sustainment and wisdom in arming myself with courage and gaiety, and so I faced the road. I had then, as ever since, plenty of pleasure to temper unhappiness, plenty of bright rays to guide me through the obscurities of sentiment and suffering. An unfailing beam of humour then and now shed its smile athwart the dim bleak29 forest of emotions through which destiny bade me cut my way.
One dark moment of peculiar30 bitterness now makes me smile. I record it as proof of the tiny mole-hills of childhood that constitute mountains. It shows the kind of booby I was, and have ever been, but none the less instructs upon the nature of infant miseries31.
We were walking along the road one afternoon with Miss Kitty. A public vehicle tore down the hill led by four horses, three white and one brown. We were four: I the eldest32, and my three pretty step-sisters. Birdie shouted—
"Oh, look at the three lovely white horses! That's us three. Angela is the brown horse."
I regarded this choice as a manifest injustice. There was no reason on earth that I should be a brown horse any more than one of my step-sisters. I was angry and sore at what I deemed a slight, and cried—
"I won't be the brown horse. I'll be one of the white horses, or else I'll go away and leave you."
"No, you won't, and you may go if you like. We don't want you. We're three nice white horses."
Here was an instance when I might have laughed down the exclusiveness of these proud babies. But no. I must turn back, and walk home alone, sulky and miserable33, nursing my usual feeling of being alone in a cold universe.
An hour of terrible fright for all of us was the morning Birdie fell into Colamore Harbour. We were coming down from Killiney Hill, a lovely spot more prosperous lands might envy us. Birdie walked inside, in a pretty short frock of pale green alpaca, and a new hat with red poppies among the ribbon. In those days Birdie and I ran it closely as infant beauties. Her hair was a shade more flaxen than mine, and the roses of her cheeks a shade paler. She was fatter, too, and less vapoury; but I carried the palm as an ethereal doll, with a classic profile. Alas34! the promise of that period was never fulfilled. Both profile and pride of beauty vanished on the threshold of girlhood, to make way for the appearance of a dairymaid in their distinguished35 stead.
The wall of Colamore Harbour was protected by an iron chain that swung low from the big stones that divided the festoons. Birdie's foot slipped, and the child in a twinkling tumbled over, and plunged36, with a hollow crash, into the heavy grey sea. Happily there were bathing-women and fishermen within hail, and as quickly as she had taken an unexpected bath, Birdie was once more in our midst, dripping like a Newfoundland, white and shaking with terror. One of the big boys took her up in his arms and tenderly carried her home. We all followed, awed37 and hysterical38.
My mother was standing39 in the front garden talking to the gardener, when the party marched in upon her. She frowned as Birdie was deposited on the gravel40 path in a woeful state—her wet green skirt clinging to her little legs, the discoloured poppies of her hat flat upon the wet ribbon.
"Change that child's clothes," said my mother, indifferently, as if she were all her life accustomed to the sight of a terrified child rescued from the deep, and went on talking to the gardener.
It would be a bold and inhuman41 assertion to make, and certainly one I am far from maintaining, that harsh treatment is the proper training of children. But my mother's method has undoubtedly42 answered better than that of many a tender or self-sacrificing mother. It built us in an admirable fashion for adversity,—taught us to rely upon ourselves, taught us, above all, that necessary lesson, how to suffer and not whine43. It is only when I observe how feebly and shabbily a spoiled woman can face trouble and pain, that I feel one may with reason cherish some pride of the power of enduring both with a smile. And when, stupefied and shamed, I contemplate44 the petty trickeries to which worldliness and untruthfulness can reduce a woman, the infamous46 devices a slender purse can drag educated ladies into, thus am I partially47 consoled for the sufferings of childhood. It is much, when one fronts battle, to have been reared in an [Pg 237]atmosphere of absolute rectitude, of truthful45 and honourable48 instinct. It is a blessing49 indeed when love includes all this. But bleak as the start was, I would not have had it otherwise at the cost of these great and virile50 virtues51. And since it would appear that the Irish habit of boasting is an incorrigible52 weakness, and that even in these democratic days my people still persist in descending53 from kings who have slept in peace over seven hundred years, and may without any extravagant54 scorn of fact be presumed to have passed for ever into the state of legend, I am glad to acknowledge the priceless debt of common-sense to a Scottish mother. Kings are all very well in their way, especially if they happen to be reigning55; but when one learns as authentic56 fact that an Irish journalist has offered an article to an unknown editor, accompanied with a letter stating that the blood of seven kings runs in his veins, one feels that such a race is all the more rational for a little foreign blood to modify the imperishable and universal blight15 of royalty57.
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1 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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2 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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3 penetrate | |
v.透(渗)入;刺入,刺穿;洞察,了解 | |
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4 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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5 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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6 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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7 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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8 morbidly | |
adv.病态地 | |
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9 barbarians | |
n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 );外国人;粗野的人;无教养的人 | |
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10 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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11 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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12 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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13 maturity | |
n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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14 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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15 blight | |
n.枯萎病;造成破坏的因素;vt.破坏,摧残 | |
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16 blighting | |
使凋萎( blight的现在分词 ); 使颓丧; 损害; 妨害 | |
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17 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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18 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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19 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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20 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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21 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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22 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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23 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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24 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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25 scampered | |
v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑,惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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27 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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28 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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29 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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30 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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31 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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32 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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33 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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34 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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35 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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36 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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37 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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39 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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40 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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41 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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42 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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43 whine | |
v.哀号,号哭;n.哀鸣 | |
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44 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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45 truthful | |
adj.真实的,说实话的,诚实的 | |
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46 infamous | |
adj.声名狼藉的,臭名昭著的,邪恶的 | |
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47 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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48 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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49 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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50 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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51 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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52 incorrigible | |
adj.难以纠正的,屡教不改的 | |
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53 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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54 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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55 reigning | |
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
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56 authentic | |
a.真的,真正的;可靠的,可信的,有根据的 | |
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57 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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