This house of such a startlingly singular and Italianate grace for so remote a corner of Cornwall deserves, together with the story of its construction, a word in passing.
The Italian Bagnolo who combined with his salient artistic4 talents a quarrelsome, volcanic5 humour had the mischance to kill a man in a brawl6 in a Southwark tavern7. As a result he fled the town, nor paused in his headlong flight from the consequences of that murderous deed until he had all but reached the very ends of England. Under what circumstances he became acquainted with Tressilian the elder I do not know. But certain it is that the meeting was a very timely one for both of them. To the fugitive8, Ralph Tressilian — who appears to have been inveterately9 partial to the company of rascals10 of all denominations11 — afforded shelter; and Bagnolo repaid the service by offering to rebuild the decaying half-timbered house of Penarrow. Having taken the task in hand he went about it with all the enthusiasm of your true artist, and achieved for his protector a residence that was a marvel12 of grace in that crude age and outlandish district. There arose under the supervision13 of the gifted engineer, worthy14 associate of Messer Torrigiani, a noble two-storied mansion15 of mellow16 red brick, flooded with light and sunshine by the enormously tall mullioned windows that rose almost from base to summit of each pilastered facade17. The main doorway18 was set in a projecting wing and was overhung by a massive balcony, the whole surmounted19 by a pillared pediment of extraordinary grace, now partly clad in a green mantle20 of creepers. Above the burnt red tiles of the roof soared massive twisted chimneys in lofty majesty21.
But the glory of Penarrow — that is, of the new Penarrow begotten22 of the fertile brain of Bagnolo — was the garden fashioned out of the tangled23 wilderness24 about the old house that had crowned the heights above Penarrow point. To the labours of Bagnolo, Time and Nature had added their own. Bagnolo had cut those handsome esplanades, had built those noble balustrades bordering the three terraces with their fine connecting flights of steps; himself he had planned the fountain, and with his own hands had carved the granite25 faun presiding over it and the dozen other statues of nymphs and sylvan26 gods in a marble that gleamed in white brilliance27 amid the dusky green. But Time and Nature had smoothed the lawns to a velvet28 surface, had thickened the handsome boxwood hedges, and thrust up those black spear-like poplars that completed the very Italianate appearance of that Cornish demesne29.
Sir Oliver took his ease in his dining-room considering all this as it was displayed before him in the mellowing30 September sunshine, and found it all very good to see, and life very good to live. Now no man has ever been known so to find life without some immediate31 cause, other than that of his environment, for his optimism. Sir Oliver had several causes. The first of these — although it was one which he may have been far from suspecting — was his equipment of youth, wealth, and good digestion32; the second was that he had achieved honour and renown33 both upon the Spanish Main and in the late harrying34 of the Invincible35 Armada — or, more aptly perhaps might it be said, in the harrying of the late Invincible Armada — and that he had received in that the twenty-fifth year of his life the honour of knighthood from the Virgin36 Queen; the third and last contributor to his pleasant mood — and I have reserved it for the end as I account this to be the proper place for the most important factor — was Dan Cupid who for once seemed compounded entirely37 of benignity38 and who had so contrived39 matters that Sir Oliver’s wooing Of Mistress Rosamund Godolphin ran an entirely smooth and happy course.
So, then, Sir Oliver sat at his ease in his tall, carved chair, his doublet untrussed, his long legs stretched before him, a pensive40 smile about the firm lips that as yet were darkened by no more than a small black line of moustachios. (Lord Henry’s portrait of him was drawn41 at a much later period.) It was noon, and our gentleman had just dined, as the platters, the broken meats and the half-empty flagon on the board beside him testified. He pulled thoughtfully at a long pipe — for he had acquired this newly imported habit of tobacco-drinking — and dreamed of his mistress, and was properly and gallantly43 grateful that fortune had used him so handsomely as to enable him to toss a title and some measure of renown into his Rosamund’s lap.
