‘“I came to inquire if it would be convenient for you to accompany me on my morning’s round, and to be introduced to a few of our friends.” I quite detected the little tone of coldness, induced by his disappointment at my appearance, though he never imagined that it was in any way perceptible. “I will be ready directly, sir,” said I; and bolted into my bedroom, only too happy to escape his scrutinising eye.
‘When I returned, I was made aware, by sundry14 indescribable little coughs and hesitating noises, that my dress did not satisfy him. I stood ready, hat and gloves in hand; but still he did not offer to set off on our round. I grew very red and hot. At length he said: ‘“Excuse me, my dear young friend, but may I ask if you have no other coat besides that — ‘cut-away,’ I believe you call them? We are rather sticklers15 for propriety16, I believe, in Duncombe; and much depends on a first impression. Let it be professional, my dear sir. Black is the garb17 of our profession. Forgive my speaking so plainly; but I consider myself in loco parentis.”
‘He was so kind, so bland18, and, in truth, so friendly, that I felt it would be most childish to take offence; but I had a little resentment19 in my heart at this way of being treated. However, I murmured, “Oh, certainly, sir, if you wish it;” and returned once more to change my coat — my poor cut-away.
‘“Those coats, sir, give a man rather too much of a sporting appearance, not quite befitting the learned professions; more as if you came down here to hunt than to be the Galen or Hippocrates of the neighbourhood.” He smiled graciously, so I smothered20 a sigh; for, to tell you the truth, I had rather anticipated — and, in fact, had boasted at Guy’s of — the runs I hoped to have with the hounds; for Duncombe was in a famous hunting district. But all these ideas were quite dispersed21 when Mr. Morgan led me to the inn-yard, where there was a horse-dealer on his way to a neighbouring fair, and “strongly advised me” — which in our relative circumstances was equivalent to an injunction — to purchase a little, useful, fast-trotting, brown cob, instead of a fine showy horse, “who would take any fence I put him to,” as the horse-dealer assured me. Mr. Morgan was evidently pleased when I bowed to his decision, and gave up all hopes of an occasional hunt.
‘He opened out a great deal more after this purchase. He told me his plan of establishing me in a house of my own, which looked more respectable, not to say professional, than being in lodgings22; and then he went on to say that he had lately lost a friend, a brother surgeon in a neighouring town, who had left a widow with a small income, who would be very glad to live with me, and act as mistress to my establishment; thus lessening23 the expense.
‘“She is a lady-like woman,” said Mr. Morgan, “to judge from the little I have seen of her; about forty-five or so; and may really be of some help to you in the little etiquettes of our profession — the slight delicate attentions which every man has to learn, if he wishes to get on in life. This is Mrs. Munton’s, sir” said he, stopping short at a very unromantic-looking green door, with a brass24 knocker.
‘I had no time to say, “Who is Mrs. Munton?” before we had heard Mrs. Munton was at home, and were following the tidy elderly servant up the narrow carpeted stairs into the drawing-room. Mrs. Munton was the widow of a former vicar, upwards25 of sixty, rather deaf, but, like all the deaf people I have ever seen, very fond of talking; perhaps because she then knew the subject, which passed out of her grasp when another began to speak. She was ill of a chronic26 complaint, which often incapacitated her from going out; and the kind people of the town were in the habit of coming to see her and sit with her, and of bringing her the newest, freshest, tit-bits of news; so that her room was the centre of the gossip of Duncombe — not of scandal, mind; for I make a distinction between gossip and scandal. Now you can fancy the discrepancy27 between the ideal and the real Mrs. Munton. Instead of any foolish notion of a beautiful blooming widow, tenderly anxious about the health of the stranger, I saw a homely28, talkative, elderly person, with a keen observant eye, and marks of suffering on her face; plain in manner and dress, but still unmistakably a lady. She talked to Mr. Morgan, but she looked at me; and I saw that nothing I did escaped her notice. Mr. Morgan annoyed me by his anxiety to show me off, but he was kindly30 anxious to bring out every circumstance to my credit in Mrs. Munton’s hearing, knowing well that the town-crier had not more opportunities to publish all about me than she had.
‘“What was that remark you repeated to me of Sir Astley Cooper’s?” asked he. It had been the most trivial speech in the world that I had named as we walked along, and I felt ashamed of having to repeat it: but it answered Mr. Morgan’s purpose, and before night all the town had heard that I was a favourite pupil of Sir Astley’s (I had never seen him but twice in my life); and Mr. Morgan was afraid that as soon as he knew my full value I should be retained by Sir Astley to assist him in his duties as surgeon to the Royal Family. Every little circumstance was pressed into the conversation which could add to my importance.
‘“As I once heard Sir Robert Peel remark to Mr. Harrison, the father of our young friend here — The moons in August are remarkably31 full and bright.” If you remember, Charles, my father was always proud of having sold a pair of gloves to Sir Robert, when he was staying at the Grange, near Biddicombe, and I suppose good Mr. Morgan had paid his only visit to my father at the time; but Mrs. Munton evidently looked at me with double respect after this incidental remark, which I was amused to meet with, a few months afterwards, disguised in the statement that my father was an intimate friend of the Premier’s, and had, in fact, been the adviser32 of most of the measures taken by him in public life. I sat by, half indignant and half amused. Mr. Morgan looked so complacently33 pleased at the whole effect of the conversation, that I did not care to mar29 it by explanations; and, indeed, I had little idea at the time how small sayings were the seeds of great events in the town of Duncombe. When we left Mrs. Munton’s, he was in a blandly34 communicative mood.
