‘I am Italian,’ he would say when Mr. Pepperdine slyly teased him. ‘It does not matter that I was born in England. My real name is Luciano Damerelli, and my father’s, if he had used it, was Cypriano.’
Little by little they began to find out the boy’s qualities and characteristics. He was strangely old-fashioned, precocious7, and unnaturally8 grave, and cared little for the society of other children, at whom he had a trick of staring as if they had been insects impaled9 beneath a microscope and he a scientist examining them. He appeared to have two great passions—one for out-door life and nature; the other for reading. He would sit for hours on the bridge watching the river run by, or lie on his back on the lawn in front of the house staring at the drifting clouds. He knew every nook of the ruinous part of the castle and every corner{44} of the old church before he had been at Simonstower many weeks. He made friends with everybody in the village, and if he found out that an old man had some strange legend to tell, he pestered10 the life out of him until it was told. And every day he did so much reading, always with the stern concentration of the student who means to possess a full mind.
When Lucian had been nearly two months at the farm it was borne in upon Miss Pepperdine’s mind that he ought to be sent to school. She was by no means anxious to get rid of him—on the contrary she was glad to have him in the house: she loved to hear him talk, to see him going about, and to watch his various proceedings11. But Keziah Pepperdine had been endowed at birth with the desire to manage—she was one of those people who are never happy unless they are controlling, devising, or superintending. Moreover, she possessed12 a very strict sense of justice—she believed in doing one’s duty, especially to those people to whom duty was owing, and who could not extract it for themselves. It seemed to her that it was the plain duty of Lucian’s relatives to send Lucian to school. She was full of anxieties for his future. Every attempt which she had made to get her brother to tell her anything about the boy’s affairs had resulted in sheer failure—Simpson Pepperdine, celebrated13 from the North Sea to the Westmoreland border as the easiest-going and best-natured man that ever lived, was a past master in the art of evading14 direct questions. Keziah could get no information from him, and she was anxious for Lucian’s sake. The boy, she said, ought to be fitted out for some walk in life.
She took the vicar into her confidence, seizing the opportunity when he called one day and found no one but herself at home.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘the boy is a great book-worm. Reading is all that he seems to care about. He brought a quantity of books with him—he has bought others since. He reads in an old-fashioned sort of way—not{45} as you would think a child would. I offered him a child’s book one night—it was one that a little boy who once stayed here had left in the house. He took it politely enough, and pretended to look at it, but it was plain to see that he was amused. He is a precocious child, Mr. Chilverstone.’
The vicar agreed. He suggested that he might be better able to judge the situation, and to advise Miss Pepperdine thereon, if he were allowed to inspect Lucian’s library, and Keziah accordingly escorted him to the boy’s room. Mr. Chilverstone was somewhat taken aback on being confronted by an assemblage of some three or four hundred volumes, arranged with great precision and bearing evidences of constant use. He remarked that the sight was most interesting, and proceeded to make a general inspection15. A rapid survey of Lucian’s books showed him that the boy had three favourite subjects—history, medi?val romance, and poetry. There were histories of almost every country in Europe, and at least three of the United States of America; there were editions of the ancient chronicles; the great Italian poets were all there in the original; the English poets, ancient and modern, were there too, in editions that bespoke16 the care of a book-lover. There was nothing of a juvenile18, or even a frivolous19 nature from the top of the old bookcase to the bottom—the nearest approach to anything in the shape of light literature was found in the presence of certain famous historical romances of undoubted verisimilitude, and in much-thumbed copies of Robinson Crusoe and The Pilgrim’s Progress.
Mr. Chilverstone was puzzled. As at least one-half of the books before him were in Italian, he concluded that Lucian was as well acquainted with that language as with English, and said so. Miss Pepperdine enlightened him on the point, and gave him a rapid sketch21 of Lucian’s history.
‘Just so, just so,’ said he. ‘No doubt the boy’s father formed his taste. It is really most interesting.{46} It is very evident that the child has an uncommon22 mind—you say that he reads with great attention and concentration?’
‘You might let off a cannon23 at his elbow and he wouldn’t take any notice,’ said Miss Pepperdine.
‘It is evident that he is a born student. This is a capital collection of modern histories,’ said Mr. Chilverstone. ‘If your nephew has read and digested them all he must be well informed as to the rise and progress of nations. I should like, I think, to have an opportunity of conversing24 with him.’
