Let me tell you, my friends, that the whole thing depends On an ancient manorial1 right.
—Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark (1876)
The effect of Mary on the young Cockney’s mind had indeed been ruminative2. He loved Mary for herself, as any normal young man in his healthy physical senses would; but he also loved her for the part she played in his dreams—which was not at all the sort of part girls play in young men’s dreams in our own uninhibited, and unimagi-native, age. Most often he saw her prettily3 caged behind the counter of a gentleman’s shop. From all over London, as if magnetized, distinguished4 male customers homed on that seductive face. The street outside was black with their top hats, deafened5 by the wheels of their carriages and hansoms. A kind of magical samovar, whose tap was administered by Mary, dispensed6 an endless flow of gloves, scarves, stocks, hats, gaiters, Oxonians (a kind of shoe then in vogue) and collars—Piccadilly’s, Shakespere’s, Dog-collar’s, Dux’s—Sam had a fixation on collars, I am not sure it wasn’t a fetish, for he certainly saw Mary putting them round her small white neck before each admir-ing duke and lord. During this charming scene Sam himself was at the till, the recipient7 of the return golden shower.
He was well aware that this was a dream. But Mary, so to speak, underlined the fact; what is more, sharpened the hideous8 features of the demon9 that stood so squarely in the way of its fulfillment. Its name? Short-of-the-ready. Perhaps it was this ubiquitous enemy of humankind that Sam was still staring at in his master’s sitting room, where he had made himself comfortable—having first watched Charles safely out of sight down Broad Street, with yet another mysterious pursing of the lips—as he toyed with his second supper: a spoonful or two of soup, the choicer hearts of the mutton slices, for Sam had all the instincts, if none of the finances, of a swell10. But now again he was staring into space past a piece of mutton anointed with caper11 sauce, which he held poised12 on his fork, though oblivious13 to its charms.
Mal (if I may add to your stock of useless knowledge) is an Old English borrowing from Old Norwegian and was brought to us by the Vikings. It originally meant “speech,” but since the only time the Vikings went in for that rather womanish activity was to demand something at axeblade, it came to mean “tax” or “payment in tribute.” One branch of the Vikings went south and founded the Mafia in, Sicily; but another—and by this time mal was spelled mail—were busy starting their own protection rackets on the Scottish border. If one cherished one’s crops or one’s daughter’s virginity one paid mail to the neighborhood chieftains; and the victims, in the due course of an expensive time, called it black mail.
If not exactly engaged in etymological14 speculation15, Sam was certainly thinking of the meaning of the word; for he had guessed at once who the “unfortunate woman” was. Such an event as the French Lieutenant’s Woman’s dismissal was too succulent an item not to have passed through every mouth in Lyme in the course of the day; and Sam had already overheard a conversation in the taproom as he sat at his first and interrupted supper. He knew who Sarah was, since Mary had mentioned her one day. He also knew his master and his manner; he was not himself; he was up to something; he was on his way to somewhere other than Mrs. Tranter’s house. Sam laid down the fork and its morsel16 and began to tap the side of his nose; a gesture not unknown in the ring at Newmarket, when a bow-legged man smells a rat masquerading as a racehorse. But the rat here, I am afraid, was Sam—and what he smelled was a sinking ship.
Downstairs at Winsyatt they knew very well what was going on; the uncle was out to spite the nephew. With the rural working class’s innate17 respect for good husbandry they despised Charles for not visiting more often—in short, for not buttering up Sir Robert at every opportunity. Servants in those days were regarded as little more than furniture, and their masters frequently forgot they had both ears and intelli-gences; certain abrasive18 exchanges between the old man and his heir had not gone unnoticed and undiscussed. And though there was a disposition19 among the younger female staff to feel sorry for the handsome Charles, the sager20 part took a kind of ant’s-eye view of the frivolous21 grasshopper22 and his come-uppance. They had worked all their lives for their wages; and they were glad to see Charles punished for his laziness.
