In its precincts gravity and decorum have set up their head-quarters; on many of its door-plates the passers-by may read the names of distinguished10 members of the faculty11, old in age and high in renown12, pupils of Abernethy and Astley Cooper, who with the first few hundreds which they could scrape together after their degrees were obtained, hired, and furnished, as a first step to professional status, the houses in which they still reside, and in which they have since inspected so many thousand tongues, and passed the verdict of life or death upon so many thousand patients. Youth must be resident here and there in Great Walpole-street, as in other places, but if so, it is never seen. No nursemaids with heads obstinately13 turned the other way drive the pleasant perambulator against the legs of elderly people airing themselves in the modified sunlight which occasionally visits the locality; no merry children troop along its pavement; from the long drawing-room windows, hung with curtains of velvet14 and muslin, issues no sound of piano or human voice. Although there is no beadle to keep inviolate15 its sanctity, the street-boy as he approaches its confines stops his shrill16 whistling, and puts his tip-cat into his pocket; the "patterers" of the second editions pass it by, conscious that the rumours17 of war, or of the assassinations18 of eminent19 personages, will fall flat upon the ears of the inhabitants; while even the fragmentary announcement, "Elopement--young lady--noble markis," will fail in extracting the pence from the pockets of the denizens20 of the lower regions in this respectable quarter.
It is essentially21 a carriage neighbourhood, with ranges of mews branching out of and running parallel to it; and the vehicles are quite in keeping with the street and with their owners. Besides the doctors' broughams, high swinging chariots, now scarcely ever seen save on drawing-room days or in carriage bazaars22, with huge hammercloths and vast emblazoned panels, are there common enough. Roomy landaus, broad barouches, with fat-horses, the leather of whose harness is almost invisible beneath the heavy silver plating, coachmen in curly white bob-wigs, and giant footmen gorgeous in hair-powder; all these are to be found in Great Walpole-street.
Money, money, money! it all seems to say. We have money, and we will take care that you shall know it. We will not pay enormous rents for poky tenements23 in Mayfair, or straggling caravanserais in Tyburnia; we do not expend24 our substance in park-phaetons or Victorias, any more than in giving "drums" or "at homes." We have, during the season, several dinner-parties, at which the wine set before you does not come from the grocer's or the publican's, but has been in our cellars for years; several musical evenings, and one or two balls. We go to the Opera three or four times during the season, occasionally to the theatre, frequently to a classical concert, or an oratorio25; but we would as soon think of attending a prize-fight as a pigeon-match, or of prohibiting our womankind from going to church, as of taking them to listen to comic songs in a supper-room. We are rich, which you may be; but we are respectable, which you are not! Vaunt your fashion as much as you please, but the home of moneyed decency26 and decorum is Great Walpole-street.
Six o'clock on an October evening, with a chill damp wind howling at intervals27 through the funnel28 made by the opposing lines of houses, is not the time in which this locality looks its best. If it is dreary in the spring brightness, in the summer sunshine, it is doubly dreary in the autumn decadence29, when the leaves torn from the trees in Guelph Park mix with the dust and bits of straw and scraps30 of paper which gather together in swerving31 eddies32 in every possible corner, and when in most of the houses the shutters33 are still closed, and the blinds have not shed the newspaper coverings in which they have been enwrapped during the absence of the inhabitants. In one of the largest houses of the street, on one particular October evening, no such signs of absenteeism were visible; the whiteness of the broad door-step was unsullied, the plate-glass windows were free from speck34 or spot, the dwarf35 wire-blinds in the dining-room stood rigidly37 defiant38 of all criticism, and the muslin curtains in the drawing-room seemed to have lost all the softness and pliancy39 of their nature, and hung stiff, and white, and rigid36, as the gaunt and bony hands which from time to time pushed them on one side, as the blank and colourless face which from time to time peered through them into the street. These hands and that face belonged to Mrs. Calverley, the mistress of the mansion1. A thin, spare woman of fifty years of age, with a figure in which were angles where there should have been roundness, and straightness of outline where there should have been fulness. Her silk dress was of an undecided fawn-colour, and in place of any relieving white collar, she wore a wisp of black net round her throat. Her face was long, with a large straight-nose, prominent eyes of steely blue, and a long upper lip, between which and its thin pallid40 companion there gleamed a row of strong white teeth. Her thin scanty41 iron-gray hair was taken off from her forehead above the temples and gathered into a small knot at the back. Such an expanse of colourless flesh, such a dull level waste of human features unrelieved by the slightest scintilla42 of interest or sympathy!
