Something of this Isabel felt, as the mid-day meal was hurried through, on Alvira’s sharp intimation that the room couldn’t be cleared any too soon, for the crowd would begin coming now, right along. There were three strangers at the table—though they seemed to be scarcely more strangers than the members of her husband’s family—of whom two were clergymen.
One of these, who sat next to her, was the Episcopalian minister at Thessaly, a middle-aged14, soft sort of man, with short hair so smooth and furry15 that she was conscious of an impulse to stroke it like a seal-skin, and little side-whiskers which reminded her of a baby brush. He impressed her as a stupid man, but in that she was mistaken. He was nervous and ill at ease, first because he could not successfully or gracefully16 use the narrow three-tined steel fork with a bone handle that had been given him, and second, because he did not understand the presence of the Rev17. Stephen Bunce, who sat opposite him, offensively smacking18 his lips, and devoting to loud discourse19 periods which it seemed might better have been employed in mastication20.
If quiet Mr. Turner was ill at ease, the Rev. Stephen was certainly not. He bestrode the situation like a modern Colossus. The shape of his fork did not worry him, since he used it only as a humble21 and lowly adjunct to his knife. The presence of Mr. Turner too, neither puzzled nor pained him. In fact, he was rather pleased than otherwise to have him there, where he could talk to him before sympathetic witnesses, and make him realise how the man of the people who had a genuine call towered innately22 superior to mere23 beneficed gentility. “Beneficed gentility”—that was a good phrase, and he made a mental note of it for future use; then—the temptation was too strong—he bundled it neck and crop into the florid sentence with which he was addressing Albert—and looked at the Episcopalian to watch its effect.
Mr. Turner was occupied with his javelin-shaped fork, and did not seem to hear it.
Mr. Bunce suspected artifice24 in this, and watched the rector’s meek25 face for a sign of secret confusion. After a moment he said, with his full, pompous26 voice at its loudest and most artificial pitch:—
“Ah, Mr. Turner, this is a sad occasion!”
The rector glanced up with some surprise, for he had not expected this overture27, and answered “Yes, truly it is; extremely sad.”
“Yet it is consoling to feel that even so sad an occasion can be converted into a means of grace, a season of spiritual solace28 as it were.”
Mr. Turner only nodded assent29 to this; he felt that the whole company around the table, hired people and all, were eagerly watching him and the burly, bold-faced preacher opposite, as if they were about to engage in gladiatorial combat.
But Mr. Bunce would not permit the challenge to be declined. He stroked his ochre-hued chin whisker, looked complacently30 around the board, and asked:
“I s’pose you’ve brought your white and black riggins’ along, eh? Or don’t you wear ’em except in Church?”
There was a pained look in Mr. Turner’s face; he made a little gesture toward the folding doors leading to the parlor31, beyond which lay the dead, and murmured:
“It will be better, will it not, to speak of these matters together, after dinner?”
Again the Rev. Stephen glanced around the table, looking especially toward Miss Sabrina for approval, and remarked loftily:
“There is no need of concealment32 here, sir. It is all in the family here. We all know that the Mother in Israel who has departed was formerly33 of your communion, and if she wanted to have you here, sir, at her funeral, why well and good. But the rest of this sorrowin’ family, sir, this stricken household, air Baptists—”
“I declare! there’s the Burrells drivin’ into the yard, a’ready!” said Alvira, rising from her chair abruptly34. “If you’re threw we better hustle35 these things aout, naow; you women won’t more’n have time to dress ’fore they’ll all be here.”
The interruption seemed a welcome one to everybody, for there was a general movement on both sides of Mr. Bunce, which he, with his sentence unfinished, was constrained36 to join.
The third stranger, a small, elderly man with a mobile countenance37 and rusty38 black clothes, drew himself up, put on a modifiedly doleful expression, and, speaking for the first time, assumed control of everything:
“Naow, Milton, you ’n’ Leander git the table aout, ’n’ bring in all the extry chairs, ’n’ set ’em ’raound in rows. Squeeze ’em pooty well together in back, but the front ones kind o’ spread aout. You, Miss Sabriny, ’n’ the lady”—indicating Isabel with his thumb—“’n’ Annie’d better go upstairs ’n’ git yer bonnets39 on, ’n’ things, ’n’ go ’n’ set in the room at the head o’ the stairs. You men, tew, git your gloves on, ’n’ naow be sure ’n’ have your hankch’fs in some pocket where you can git at ’em with your gloves on—’n’ have your hats in your hands, ‘n’ then go ’n’ set with the ladies. Miss Sabriny, you’ll come daown arm-in-arm with yer brother, when I call, ’n’ then Albert ’n’ his wife, ’n’ John with Annie, ’n’ Seth with—pshaw, there’s odd numbers. Well, Seth can come alone. And dew keep step comin’ daown stairs!”
“’N’ naow, gents,” turning to the Rev. Mr. Turner, “your gaown’s in the fust room to the right on the landin’, and if you”—addressing Mr. Bunce—“will go up with him, and arrange ’baout the services, so’s to come daown together—it’ll look pootier than to straggle in by yourselves,—’n’ you, Milton, ain’t you got somethin’ besides overalls41 to put on?”
