‘I believe,’ said Coningsby, ‘that if Charles I. had hanged all the Catholic priests that Parliament petitioned him to execute, he would never have lost his crown.’
‘You were mentioning my father,’ continued Lyle. ‘He certainly was a Whig. Galled8 by political exclusion9, he connected himself with that party in the State which began to intimate emancipation10. After all, they did not emancipate11 us. It was the fall of the Papacy in England that founded the Whig aristocracy; a fact that must always lie at the bottom of their hearts, as, I assure you, it does of mine.
‘I gathered at an early age,’ continued Lyle, ‘that I was expected to inherit my father’s political connections with the family estates. Under ordinary circumstances this would probably have occurred. In times that did not force one to ponder, it is not likely I should have recoiled12 from uniting myself with a party formed of the best families in England, and ever famous for accomplished13 men and charming women. But I enter life in the midst of a convulsion in which the very principles of our political and social systems are called in question. I cannot unite myself with the party of destruction. It is an operative cause alien to my being. What, then, offers itself? The Duke talks to me of Conservative principles; but he does not inform me what they are. I observe indeed a party in the State whose rule it is to consent to no change, until it is clamorously called for, and then instantly to yield; but those are Concessionary, not Conservative principles. This party treats institutions as we do our pheasants, they preserve only to destroy them. But is there a statesman among these Conservatives who offers us a dogma for a guide, or defines any great political truth which we should aspire14 to establish? It seems to me a barren thing, this Conservatism, an unhappy cross-breed; the mule15 of politics that engenders16 nothing. What do you think of all this, Coningsby? I assure you I feel confused, perplexed17, harassed18. I know I have public duties to perform; I am, in fact, every day of my life solicited19 by all parties to throw the weight of my influence in one scale or another; but I am paralysed. I often wish I had no position in the country. The sense of its responsibility depresses me; makes me miserable20. I speak to you without reserve; with a frankness which our short acquaintance scarcely authorises; but Henry Sydney has so often talked to me of you, and I have so long wished to know you, that I open my heart without restraint.’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Coningsby, ‘you have but described my feelings when you depicted21 your own. My mind on these subjects has long been a chaos22. I float in a sea of troubles, and should long ago have been wrecked23 had I not been sustained by a profound, however vague, conviction, that there are still great truths, if we could but work them out; that Government, for instance, should be loved and not hated, and that Religion should be a faith and not a form.’
The moral influence of residence furnishes some of the most interesting traits of our national manners. The presence of this power was very apparent throughout the district that surrounded Beaumanoir. The ladies of that house were deeply sensible of the responsibility of their position; thoroughly24 comprehending their duties, they fulfilled them without affectation, with earnestness, and with that effect which springs from a knowledge of the subject. The consequences were visible in the tone of the peasantry being superior to that which we too often witness. The ancient feudal25 feeling that lingers in these sequestered26 haunts is an instrument which, when skilfully27 wielded29, may be productive of vast social benefit. The Duke understood this well; and his family had imbibed30 all his views, and seconded them. Lady Everingham, once more in the scene of her past life, resumed the exercise of gentle offices, as if she had never ceased to be a daughter of the house, and as if another domain31 had not its claims upon her solicitude32. Coningsby was often the companion of herself and her sister in their pilgrimages of charity and kindness. He admired the graceful33 energy, and thorough acquaintance with details, with which Lady Everingham superintended schools, organised societies of relief, and the discrimination which she brought to bear upon individual cases of suffering or misfortune. He was deeply interested as he watched the magic of her manner, as she melted the obdurate34, inspired the slothful, consoled the afflicted35, and animated36 with her smiles and ready phrase the energetic and the dutiful. Nor on these occasions was Lady Theresa seen under less favourable37 auspices38. Without the vivacity39 of her sister, there was in her demeanour a sweet seriousness of purpose that was most winning; and sometimes a burst of energy, a trait of decision, which strikingly contrasted with the somewhat over-controlled character of her life in drawing-rooms.
