Honest gold had gilded6 the tongues of unprejudiced and veracious7 witnesses. Truth, hired for the occasion, had blown her brazen8 trumpet9 in the court, a fine fan-fan in praise of justice. Maltravers’ guineas had instilled10 wondrous11 intelligence into sundry12 rustic13 noddles. Ophelia, a matrimonial martyr14, had been crowned with the crown of virgin15 liberty.
One night in early spring you might have seen a white-faced man writing at a table in the third-floor room of a Bloomsbury lodging-house. A cheap brass16 lamp shed an unpleasant savor4 from beneath its yellow paper shade. The table-cloth, a dingy17 red, was smutched with ink-stains and the dyes of many dinners. Faded chromographs covered the walls. The carpet was threadbare, the chintz curtains dirty. A few live coals still smoked in the unpolished grate.
Midnight was at hand; a church clock in the neighborhood had chimed the quarter. The footfalls in the street grew few and infrequent. London, vast, palpitating giant, had turned from toil18 to brief, healthless sleep. Her myriad19 fires burned dim under the stars. Her great heart slackened from the moil of greed and care.
The man before the lamp labored21 and bent22 his brows. Papers and a few books were squandered23 on the table, while under the lamp stood a bowl of golden primroses24, children of joy, fair stars of the dawning year. The man’s pen scratched feverishly25 over the paper. Often he would pause, stare at the lamp, glance at the golden flowers, and smile. His eyes were lustreless27 and heavy, his face thin. From time to time he would take up a written page, stare at the scrawled28 and erasured sheet, smite29 out a word with a stroke of the pen, sigh, and toss the page aside with a twinge of despair.
As the clock chimed midnight the door opened, and a girl in a red gown came in from the dark landing. Her hair, noosed30 with a strand31 of blue, poured over her white ears and about her shapely throat. There were shadows under her eyes; she looked thinner and more ethereal than of yore; the June freshness upon her face had faded to a more pearly gleam.
A brighter lustre26 kindled32 in the man’s tired eyes. The vision was gracious and fair to him as some green and dewy garden in a golden desert. He leaned back from his labor20, took a deep breath as to fill his heart with the breath of youth. Joan came softly towards him, adorable as love moving amid summer roses. The room with all its ugly penury33 seemed transformed by the glamour34 of her presence there.
She stood behind his chair, pillowing his head upon her breast, bending her face to his, so that her hair shone bright about his forehead.
“Dear, you are working too late.”
“Am I?”
“You look tired to death.”
“Not yet,” he answered her, smiling in her eyes. “Can I tire with love at my right hand?”
“Ah,” she said, touching35 his hair with her white fingers, “you try yourself too much; come with me, and sleep.”
He took her hand and held it over his heart.
“Gold, gold, gold, what a task-master art thou!”
“Is not the tale nearly ended?”
“No, not yet. This sensational3 stuff baffles me; I cannot force the vulgar speed enough. It is not easy to prostitute one’s art to fill the public maw. I wish to Heaven we could hear from Garfield.”
She sighed slightly; her arm quivered beneath his head and her eyes grew wistful.
“How much misery36 I have brought to you!” she said.
“Misery!”
“Shame and hunger.”
“Joan!”
He turned in his chair, drew her into his arms so that her head rested on his shoulder as she kneeled beside him. Her hair threaded his black coat with gold.
“Joan, wife, never speak so to me.”
“It is the truth.”
“A splendid truth to me. Would I return to my vile37 servitude and lose the glory of you out of my heart?”
She sighed deeply, the sigh of a woman well beloved, and looked up at him from amid her hair.
“I am utterly38 happy,” she said, “for we are together.”
“And that is heaven.”
“For me.”
She laid her fingers upon his closed lids and kissed his lips.
“You must rest to-night,” she said, “for you are weary, and a tired brain thinks but feebly. Come, I will gather your papers and put out the lamp. I am your wife, and I must care for you.”
点击收听单词发音
1 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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2 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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3 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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4 savor | |
vt.品尝,欣赏;n.味道,风味;情趣,趣味 | |
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5 savored | |
v.意味,带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 );给…加调味品;使有风味;品尝 | |
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6 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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7 veracious | |
adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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8 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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9 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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10 instilled | |
v.逐渐使某人获得(某种可取的品质),逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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12 sundry | |
adj.各式各样的,种种的 | |
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13 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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14 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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15 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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16 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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17 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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18 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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19 myriad | |
adj.无数的;n.无数,极大数量 | |
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20 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 | |
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21 labored | |
adj.吃力的,谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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22 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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23 squandered | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24 primroses | |
n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 );淡黄色;追求享乐(招至恶果) | |
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25 feverishly | |
adv. 兴奋地 | |
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26 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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27 lustreless | |
adj.无光泽的,无光彩的,平淡乏味的 | |
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28 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29 smite | |
v.重击;彻底击败;n.打;尝试;一点儿 | |
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30 noosed | |
v.绞索,套索( noose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 strand | |
vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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32 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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33 penury | |
n.贫穷,拮据 | |
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34 glamour | |
n.魔力,魅力;vt.迷住 | |
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35 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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36 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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37 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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38 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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