Besides, Mrs. Tomkins, who was very much as Ernestina suspected, an upper-middle-class adventuress, had shrewdly gone out of her way to ingratiate herself with the housekeep-er and the butler; and those two worthies23 had set their imprimatur—or ducatur in matrimonium—upon the plump and effusive24 widow; who furthermore had, upon being shown a long-unused suite25 in the before-mentioned east wing, re-marked to the housekeeper26 how excellent a nursery the rooms would make. It was true that Mrs. Tomkins had a son and two daughters by her first marriage; but in the house-keeper’s opinion—graciously extended to Mr. Benson, the butler—Mrs. Tomkins was as good as expecting again.
“It could be daughters, Mrs. Trotter.”
“She’s a trier, Mr. Benson. You mark my words. She’s a trier.”
The butler sipped27 his dish of tea, then added, “And tips well.” Which Charles, as one of the family, did not.
The general substance of all this had come to Sam’s ears, while he waited down in the servants’ hall for Charles. It had not come pleasantly in itself or pleasantly inasmuch as Sam, as the servant of the grasshopper, had to share part of the general judgment28 on him; and all this was not altogether unconnected with a kind of second string Sam had always kept for his bow: a faute de mieux dream in which he saw himself in the same exalted29 position at Winsyatt that Mr. Benson now held. He had even casually30 planted this seed— and one pretty certain to germinate31, if he chose—in Mary’s mind. It was not nice to see one’s tender seedling32, even if it was not the most cherished, so savagely33 uprooted34.
Charles himself, when they left Winsyatt, had not said a word to Sam, so officially Sam knew nothing about his blackened hopes. But his master’s blackened face was as good as knowledge.
And now this.
Sam at last ate his congealing35 mutton, and chewed it, and swallowed it; and all the time his eyes stared into the future.
Charles’s interview with his uncle had not been stormy, since both felt guilty—the uncle for what he was doing, the nephew for what he had failed to do in the past. Charles’s reaction to the news, delivered bluntly but with telltale avert-ed eyes, had been, after the first icy shock, stiffly polite.
“I can only congratulate you, sir, and wish you every happiness.”
His uncle, who had come upon him soon after we left Charles in the drawing room, turned away to a window, as if to gain heart from his green acres. He gave a brief account of his passion. He had been rejected at first: that was three weeks ago. But he was not the man to turn tail at the first refusal. He had sensed a certain indecision in the lady’s voice. A week before he had taken train to London and “galloped straight in again”; the obstinate36 hedge was tri-umphantly cleared. “She said ‘no’ again, Charles, but she was weeping. I knew I was over.” It had apparently37 taken two or three days more for the definitive38 “Yes” to be spoken.
“And then, my dear boy, I knew I had to face you. You are the very first to be told.”
But Charles remembered then that pitying look from old Mrs. Hawkins; all Winsyatt had the news by now. His uncle’s somewhat choked narration39 of his amorous40 saga41 had given him time to absorb the shock. He felt whipped and humili-ated; a world less. But he had only one defense42: to take it calmly, to show the stoic43 and hide the raging boy.
“I appreciate your punctiliousness44, Uncle.”
“You have every right to call me a doting45 old fool. Most of my neighbors will.”
“Late choices are often the best.”
“She’s a lively sort of woman, Charles. Not one of your damned niminy-piminy modern misses.” For one sharp mo-ment Charles thought this was a slight on Ernestina—as it was, but not intended. His uncle went obliviously46 on. “She says what she thinks. Nowadays some people consider that signifies a woman’s a thruster. But she’s not.” He enlisted47 the agreement of his parkland. “Straight as a good elm.”
“I never for a moment supposed she could be anything else.”
The uncle cast a shrewd look at him then; just as Sam played the meek48 footman with Charles, so did Charles some-times play the respectful nephew with the old man.