In her prim43, flat-soled creaking shoes, Mrs. Calverley walked to the window, pushed back the curtains, and looked out down the silent street; then, with a sound which was something between a sigh of despair and a snort of defiance44, she returned to the low prie-dieu chair worked in wool, but covered with a shiny, crackling, yellow substance; and arranging her scanty drapery around her, interwove her bony fingers in her lap and sat bolt upright, staring rigidly before her. All the furniture in the room which was capable of being covered up was clad in a uniform of brown holland; the chairs were dressed in pinafores, the big broad sofa had a loosely cut greatcoat of the same material; even the chandeliers had on holland bags. There was no light in the room, but the gas lamps in the street were reflected from the bare shining rosewood table, from the long grand pianoforte, from the huge ormolu clock ticking gravely on the mantelpiece, from the glass shades enshrining wax flowers and fruit, which, made such a poor pretence45 of being real, and from the old-fashioned handsomely-cut girandoles. By the chair in which Mrs. Calverley was seated stood a frame of Berlin work; in the middle of the hearth-rug before the fireplace--fireless now, and filled with a grim pattern of cut coloured paper--lay a stuffed white-haired dog, intently regarding his tail through his glass eyes, and apparently wondering what he had done in life to be consigned46 to such a degraded position.
A quarter-past six, half-past, a quarter to seven, ring out from the neighbouring church, and at each sound of the chimes Mrs. Calverley rises to her feet, creaks across to the window, looks forth, creaks back again, and resumes her stony47 position. At length there comes a half-timid ring of the bell, which she recognises at once, straightens her back, and settles herself more rigidly than ever. A few minutes after, the drawing-room door opens, and a voice, the owner of which cannot be seen, is heard saying, "Dear me, all in darkness, Jane?"
Mrs. Calverley makes no reply, but rings the bell, and when the servant appears, says to him in a thin acid voice, "You can light the gas, James; and now that your master has come home at last, dinner can be served."
Upon this remark Mr. Calverley's only comment is a repetition of "Dear me!" He is a middle-sized, pleasant-looking man, with fair hair slightly sprinkled with gray, gray whiskers, light-blue eyes, and marvellous pink-and-white complexion48 like a doll: a gentlemanly-looking man in his plain black frock-coat and waistcoat, gray trousers, black-silk cravat49 and pearl pin, and neat buttoned boots. He looks rather nervously50 to his wife, and edges his way towards her round the table. When he is within a few feet of her he produces a newspaper from his pocket, and makes a feeble tender of it, saying, "The evening paper, my dear; I thought you would like to see--"
"I should like to see you attempt to relieve the monotony of my life, Mr. Calverley, and not to leave me here alone, while you were doubtless enjoying yourself."
"My dear, I assure you I have come straight home."
"Did business detain you until after six o'clock in Mincing-lane?"
"No, my dear, of course not till six o'clock; I walked home, and on my way I just looked in at the club, and--"
"At the club!" That was all Mrs. Calverley said, but the manner in which she said it had its due effect. Mr. Calverley opened the leaves of a photograph album, with every portrait in which he was thoroughly52 familiar, and began to be extremely interested in its contents.
"Dinner will be ready directly," said Mrs. Calverley; "had you not better wash your hands?"
"Thank you, my dear," said the disconsolate53 man; "but I washed them at the cl--"
He pulled himself up just in time; the obnoxious54 word had very nearly slipped out, but the servant announcing dinner at the moment, and Mrs. Calverley laying the tips of her bony fingers in the hollow of her husband's arm, the happy pair proceeded to the banquet.
It was a good dinner, handsomely served, but Mr. Calverley can scarcely be said to have enjoyed it. At first he audibly asked for wine, but after he had been helped three or four times, he glanced hurriedly across the long table, at the other end of which his wife was seated, and furtively55 motioned to the butler by touching56 his glass. This pantomime and its results were soon noticed by Mrs. Calverley, who, after glaring at her husband for a moment, gave a little shiver, and said:
"It is of no use paying Doctor Chipchase his fees if his advice is to be scouted57 in this manner; you know what he said about your drinking wine."
