When at the end of February they arrive at Newark, the Surveyors find secure behind the Bar a pile of Correspondence forwarded to them by Mr. Chew, wherein lies news both cheery and crushing. There is the Pos?sibility of further Engagement in America, measuring a Degree of Lati?tude for the Royal Society. There is also a letter from John Bird, with news of Maskelyne's elevation1 to H.M. Astronomer2. "You were expecting me to scream, weren't you?" "No,— no, Mason, tha being a grown Man and all,— "Actually, I'm quite reliev'd. Didn't need that on my Mind, did I? Arh, arh! Let us be blithe3 about it, for goodness' sake! What a wonderful Omen4 under which to begin the West Line," Mason raising his Tankard with an abruptness5 advisable only in Rooms where one's Face is known. "At the very moment he was elevated, I lay flat upon a Back that for all I knew was broken, in a desert place in New Jersey6."
"We're curs'd, you knew thah'...?" Dixon tries to bear down and attend closely. "And none could have foreseen,—
"Oh, Maskelyne knew that Bradley was ill,"— Mason attempting to be chirpy is less easy to bear than Mason in blackest Melancholy,— "ev'ryone knew it, as ev'ryone knew that Bliss7 would come on only as Caretaker, for he as well was old, and ailing8, yet there should be time enough left him, for each Aspirant9 to make his interest as he might—" "Why aye, and yet you always knew he cultivated— " 'Cultivated,'— poh. Maskelyne caress'd, and slither'd, insinuating10 himself into an old man's esteem,— for having done nothing, really, one more lad from Cambridge, clever with Numbers, tho' none beyond that damn'd Tripos Riddling11, who but happens to be Clive of fucking India's, fucking, Brother-in-law! Ahhr, Dixon! this seventh Wrangler12, this bilious13, windy Hypnotick in the Herbal of human character, this mean-spirited intriguer,— his usage of poor Mr. Harrison, and his Chronometer14, how contemptible15. Few are his ideas, Lunarian is his one Faith, to plod16 is his entire Project. He will never make any discov?ery on the order of Aberration17, nor Nutation,— he is unworthy, damn him! to succeed James Bradley." His face is wet, more with Spittle than Tears.
"Eeh, Mason." Dixon by now has learn'd to stay at a respectful dis?tance, and not to rely too heavily upon Touch as a way of communicating. "You believ'd... Really...?"
"Oh well, 'really,'— it's like a Woman, isn't it, you look at each other, you think Of course not, she thinks Of course not,— yet the Alternatives hang about, don't they, like Wraiths18."
"Eehh, City Matters, would I knoah anything about thah'?"
"I was up there four years, I lost two women I lov'd, God help me. I lost Bradley, dear to me as well. Were Tears Sixpences, I'd have more invested in that miserable19 hilltop than Maskelyne could borrow, be the co-signer Clive himself. Well, let him never sleep. Let him pace those rooms, one after another, in the idled silence of the afternoons, till he hears the voices telling him he has no right there, and to go away. Let him stand at last in the Octagon Room, and shiver in the height of Sum?mer. Let him fear to stay up for stars that culminate20 too late,— Aahhrrhh!"
"Mason,— aren't Maskelyne and Morton both Cambridge men? Wasn't it Morton who put his name forward? They must have wanted one of their own...?"
"The last three A.R.'s were all Oxford21 men."
"There's a difference?"
Mason stares, then says slowly, "Yes, Dixon, there is a difference.... And he went in as a bloody22 Sizar, I could have done that,— don't you
think I was 'one of their own'? What, then, the Bastard23 Son? The faithful old Drudge24 in the Background? Haven't I any standing25 in this? Is that what this fucking exile in America's about then, Morton and his fucking Royal Society,— to get me out of the way so that Maskelyne can go prancing26 up to Greenwich freed of opposition,—
"So, Ah'm dragg'd along in the wake of your ill fortune, eeh, another bonny mess...?"
"Might teach you to take care whom your name gets attach'd to. Ahrrhh! Ruin!" He pulls his Hat over his Eyes, and begins to pound his Head slowly upon the Table.
