August came—a real August—with cloudless blue skies, and scorching1 noontides, and a brief storm now and then to clear the atmosphere. The yellow corn-fields basked2 in the sun’s hot rays, scarce stirred to a ripple3 by the light summer air. The broad Atlantic seemed placid4 as that great jasper sea men picture in their dreams of heaven. The pine trees stood up straight and dark and tall and solemn against a background of azure5 sky. Ocean’s wide waste of waters brought no sense of coolness to the parched6 wayfarer7, for all that vast expanse glowed like burnished8 gold beneath the splendour of the sun-god. The road across the purple moor9 glared whitely between its fringe of plantations10, and the flower-gardens at Penwyn Manor11 made patches of vivid colour in the distance. The birthday of the heir had come and gone, with many bonfires, sky-rockets, much rejoicing of tenants12 and peasantry, eating and drinking, bounties13 to the poor, speechifying, and general exultation14. At twelve months old Churchill Penwyn’s heir, if not quite the paragon15 his parents and his aunt believed him, was fairly worth some amount of rejoicing. He was a sturdy, broad-shouldered little fellow, with chestnut16 locks cut straight across his wide, fair forehead, and large blue eyes, dark, and sweet, and truthful17, a loving, generous-hearted little soul, winning the love of all creatures—from the grave, thoughtful father who secretly worshipped him, to the kitten that rolled itself into a ball of soft white fur in his baby lap.
The general rejoicings for tenants and cottagers, the public celebration, as it were, of the infant’s first anniversary, being happily over, with satisfaction to all—even to the Irish reapers18, who were regaled with supper and unlimited19 whisky punch in one of the big barns—Mrs. Penwyn turned her attention to more refined assemblies. Lady Cheshunt was at Penwyn, and had avowed20 herself actually charmed with the gathering21 of the vulgar herd22.
‘My dear, they are positively23 refreshing24 in their absolute na?veté,’ she exclaimed, when she talked over the day’s proceedings25 with Madge and Viola in Mrs. Penwyn’s dressing-room. ‘To see the colours they wear, and the unsophisticated width of their boots, and scantiness26 of their petticoats, and the way they perspire27, and get ever so red in the face without seeming to mind it; and the primitive28 way they have of looking really happy—it is positively like turning over a new leaf in the book of life. And when one can see it all without any personal exertion29, sitting under a dear old tree and drinking iced claret cup—how admirably your people make claret cup!—it is intensely refreshing.’
‘I hope you will often turn over new leaves, then, dear Lady Cheshunt,’ Madge answered, smiling.
‘And on Thursday you are going to give a dinner party, and show me the genteel aborigines, the country people; benighted30 creatures who have no end of quarterings on their family shields, and never wear a decently cut gown, and drive horses that look as if they had been just taken from the plough.’
‘I don’t know that our Cornish friends are quite so lost in the night of ages as you suppose them,’ said Madge, laughing. ‘Brunel has brought them within a day’s journey of civilization, you know. They may have their gowns made in Bond Street without much trouble.’
‘Ah, my love, these are people who go to London once in three years, I dare say. Why, to miss a single season in town is to fall behind one’s age; one’s ideas get mouldy and moss-grown; one’s sleeves look as if they had been made in the time of George the Third. To keep abreast31 with the march of time one must be at one’s post always. One might as well be the sleeping beauty at once, and lose a hundred years, as skip the London season. I remember one year that I was out of health, and those tiresome32 doctors sent me to spend my spring and summer in Germany. When I came to London in the following March, I felt like Rip Van Winkle. I hardly remembered the names of the Ministry33, or the right use of asparagus tongs34. However, sweet child, I shall be amused to see your county people.’