Thus the autocrat42 cleared the living room. Then, going around through the front hall, he entered the parlor to receive, with solemn dignity and a fine eye to their relative social merit, the first comers.
These were almost exclusively women, dressed in Sunday garb43. As each buggy or democrat44 wagon45 drove up inside the gate, and discharged its burden, the men would lead the horses further on, to be hitched46 under or near the shed, and then saunter around to the kitchen side of the house, where cider was on tap, and other men were standing47 in the sunshine, chewing tobacco and conversing48 in low tones, while the women from each conveyance49 went straight to the front door, and got seats in the parlor as close to the coffin50 as possible. The separation of the sexes could hardly have been more rigorous in a synagogue. There were, indeed two or three meek, well-brushed men among the women, sitting, uncomfortable but resigned, in the geranium-scented gloom of the curtained parlor, but, as the more virile51 brethren outside would have said, they were men who didn’t count.
The task of the undertaker was neither light nor altogether smooth. There were some dozen chairs reserved, nearest the pall52, for the mourners, the clergymen and the mixed quartette expected from Thessaly. Every woman on entering made for these chairs, and the more unimportant and “low-down” she was in the rural scale of social values, the more confidently she essayed to get one of them. With all of these more or less argument was necessary—conducted in a buzzing whisper from which some squeak53 or guttural exclamation54 would now and again emerge. With some, the undertaker was compelled to be quite peremptory55; while one woman—Susan Jane Squires56, a slatternly, weak-eyed creature who presumed upon her position as sister-in-law of Milton, the hired man—had actually to be pushed away by sheer force.
Then there was the further labor57 of inducing all these disappointed ones to take the seats furthest back, so that late comers might not have to push by and over them, but efforts in this direction were only fitful at the best, and soon were practically abandoned.
“Fust come, fust sarved!” said old Mrs. Wimple. “I’m jes ez good ez them that’ll come bimeby, ’n’ ef I don’ mind their climbin’ over me, you needn’t!” and against this the undertaker could urge nothing satisfactory.
In the intervals58 of that functionary’s activity, conversation was quite general, carried on in whispers which, in the aggregate59, sounded like the rustle60 of a smart breeze through the dry leaves of a beach tree. Many women were there who had never been in the house before—could indeed, have had no other chance of getting in. These had some fleeting61 interest in the funeral appointments, and the expense incident thereto, but their chief concern was the furnishing of the house. They furtively62 scraped the carpet with their feet to test its quality, they felt of the furniture to see if it had been re-varnished, they estimated the value of the curtains, speculated on the cost of the melodeon and its age, wondered when the ceiling had last been whitewashed63. Some, who knew the family better, discussed the lamentable64 decline of the Fairchilds in substance and standing within their recollection, and exchanged hints about the endemic mortgage stretching its sinister65 hand even to the very chairs they were sitting on. Others, still more intimate, rehearsed the details of the last and fatal illness, commented on the character of individuals in the family, and guessed how long old Lemuel would last, now that Cicely was gone.
In the centre of these circling waves of gossip lay the embodiment of the eternal silence. Listening, one might fain envy such an end to that living death of mental starvation which was the lot of all there, and which forced them, out of their womanhood, to chatter66 in the presence of death.
The singers came. They were from the village, belonging to the Congregational church there, and it was understood that they came out of liking67 for John Fairchild. None of the gathering68 knew them personally, but it was said that the contralto—the woman with the bird on her bonnet40, who took her seat at the melodeon—had had trouble with her husband. A fresh buzz of whispering ran round. Some stray word must have reached the contralto, for she colored and pretended to study the music before her intently, and, later, when “Pleyel’s Hymn” was being sung, she played so nervously69 that there was an utter collapse70 in the sharps and flats of the third line, which nearly threw the singers out.
The undertaker now stalked in, and stood on tiptoe to see if the back room was also filled. He had been out with the men at the kitchen door, fixing crape on the arms of six of the best dressed and most respectable looking farmers in an almost jocular mood, and drilling them affably in their duties; drinking cider, exchanging gossip with one or two acquaintances, and conducting himself generally like an ordinary mortal. He had now resumed his dictatorship.
Most of the men had followed him around to the front of the house, and clustered now in the hall, or in a group about the outer door, holding their hats on a level with their shoulders.
A rustle on the stairs told that the mourners were descending71. Then came the strains of the melodeon, and the singing, very low, solemn and sweet.
A little pause, and the full voice of the Baptist preacher was heard in prayer—then in some eulogistic72 remarks. What he said was largely nonsense, from any point of view, but the voice was that of the born exhorter73, deep, clear-toned, melodious74; there seemed to be a stop in it, as in an organ, which at pathetic parts gave forth75 a tremulous, weeping sound, and when this came not a dry eye could be found. He was over-fond of using this effect, as are most men possessing the trick, but no one noticed it, not even Isabel, who from sitting sternly intolerant of the whispering women around her, and indignant at Mr. Bunce for his dinner performance, found herself sobbing76 with all the rest when the tremulo stop was touched.