“I would rather you were angry than ...” he was going to say a cold fish, but he came and put his arm round Charles’s shoulder; for he had tried to justify49 his decision by working up anger against Charles—and he was too good a sportsman not to know it was a mean justification50. “Charles, now damn it, it must be said. This brings an alteration51 to your pros-pects. Though at my age, heaven knows ...” that “bullfinch” he did refuse. “But if it should happen, Charles, I wish you to know that whatever may come of the marriage, you will not go unprovided for. I can’t give you the Little House; but I wish emphatically that you take it as yours for as long as you live. I should like that to be my wedding gift to Ernestina and yourself—and the expenses of doing the place up proper-ly, of course.”
“That is most generous of you. But I think we have more or less decided52 to go into the Belgravia house when the lease falls in.”
“Yes, yes, but you must have a place in the country. I will not have this business coming between us, Charles. I shall break it off tomorrow if—“
Charles managed a smile. “Now you are being absurd. You might well have married many years ago.”
“That may be. But the fact is I didn’t.”
He went nervously53 to the wall and placed a picture back into alignment54. Charles was silent; perhaps he felt less hurt at the shock of the news than at the thought of all his foolish dream of possession as he drove up to Winsyatt. And the old devil should have written. But to the old devil that would have been a cowardice55. He turned from the painting.
“Charles, you’re a young fellow, you spend half your life traveling about. You don’t know how deuced lonely, bored, I don’t know what it is, but half the time I feel I might as well be dead.”
Charles murmured, “I had no idea . ..”
“No, no, I don’t mean to accuse you. You have your own life to lead.” But he did still, secretly, like so many men without children, blame Charles for falling short of what he imagined all sons to be—dutiful and loving to a degree ten minutes’ real fatherhood would have made him see was a sentimental56 dream. “All the same there are things only a woman can bring one. The old hangings in this room, now. Had you noticed? Mrs. Tomkins called them gloomy one day. And damn it, I’m blind, they were gloomy. Now that’s what a woman does. Makes you see what’s in front of your nose.” Charles felt tempted57 to suggest that spectacles per-formed the same function a great deal more cheaply, but he merely bowed his head in understanding. Sir Robert rather unctuously59 waved his hand. “What say you to these new ones?”
Charles then had to grin. His uncle’s aesthetic60 judgments61 had been confined for so long to matters such as the depth of a horse’s withers62 and the superiority of Joe Manton over any other gunmaker known to history that it was rather like hearing a murderer ask his opinion of a nursery rhyme.
“A great improvement.”
“Just so. Everyone says the same.”
Charles bit his lip. “And when am I going to meet the lady?”
“Indeed, I was coming to that. She is most anxious to get to know you. And Charles, most delicate in the matter of ... well, the ... how shall I put it?”
“Limitations of my prospects63?”
“Just so. She confessed last week she first refused me for that very reason.” This was, Charles realized, supposed to be a commendation, and he showed a polite surprise. “But I assured her you had made an excellent match. And would understand and approve my choice of partner . . . for my last years.”
“You haven’t yet answered my question, Uncle.”
Sir Robert looked a little ashamed. “She is visiting family in Yorkshire. She is related to the Daubenys, you know.”
“Indeed.”
“I go to join her there tomorrow.”
“Ah.”
“And I thought it best to get it over man to man. But she is most anxious to meet you.” His uncle hesitated, then with a ludicrous shyness reached in his waistcoat pocket and pro-duced a locket. “She gave me this last week.”
And Charles stared at a miniature, framed in gold and his uncle’s heavy fingers, of Mrs. Bella Tomkins. She looked disagreeably young; firm-lipped; and with assertive64 eyes—not at all unattractive, even to Charles. There was, curiously65, some faint resemblance to Sarah in the face; and a subtle new dimension was added to Charles’s sense of humiliation66 and dispossession. Sarah was a woman of profound inexperi-ence, and this was a woman of the world; but both in their very different ways—his uncle was right—stood apart from the great niminy-piminy flock of women in general. For a moment he felt himself like a general in command of a weak army looking over the strong dispositions67 of the enemy; he foresaw only too clearly the result of a confrontation68 be-tween Ernestina and the future Lady Smithson. It would be a rout69.
