When the child was about ten years old, he invited his sister, Mrs. Penniman, to come and stay with him.
The Miss Slopers had been but two in number, and both of them had married early in life.
The younger, Mrs. Almond by name, was the wife of a prosperous merchant, and the mother of a blooming family.
She bloomed herself, indeed, and was a comely1, comfortable, reasonable woman, and a favourite with her clever brother, who, in the matter of women, even when they were nearly related to him, was a man of distinct preferences.
He preferred Mrs. Almond to his sister Lavinia, who had married a poor clergyman, of a sickly constitution and a flowery style of eloquence2, and then, at the age of thirty-three, had been left a widow, without children, without fortune--with nothing but the memory of Mr. Penniman's flowers of speech, a certain vague aroma3 of which hovered4 about her own conversation.
Nevertheless he had offered her a home under his own roof, which Lavinia accepted with the alacrity5 of a woman who had spent the ten years of her married life in the town of Poughkeepsie.
The Doctor had not proposed to Mrs. Penniman to come and live with him indefinitely; he had suggested that she should make an asylum6 of his house while she looked about for unfurnished lodgings7.
It is uncertain whether Mrs. Penniman ever instituted a search for unfurnished lodgings, but it is beyond dispute that she never found them.
She settled herself with her brother and never went away, and when Catherine was twenty years old her Aunt Lavinia was still one of the most striking features of her immediate8 entourage.
Mrs. Penniman's own account of the matter was that she had remained to take charge of her niece's education.
She had given this account, at least, to every one but the Doctor, who never asked for explanations which he could entertain himself any day with inventing.
Mrs. Penniman, moreover, though she had a good deal of a certain sort of artificial assurance, shrank, for indefinable reasons, from presenting herself to her brother as a fountain of instruction.
She had not a high sense of humour, but she had enough to prevent her from making this mistake; and her brother, on his side, had enough to excuse her, in her situation, for laying him under contribution during a considerable part of a lifetime.
He therefore assented10 tacitly to the proposition which Mrs. Penniman had tacitly laid down, that it was of importance that the poor motherless girl should have a brilliant woman near her.
His assent9 could only be tacit, for he had never been dazzled by his sister's intellectual lustre11.
Save when he fell in love with Catherine Harrington, he had never been dazzled, indeed, by any feminine characteristics whatever; and though he was to a certain extent what is called a ladies' doctor, his private opinion of the more complicated sex was not exalted12.
He regarded its complications as more curious than edifying13, and he had an idea of the beauty of REASON, which was, on the whole, meagrely gratified by what he observed in his female patients.
His wife had been a reasonable woman, but she was a bright exception; among several things that he was sure of, this was perhaps the principal.
Such a conviction, of course, did little either to mitigate14 or to abbreviate15 his widowhood; and it set a limit to his recognition, at the best, of Catherine's possibilities and of Mrs. Penniman's ministrations.
He, nevertheless, at the end of six months, accepted his sister's permanent presence as an accomplished16 fact, and as Catherine grew older perceived that there were in effect good reasons why she should have a companion of her own imperfect sex.
He was extremely polite to Lavinia, scrupulously17, formally polite; and she had never seen him in anger but once in her life, when he lost his temper in a theological discussion with her late husband.
With her he never discussed theology, nor, indeed, discussed anything; he contented18 himself with making known, very distinctly, in the form of a lucid19 ultimatum20, his wishes with regard to Catherine.
Once, when the girl was about twelve years old, he had said to her:
"Try and make a clever woman of her, Lavinia; I should like her to be a clever woman."
Mrs. Penniman, at this, looked thoughtful a moment.
"My dear Austin," she then inquired, "do you think it is better to be clever than to be good?"
"Good for what?" asked the Doctor.
"You are good for nothing unless you are clever."
From this assertion Mrs. Penniman saw no reason to dissent21; she possibly reflected that her own great use in the world was owing to her aptitude22 for many things.
"Of course I wish Catherine to be good," the Doctor said next day; "but she won't be any the less virtuous23 for not being a fool.
I am not afraid of her being wicked; she will never have the salt of malice24 in her character.
She is as good as good bread, as the French say; but six years hence I don't want to have to compare her to good bread and butter."
"Are you afraid she will turn insipid25?
My dear brother, it is I who supply the butter; so you needn't fear!" said Mrs. Penniman, who had taken in hand the child's accomplishments26, overlooking her at the piano, where Catherine displayed a certain talent, and going with her to the dancing-class, where it must be confessed that she made but a modest figure.
Mrs. Penniman was a tall, thin, fair, rather faded woman, with a perfectly27 amiable28 disposition29, a high standard of gentility, a taste for light literature, and a certain foolish indirectness and obliquity30 of character.
She was romantic, she was sentimental31, she had a passion for little secrets and mysteries--a very innocent passion, for her secrets had hitherto always been as unpractical as addled32 eggs.
She was not absolutely veracious33; but this defect was of no great consequence, for she had never had anything to conceal34. She would have liked to have a lover, and to correspond with him under an assumed name in letters left at a shop; I am bound to say that her imagination never carried the intimacy35 farther than this. Mrs. Penniman had never had a lover, but her brother, who was very shrewd, understood her turn of mind.
