My childhood was passed with a grandmother; that is to say, with a lady who represented that relative to me, and who took that title on herself. She had no claim to it, but I—being to that extent a little fool—had no suspicion of her. She had some children of her own family in her house, and some children of other people. All girls; ten in number, including me. We all lived together and were educated together.
I must have been about twelve years old when I began to see how determinedly4 those girls patronised me. I was told I was an orphan5. There was no other orphan among us; and I perceived (here was the first disadvantage of not being a fool) that they conciliated me in an insolent6 pity, and in a sense of superiority. I did not set this down as a discovery, rashly. I tried them often. I could hardly make them quarrel with me. When I succeeded with any of them, they were sure to come after an hour or two, and begin a reconciliation7. I tried them over and over again, and I never knew them wait for me to begin. They were always forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension8. Little images of grown people!
One of them was my chosen friend. I loved that stupid mite9 in a passionate10 way that she could no more deserve than I can remember without feeling ashamed of, though I was but a child. She had what they called an amiable11 temper, an affectionate temper. She could distribute, and did distribute pretty looks and smiles to every one among them. I believe there was not a soul in the place, except myself, who knew that she did it purposely to wound and gall12 me!
Nevertheless, I so loved that unworthy girl that my life was made stormy by my fondness for her. I was constantly lectured and disgraced for what was called ‘trying her;’ in other words charging her with her little perfidy13 and throwing her into tears by showing her that I read her heart. However, I loved her faithfully; and one time I went home with her for the holidays.
She was worse at home than she had been at school. She had a crowd of cousins and acquaintances, and we had dances at her house, and went out to dances at other houses, and, both at home and out, she tormented15 my love beyond endurance. Her plan was, to make them all fond of her—and so drive me wild with jealousy16. To be familiar and endearing with them all—and so make me mad with envying them. When we were left alone in our bedroom at night, I would reproach her with my perfect knowledge of her baseness; and then she would cry and cry and say I was cruel, and then I would hold her in my arms till morning: loving her as much as ever, and often feeling as if, rather than suffer so, I could so hold her in my arms and plunge17 to the bottom of a river—where I would still hold her after we were both dead.
It came to an end, and I was relieved. In the family there was an aunt who was not fond of me. I doubt if any of the family liked me much; but I never wanted them to like me, being altogether bound up in the one girl. The aunt was a young woman, and she had a serious way with her eyes of watching me. She was an audacious woman, and openly looked compassionately18 at me. After one of the nights that I have spoken of, I came down into a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I heard this aunt speaking to her about me as I entered. I stopped where I was, among the leaves, and listened.
The aunt said, ‘Charlotte, Miss Wade19 is wearing you to death, and this must not continue.’ I repeat the very words I heard.
Now, what did she answer? Did she say, ‘It is I who am wearing her to death, I who am keeping her on a rack and am the executioner, yet she tells me every night that she loves me devotedly21, though she knows what I make her undergo?’ No; my first memorable22 experience was true to what I knew her to be, and to all my experience. She began sobbing23 and weeping (to secure the aunt’s sympathy to herself), and said, ‘Dear aunt, she has an unhappy temper; other girls at school, besides I, try hard to make it better; we all try hard.’
Upon that the aunt fondled her, as if she had said something noble instead of despicable and false, and kept up the infamous24 pretence25 by replying, ‘But there are reasonable limits, my dear love, to everything, and I see that this poor miserable26 girl causes you more constant and useless distress27 than even so good an effort justifies28.’
The poor miserable girl came out of her concealment29, as you may be prepared to hear, and said, ‘Send me home.’ I never said another word to either of them, or to any of them, but ‘Send me home, or I will walk home alone, night and day!’ When I got home, I told my supposed grandmother that, unless I was sent away to finish my education somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any one of them came back, I would burn my sight away by throwing myself into the fire, rather than I would endure to look at their plotting faces.
I went among young women next, and I found them no better. Fair words and fair pretences30; but I penetrated31 below those assertions of themselves and depreciations of me, and they were no better. Before I left them, I learned that I had no grandmother and no recognised relation. I carried the light of that information both into my past and into my future. It showed me many new occasions on which people triumphed over me, when they made a pretence of treating me with consideration, or doing me a service.
