Whenever Ormond returned to his better self, whenever he thought of improving, he remembered Lady Annaly; and he now recollected9 with shame, that he had never had the grace to answer or to thank her for her letter. He had often thought of writing, but he had put it off from day to day, and now months had passed; he wrote a sad scrawling10 hand, and he had always been ashamed that Lady Annaly should see it; but now the larger shame got the better of the lesser11, and he determined12 he would write. He looked for her letter, to read it over again before he answered it — the letter was very safe, for he considered it as his greatest treasure.
On recurring13 to the letter, he found that she had mentioned a present of books which she intended for him: a set of books which belonged to her son, Sir Herbert Annaly, and of which she found they had duplicates in their library. She had ordered the box containing them to be sent to Annaly, and had desired her agent there to forward it; but in case any delay should occur, she begged Mr. Ormond would take the trouble to inquire for them himself. This whole affair about the books had escaped Ormond’s memory: he felt himself blush all over when he read the letter again; and sent off a messenger immediately to the agent at Annaly, who had kept the box till it was inquired for. It was too heavy for the boy to carry, and he returned, saying that two men would not carry it, nor four — a slight exaggeration! A car was sent for it, and at last Harry14 obtained possession of the books. It was an excellent collection of what may be called the English and French classics: the French books were, at this time, quite useless to him, for he could not read French. Lady Annaly, however, sent these books on purpose to induce him to learn a language, which, if he should go into the army, as he seemed inclined to do, would be particularly useful to him. Lady Annaly observed that Mr. Ormond, wherever he might be in Ireland, would probably find even the priest of the parish a person who could assist him sufficiently15 in learning French; as most of the Irish parish priests were, at that time, educated at St. Omer’s or Louvain.
Father Jos had been at St. Omer’s, and Harry resolved to attack him with a French grammar and dictionary; but the French that Father Jos had learnt at St. Omer’s was merely from ear — he could not bear the sight of a French grammar. Harry was obliged to work on by himself. He again put off writing to thank Lady Annaly, till he could tell her that he had obeyed her commands; and that he could read at least a page of Gil Blas. Before this was accomplished17, he learnt from the agent that Lady Annaly was in great affliction about her son, who had broken a blood-vessel. He could not think of intruding18 upon her at such a time — and, in short, he put it off till it seemed too late to write at all.
Among the English books was one in many volumes, which did not seize his attention forcibly, like Tom Jones, at once, but which won upon him by degrees, drew him on against his will, and against his taste. He hated moralizing and reflections; and there was here an abundance both of reflections and morality; these he skipped over, however, and went on. The hero and the heroine too were of a stiff fashion, which did not suit his taste; yet still there was something in the book that, in spite of the terrible array of good people, captivated his attention. The heroine’s perpetual egotism disgusted him — she was always too good and too full of herself — and she wrote dreadfully long letters. The hero’s dress and manner were too splendid, too formal, for every day use: at first he detested19 Sir Charles Grandison, who was so different from the friends he loved in real life, or the heroes he had admired in books; just as in old portraits, we are at first struck with the costume, but soon, if the picture be really by a master hand, our attention is fixed20 on the expression of the features and the life of the figure.
Sensible as Ormond was of the power of humour and ridicule21, he was still more susceptible22, as all noble natures are, of sympathy with elevated sentiments and with generous character. The character of Sir Charles Grandison, in spite of his ceremonious bowing on the hand, touched the nobler feelings of our young hero’s mind, inspired him with virtuous23 emulation24, and made him ambitious to be a gentleman in the best and highest sense of the word: in short, it completely counteracted25 in his mind the effects of his late study. All the generous feelings which were so congenial to his own nature, and which he had seen combined in Tom Jones, as if necessarily, with the habits of an adventurer, a spendthrift, and a rake, he now saw united with high moral and religious principles, in the character of a man of virtue26, as well as a man of honour; a man of cultivated Understanding, and accomplished manners. In Sir Charles Grandison’s history, he read that of a gentleman, who, fulfilling every duty of his station in society, eminently27 useful, respected and beloved, as brother, friend, master of a family, guardian28, and head of a large estate, was admired by his own sex, and, what struck Ormond far more forcibly, was loved, passionately29 loved, by women — not by the low and profligate30, but by the highest and most accomplished of the sex. Indeed, to him it appeared no fiction, while he was reading it; his imagination was so full of Clementina, and the whole Porretta family, that he saw them in his sleeping and waking dreams. The deep pathos31 so affected32 him, that he could scarcely recall his mind to the low concerns of life. Once, when King Corny called him to go out shooting — he found him with red eyes. Harry was ashamed to tell him the cause, lest he should laugh at him. But Corny was susceptible of the same kind of enthusiasm himself; and though he had, as he said, never been regularly what is called a reading man, yet the books he had read left ineffaceable traces in his memory. Fictions, if they touched him at all, struck him with all the force of reality; and he never spoke33 of the characters as in a book, but as if they had lived and acted. Harry was glad to find that here again, as in most things, they sympathized, and suited each other.
