So quietly did the mowing12 of the old scythe13 go on, that fully14 three months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid in one tomb in the strangers’ cemetery15 at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were established in their own house: a little mansion16, rather of the Tite Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell in it of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses, but extremely dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this enviable abode17 (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler had intended to proceed at once to the demolition18 of the Bosom19, when active hostilities20 had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with his tidings of death. Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours; after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle’s. A gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished21 family (according to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back again.
Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable22 cold in its head, was that evening particularly stifling23. The bells of the churches had done their worst in the way of clanging among the unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of the churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out opaque24 black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two.
‘It’s like lying in a well,’ said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position fretfully. ‘Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don’t you say it?’
Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness25, ‘My life, I have nothing to say.’ But, as the repartee26 did not occur to him, he contented27 himself with coming in from the balcony and standing28 at the side of his wife’s couch.
‘Good gracious, Edmund!’ said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, ‘you are absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don’t!’
Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind—perhaps in a more literal absence of mind than is usually understood by the phrase—had smelt29 so hard at a sprig in his hand as to be on the verge30 of the offence in question. He smiled, said, ‘I ask your pardon, my dear,’ and threw it out of window.
‘You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; ‘you look so aggravatingly31 large by this light. Do sit down.’
‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same spot.
‘If I didn’t know that the longest day was past,’ said Fanny, yawning in a dreary32 manner, ‘I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I never did experience such a day.’
‘Is that your fan, my love?’ asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and presenting it.
‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, more wearily yet, ‘don’t ask weak questions, I entreat33 you not. Whose can it be but mine?’
‘Yes, I thought it was yours,’ said Mr Sparkler.
‘Then you shouldn’t ask,’ retorted Fanny. After a little while she turned on her sofa and exclaimed, ‘Dear me, dear me, there never was such a long day as this!’ After another little while, she got up slowly, walked about, and came back again.
‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, ‘I think you must have got the fidgets.’
‘Oh, Fidgets!’ repeated Mrs Sparkler. ‘Don’t.’
‘My adorable girl,’ urged Mr Sparkler, ‘try your aromatic34 vinegar. I have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her.
And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably35 fine woman, with no non—’
‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. ‘It’s beyond all patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the world, I am certain.’
Mr Sparkler looked meekly36 after her as she lounged about the room, and he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its pillows.
‘Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you do look so big!’
Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn’t help it, and said that ‘our fellows,’ without more particularly indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.
‘You ought to have told me so before,’ Fanny complained.
‘My dear,’ returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, ‘I didn’t know It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.’
‘There! For goodness sake, don’t talk,’ said Fanny; ‘I want to talk, myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of dreadful depression in which I am this evening.’
‘My dear,’ answered Mr Sparkler; ‘being as you are well known to be, a remarkably fine woman with no—’
‘Oh, good GRACIOUS!’ cried Fanny.
Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation37, accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to saying in explanation:
‘I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in society.’
‘Calculated to shine in society,’ retorted Fanny with great irritability38; ‘yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover, in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa’s death, and my poor uncle’s—though I do not disguise from myself that the last was a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better die—’
‘Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking of my poor uncle?’
‘You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.’
‘Now you have put me out,’ observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her fan, ‘and I had better go to bed.’
‘Don’t do that, my love,’ urged Mr Sparkler. ‘Take time.’
Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her eyebrows40 raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly41 given up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner:
‘What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for very momentous42 reasons to shine in society—I find myself in a situation which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It’s too bad, really!’
‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I don’t think it need keep you at home.’
‘Edmund, you ridiculous creature,’ returned Fanny, with great indignation; ‘do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not wholly devoid43 of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly44 is boundless45.’
Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought ‘it might be got over.’
‘Got over!’ repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn.
‘For a time,’ Mr Sparkler submitted.
Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively46 it was enough to make one wish one was dead!
‘However,’ she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her sense of personal ill-usage; ‘provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems, I suppose it must be submitted to.’
‘Especially as it was to be expected,’ said Mr Sparkler.
‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, ‘if you have nothing more becoming to do than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand, when she finds herself in adversity, I think you had better go to bed!’
Mr Sparkler was much afflicted47 by the charge, and offered a most tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the window-curtain, to tone himself down.
‘Now, Edmund,’ she said, stretching out her fan, and touching48 him with it at arm’s length, ‘what I was going to say to you when you began as usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here; for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has been.’
Mr Sparkler’s sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no nonsense about it. He added, ‘And besides, you know it’s likely that you’ll soon have your sister—’
‘Dearest Amy, yes!’ cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection. ‘Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.’
Mr Sparkler was going to say ‘No?’ interrogatively, but he saw his danger and said it assentingly, ‘No, Oh dear no; she wouldn’t do here alone.’
‘No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues49 of the precious child of that still character that they require a contrast—require life and movement around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts than one.’
‘That’s it,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Roused.’
‘Pray don’t, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it. Speaking of Amy;—my poor little pet was devotedly50 attached to poor papa, and no doubt will have lamented51 his loss exceedingly, and grieved very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I unhappily was not.’
Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, ‘Dear, dear, beloved papa! How truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!’
‘From the effects of that trying time,’ she pursued, ‘my good little Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa’s affairs from being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in Sicily, sufficiently52 to come over, and administer, or execute, or whatever it may be that will have to be done.’
‘He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round,’ Mr Sparkler made bold to opine.
‘For a wonder, I can agree with you,’ returned his wife, languidly turning her eyelids53 a little in his direction (she held forth54, in general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), ‘and can adopt your words. He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round. There are times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!’
Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had had, biggodd, a long bout9 of it, my dear girl.
‘If Bout, Edmund,’ returned Mrs Sparkler, ‘is the slang term for indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion on the barbarous language you address to Edward’s sister. That he contracted Malaria55 Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa before his death—or under some other unwholesome circumstances—is indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.’
Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows in the West Indies with Yellow Jack56. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again, and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies, or of Yellow Jack.
‘So, Amy,’ she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, ‘will require to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don’t ask me what it is, Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.’
‘I am not going to, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler.
‘I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,’ Mrs Sparkler continued, ‘and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable57 and dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa’s affairs, my interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy58 to Mrs General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.’
She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name soon stimulated59 her to dry her eyes and say:
‘It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward’s illness, I am thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense not being impaired60, or his proper spirit weakened—down to the time of poor dear papa’s death at all events—that he paid off Mrs General instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly what I would have done myself!’
Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking were preoccupied61 in mind, and forgot to leave off.
‘Halloa!’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!’ said Mrs Sparkler. ‘Look out.’
The room was dark, but the street was lighter62, because of its lamps. Mr Sparkler’s head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening63 the unknown below.
‘It’s one fellow,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I can’t see who—stop though!’
On this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had another look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he believed he had identified ‘his governor’s tile.’ He was not mistaken, for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately afterwards.
‘Candles!’ said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness.
‘It’s light enough for me,’ said Mr Merdle.
When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing behind the door, picking his lips. ‘I thought I’d give you a call,’ he said. ‘I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to be out for a stroll, I thought I’d give you a call.’
As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining?
‘Well,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I haven’t been dining anywhere, particularly.’
‘Of course you have dined?’ said Fanny.
‘Why—no, I haven’t exactly dined,’ said Mr Merdle.
He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I don’t feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn’t feel inclined for dinner, I let Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and thought I’d take a stroll instead.’
Would he have tea or coffee? ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I looked in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.’
At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some twenty feet deep, said again: ‘You see I thought I’d give you a call.’
‘Flattering to us,’ said Fanny, ‘for you are not a calling man.’
‘No—no,’ returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into custody64 under both coat-sleeves. ‘No, I am not a calling man.’
‘You have too much to do for that,’ said Fanny. ‘Having so much to do, Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must have it seen to. You must not be ill.’
‘Oh! I am very well,’ replied Mr Merdle, after deliberating about it. ‘I am as well as I usually am. I am well enough. I am as well as I want to be.’
The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder how long the master-mind meant to stay.
‘I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.’
‘Aye! Quite a coincidence,’ said Mr Merdle.
Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent65 on her to continue talking. ‘I was saying,’ she pursued, ‘that my brother’s illness has occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa’s property.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. There has been a delay.’
‘Not that it is of consequence,’ said Fanny.
‘Not,’ assented66 Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all that part of the room which was within his range: ‘not that it is of any consequence.’
‘My only anxiety is,’ said Fanny, ‘that Mrs General should not get anything.’
‘She won’t get anything,’ said Mr Merdle.
Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last remark the confirmatory words, ‘Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.’
As the topic seemed exhausted67, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home?
‘No,’ he answered; ‘I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle to—’ here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were telling his own fortune—‘to take care of herself. I dare say she’ll manage to do it.’
‘Probably,’ said Fanny.
There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former retirement68 from mundane69 affairs.
‘But, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am equally detaining you and myself. I thought I’d give you a call, you know.’
‘Charmed, I am sure,’ said Fanny.
‘So I am off,’ added Mr Merdle, getting up. ‘Could you lend me a penknife?’
0624m
Original
It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such vast business as Mr Merdle. ‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Merdle acquiesced70; ‘but I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes about, with scissors and tweezers71 and such things in them. You shall have it back to-morrow.’
‘Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, ‘open (now, very carefully, I beg and beseech72, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘but if you have got one with a darker handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.’
‘Tortoise-shell?’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. I think I should prefer tortoise-shell.’
Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box, and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife said to the master-spirit graciously:
‘I will forgive you, if you ink it.’
‘I’ll undertake not to ink it,’ said Mr Merdle.
The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment entombed Mrs Sparkler’s hand: wrist, bracelet73, and all. Where his own hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs Sparkler’s sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious74 Chelsea Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner75.
Thoroughly76 convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by idiotic77 and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap, and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed78 of several Devils.
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1
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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3
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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4
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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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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6
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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7
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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8
trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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12
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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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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15
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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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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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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aggravatingly
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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35
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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37
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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40
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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41
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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42
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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43
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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44
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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45
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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46
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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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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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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62
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tweezers
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| n.镊子 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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