A man of business had a small property in trust for me. I was to be a governess; I became a governess; and went into the family of a poor nobleman, where there were two daughters—little children, but the parents wished them to grow up, if possible, under one instructress. The mother was young and pretty. From the first, she made a show of behaving to me with great delicacy32. I kept my resentment33 to myself; but I knew very well that it was her way of petting the knowledge that she was my Mistress, and might have behaved differently to her servant if it had been her fancy.
I say I did not resent it, nor did I; but I showed her, by not gratifying her, that I understood her. When she pressed me to take wine, I took water. If there happened to be anything choice at table, she always sent it to me: but I always declined it, and ate of the rejected dishes. These disappointments of her patronage34 were a sharp retort, and made me feel independent.
I liked the children. They were timid, but on the whole disposed to attach themselves to me. There was a nurse, however, in the house, a rosy-faced woman always making an obtrusive35 pretence of being gay and good-humoured, who had nursed them both, and who had secured their affections before I saw them. I could almost have settled down to my fate but for this woman. Her artful devices for keeping herself before the children in constant competition with me, might have blinded many in my place; but I saw through them from the first. On the pretext36 of arranging my rooms and waiting on me and taking care of my wardrobe (all of which she did busily), she was never absent. The most crafty37 of her many subtleties38 was her feint of seeking to make the children fonder of me. She would lead them to me and coax39 them to me. ‘Come to good Miss Wade, come to dear Miss Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you very much. Miss Wade is a clever lady, who has read heaps of books, and can tell you far better and more interesting stories than I know. Come and hear Miss Wade!’ How could I engage their attentions, when my heart was burning against these ignorant designs? How could I wonder, when I saw their innocent faces shrinking away, and their arms twining round her neck, instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking their curls from her face, and say, ‘They’ll come round soon, Miss Wade; they’re very simple and loving, ma’am; don’t be at all cast down about it, ma’am’—exulting over me!
There was another thing the woman did. At times, when she saw that she had safely plunged40 me into a black despondent41 brooding by these means, she would call the attention of the children to it, and would show them the difference between herself and me. ‘Hush! Poor Miss Wade is not well. Don’t make a noise, my dears, her head aches. Come and comfort her. Come and ask her if she is better; come and ask her to lie down. I hope you have nothing on your mind, ma’am. Don’t take on, ma’am, and be sorry!’
It became intolerable. Her ladyship, my Mistress, coming in one day when I was alone, and at the height of feeling that I could support it no longer, I told her I must go. I could not bear the presence of that woman Dawes.
I knew beforehand she would say so; I was quite prepared for it; I only answered, it was not for me to contradict my Mistress; I must go.
‘I hope, Miss Wade,’ she returned, instantly assuming the tone of superiority she had always so thinly concealed42, ‘that nothing I have ever said or done since we have been together, has justified43 your use of that disagreeable word, “Mistress.” It must have been wholly inadvertent on my part. Pray tell me what it is.’
I replied that I had no complaint to make, either of my Mistress or to my Mistress; but I must go.
She hesitated a moment, and then sat down beside me, and laid her hand on mine. As if that honour would obliterate44 any remembrance!
‘Miss Wade, I fear you are unhappy, through causes over which I have no influence.’
I smiled, thinking of the experience the word awakened45, and said, ‘I have an unhappy temper, I suppose.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘It is an easy way of accounting46 for anything,’ said I.
‘It may be; but I did not say so. What I wish to approach is something very different. My husband and I have exchanged some remarks upon the subject, when we have observed with pain that you have not been easy with us.’
‘Easy? Oh! You are such great people, my lady,’ said I.
‘I am unfortunate in using a word which may convey a meaning—and evidently does—quite opposite to my intention.’ (She had not expected my reply, and it shamed her.) ‘I only mean, not happy with us. It is a difficult topic to enter on; but, from one young woman to another, perhaps—in short, we have been apprehensive47 that you may allow some family circumstances of which no one can be more innocent than yourself, to prey48 upon your spirits. If so, let us entreat49 you not to make them a cause of grief. My husband himself, as is well known, formerly50 had a very dear sister who was not in law his sister, but who was universally beloved and respected—’
I saw directly that they had taken me in for the sake of the dead woman, whoever she was, and to have that boast of me and advantage of me; I saw, in the nurse’s knowledge of it, an encouragement to goad51 me as she had done; and I saw, in the children’s shrinking away, a vague impression, that I was not like other people. I left that house that night.