By nature Sir Oliver was a shrewd fellow (“cunning as twenty devils,” is my Lord Henry’s phrase) and he was also a man of some not inconsiderable learning. Yet neither his natural wit nor his acquired endowments appear to have taught him that of all the gods that rule the destinies of mankind there is none more ironic44 and malicious45 than that same Dan Cupid in whose honour, as it were, he was now burning the incense46 of that pipe of his. The ancients knew that innocent-seeming boy for a cruel, impish knave47, and they mistrusted him. Sir Oliver either did not know or did not heed48 that sound piece of ancient wisdom. It was to be borne in upon him by grim experience, and even as his light pensive eyes smiled upon the sunshine that flooded the terrace beyond the long mullioned window, a shadow fell athwart it which he little dreamed to be symbolic49 of the shadow that was even falling across the sunshine of his life.
After that shadow came the substance — tall and gay of raiment under a broad black Spanish hat decked with blood-red plumes50. Swinging a long beribboned cane51 the figure passed the windows, stalking deliberately52 as Fate.
The smile perished on Sir Oliver’s lips. His swarthy face grew thoughtful, his black brows contracted until no more than a single deep furrow53 stood between them. Then slowly the smile came forth54 again, but no longer that erstwhile gentle pensive smile. It was transformed into a smile of resolve and determination, a smile that tightened55 his lips even as his brows relaxed, and invested his brooding eyes with a gleam that was mocking, crafty56 and almost wicked.
Came Nicholas his servant to announce Master Peter Godolphin, and close upon the lackey’s heels came Master Godolphin himself, leaning upon his beribboned cane and carrying his broad Spanish hat. He was a tall, slender gentleman, with a shaven, handsome countenance58, stamped with an air of haughtiness59; like Sir Oliver, he had a high-bridged, intrepid60 nose, and in age he was the younger by some two or three years. He wore his auburn hair rather longer than was the mode just then, but in his apparel there was no more foppishness than is tolerable in a gentleman of his years.
Sir Oliver rose and bowed from his great height in welcome. But a wave of tobacco-smoke took his graceful61 visitor in the throat and set him coughing and grimacing62.
“I see,” he choked, “that ye have acquired that filthy63 habit.”
“I have known filthier,” said Sir Oliver composedly.
“I nothing doubt it,” rejoined Master Godolphin, thus early giving indications of his humour and the object of his visit.
Sir Oliver checked an answer that must have helped his visitor to his ends, which was no part of the knight’s intent.
“Therefore,” said he ironically, “I hope you will be patient with my shortcomings. Nick, a chair for Master Godolphin and another cup. I bid you welcome to Penarrow.”
A sneer64 flickered65 over the younger man’s white face. “You pay me a compliment, sir, which I fear me ’tis not mine to return to you.”
“Time enough for that when I come to seek it,” said Sir Oliver, with easy, if assumed, good humour.
“When you come to seek it?”
“The hospitality of your house,” Sir Oliver explained.
“It is on that very matter I am come to talk with you.”
“Will you sit?” Sir Oliver invited him, and spread a hand towards the chair which Nicholas had set. In the same gesture he waved the servant away.
Master Godolphin ignored the invitation. “You were,” he said, “at Godolphin Court but yesterday, I hear.” He paused, and as Sir Oliver offered no denial, he added stiffly: “I am come, sir, to inform you that the honour of your visits is one we shall be happy to forgo66.”
In the effort he made to preserve his self-control before so direct an affront67 Sir Oliver paled a little under his tan.
“You will understand, Peter,” he replied slowly, “that you have said too much unless you add something more.” He paused, considering his visitor a moment. “I do not know whether Rosamund has told you that yesterday she did me the honour to consent to become my wife. . . . ”
“She is a child that does not know her mind,” broke in the other.
“Do you know of any good reason why she should come to change it?” asked Sir Oliver, with a slight air of challenge.
Master Godolphin sat down, crossed his legs and placed his hat on his knee.
“I know a dozen,” he answered. “But I need not urge them. Sufficient should it be to remind you that Rosamund is but seventeen and that she is under my guardianship69 and that of Sir John Killigrew. Neither Sir John nor I can sanction this betrothal70.”
“Good lack!” broke out Sir Oliver. “Who asks your sanction or Sir John’s? By God’s grace your sister will grow to be a woman soon and mistress of herself. I am in no desperate haste to get me wed1, and by nature — as you may be observing — I am a wondrous71 patient man. I’ll even wait,” And he pulled at his pipe.