Although he did not say so to Miss Pepperdine, the vicar was secretly anxious to find out what had diverted the boy’s attention from the usual pursuits of childhood into these paths. He contrived25 to waylay26 Lucian and to draw him into conversation, and being a man of some talent and of considerable sympathy, he soon knew all that the boy had to tell. He found that Lucian had never received any education of the ordinary type; had never been to school or known tutor or governess. He could not remember who taught him to read, but cherished a notion that reading and writing had come to him with his speech. As to his choice of books, that had largely had its initiative in his father’s recommendation; but there had been a further incentive27 in the fact that the boy had travelled a great deal, was familiar with many historic scenes and places, and had a natural desire to re-create the past in his own imagination. For six years, in short, he had been receiving an education such as few children are privileged to acquire. He talked of medi?val Italy as if he had lived in its sunny-tinted hours, and of modern Rome as though it lay in the next parish. But Mr. Chilverstone saw that the boy was in no danger of becoming either prig or pedant28, and that his mind was as normal as his body was healthy. He was the mere6 outcome of an exceptional environment. He had lived amongst men who talked and worked and thought but with one object—Art—and their enthusiasm had filled{47} him too. ‘I am to be a poet—a great poet,’ he said, with serious face and a straight stare from the violet eyes whose beauty brought everybody captive to his feet. ‘It is my destiny.’
Mr. Chilverstone had a sheaf of yellow papers locked away in a secret drawer which he had never exhibited to living man or woman—verses written in long dead college days. He was sentimental29 about them still, and the sentiment inclined him to tenderness with youthful genius. He assured Lucian that he sincerely trusted that he might achieve his heart’s desire, and added a word of good advice as to the inadvisability of writing too soon. But he discovered that some one had been beforehand with the boy on that point—the future poet, with a touch of worldly wisdom which sounded as odd as it was quaint20, assured the parson that he had a horror of immaturity30 and had been commanded by his father never to print anything until it had stood the test of cool-headed reflection and twelve months’ keeping.
The vicar recognised that here was material which required careful nursing and watchful31 attention. He soon found that Lucian knew nothing of mathematics, and that his only desire in the way of Greek and Latin was that he might be able to read the poets of those languages in the originals. Of the grammar of the English language he knew absolutely nothing, but as he spoke17 with an almost too extreme correctness, and in a voice of great refinement32, Mr. Chilverstone gave it as his opinion that there was no necessity to trouble him with its complexities33. But in presenting his report to Miss Pepperdine the vicar said that it would do the boy good to go to school. He would mix with other boys—he was healthy and normal enough, to be sure, and full of boyish fun in his way, but the society of lads of his own age would be good for him. He recommended Miss Pepperdine to send him to the grammar-school at Saxonstowe, the headmaster of which was a friend of his and would gladly give special{48} attention to any boy whom he recommended. He volunteered, carrying his kindness further, to go over to Saxonstowe and talk to Dr. Babbacombe; for Lucian, he remarked, was no ordinary boy, and needed special attention.
Miss Pepperdine, like most generals who conceive their plans of campaign in secret, found that her troubles commenced as soon as she began to expose her scheme to criticism. Mr. Pepperdine, as a lifelong exponent34 of the art of letting things alone, wanted to know what she meant by disturbing everything when all was going on as comfortably as it could be. He was sure the boy had as much book-learning as the archbishop himself—besides, if he was sent away to school, he, Simpson Pepperdine, would have nobody to talk to about how they farmed in foreign countries. Judith, half recognising the force of her sister’s arguments, was still angry with Keziah for allowing them to occur to her—she knew that the boy had crept so closely into her heart and had so warmed it with new fire that she hated the thought of his leaving her, even though Saxonstowe was only thirty miles away. Consequently Miss Pepperdine fought many pitched battles with her brother and sister, and Simpson and Judith, who knew that she had more brains in her little finger than they possessed in their two heads, took to holding conferences in secret in the vain hope of circumventing35 her designs.
It came as a vast surprise to these two conspirators36 that Lucian himself, on whose behalf they basely professed37 to be fighting, deserted38 to, or rather openly joined, the enemy as soon as the active campaign began. Miss Pepperdine, like the astute39 woman she was, gained the boy’s ear and had talked him over before either Simpson or Judith could pervert40 his mind. He listened to all she had to say, showed that he was impressed, and straightway repaired to the vicarage to seek Mr. Chilverstone’s advice. That evening, in the course of a family council, shared in by Mr. Pepperdine with a{49} gloomy face and feelings of silent resentment41 against Keziah, and by Judith with something of the emotion displayed by a hen who is about to be robbed of her one chicken, Lucian announced that he would go to school, adding, however, that if he found there was nothing to be learnt there he would return to his uncle’s roof. Mr. Pepperdine plucked up amazingly after this announcement, for he cherished a secret conviction that his nephew already knew more than any schoolmaster could teach him; but Judith shed tears when she went to bed, and felt ill-disposed towards Keziah for the rest of the week.
Lucian went to Saxonstowe presently with cheerfulness and a businesslike air, and the three middle-aged42 Pepperdines were miserable43. Mr. Pepperdine took to going over to the Grange at Wellsby nearly every night, and Judith was openly rebellious44. Miss Pepperdine herself felt that the house was all the duller for the boy’s absence, and wondered how they had endured its dumb monotony before he came. There was much of the Spartan45 in her, however, and she bore up without sign; but the experience taught her that Duty, when actually done, is not so pleasing to the human feelings as it seems to be when viewed from a distance.