There was more singing, this time fine, simple old “St. Denis” and then the bearers were summoned in.
The men asked one another in murmurs77 outside if the Episcopal clargyman was to take no part in the services. Within, Mrs. Wimple went straighter to the point. She plucked him by the sleeve of his robe and leaning over with some difficulty, for she was a corpulent body, whispered to the hearing of a score of her neighbours:
“What air you here fer, mister, if you ain’t goin’ to say nor dew nothin’?”
“I officiate at the grave,” he had said, and then regretted all the remainder of the day having answered her at all.
On the return of the procession from the little knoll78 where the slate79 and marble tomb-stones of long dead Fairchilds bent80 over the new brown mound81, Annie and Seth walked together. There was silence between them for a time, which he broke suddenly.
“It’s all very hard, Annie, for you know how much mother and I loved each other. But, truly, the hardest thing of all is to think of staying here among these narrow dolts82. While she was here I could stand it. But I can’t any more.”
Annie said nothing. She felt his arm trembling against hers, and his voice was strained and excited. What could she say?
“They’re not like me,” he went on; “I have nothing in common with them. I hate the sight of the whole of them. I never realised till to-day how big a gulf83 there was between them and me. Didn’t you see it—what a mean, narrow-contracted lot they all were?”
“Who do you mean, Seth?”
“Why all of them. The Burrells, the Wimples, old Elhanan Pratt, old Lyman Tenney, that fellow Bunce—the whole lot of them. And the women too! Did you watch them—or, what’s worse, did you hear them? I wonder you can bear them yourself, Annie, any more than I can.”
“Sometimes it is hard, Seth, I admit; when I first came back to grandma from school it was awfully84 hard. But then I’ve got to live here, and reconcile myself to what the place offers,—and, after all, Seth, they are well-meaning people, and some of them are smart, too, in their way.”
“Oh, well-meaning—in their way,—yes! But I haven’t got to live here, Annie, and I haven’t got to reconcile myself, and I won’t That’s the long and short of it. I can make my living elsewhere—perhaps more than my living—and be among people who don’t make me angry every time I set eyes on them. And I can find friends, too, who feel as I do, and look at things as I do, instead of these country louts who only know abominable85 stories, and these foolish girls—who—who—”
“Nobody can blame you to-day, Seth, for feeling blue and sore, but you ought not to talk so, even now. They’re not all like what you say. Reuben Tracy, now, he’s been a good friend and a useful friend to you.”
“Yes, Rube’s a grand, good fellow, of course. I know all that. But then just take his case. He’s a poor schoolmaster now, just as he was five years ago, and will be twenty years from now. What kind of a life is that for a man?”
“And maybe the girls are—foolish, as you started to say, but—”
“Now, Annie, don’t think I m’eant anything by that, please! I know you’re the dearest girl and the best friend in the world. Truly, now, you won’t think I meant anything, will you?”
“No, Seth, I won’t” said Annie softly. It was her arm that trembled now.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
civilized
|
|
| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
sterile
|
|
| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
enervating
|
|
| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
groove
|
|
| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
desolating
|
|
| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
grotesque
|
|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
immortality
|
|
| n.不死，不朽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
travail
|
|
| n.阵痛；努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
isolation
|
|
| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
sardonic
|
|
| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
middle-aged
|
|
| adj.中年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
furry
|
|
| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
gracefully
|
|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
rev
|
|
| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
smacking
|
|
| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
discourse
|
|
| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
mastication
|
|
| n.咀嚼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
innately
|
|
| adv.天赋地；内在地，固有地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
artifice
|
|
| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
meek
|
|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
pompous
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
overture
|
|
| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
solace
|
|
| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
complacently
|
|
| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
concealment
|
|
| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
hustle
|
|
| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
constrained
|
|
| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
rusty
|
|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
bonnets
|
|
| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
overalls
|
|
| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
autocrat
|
|
| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
garb
|
|
| n.服装，装束 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
democrat
|
|
| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
wagon
|
|
| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
hitched
|
|
| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
conversing
|
|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
conveyance
|
|
| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
virile
|
|
| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
pall
|
|
| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
squeak
|
|
| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
peremptory
|
|
| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
squires
|
|
| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
aggregate
|
|
| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
rustle
|
|
| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
fleeting
|
|
| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
furtively
|
|
| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
whitewashed
|
|
| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
lamentable
|
|
| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
sinister
|
|
| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
chatter
|
|
| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
gathering
|
|
| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
collapse
|
|
| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
eulogistic
|
|
| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
exhorter
|
|
| n.劝勉者，告诫者，提倡者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
melodious
|
|
| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
sobbing
|
|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
murmurs
|
|
| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
knoll
|
|
| n.小山，小丘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
slate
|
|
| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
mound
|
|
| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
dolts
|
|
| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
83
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
abominable
|
|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |