The counsels of Lord Monmouth, though they coincided with those of the Duke of Wellington, did not prevail with the Waverers. Several of these high-minded personages had had their windows broken, and they were of opinion that a man who lived at Naples was not a competent judge of the state of public feeling in England. Besides, the days are gone by for senates to have their beards plucked in the forum13. We live in an age of prudence14. The leaders of the people, now, generally follow. The truth is, the peers were in a fright. ‘Twas a pity; there is scarcely a less dignified15 entity16 than a patrician17 in a panic.
Among the most intimate companions of Coningsby at Eton, was Lord Henry Sydney, his kinsman18. Coningsby had frequently passed his holydays of late at Beaumanoir, the seat of the Duke, Lord Henry’s father. The Duke sat next to Lord Monmouth during the debate on the enfranchising19 question, and to while away the time, and from kindness of disposition20, spoke21, and spoke with warmth and favour, of his grandson. The polished Lord Monmouth bowed as if he were much gratified by this notice of one so dear to him. He had too much tact8 to admit that he had never yet seen his grandchild; but he asked some questions as to his progress and pursuits, his tastes and habits, which intimated the interest of an affectionate relative.
Nothing, however, was ever lost upon Lord Monmouth. No one had a more retentive22 memory, or a more observant mind. And the next day, when he received Mr. Rigby at his morning levee, Lord Monmouth performed this ceremony in the high style of the old court, and welcomed his visitors in bed, he said with imperturbable23 calmness, and as if he had been talking of trying a new horse, ‘Rigby, I should like to see the boy at Eton.’
There might be some objection to grant leave to Coningsby at this moment; but it was a rule with Mr. Rigby never to make difficulties, or at least to persuade his patron that he, and he only, could remove them. He immediately undertook that the boy should be forthcoming, and notwithstanding the excitement of the moment, he went off next morning to fetch him.
They arrived in town rather early; and Rigby, wishing to know how affairs were going on, ordered the servant to drive immediately to the head-quarters of the party; where a permanent committee watched every phasis of the impending24 revolution; and where every member of the Opposition25, of note and trust, was instantly admitted to receive or to impart intelligence.
It was certainly not without emotion that Coningsby contemplated26 his first interview with his grandfather. All his experience of the ties of relationship, however limited, was full of tenderness and rapture27. His memory often dwelt on his mother’s sweet embrace; and ever and anon a fitful phantom28 of some past passage of domestic love haunted his gushing29 heart. The image of his father was less fresh in his mind; but still it was associated with a vague sentiment of kindness and joy; and the allusions30 to her husband in his mother’s letters had cherished these impressions. To notice lesser31 sources of influence in his estimate of the domestic tie, he had witnessed under the roof of Beaumanoir the existence of a family bound together by the most beautiful affections. He could not forget how Henry Sydney was embraced by his sisters when he returned home; what frank and fraternal love existed between his kinsman and his elder brother; how affectionately the kind Duke had welcomed his son once more to the house where they had both been born; and the dim eyes, and saddened brows, and tones of tenderness, which rather looked than said farewell, when they went back to Eton.
And these rapturous meetings and these mournful adieus were occasioned only by a separation at the most of a few months, softened32 by constant correspondence and the communication of mutual33 sympathy. But Coningsby was to meet a relation, his near, almost his only, relation, for the first time; the relation, too, to whom he owed maintenance, education; it might be said, existence. It was a great incident for a great drama; something tragical34 in the depth and stir of its emotions. Even the imagination of the boy could not be insensible to its materials; and Coningsby was picturing to himself a beneficent and venerable gentleman pressing to his breast an agitated35 youth, when his reverie was broken by the carriage stopping before the gates of Monmouth House.
The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, and the carriage rolled into a huge court-yard. At its end Coningsby beheld36 a Palladian palace, with wings and colonnades37 encircling the court.
A double flight of steps led into a circular and marble hall, adorned38 with colossal39 busts40 of the Caesars; the staircase in fresco41 by Sir James Thornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of gods and heroes. It led into a vestibule, painted in arabesques42, hung with Venetian girandoles, and looking into gardens. Opening a door in this chamber43, and proceeding some little way down a corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived at the base of a private staircase. Ascending44 a few steps, they reached a landing-place hung with tapestry45. Drawing this aside, Mr. Rigby opened a door, and ushered46 Coningsby through an ante-chamber into a small saloon, of beautiful proportions, and furnished in a brilliant and delicate taste.
‘You will find more to amuse you here than where you were before,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘and I shall not be nearly so long absent.’ So saying, he entered into an inner apartment.
The walls of the saloon, which were covered with light blue satin, held, in silver panels, portraits of beautiful women, painted by Boucher. Couches and easy chairs of every shape invited in every quarter to luxurious repose47; while amusement was afforded by tables covered with caricatures, French novels, and endless miniatures of foreign dancers, princesses, and sovereigns.
But Coningsby was so impressed with the impending interview with his grandfather, that he neither sought nor required diversion. Now that the crisis was at hand, he felt agitated and nervous, and wished that he was again at Eton. The suspense48 was sickening, yet he dreaded49 still more the summons. He was not long alone; the door opened; he started, grew pale; he thought it was his grandfather; it was not even Mr. Rigby. It was Lord Monmouth’s valet.
‘Monsieur Konigby?’
‘My name is Coningsby,’ said the boy.