“Waiting cannot avail you in this, Sir Oliver. ’Tis best you should understand. We are resolved, Sir John and I.”
“Are you so? God’s light. Send Sir John to me to tell me of his resolves and I’ll tell him something of mine. Tell him from me, Master Godolphin, that if he will trouble to come as far as Penarrow I’ll do by him what the hangman should have done long since. I’ll crop his pimpish ears for him, by this hand!”
“Meanwhile,” said Master Godolphin whettingly, “will you not essay your rover’s prowess upon me?”
“You?” quoth Sir Oliver, and looked him over with good-humoured contempt. “I’m no butcher of fledgelings, my lad. Besides, you are your sister’s brother, and ’tis no aim of mine to increase the obstacles already in my path.” Then his tone changed. He leaned across the table. “Come, now, Peter. What is at the root of all this matter? Can we not compose such differences as you conceive exist? Out with them. ’Tis no matter for Sir John. He’s a curmudgeon72 who signifies not a finger’s snap. But you, ’tis different. You are her brother. Out with your plaints, then. Let us be frank and friendly.”
“Friendly?” The other sneered73 again. “Our fathers set us an example in that.”
“Does it matter what our fathers did? More shame to them if, being neighbours, they could not be friends. Shall we follow so deplorable an example?”
“You’ll not impute74 that the fault lay with my father,” cried the other, with a show of ready anger.
“I impute nothing, lad. I cry shame upon them both.”
“‘Swounds!” swore Master Peter. “Do you malign75 the dead?”
“If I do, I malign them both. But I do not. I no more than condemn76 a fault that both must acknowledge could they return to life.”
“Then, Sir, confine your condemnings to your own father with whom no man of honour could have lived at peace. . . . ”
“Softly, softly, good Sir. . . . ”
“There’s no call to go softly. Ralph Tressilian was a dishonour77, a scandal to the countryside. Not a hamlet between here and Truro, or between here and Helston, but swarms78 with big Tressilian noses like your own, in memory of your debauched parent.”
Sir Oliver’s eyes grew narrower: he smiled. “I wonder how you came by your own nose?” he wondered.
Master Godolphin got to his feet in a passion, and his chair crashed over behind him. “Sir,” he blazed, “you insult my mother’s memory!”
Sir Oliver laughed. “I make a little free with it, perhaps, in return for your pleasantries on the score of my father.”
Master Godolphin pondered him in speechless anger, then swayed by his passion he leaned across the board, raised his long cane and struck Sir Oliver sharply on the shoulder.
That done, he strode off magnificently towards the door. Half-way thither79 he paused.
“I shall expect your friends and the length of your sword,” said he.
Sir Oliver laughed again. “I don’t think I shall trouble to send them,” said he.
Master Godolphin wheeled, fully42 to face him again. “How? You will take a blow?”
Sir Oliver shrugged80. “None saw it given,” said he.
“But I shall publish it abroad that I have caned81 you.”
“You’ll publish yourself a liar82 if you do; for none will believe you.” Then he changed his tone yet again. “Come, Peter, we are behaving unworthily. As for the blow, I confess that I deserved it. A man’s mother is more sacred than his father. So we may cry quits on that score. Can we not cry quits on all else? What can it profit us to perpetuate83 a foolish quarrel that sprang up between our fathers?”
“There is more than that between us,” answered Master Godolphin. “I’ll not have my sister wed a pirate.”
“A pirate? God’s light! I am glad there’s none to hear you for since her grace has knighted me for my doings upon the seas, your words go very near to treason. Surely, lad, what the Queen approves, Master Peter Godolphin may approve and even your mentor84 Sir John Killigrew. You’ve been listening to him. ’Twas he sent you hither.”
“I am no man’s lackey,” answered the other hotly, resenting the imputation85 — and resenting it the more because of the truth in it.
“To call me a pirate is to say a foolish thing. Hawkins with whom I sailed has also received the accolade86, and who dubs87 us pirates insults the Queen herself. Apart from that, which, as you see, is a very empty charge, what else have you against me? I am, I hope, as good as any other here in Cornwall; Rosamund honours me with her affection and I am rich and shall be richer still ere the wedding bells are heard.”