‘“You will find it a curious statistical35 fact, but five-sixths of our householders of a certain rank in Duncombe are women. We have widows and old maids in rich abundance. In fact, my dear sir, I believe that you and I are almost the only gentlemen in the place — Mr. Bullock, of course, excepted. By gentlemen, I mean professional men. It behoves us to remember, sir, that so many of the female sex rely upon us for the kindness and protection which every man who is worthy36 of the name is always so happy to render.”
‘Miss Tomkinson, on whom we next called, did not strike me as remarkably requiring protection from any man. She was a tall, gaunt, masculine-looking woman, with an air of defiance37 about her, naturally; this, however, she softened38 and mitigated39, as far as she was able, in favour of Mr. Morgan. He, it seemed to me, stood a little in awe40 of the lady, who was very brusque and plain spoken, and evidently piqued42 herself on her decision of character and sincerity43 of speech.
‘“So this is the Mr. Harrison we have heard so much of from you, Mr. Morgan? I must say, from what I had heard, that I had expected something a little more — hum — hum! But he’s young yet; he’s young. We have been all anticipating an Apollo, Mr. Harrison, from Mr. Morgan’s description, and an ?sculapius combined in one; or, perhaps I might confine myself to saying Apollo, as he, I believe, was the god of medicine!”
‘How could Mr. Morgan have described me without seeing me? I asked myself
‘Miss Tomkinson put on her spectacles, and adjusted them on her Roman nose. Suddenly relaxing from her severity of inspection44, she said to Mr. Morgan — “But you must see Caroline. I had nearly forgotten it; she is busy with the girls, but I will send for her. She had a bad headache yesterday, and looked very pale; it made me very uncomfortable.”
‘She rang the bell, and desired the servant to fetch Miss Caroline.
‘Miss Caroline was the younger sister — younger by twenty years; and so considered as a child by Miss Tomkinson, who was fifty-five, at the very least. If she was considered as a child, she was also petted and caressed45, and cared for as a child; for she had been left as a baby to the charge of her elder sister; and when the father died, and they had to set up a school, Miss Tomkinson took upon herself every difficult arrangement, and denied herself every pleasure, and made every sacrifice in order that “Carry” might not feel the change in their circumstances. My wife tells me she once knew the sisters purchase a piece of silk, enough, with management, to have made two gowns; but Carry wished for flounces, or some such fal-lals; and without a word, Miss Tomkinson gave up her gown to have the whole made up as Carry wished, into one handsome one; and wore an old shabby affair herself as cheerfully as if it were Genoa velvet46. That tells the sort of relationship between the sisters as well as anything, and I consider myself very good to name it thus early; for it was long before I found out Miss Tomkinson’s real goodness, and we had a great quarrel first. Miss Caroline looked very delicate and die-away when she came in; she was as soft and sentimental47 as Miss Tomkinson was hard and masculine; and had a way of saying, “Oh, sister, how can you?” at Miss Tomkinson’s startling speeches, which I never liked — especially as it was accompanied by a sort of protesting look at the company present, as if she wished to have it understood that she was shocked at her sister’s outré manners. Now, that was not faithful between sisters. A remonstrance48 in private might have done good — though, for my own part, I have grown to like Miss Tomkinson’s speeches and ways; but I don’t like the way some people have of separating themselves from what may be unpopular in their relations. I know I spoke41 rather shortly to Miss Caroline when she asked me whether I could bear the change from “the great metropolis” to a little country village. In the first place, why could not she call it “London,” or “town,” and have done with it? And, in the next place, why should she not love the place that was her home well enough to fancy that every one would like it when they came to know it as well as she did?
‘I was conscious I was rather abrupt49 in my conversation with her, and I saw that Mr. Morgan was watching me, though he pretended to be listening to Miss Tomkinson’s whispered account of her sister’s symptoms. But when we were once more in the street, he began, “My dear young friend — ”
‘I winced50; for all the morning I had noticed that when he was going to give a little unpalatable advice, he always began with “My dear young friend.” He had done so about the horse.
‘“My dear young friend, there are one or two hints I should like to give you about your manner. The great Sir Everard Home used to say, “A general practitioner51 should either have a very good manner, or a very bad one.” Now, in the latter case, he must be possessed52 of talents and acquirements sufficient to ensure his being sought after, whatever his manner might be. But the rudeness will give notoriety to these qualifications. Abernethy is a case in point. I rather, myself, question the taste of bad manners. I, therefore, have studied to acquire an attentive53, anxious politeness, which combines case and grace with a tender regard and interest. I am not aware whether I have succeeded (few men do) in coming up to my ideal; but I recommend you to strive after this manner, peculiarly befitting our profession. Identify yourself with your patients, my dear sir. You have sympathy in your good heart, I am sure, to really feel pain when listening to their account of their sufferings, and it soothes54 them to see the expression of this feeling in your manner. It is, in fact, sir, manners that make the man in our profession. I don’t set myself up as an example — far from it; but — This is Mr. Hutton’s, our vicar; one of the servants is indisposed, and I shall be glad of the opportunity of introducing you. We can resume our conversation at another time.”
‘I had not been aware that we had been holding a conversation, in which, I believe, the assistance of two persons is required. Why had not Mr. Hutton sent to ask after my health the evening before, according to the custom of the place? I felt rather offended.
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1
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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inveigh
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| v.痛骂 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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8
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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9
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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14
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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sticklers
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| n.坚持…的人( stickler的名词复数 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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43
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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45
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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47
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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48
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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50
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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53
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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