But Corny, if ready to give sympathy, was likewise imperious in requiring it; and Harry was often obliged to make sudden transitions from his own thoughts and employments, to those of his friend. These transitions, however difficult and provoking at the time, were useful discipline to his mind, giving him that versatility34, in which persons of powerful imagination, accustomed to live in retirement35, and to command their own time and occupations, are often most deficient36. At this period, when our young hero was suddenly seized with a voracious37 appetite for books, it was trying to his patience to be frequently interrupted.
“Come, come — Harry Bookworm you are growing! — no good! — come out!” cried King Corny. “Lay down whatever you have in your hand, and come off this minute, till I show you a badger38 at bay, with half-a-dozen dogs.”
“Yes, sir — this minute — be kind enough to wait one minute.”
“It has been hiding and skulking39 this week from me — we have got it out of its snug40 hole at last. I bid them keep the dogs off till you came. Don’t be waiting any longer. Come off, Harry, come! Phoo! phoo! That book will keep cold, and what is it? Oh! the last volume of Sir Charles — not worth troubling your eyes with. The badger is worth a hundred of it — not a pin’s worth in that volume but worked stools and chairs, and China jugs41 and mugs. Oh! throw it from you. Come away.”
Another time, at the very death of Clarissa, King Corny would have Harry out to see a Solan goose.
“Oh! let Clarissa die another time; come now, you that never saw a Solan goose — it looks for all the world as if it wore spectacles; Moriarty says so.”
Harry was carried off to see the goose in spectacles, and was pressed into the service of King Corny for many hours afterwards, to assist in searching for its eggs. One of the Black Islands was a bare, high, pointed42, desert rock, in which the sea-fowl built; and here, in the highest point of rock, this Solan goose had deposited some of her eggs, instead of leaving them in nests on the ground, as she usually does. The more dangerous it was to obtain the eggs, which the bird had hidden in this pinnacle43 of the rock, the more eager Corny was to have them; and he, and Ormond, and Moriarty, were at this perilous44 work for hours. King Corny directing and bawling45, and Moriarty and Ormond with pole, net, and polehook, swinging and leaping from one ledge46 of rock to another, clambering, clinging, sliding, pushing, and pulling each other alternately, from hold to hold, with frightful47 precipices48 beneath them. As soon as Ormond had warmed to the business, he was delighted with the dangerous pursuit; but suddenly, just as he had laid his hand on the egg, and that King Corny shouted in triumph, Harry, leaping back across the cleft49 in the rock, missed his footing and fell, and must have been dashed to pieces, but for a sort of projecting landing-place, on which he was caught, where he lay for some minutes stunned50. The terror of poor Corny was such that he could neither move nor look up, till Moriarty called out to him, that Master Harry was safe all to a sprained52 ankle. The fall, and the sprain51, would not have been deemed worthy53 of a place in these memoirs54 of our hero but from their consequences — the consequences not on his body but on his mind. He could not for some weeks afterwards stir out, or take any bodily exercise; confined to the house, and forced to sit still, he was glad to read, during these long hours, to amuse himself. When he had read all the novels in the collection, which were very few, he went on to other books. Even those, which were not mere16 works of amusement, he found more entertaining than netting, fishing-nets, or playing backgammon with Father Jos, who was always cross when he did not win. Kind-hearted King Corny, considering always that Harry’s sprain was incurred55 in his service, would have sat with him all day long; but this Harry would not suffer, for he knew that it was the greatest punishment to Corny to stay within doors a whole day. When Corny in the evening returned from his various out-of-doors occupations and amusements, Harry was glad to talk to him of what he had been reading, and to hear his odd summary reflections.
“Well, Harry, my boy, now I’ve told you how it has been with me all day, let’s hear how you have been getting on with your bookmen:— has it been a good day with you to-day? — were you with Shakspeare — worth all the rest — all the world in him?”
Corny was no respecter of authorities in hooks; a great name went for nothing with him — it did not awe56 his understanding in the slightest degree.
If it were poetry, “did it touch the heart, or inflame57 the imagination?” If it were history, “was it true?” If it were philosophy, “was it sound reasoning?” These were the questions he asked. “No cramming58 any thing down his throat,” he said. This daring temper of mind, though it sometimes led him wrong, was advantageous59 to his young friend. It wakened Ormond’s powers, and prevented his taking upon trust the assertions, or the reputations, even of great writers.