In the society of these engaging companions, time for Coningsby glided40 away in a course which he sometimes wished nothing might disturb. Apart from them, he frequently felt himself pensive41 and vaguely42 disquieted43. Even the society of Henry Sydney or Eustace Lyle, much as under ordinary circumstances they would have been adapted to his mood, did not compensate44 for the absence of that indefinite, that novel, that strange, yet sweet excitement, which he felt, he knew not exactly how or why, stealing over his senses. Sometimes the countenance45 of Theresa Sydney flitted over his musing46 vision; sometimes the merry voice of Lady Everingham haunted his ear. But to be their companion in ride or ramble47; to avoid any arrangement which for many hours should deprive him of their presence; was every day with Coningsby a principal object.
One day he had been out shooting rabbits with Lyle and Henry Sydney, and returned with them late to Beaumanoir to dinner. He had not enjoyed his sport, and he had not shot at all well. He had been dreamy, silent, had deeply felt the want of Lady Everingham’s conversation, that was ever so poignant48 and so interestingly personal to himself; one of the secrets of her sway, though Coningsby was not then quite conscious of it. Talk to a man about himself, and he is generally captivated. That is the real way to win him. The only difference between men and women in this respect is, that most women are vain, and some men are not. There are some men who have no self-love; but if they have, female vanity is but a trifling49 and airy passion compared with the vast voracity50 of appetite which in the sterner sex can swallow anything, and always crave51 for more.
When Coningsby entered the drawing-room, there seemed a somewhat unusual bustle52 in the room, but as the twilight53 had descended54, it was at first rather difficult to distinguish who was present. He soon perceived that there were strangers. A gentleman of pleasing appearance was near a sofa on which the Duchess and Lady Everingham were seated, and discoursing55 with some volubility. His phrases seemed to command attention; his audience had an animated glance, eyes sparkling with intelligence and interest; not a word was disregarded. Coningsby did not advance as was his custom; he had a sort of instinct, that the stranger was discoursing of matters of which he knew nothing. He turned to a table, he took up a book, which he began to read upside downwards56. A hand was lightly placed on his shoulder. He looked round, it was another stranger; who said, however, in a tone of familiar friendliness57,
‘How do you do, Coningsby?’
It was a young man about four-and-twenty years of age, tall, good-looking. Old recollections, his intimate greeting, a strong family likeness58, helped Coningsby to conjecture59 correctly who was the person who addressed him. It was, indeed, the eldest60 son of the Duke, the Marquis of Beaumanoir, who had arrived at his father’s unexpectedly with his friend, Mr. Melton, on their way to the north.
Mr. Melton was a gentleman of the highest fashion, and a great favourite in society. He was about thirty, good-looking, with an air that commanded attention, and manners, though facile, sufficiently61 finished. He was communicative, though calm, and without being witty62, had at his service a turn of phrase, acquired by practice and success, which was, or which always seemed to be, poignant. The ladies seemed especially to be delighted at his arrival. He knew everything of everybody they cared about; and Coningsby listened in silence to names which for the first time reached his ears, but which seemed to excite great interest. Mr. Melton frequently addressed his most lively observations and his most sparkling anecdotes63 to Lady Everingham, who evidently relished64 all that he said, and returned him in kind.
Throughout the dinner Lady Everingham and Mr. Melton maintained what appeared a most entertaining conversation, principally about things and persons which did not in any way interest our hero; who, however, had the satisfaction of hearing Lady Everingham, in the drawing-room, say in a careless tone to the Duchess.
‘I am so glad, mamma, that Mr. Melton has come; we wanted some amusement.’
What a confession66! What a revelation to Coningsby of his infinite insignificance67! Coningsby entertained a great aversion for Mr. Melton, but felt his spirit unequal to the social contest. The genius of the untutored, inexperienced youth quailed68 before that of the long-practised, skilful28 man of the world. What was the magic of this man? What was the secret of this ease, that nothing could disturb, and yet was not deficient69 in deference70 and good taste? And then his dress, it seemed fashioned by some unearthly artist; yet it was impossible to detect the unobtrusive causes of the general effect that was irresistible71. Coningsby’s coat was made by Stultz; almost every fellow in the sixth form had his coats made by Stultz; yet Coningsby fancied that his own garment looked as if it had been furnished by some rustic72 slopseller. He began to wonder where Mr. Melton got his boots from, and glanced at his own, which, though made in St. James’s Street, seemed to him to have a cloddish air.