"My dear, I only--"
"You only fly in the face of Providence58, Mr. Calverley, and behave unjustly to the office in which your life is insured. You only add another to the long catalogue of weaknesses and moral cowardices, by the constant display of which you render my life a burden to me. I am sick of talking to you myself; I shall write and ask Martin to come and stay with us for a few weeks, and see what effect his influence will have upon you."
"I am sure I shall be very glad to see Martin, my dear," said Mr. Calverley, after standing59 up reverently60 to say grace on the removal of the cloth; "he is a very good fellow, and--"
"Don't talk of a clergyman of the Church of England in that way, Mr. Calverley, if you please. 'Good fellow,' indeed! My son Martin is a good man, and an ornament61 to his calling."
"Yes, my dear, of course he is; preaches an excellent sermon, does Martin, and intones quite musically. I should like to see him a little more cheerful, I mean a little less ascetic62, you know; take his wine more freely, and not look quite so much as if he was fed upon parched63 peas and filtered water."
"You are profane64, as usual," said his wife. "Whenever you touch upon any member of my family, your temper gets the better of you, and your uncontrollable tendency to scoffing65 and scepticism breaks forth. Perhaps you will not think it too much trouble to pass me the biscuits."
"My dear Jane!" murmured the wretched man; and after handing the silver biscuit-barrel to his wife, he sat by, not daring to help himself to another glass of wine from the well-filled decanters before him, while the mere66 fact of seeing her munching67 away at the hard farinaceous food nearly drove him mad with thirst.
When Mrs. Calverley had concluded this succulent repast, she rose from her seat, and, without taking any notice of her husband, creaked stiffly out of the room. John Calverley, lover of ease and tranquillity68 as he was, scarcely regretted this little conjugal69 dispute, inasmuch as that if Mrs. Calverley had not, in consequence of the words that had passed between them, been on her dignified70 behaviour, she would have remained to lock up the wine. Whereas John managed to swallow two glasses of his favourite Madeira before he joined her in the drawing-room.
It was not very cheerful in the drawing-room. The gas had been turned low down, and the principal light in the room, much softened71 and shaded, came from a reading-lamp placed immediately above the work-frame at which Mrs. Calverley's bony fingers were busily engaged depicting72 the story of Jael, with a very rugged73 profile, and Sisera, the death-glare in whose eyes was represented by a couple of steel beads74. John Calverley, furtively wiping his lips after the Madeira, shambled awkwardly into the room, and could scarcely repress a groan75 at the ghastliness of its appearance. But the generous wine which he had drunk helped to cheer him a little; and after wandering to and fro in a purposeless manner, he approached his wife, and said: "Won't you play something, dear?"
"No, thank you," replied Mrs. Calverley; "I wish to finish this work."
"It is rather a nice thing," said John, bending over the production, and criticising it in a connoisseur-like manner; "what is it all about?"
"It is well that no one is here to hear this lamentable76 display of ignorance," said Mrs. Calverley, with a snort. "It is a scriptural story, Mr. Calverley, and is intended as a footstool for the Church of St. Beowulph."
"O yes," said John, nodding his head; "I know--Bewsher's place."
"It would be more decent, as well as more correct, to speak of it as the church in which Mr. Bewsher is officiating minister, I think," said Mrs. Calverley with another snort.
"To be sure, my dear; quite correct," said peace-loving John. "By the way, talking about officiating ministers, perhaps you had better not ask Martin to come to us just yet; I have got to go down to that place in the North next week."
"What place in the North?" said Mrs. Calverley, looking up.
"What place? Why, my dear, Swartmoor, of course--the foundry, you know; that's the only place I go to in the North."
"I don't know what place you do or do not go to in the North, or anywhere else, Mr. Calverley," said his wife, sticking her needle into the canvas, and interlacing her bony fingers and sitting bolt upright, as she glared straight at him; "I only know this, that I am determined not to stand this state of things much longer."
"But, my dear--"
"Don't 'my dear' me, if you please, but listen to what I have to say. When I married you, Mr. Calverley, to my sorrow, now some ten years ago, you were nothing more than the head clerk in the house of Lorraine Brothers, which my grandfather had founded, which my father and uncles had established, and in which my late husband, Mr. Gurwood, had been a sleeping partner."