After one or two short and very similar experiences, which are not to the present purpose, I entered another family where I had but one pupil: a girl of fifteen, who was the only daughter. The parents here were elderly people: people of station, and rich. A nephew whom they had brought up was a frequent visitor at the house, among many other visitors; and he began to pay me attention. I was resolute52 in repulsing53 him; for I had determined3 when I went there, that no one should pity me or condescend54 to me. But he wrote me a letter. It led to our being engaged to be married.
He was a year younger than I, and young-looking even when that allowance was made. He was on absence from India, where he had a post that was soon to grow into a very good one. In six months we were to be married, and were to go to India. I was to stay in the house, and was to be married from the house. Nobody objected to any part of the plan.
I cannot avoid saying he admired me; but, if I could, I would. Vanity has nothing to do with the declaration, for his admiration55 worried me. He took no pains to hide it; and caused me to feel among the rich people as if he had bought me for my looks, and made a show of his purchase to justify56 himself. They appraised57 me in their own minds, I saw, and were curious to ascertain58 what my full value was. I resolved that they should not know. I was immovable and silent before them; and would have suffered any one of them to kill me sooner than I would have laid myself out to bespeak59 their approval.
He told me I did not do myself justice. I told him I did, and it was because I did and meant to do so to the last, that I would not stoop to propitiate60 any of them. He was concerned and even shocked, when I added that I wished he would not parade his attachment61 before them; but he said he would sacrifice even the honest impulses of his affection to my peace.
Under that pretence he began to retort upon me. By the hour together, he would keep at a distance from me, talking to any one rather than to me. I have sat alone and unnoticed, half an evening, while he conversed62 with his young cousin, my pupil. I have seen all the while, in people’s eyes, that they thought the two looked nearer on an equality than he and I. I have sat, divining their thoughts, until I have felt that his young appearance made me ridiculous, and have raged against myself for ever loving him.
For I did love him once. Undeserving as he was, and little as he thought of all these agonies that it cost me—agonies which should have made him wholly and gratefully mine to his life’s end—I loved him. I bore with his cousin’s praising him to my face, and with her pretending to think that it pleased me, but full well knowing that it rankled63 in my breast; for his sake. While I have sat in his presence recalling all my slights and wrongs, and deliberating whether I should not fly from the house at once and never see him again—I have loved him.
His aunt (my Mistress you will please to remember) deliberately64, wilfully65, added to my trials and vexations. It was her delight to expatiate66 on the style in which we were to live in India, and on the establishment we should keep, and the company we should entertain when he got his advancement67. My pride rose against this barefaced68 way of pointing out the contrast my married life was to present to my then dependent and inferior position. I suppressed my indignation; but I showed her that her intention was not lost upon me, and I repaid her annoyance69 by affecting humility70. What she described would surely be a great deal too much honour for me, I would tell her. I was afraid I might not be able to support so great a change. Think of a mere71 governess, her daughter’s governess, coming to that high distinction! It made her uneasy, and made them all uneasy, when I answered in this way. They knew that I fully14 understood her.
It was at the time when my troubles were at their highest, and when I was most incensed72 against my lover for his ingratitude73 in caring as little as he did for the innumerable distresses74 and mortifications I underwent on his account, that your dear friend, Mr Gowan, appeared at the house. He had been intimate there for a long time, but had been abroad. He understood the state of things at a glance, and he understood me.
He was the first person I had ever seen in my life who had understood me. He was not in the house three times before I knew that he accompanied every movement of my mind. In his coldly easy way with all of them, and with me, and with the whole subject, I saw it clearly. In his light protestations of admiration of my future husband, in his enthusiasm regarding our engagement and our prospects75, in his hopeful congratulations on our future wealth and his despondent references to his own poverty—all equally hollow, and jesting, and full of mockery—I saw it clearly. He made me feel more and more resentful, and more and more contemptible76, by always presenting to me everything that surrounded me with some new hateful light upon it, while he pretended to exhibit it in its best aspect for my admiration and his own. He was like the dressed-up Death in the Dutch series; whatever figure he took upon his arm, whether it was youth or age, beauty or ugliness, whether he danced with it, sang with it, played with it, or prayed with it, he made it ghastly.
You will understand, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, he really condoled77 with me; that when he soothed78 me under my vexations, he laid bare every smarting wound I had; that when he declared my ‘faithful swain’ to be ‘the most loving young fellow in the world, with the tenderest heart that ever beat,’ he touched my old misgiving79 that I was made ridiculous. These were not great services, you may say. They were acceptable to me, because they echoed my own mind, and confirmed my own knowledge. I soon began to like the society of your dear friend better than any other.
When I perceived (which I did, almost as soon) that jealousy was growing out of this, I liked this society still better. Had I not been subject to jealousy, and were the endurances to be all mine? No. Let him know what it was! I was delighted that he should know it; I was delighted that he should feel keenly, and I hoped he did. More than that. He was tame in comparison with Mr Gowan, who knew how to address me on equal terms, and how to anatomise the wretched people around us.
This went on, until the aunt, my Mistress, took it upon herself to speak to me. It was scarcely worth alluding80 to; she knew I meant nothing; but she suggested from herself, knowing it was only necessary to suggest, that it might be better if I were a little less companionable with Mr Gowan.
I asked her how she could answer for what I meant? She could always answer, she replied, for my meaning nothing wrong. I thanked her, but said I would prefer to answer for myself and to myself. Her other servants would probably be grateful for good characters, but I wanted none.
Other conversation followed, and induced me to ask her how she knew that it was only necessary for her to make a suggestion to me, to have it obeyed? Did she presume on my birth, or on my hire? I was not bought, body and soul. She seemed to think that her distinguished81 nephew had gone into a slave-market and purchased a wife.
It would probably have come, sooner or later, to the end to which it did come, but she brought it to its issue at once. She told me, with assumed commiseration82, that I had an unhappy temper. On this repetition of the old wicked injury, I withheld83 no longer, but exposed to her all I had known of her and seen in her, and all I had undergone within myself since I had occupied the despicable position of being engaged to her nephew. I told her that Mr Gowan was the only relief I had had in my degradation84; that I had borne it too long, and that I shook it off too late; but that I would see none of them more. And I never did.
Your dear friend followed me to my retreat, and was very droll85 on the severance86 of the connection; though he was sorry, too, for the excellent people (in their way the best he had ever met), and deplored87 the necessity of breaking mere house-flies on the wheel. He protested before long, and far more truly than I then supposed, that he was not worth acceptance by a woman of such endowments, and such power of character; but—well, well—!
Your dear friend amused me and amused himself as long as it suited his inclinations88; and then reminded me that we were both people of the world, that we both understood mankind, that we both knew there was no such thing as romance, that we were both prepared for going different ways to seek our fortunes like people of sense, and that we both foresaw that whenever we encountered one another again we should meet as the best friends on earth. So he said, and I did not contradict him.
It was not very long before I found that he was courting his present wife, and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated her then, quite as much as I hate her now; and naturally, therefore, could desire nothing better than that she should marry him. But I was restlessly curious to look at her—so curious that I felt it to be one of the few sources of entertainment left to me. I travelled a little: travelled until I found myself in her society, and in yours. Your dear friend, I think, was not known to you then, and had not given you any of those signal marks of his friendship which he has bestowed89 upon you.
In that company I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose position there was a singular likeness90 to my own, and in whose character I was interested and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen91 patronage and selfishness, calling themselves kindness, protection, benevolence92, and other fine names, which I have described as inherent in my nature. I often heard it said, too, that she had ‘an unhappy temper.’ Well understanding what was meant by the convenient phrase, and wanting a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I thought I would try to release the girl from her bondage93 and sense of injustice94. I have no occasion to relate that I succeeded.
We have been together ever since, sharing my small means.
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1
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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passionate
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| 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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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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repulsing
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| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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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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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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