Lady Everingham was determined73 that Mr. Melton should see Beaumanoir to the greatest advantage. Mr. Melton had never been there before, except at Christmas, with the house full of visitors and factitious gaiety. Now he was to see the country. Accordingly, there were long rides every day, which Lady Everingham called expeditions, and which generally produced some slight incident which she styled an adventure. She was kind to Coningsby, but had no time to indulge in the lengthened74 conversations which he had previously75 found so magical. Mr. Melton was always on the scene, the monopolising hero, it would seem, of every thought, and phrase, and plan. Coningsby began to think that Beaumanoir was not so delightful76 a place as he had imagined. He began to think that he had stayed there perhaps too long. He had received a letter from Mr. Rigby, to inform him that he was expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning of September, to meet Lord Monmouth, who had returned to England, and for grave and special reasons was about to reside at his chief seat, which he had not visited for many years. Coningsby had intended to have remained at Beaumanoir until that time; but suddenly it occurred to him, that the Age of Ruins was past, and that he ought to seize the opportunity of visiting Manchester, which was in the same county as the castle of his grandfather. So difficult is it to speculate upon events! Muse65 as we may, we are the creatures of circumstances; and the unexpected arrival of a London dandy at the country-seat of an English nobleman sent this representative of the New Generation, fresh from Eton, nursed in prejudices, yet with a mind predisposed to inquiry77 and prone78 to meditation79, to a scene apt to stimulate80 both intellectual processes; which demanded investigation81 and induced thought, the great METROPOLIS82 OF LABOUR.
END OF BOOK III.
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1 perilled | |
置…于危险中(peril的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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2 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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3 adverse | |
adj.不利的;有害的;敌对的,不友好的 | |
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4 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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5 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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6 relentless | |
adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
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7 bigotry | |
n.偏见,偏执,持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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8 galled | |
v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 );擦伤;烦扰;侮辱 | |
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9 exclusion | |
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
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10 emancipation | |
n.(从束缚、支配下)解放 | |
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11 emancipate | |
v.解放,解除 | |
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12 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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13 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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14 aspire | |
vi.(to,after)渴望,追求,有志于 | |
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15 mule | |
n.骡子,杂种,执拗的人 | |
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16 engenders | |
v.产生(某形势或状况),造成,引起( engender的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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18 harassed | |
adj. 疲倦的,厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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19 solicited | |
v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 );(指娼妇)拉客;索求;征求 | |
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20 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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21 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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22 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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23 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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24 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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25 feudal | |
adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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26 sequestered | |
adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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27 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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28 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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29 wielded | |
手持着使用(武器、工具等)( wield的过去式和过去分词 ); 具有; 运用(权力); 施加(影响) | |
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30 imbibed | |
v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 );喝;吸取;吸气 | |
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31 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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32 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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33 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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34 obdurate | |
adj.固执的,顽固的 | |
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35 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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37 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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38 auspices | |
n.资助,赞助 | |
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39 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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40 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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41 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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42 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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43 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44 compensate | |
vt.补偿,赔偿;酬报 vi.弥补;补偿;抵消 | |
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45 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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46 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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47 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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48 poignant | |
adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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49 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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50 voracity | |
n.贪食,贪婪 | |
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51 crave | |
vt.渴望得到,迫切需要,恳求,请求 | |
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52 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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53 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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54 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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55 discoursing | |
演说(discourse的现在分词形式) | |
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56 downwards | |
adj./adv.向下的(地),下行的(地) | |
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57 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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58 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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59 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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60 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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61 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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62 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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63 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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64 relished | |
v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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65 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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66 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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67 insignificance | |
n.不重要;无价值;无意义 | |
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68 quailed | |
害怕,发抖,畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69 deficient | |
adj.不足的,不充份的,有缺陷的 | |
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70 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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71 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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72 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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73 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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74 lengthened | |
(时间或空间)延长,伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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76 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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77 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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78 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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79 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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80 stimulate | |
vt.刺激,使兴奋;激励,使…振奋 | |
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81 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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82 metropolis | |
n.首府;大城市 | |
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