The spring was now returning, and Dora was to return with spring. He looked forward to her return as to a new era in his existence: then he should live in better company, he should see something better than he had seen of late — be something better. His chief, his best occupations during this winter, had been riding, leaping, and breaking in horses: he had broken in a beautiful mare60 for Dora. Dora, when a child, was very fond of riding, and constantly rode out with her father. At the time when Harry Ormond’s head was full of Tom Jones, Dora had always been his idea of Sophy Western, though nothing else that he could recollect in her person, mind, or manner, bore any resemblance to Sophia: and now that Tom Jones had been driven out of his head by Sir Charles Grandison; now that his taste for women was a little raised by the pictures which Richardson had left in his imagination, Dora, with equal facility, turned into his new idea of a heroine — not his heroine, for she was engaged to White Connal — merely a heroine in the abstract. Ormond had been warned that he was to consider Dora as a married woman — well, so he would, of course. She was to be Mrs. Connal — so much the better:— he should be quite at ease with her, and she should teach him French, and drawing, and dancing, and improve his manners. He was conscious that his manners had, since his coming to the Black Islands, rusticated61 sadly, and lost the little polish they had acquired at Castle Hermitage, and during one famous winter in Dublin. His language and dialect, he was afraid, had become somewhat vulgar; but Dora, who had been refined by her residence with her aunt, and by her dancing-master, would polish him, and set all to rights, in the most agreeable manner possible. In the course of these his speculations62 on his rapid improvements, and his reflections on the perfectibility of man’s nature under the tuition of woman, some idea of its fallibility did cross his imagination or his memory; but then he blamed, most unjustly, his imagination for the suggestion. The danger would prove, as he would have it, to be imaginary. What danger could there be, when he knew, as he began and ended by saying to himself, that he was to consider Dora as a married woman — Mrs. Connal?
Dora’s aunt, an aunt by the mother’s side, a maiden63 aunt, who had never before been at the Black Islands, and whom Ormond had never seen, was to accompany Dora on her return to Corny Castle: our young hero had settled it in his head that this aunt must be something like Aunt Ellenor in Sir Charles Grandison; a stiff-backed, prim64, precise, old-fashioned looking aunt. Never was man’s astonishment65 more visible in his countenance66 than was that of Harry Ormond on the first sight of Dora’s aunt. His surprise was so great as to preclude67 the sight of Dora herself.
There was nothing surprising in the lady, but there was, indeed, an extraordinary difference between our hero’s preconceived notion, and the real person whom he now beheld68. Mademoiselle— as Miss O’Faley was called, in honour of her French parentage and education, and in commemoration of her having at different periods spent above half her life in France, looking for an estate that could never he found — Mademoiselle was dressed in all the peculiarities69 of the French dress of that day; she was of that indefinable age, which the French describe by the happy phrase of “une femme d’un certain age,” and which Miss O’Faley happily translated, “a woman of no particular age.” Yet though of no particular age in the eye of politeness, to the vulgar eye she looked like what people, who knew no better, might call an elderly woman; but she was as alert and lively as a girl of fifteen: a little wrinkled, but withal in fine preservation70. She wore abundance of rouge71, obviously — still more obviously took superabundance of snuff — and without any obvious motive72, continued to play unremittingly a pair of large black French eyes, in a manner impracticable to a mere Englishwoman, and which almost tempted73 the spectator to beg she would let them rest. Mademoiselle, or Miss O’Faley, was in fact half French and half Irish — born in France, she was the daughter of an officer of the Irish brigade, and of a French lady of good family. In her gestures, tones, and language, there was a striking mixture or rapid succession of French and Irish. When she spoke French, which she spoke well, and with a true Parisian accent, her voice, gestures, air, and ideas, were all French; and she looked and moved a well-born, well-bred woman: the moment she attempted to speak English, which she spoke with an inveterate74 brogue, her ideas, manner, air, voice, and gestures were Irish; she looked and moved a vulgar Irishwoman.
“What do you see so wonderful in Aunt O’Faley?” said Dora.
“Nothing — only —”
The sentence was never finished, and the young lady was satisfied; for she perceived that the course of his thoughts was interrupted, and all idea of her aunt effaced75, the moment he turned his eyes upon herself. Dora, no longer a child and his playfellow, but grown and formed, was, and looked as if she expected to be treated as, a woman. She was exceedingly pretty, not regularly handsome, but with most brilliant eyes — there was besides a childishness in her face, and in her slight figure, which disarmed76 all criticism on her beauty, and which contrasted strikingly, yet as our hero thought agreeably, with her womanish airs and manner. Nothing but her external appearance could be seen this first evening — she was tired and went to bed early.
Ormond longed to see more of her, on whom so much of his happiness was to depend.
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1
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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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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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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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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versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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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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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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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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inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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58
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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rusticated
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| v.罚（大学生）暂时停学离校( rusticate的过去式和过去分词 )；在农村定居 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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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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65
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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66
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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67
preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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68
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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69
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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70
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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71
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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72
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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73
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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74
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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75
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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76
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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