“Rich with the fruit of thieving upon the seas, rich with the treasures of scuttled88 ships and the price of slaves captured in Africa and sold to the plantations89, rich as the vampire90 is glutted91 — with the blood of dead men.”
“Does Sir John say that?” asked Sir Oliver, in a soft deadly voice.
“I say it.”
“I heard you; but I am asking where you learnt that pretty lesson. Is Sir John your preceptor? He is, he is. No need to tell me. I’ll deal with him. Meanwhile let me disclose to you the pure and disinterested92 source of Sir John’s rancour. You shall see what an upright and honest gentleman is Sir John, who was your father’s friend and has been your guardian68.”
“I’ll not listen to what you say of him.”
“Nay, but you shall, in return for having made me listen to what he says of me. Sir John desires to obtain a licence to build at the mouth of the Fal. He hopes to see a town spring up above the haven57 there under the shadow of his own Manor93 of Arwenack. He represents himself as nobly disinterested and all concerned for the prosperity of the country, and he neglects to mention that the land is his own and that it is his own prosperity and that of his family which he is concerned to foster. We met in London by a fortunate chance whilst Sir John was about this business at the Court. Now it happens that I, too, have interests in Truro and Penryn; but, unlike Sir John, I am honest in the matter, and proclaim it. If any growth should take place about Smithick it follows from its more advantageous94 situation that Truro and Penryn must suffer, and that suits me as little as the other matter would suit Sir John. I told him so, for I can be blunt, and I told the Queen in the form of a counter-petition to Sir John’s.” He shrugged. “The moment was propitious95 to me. I was one of the seamen96 who had helped to conquer the unconquerable Armada of King Philip. I was therefore not to be denied, and Sir John was sent home as empty-handed as he went to Court. D’ye marvel that he hates me? Knowing him for what he is, d’ye marvel that he dubs me pirate and worse? ’Tis natural enough so to misrepresent my doings upon the sea, since it is those doings have afforded me the power to hurt his profit. He has chosen the weapons of calumny97 for this combat, but those weapons are not mine, as I shall show him this very day. If you do not credit what I say, come with me and be present at the little talk I hope to have with that curmudgeon.”
“You forget,” said Master Godolphin, “that I, too, have interests in the neighbourhood of Smithick, and that you are hurting those.”
“Soho!” crowed Sir Oliver. “Now at last the sun of truth peeps forth from all this cloud of righteous indignation at my bad Tressilian blood and pirate’s ways! You, too, are but a trafficker. Now see what a fool I am to have believed you sincere, and to have stood here in talk with you as with an honest man.” His voice swelled98 and his lip curled in a contempt that struck the other like a blow. “I swear I had not wasted breath with you had I known you for so mean and pitiful a fellow.”
“These words. . . . ” began Master Godolphin, drawing himself up very stiffly.
“Are a deal less than your deserts,” cut in the other, and he raised his voice to call —“Nick.”
“You shall answer to them,” snapped his visitor.
“I am answering now,” was the stern answer. “To come here and prate99 to me of my dead father’s dissoluteness and of an ancient quarrel between him and yours, to bleat100 of my trumped-up course of piracy101 and my own ways of life as a just cause why I may not wed your sister whilst the real consideration in your mind, the real spur to your hostility102 is not more than the matter of some few paltry103 pounds a year that I hinder you from pocketing. A God’s name get you gone.”
Nick entered at that moment.
“You shall hear from me again, Sir Oliver,” said the other, white with anger. “You shall account to me for these words.”
“I do not fight with . . . with hucksters,” flashed Sir Oliver.
“D’ye dare call me that?”
“Indeed, ’tis to discredit104 an honourable105 class, I confess it. Nick, the door for Master Godolphin.”
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收听单词发音
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1
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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2
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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3
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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4
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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5
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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7
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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8
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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9
inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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13
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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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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15
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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21
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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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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demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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harrying
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| v.使苦恼( harry的现在分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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45
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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46
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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47
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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48
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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49
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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50
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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51
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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52
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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53
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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54
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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55
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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56
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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57
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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58
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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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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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forgo
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| v.放弃，抛弃 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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caned
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| vt.用苔杖打（cane的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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accolade
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| n.推崇备至，赞扬 | |
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dubs
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的第三人称单数 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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101
piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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102
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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103
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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104
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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