"I must say that--"
"Silence, if you please; I will not be interrupted. I took you from that inferior position, and made you my husband. I made you master of this house and my fortune. I raised you, Mr. Calverley. I tell you, I raised you, sir, from obscurity to position, from comparative penury77 to wealth; and what is my reward? Day after day you are absent from home at your counting-house in Mincing-lane. I don't object to that; I suppose it is necessary; but I know--yes, I know, Mr. Calverley--this is not my first experience of men of business; I have been a grand-daughter, a daughter, and a sister of the firm, and though latterly Mr. Gurwood was not quite regular in his attendance, at least at one time he was an excellent man of business--so that I may say also the wife of the firm, and I know that business hours are over at five, and that my sainted father used then to come straight home to Clapham by the omnibus."
"I--"
"You must allow me to speak, if you please; I will not be interrupted. Instead of which, I find you going to your club and dawdling78 there to the latest minute, often keeping my dinner waiting; and when you return home, your conversation is frivolous79, your manner light and flighty, and wanting in repose80; your tastes and habits evidently unsuitable to a person in the position of my husband. I have borne all this without complaint; I know that all of us mortals--sinful mortals--have a cross to bear, and that you have been bestowed81 upon me in that capacity. But, be a lone51 deserted82 woman when I have a husband whose legitimate83 business it is to stay at home and take care of me, I will not. These Swartmoor works are all very well, I daresay, and I know you declare that they bring in a vast deal of profit; but there was profit enough in my father's time without any of your iron works; and if you intend to continue paying them a visit every fortnight, and staying several days away, as you have done lately, they shall be given up, Mr. Calverley--they shall be given up, I say. I may be of no more concern to you than a chair or a table, but I will not be a deserted woman, and these iron works shall be given up."
Those who had seen but little of the pleasant-faced John Calverley, would scarcely have recognised him in the darkly-frowning man who now strode forward, and crossing his arms on the back of a chair immediately in front of his wife, said in a very quiet but very determined voice:
"They shall not be given up. Understand that once for all--they shall not be given up. You may say what you like, but I am master in my business, if not in my home, and they shall not be given up. And now, Jane, you must listen to me; must listen to words which I never intended to have said, if the speech you have just made had not rendered it necessary. You have told me what you have pleased to call facts; now I will give you my version of them. When I married you ten years ago--and God knows you cannot deplore84 that marriage more heartily85 than I do--I was, as you say, the head clerk of the firm which your father had established. But in his latter days he had been ill and inattentive to business; and after his death your uncles, to whom the concern was left, proved themselves utterly86 inadequate87 to its guidance; and if it had not been for me, the firm of Lorraine and Company would have been in the Gazette. You know this well enough; you know that I, as head clerk, took the whole affair on my shoulders, reorganised it, opened out new avenues for its commerce, and finally succeeded in making it what it was when you first saw me. You taunt88 me with having been raised by you from penury to position; but you know that the whole of your fortune was embarked89 in the business, and that if it had not been for my clear head and hard work, you would have lost every penny of it. You accuse me of being light and frivolous and unsuited to you, of being away from my home; though, except on these business expeditions, not an evening do I pass out of your society. In return, I ask you what sort of a home you make for me? what sign of interest, of comfort, of anything like womanly grace and feeling is there about it? What reception do I meet with on my return from business? what communion, what reciprocity is there between us? Every word I say, every remark I make, you either sneer90 or snap at. You are a hard, intolerant Pharisee, Jane Calverley. By your hardness and intolerance, by your perpetually nagging91 and worrying at him, you tried to break the spirit of your former husband, George Gurwood, one of the kindest fellows that ever lived. But you failed in that; you only drove him to drink and to death. Now I have said my say, have said what I never intended should pass my lips, what never would have passed them, if it had not been for your provocation92. I wish you good-night--I am now going to the club."
So saying, John Calverley bowed his head and passed from the room, leaving his wife no longer rigid and defiant, but swaying herself to and fro, and moaning helplessly.
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1
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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assassinations
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| n.暗杀( assassination的名词复数 ) | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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scintilla
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| n.极少，微粒 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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53
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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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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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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