No word came from Lucian for two weeks after his departure; then the postman brought a letter addressed to Mr. Pepperdine, which was opened amidst great excitement at the breakfast table. Mr. Pepperdine, however, read it in silence.
‘My dear Uncle Simpson Pepperdine,’ wrote Lucian, ‘I did not wish to write to you until I had been at school quite two weeks, so that I could tell you what I thought of it, and whether it would suit me. It is a very nice school, and all the boys are very nice too, and I like Dr. Babbacombe, and his wife, and the masters. We have very good meals, and I should be quite content in that respect if one could sometimes have a cup of decent coffee, but I believe that is impossible{50} in England. They have a pudding here, sometimes, which the boys call Spotted46 Dog—it is very satisfying and I do not remember hearing of it before—it has what English people call plums in it, but they are in reality small dried raisins47.
‘I am perfectly48 content with my surroundings and my new friends, but I greatly fear that this system of education will not suit me. In some subjects, such as history and general knowledge, I find that I already know much more than Dr. Babbacombe usually teaches to boys. As regards other subjects I find that it is not en règle to permit discussion or argument between master and pupil. I can quite see the reasonableness of that, but it is the only way in which I have ever learnt everything. I am not quick at learning anything—I have to read a thing over and over again before I arrive at the true significance. It may be that I would spend a whole day in accounting49 to myself why a certain cause produces a certain effect—the system of education in use here, however, requires one to learn many things in quite a short time. It reminds me of the man who taught twelve parrots all at once. In more ways than one it reminds me of this, because I feel that many boys here learn the sound of a word and yet do not know what the word means. That is what I have been counselled to avoid.
‘I am anxious to be amenable50 to your wishes, but I think I shall waste time here. If I could have my own way I should like to have Mr. Chilverstone for a tutor, because he is a man of understanding and patience, and would fully51 explain everything to me. I am not easy in my mind here, though quite so in my body. Everybody is very kind and the life is comfortable, but I do not think Dr. Babbacombe or his masters are great savants, though they are gracious and estimable gentlemen.
‘I send my love to you and my aunts, and to Mr. Chilverstone and Mr. and Mrs. Trippett. I have bought a cricket-bat for John Trippett and a doll for{51} Mary, which I shall send in a box very soon.—And I am your affectionate kinsman52,
‘Lucian Damerel.
As the greater part of this remarkable53 epistle was pure Greek to Mr. Pepperdine, he repaired to the vicarage with it and laid it before Mr. Chilverstone, who, having duly considered it, returned with Lucian’s kinsman to the farm and there entered into solemn conclave54 with him and his sisters. The result of their deliberations was that the boy was soon afterwards taken from the care of the gracious and estimable gentlemen who were not savants, and placed, so far as his education was concerned, under the sole charge of the vicar.
点击收听单词发音
1 docility | |
n.容易教,易驾驶,驯服 | |
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2 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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3 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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4 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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5 maternal | |
adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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6 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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7 precocious | |
adj.早熟的;较早显出的 | |
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8 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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9 impaled | |
钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10 pestered | |
使烦恼,纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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12 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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13 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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14 evading | |
逃避( evade的现在分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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15 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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16 bespoke | |
adj.(产品)订做的;专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 );订(货);证明;预先请求 | |
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17 spoke | |
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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18 juvenile | |
n.青少年,少年读物;adj.青少年的,幼稚的 | |
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19 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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20 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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21 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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22 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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23 cannon | |
n.大炮,火炮;飞机上的机关炮 | |
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24 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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25 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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26 waylay | |
v.埋伏,伏击 | |
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27 incentive | |
n.刺激;动力;鼓励;诱因;动机 | |
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28 pedant | |
n.迂儒;卖弄学问的人 | |
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29 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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30 immaturity | |
n.不成熟;未充分成长;未成熟;粗糙 | |
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31 watchful | |
adj.注意的,警惕的 | |
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32 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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33 complexities | |
复杂性(complexity的名词复数); 复杂的事物 | |
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34 exponent | |
n.倡导者,拥护者;代表人物;指数,幂 | |
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35 circumventing | |
v.设法克服或避免(某事物),回避( circumvent的现在分词 );绕过,绕行,绕道旅行 | |
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36 conspirators | |
n.共谋者,阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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37 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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38 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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39 astute | |
adj.机敏的,精明的 | |
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40 pervert | |
n.堕落者,反常者;vt.误用,滥用;使人堕落,使入邪路 | |
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41 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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42 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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43 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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44 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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45 spartan | |
adj.简朴的,刻苦的;n.斯巴达;斯巴达式的人 | |
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46 spotted | |
adj.有斑点的,斑纹的,弄污了的 | |
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47 raisins | |
n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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48 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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49 accounting | |
n.会计,会计学,借贷对照表 | |
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50 amenable | |
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
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51 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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52 kinsman | |
n.男亲属 | |
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53 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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54 conclave | |
n.秘密会议,红衣主教团 | |
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