"When Catherine is about seventeen," he said to himself, "Lavinia will try and persuade her that some young man with a moustache is in love with her.
It will be quite untrue; no young man, with a moustache or without, will ever be in love with Catherine.
But Lavinia will take it up, and talk to her about it; perhaps, even, if her taste for clandestine36 operations doesn't prevail with her, she will talk to me about it.
Catherine won't see it, and won't believe it, fortunately for her peace of mind; poor Catherine isn't romantic."
She was a healthy well-grown child, without a trace of her mother's beauty.
She was not ugly; she had simply a plain, dull, gentle countenance37.
The most that had ever been said for her was that she had a "nice" face, and, though she was an heiress, no one had ever thought of regarding her as a belle38.
Her father's opinion of her moral purity was abundantly justified39; she was excellently, imperturbably40 good; affectionate, docile41, obedient, and much addicted42 to speaking the truth.
In her younger years she was a good deal of a romp43, and, though it is an awkward confession44 to make about one's heroine, I must add that she was something of a glutton45.
She never, that I know of, stole raisins46 out of the pantry; but she devoted47 her pocket-money to the purchase of cream-cakes.
As regards this, however, a critical attitude would be inconsistent with a candid48 reference to the early annals of any biographer.
Catherine was decidedly not clever; she was not quick with her book, nor, indeed, with anything else.
She was not abnormally deficient49, and she mustered50 learning enough to acquit51 herself respectably in conversation with her contemporaries, among whom it must be avowed52, however, that she occupied a secondary place.
It is well known that in New York it is possible for a young girl to occupy a primary one. Catherine, who was extremely modest, had no desire to shine, and on most social occasions, as they are called, you would have found her lurking53 in the background.
She was extremely fond of her father, and very much afraid of him; she thought him the cleverest and handsomest and most celebrated54 of men.
The poor girl found her account so completely in the exercise of her affections that the little tremor55 of fear that mixed itself with her filial passion gave the thing an extra relish56 rather than blunted its edge.
Her deepest desire was to please him, and her conception of happiness was to know that she had succeeded in pleasing him.
She had never succeeded beyond a certain point.
Though, on the whole, he was very kind to her, she was perfectly aware of this, and to go beyond the point in question seemed to her really something to live for.
What she could not know, of course, was that she disappointed him, though on three or four occasions the Doctor had been almost frank about it.
She grew up peacefully and prosperously, but at the age of eighteen Mrs. Penniman had not made a clever woman of her.
Dr. Sloper would have liked to be proud of his daughter; but there was nothing to be proud of in poor Catherine.
There was nothing, of course, to be ashamed of; but this was not enough for the Doctor, who was a proud man and would have enjoyed being able to think of his daughter as an unusual girl. There would have been a fitness in her being pretty and graceful57, intelligent and distinguished58; for her mother had been the most charming woman of her little day, and as regards her father, of course he knew his own value.
He had moments of irritation59 at having produced a commonplace child, and he even went so far at times as to take a certain satisfaction in the thought that his wife had not lived to find her out.
He was naturally slow in making this discovery himself, and it was not till Catherine had become a young lady grown that he regarded the matter as settled.
He gave her the benefit of a great many doubts; he was in no haste to conclude.
Mrs. Penniman frequently assured him that his daughter had a delightful60 nature; but he knew how to interpret this assurance.
It meant, to his sense, that Catherine was not wise enough to discover that her aunt was a goose--a limitation of mind that could not fail to be agreeable to Mrs. Penniman.
Both she and her brother, however, exaggerated the young girl's limitations; for Catherine, though she was very fond of her aunt, and conscious of the gratitude61 she owed her, regarded her without a particle of that gentle dread62 which gave its stamp to her admiration63 of her father.
To her mind there was nothing of the infinite about Mrs. Penniman; Catherine saw her all at once, as it were, and was not dazzled by the apparition64; whereas her father's great faculties65 seemed, as they stretched away, to lose themselves in a sort of luminous66 vagueness, which indicated, not that they stopped, but that Catherine's own mind ceased to follow them.
It must not be supposed that Dr. Sloper visited his disappointment upon the poor girl, or ever let her suspect that she had played him a trick.
On the contrary, for fear of being unjust to her, he did his duty with exemplary zeal67, and recognised that she was a faithful and affectionate child.
Besides, he was a philosopher; he smoked a good many cigars over his disappointment, and in the fulness of time he got used to it.
He satisfied himself that he had expected nothing, though, indeed, with a certain oddity of reasoning.
"I expect nothing," he said to himself, "so that if she gives me a surprise, it will be all clear again.
If she doesn't, it will be no loss."
This was about the time Catherine had reached her eighteenth year, so that it will be seen her father had not been precipitate68.
At this time she seemed not only incapable69 of giving surprises; it was almost a question whether she could have received one--she was so quiet and irresponsive.
People who expressed themselves roughly called her stolid70.
But she was irresponsive because she was shy, uncomfortably, painfully shy.
This was not always understood, and she sometimes produced an impression of insensibility.
In reality she was the softest creature in the world.
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1
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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abbreviate
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| v.缩写，使...简略，缩短 | |
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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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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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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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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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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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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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avowed
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| 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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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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55
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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60
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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