“I see I have further reason to congratulate you.”
“She’s a fine woman. A splendid woman. Worth waiting for, Charles.” His uncle dug him in the ribs70. “You’ll be jealous. Just see if you won’t.” He gazed fondly again at the locket, then closed it reverentially and replaced it in his pocket. And then, as if to counteract71 the soft sop72, he briskly made Charles accompany him to the stables to see his latest brood mare73, bought for “a hundred guineas less than she was worth”; and which seemed a totally unconscious but distinct equine parallel in his mind to his other new acquisition.
They were both English gentlemen; and they carefully avoided further discussion of, if not further reference to (for Sir Robert was too irrepressibly full of his own good luck not to keep on harking back), the subject uppermost in both their minds. But Charles insisted that he must return to Lyme and his fiancee that evening; and his uncle, who in former days would, at such a desertion, have sunk into a black gloom, made no great demur74 now. Charles promised to discuss the matter of the Little House with Ernestina, and to bring her to meet the other bride-to-be as soon as could be conveniently arranged. But all his uncle’s last-minute warmth and hand-shaking could not disguise the fact that the old man was relieved to see the back of him.
Pride had buoyed75 Charles up through the three or four hours of his visit; but his driving away was a sad business. Those lawns, pastures, railings, landscaped groves76 seemed to slip through his fingers as they slipped slowly past his eyes. He felt he never wanted to see Winsyatt again. The morn-ing’s azure77 sky was overcast78 by a high veil of cirrus, har-binger of that thunderstorm we have already heard in Lyme, and his mind soon began to plummet79 into a similar climate of morose80 introspection.
This latter was directed not a little against Ernestina. He knew his uncle had not been very impressed by her fastidious little London ways; her almost total lack of interest in rural life. To a man who had devoted81 so much of his life to breeding she must have seemed a poor new entry to such fine stock as the Smithsons. And then one of the bonds between uncle and nephew had always been their bachelorhood— perhaps Charles’s happiness had opened Sir Robert’s eyes a little: if he, why not I? And then there was the one thing about Ernestina his uncle had thoroughly82 approved of: her massive marriage portion. But that was precisely83 what al-lowed him to expropriate Charles with a light conscience.
But above all, Charles now felt himself in a very displeas-ing position of inferiority as regards Ernestina. His income from his father’s estate had always been sufficient for his needs; but he had not increased the capital. As the future master of Winsyatt he could regard himself as his bride’s financial equal; as a mere58 rentier he must become her finan-cial dependent. In disliking this, Charles was being a good deal more fastidious than most young men of his class and age. To them dowry-hunting (and about this time, dollars began to be as acceptable as sterling) was as honorable a pursuit as fox-hunting or gaming. Perhaps that was it: he felt sorry for himself and yet knew very few would share his feeling. It even exacerbated84 his resentment85 that circum-stances had not made his uncle’s injustice86 even greater: if he had spent more time at Winsyatt, say, or if he had never met Ernestina in the first place ...
But it was Ernestina, and the need once again to show the stiff upper lip, that was the first thing to draw him out of his misery87 that day.
收听单词发音 |
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manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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ruminative
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| adj.沉思的，默想的，爱反复思考的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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caper
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| v.雀跃，欢蹦；n.雀跃，跳跃；续随子，刺山柑花蕾；嬉戏 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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etymological
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| adj.语源的，根据语源学的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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abrasive
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| adj.使表面磨损的；粗糙的；恼人的 | |
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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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sager
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| adj.贤明的，貌似聪明的( sage的比较级 ) | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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germinate
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| v.发芽；发生；发展 | |
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seedling
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| n.秧苗，树苗 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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punctiliousness
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doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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obliviously
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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alignment
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| n.队列；结盟，联合 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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exacerbated
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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