"According to this," Dixon soothingly27, as if 'twere a Fan, waving a Page, enclos'd with the letter, clipp'd from the Gentlemen's Magazine of the December previous, "there were, it seems, ten, competing for the job,— Betts, Bevis, Short...so on. Any of those names light a Match?" Though reaching the outskirts28 of Forbearance, can he really continue? Yes, he ought to. Either Mason cannot admit there's a Class problem here, or, even this deeply compromised, he may yet somehow keep Faith that in the Service of the Heavens, dramatic Elevations29 of Earthly Posi?tion are to be expected of these Times, this Reign30 of Reason, by any rea?sonable man. Very well, "Mason, you are a Miller's Son. That can never satisfy them."
"What of it?" Mason snaps back, "Flamsteed was a Maltster's Son. Halley was a Soap-boiler's Son. Astronomers31 Royal are suppos'd to be social upstarts, for Mercy's sake. And I'd friends in the Company," inflecting this, however, with a Snort and a sidewise Tilt32 of the Head, assuming Dixon knows roughly how Sam Peach and Clive of India might sort out upon the Company's own Chain of Being.
"Did you and Maskelyne talk about any of this when you were together at St. Helena?"
"Are you insane?"
"Oh, off and on...? And thee?"
"Bradley's Name may have come up."
"And Maskelyne,— may I speculate?— said, 'Has he given Thought to a Successor?' '
"Why, that's amazing. You might have been there. What is it about you people, some mystickal Gift, I imagine.”
"Ahnd,— he didn't say, 'Mason, though clearly I would welcome your support, I'm going to have this A.R. job with or without it,' anything like thah'?"
"Why are you trying to get me to re-live this? It was unpleasant enough the first time."
"So as to avoid it m'self, of course."
"I shall get thro' this, Dixon."
"Were I thee, I should make him feel guilty ev'ry chance I got. Per?haps33 he doubts his own Worthiness34. Tha must never make it too obvious, of course, always the dignified35 Sufferer,— yet there is no predicting what Advantage tha may build, upon his Uncertainty36."
"Why bless me, Sir,— you are a Jesuit, after all. Sinister37 Alfonso, move aside,— sheathe38 that Stiletto, wicked Giuseppe,— here is the true Italian Art."
"I-o.? Why, I am simple as a pony39, Sir... ?— born in a Drift, a Corf for my cradle, and nought40 but the Back-shift for Schoolmasters there...?”
1 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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2 astronomer | |
n.天文学家 | |
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3 blithe | |
adj.快乐的,无忧无虑的 | |
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4 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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5 abruptness | |
n. 突然,唐突 | |
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6 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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7 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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8 ailing | |
v.生病 | |
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9 aspirant | |
n.热望者;adj.渴望的 | |
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10 insinuating | |
adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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11 riddling | |
adj.谜一样的,解谜的n.筛选 | |
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12 wrangler | |
n.口角者,争论者;牧马者 | |
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13 bilious | |
adj.胆汁过多的;易怒的 | |
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14 chronometer | |
n.精密的计时器 | |
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15 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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16 plod | |
v.沉重缓慢地走,孜孜地工作 | |
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17 aberration | |
n.离开正路,脱离常规,色差 | |
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18 wraiths | |
n.幽灵( wraith的名词复数 );(传说中人在将死或死后不久的)显形阴魂 | |
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19 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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20 culminate | |
v.到绝顶,达于极点,达到高潮 | |
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21 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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22 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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23 bastard | |
n.坏蛋,混蛋;私生子 | |
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24 drudge | |
n.劳碌的人;v.做苦工,操劳 | |
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25 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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26 prancing | |
v.(马)腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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27 soothingly | |
adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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28 outskirts | |
n.郊外,郊区 | |
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29 elevations | |
(水平或数量)提高( elevation的名词复数 ); 高地; 海拔; 提升 | |
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30 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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31 astronomers | |
n.天文学者,天文学家( astronomer的名词复数 ) | |
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32 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
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33 haps | |
n.粗厚毛披巾;偶然,机会,运气( hap的名词复数 ) | |
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34 worthiness | |
价值,值得 | |
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35 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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36 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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37 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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38 sheathe | |
v.(将刀剑)插入鞘;包,覆盖 | |
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39 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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40 nought | |
n./adj.无,零 | |
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