‘Milor is ready to receive you,’ said the valet.
Coningsby sprang forward with that desperation which the scaffold requires. His face was pale; his hand was moist; his heart beat with tumult2. He had occasionally been summoned by Dr. Keate; that, too, was awful work, but compared with the present, a morning visit. Music, artillery50, the roar of cannon51, and the blare of trumpets52, may urge a man on to a forlorn hope; ambition, one’s constituents53, the hell of previous failure, may prevail on us to do a more desperate thing; speak in the House of Commons; but there are some situations in life, such, for instance, as entering the room of a dentist, in which the prostration54 of the nervous system is absolute.
The moment had at length arrived when the desolate55 was to find a benefactor56, the forlorn a friend, the orphan57 a parent; when the youth, after a childhood of adversity, was to be formally received into the bosom58 of the noble house from which he had been so long estranged59, and at length to assume that social position to which his lineage entitled him. Manliness60 might support, affection might soothe61, the happy anguish62 of such a meeting; but it was undoubtedly63 one of those situations which stir up the deep fountains of our nature, and before which the conventional proprieties64 of our ordinary manners instantaneously vanish.
Coningsby with an uncertain step followed his guide through a bed-chamber, the sumptuousness65 of which he could not notice, into the dressing-room of Lord Monmouth. Mr. Rigby, facing Coningsby as he entered, was leaning over the back of a large chair, from which as Coningsby was announced by the valet, the Lord of the house slowly rose, for he was suffering slightly from the gout, his left hand resting on an ivory stick. Lord Monmouth was in height above the middle size, but somewhat portly and corpulent. His countenance66 was strongly marked; sagacity on the brow, sensuality in the mouth and jaw67. His head was bald, but there were remains68 of the rich brown locks on which he once prided himself. His large deep blue eye, madid and yet piercing, showed that the secretions69 of his brain were apportioned70, half to voluptuousness71, half to common sense. But his general mien72 was truly grand; full of a natural nobility, of which no one was more sensible than himself. Lord Monmouth was not in dishabille; on the contrary, his costume was exact, and even careful. Rising as we have mentioned when his grandson entered, and leaning with his left hand on his ivory cane73, he made Coningsby such a bow as Louis Quatorze might have bestowed74 on the ambassador of the United Provinces. Then extending his right hand, which the boy tremblingly touched, Lord Monmouth said:
‘How do you like Eton?’
This contrast to the reception which he had imagined, hoped, feared, paralysed the reviving energies of young Coningsby. He felt stupefied; he looked almost aghast. In the chaotic75 tumult of his mind, his memory suddenly seemed to receive some miraculous76 inspiration. Mysterious phrases heard in his earliest boyhood, unnoticed then, long since forgotten, rose to his ear. Who was this grandfather, seen not before, seen now for the first time? Where was the intervening link of blood between him and this superb and icy being? The boy sank into the chair which had been placed for him, and leaning on the table burst into tears.
Here was a business! If there were one thing which would have made Lord Monmouth travel from London to Naples at four-and-twenty hours’ notice, it was to avoid a scene. He hated scenes. He hated feelings. He saw instantly the mistake he had made in sending for his grandchild. He was afraid that Coningsby was tender-hearted like his father. Another tender-hearted Coningsby! Unfortunate family! Degenerate77 race! He decided78 in his mind that Coningsby must be provided for in the Church, and looked at Mr. Rigby, whose principal business it always was to disembarrass his patron from the disagreeable.
Mr. Rigby instantly came forward and adroitly79 led the boy into the adjoining apartment, Lord Monmouth’s bedchamber, closing the door of the dressing-room behind him.
‘My dear young friend,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘what is all this?’
‘What can be the matter?’ said Mr. Rigby.
‘I was thinking,’ said Coningsby, ‘of poor mamma!’
‘Hush!’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘Lord Monmouth never likes to hear of people who are dead; so you must take care never to mention your mother or your father.’
In the meantime Lord Monmouth had decided on the fate of Coningsby. The Marquis thought he could read characters by a glance, and in general he was successful, for his natural sagacity had been nurtured81 by great experience. His grandson was not to his taste; amiable82 no doubt, but spooney.
We are too apt to believe that the character of a boy is easily read. ‘Tis a mystery the most profound. Mark what blunders parents constantly make as to the nature of their own offspring, bred, too, under their eyes, and displaying every hour their characteristics. How often in the nursery does the genius count as a dunce because he is pensive83; while a rattling84 urchin85 is invested with almost supernatural qualities because his animal spirits make him impudent86 and flippant! The school-boy, above all others, is not the simple being the world imagines. In that young bosom are often stirring passions as strong as our own, desires not less violent, a volition87 not less supreme88. In that young bosom what burning love, what intense ambition, what avarice89, what lust90 of power; envy that fiends might emulate91, hate that man might fear!
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收听单词发音
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1
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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proxies
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| n.代表权( proxy的名词复数 )；（测算用的）代替物；（对代理人的）委托书；（英国国教教区献给主教等的）巡游费 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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enfranchising
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| v.给予选举权( enfranchise的现在分词 )；（从奴隶制中）解放 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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49
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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50
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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54
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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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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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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secretions
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| n.分泌（物）( secretion的名词复数 ) | |
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apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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80
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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82
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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83
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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84
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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85
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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86
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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87
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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88
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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89
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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90
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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91
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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