The county families assembled a day or two afterwards, and proved not unintelligent, as Lady Cheshunt confessed afterwards, though their talk was for the most part local, or of field sports. The ladies talked chiefly of their neighbours. Not scandal by any means. That would have been most dangerous; for they could hardly have spoken of any one who was not related by cousinship or marriage with somebody present. But they talked of births, and marriages, and deaths, past or to come; of matrimonial engagements, of children, of all simple, social, domestic subjects; all which Lady Cheshunt listened to wonderingly. The flavour of it was to the last degree insipid35 to the metropolitan36 worldling. It was like eating whitebait without cayenne or lemon—whitebait that tasted only of frying-pan and batter37. The young ladies talked about curates, point lace, the penny readings of last winter, amateur concerts, new music—ever so old in London—and the school children; or, grouped round Viola, listened with awful interest to her descriptions of the season’s dissipations—the balls, and flower shows, and races, and regattas she had assisted at, the royal personages she had beheld38, the various on dits current in London society about those royal personages, so fresh and sparkling, and, if not true, at least possessing a richness of detail that seemed like truth. Viola was eminently39 popular among the younger branches of the county families. The sons played croquet and billiards40 with her, the daughters copied the style of her dresses, and chose their new books and music at her recommendation. Mrs. Penwyn was popular with all—matrons and maidens41, elderly squires42 and undergraduates, rich and poor. She appealed to the noblest and widest feelings of human nature, and not to love her would have been to be indifferent to virtue43 and sweetness.
This first dinner after the return to Penwyn Manor was more or less of a state banquet. The Manor House put forth44 all its forces. The great silver-gilt cups, and salvers, and ponderous45 old wine-coolers, and mighty46 venison dishes, a heavy load for a strong man, emerged from their customary retirement47 in shady groves48 of green baize. The buffet49 was set forth as at a royal feast; the long dinnertable resembled a dwarf50 forest of stephanotis and tremulous dewy-looking fern. The closed venetians excluded the glow of a crimson51 sunset, yet admitted evening’s refreshing breeze. The many tapers52 twinkled with a tender subdued53 radiance. The moon-like Silber lamps on the sideboard and mantel-piece gave a tone of coolness to the room. The women in their gauzy dresses, with family jewels glittering star-like upon white throats and fair round arms, or flashing from coils of darkest hair, completed the pleasant picture. Churchill Penwyn looked down the table with his quiet smile.
‘After all, conventional, commonplace, as this sort of thing may be, it gives one an idea of power,’ he thought, in his half-cynical way, ‘and is pleasant enough for the moment. Sardanapalus, with a nation of slaves under his heel, could only have enjoyed the same kind of sensation on a larger scale.’
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1 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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2 basked | |
v.晒太阳,取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 );对…感到乐趣;因他人的功绩而出名;仰仗…的余泽 | |
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3 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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4 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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5 azure | |
adj.天蓝色的,蔚蓝色的 | |
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6 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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7 wayfarer | |
n.旅人 | |
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8 burnished | |
adj.抛光的,光亮的v.擦亮(金属等),磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 );被擦亮,磨光 | |
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9 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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10 plantations | |
n.种植园,大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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11 manor | |
n.庄园,领地 | |
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12 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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13 bounties | |
(由政府提供的)奖金( bounty的名词复数 ); 赏金; 慷慨; 大方 | |
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14 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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15 paragon | |
n.模范,典型 | |
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16 chestnut | |
n.栗树,栗子 | |
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17 truthful | |
adj.真实的,说实话的,诚实的 | |
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18 reapers | |
n.收割者,收获者( reaper的名词复数 );收割机 | |
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19 unlimited | |
adj.无限的,不受控制的,无条件的 | |
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20 avowed | |
adj.公开声明的,承认的v.公开声明,承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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21 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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22 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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23 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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24 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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25 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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26 scantiness | |
n.缺乏 | |
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27 perspire | |
vi.出汗,流汗 | |
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28 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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29 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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30 benighted | |
adj.蒙昧的 | |
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31 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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32 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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33 ministry | |
n.(政府的)部;牧师 | |
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34 tongs | |
n.钳;夹子 | |
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35 insipid | |
adj.无味的,枯燥乏味的,单调的 | |
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36 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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37 batter | |
v.接连重击;磨损;n.牛奶面糊;击球员 | |
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38 beheld | |
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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39 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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40 billiards | |
n.台球 | |
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41 maidens | |
处女( maiden的名词复数 ); 少女; 未婚女子; (板球运动)未得分的一轮投球 | |
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42 squires | |
n.地主,乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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43 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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44 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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45 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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46 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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47 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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48 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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49 buffet | |
n.自助餐;饮食柜台;餐台 | |
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50 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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51 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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52 tapers | |
(长形物体的)逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 ); 微弱的光; 极细的蜡烛 | |
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53 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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