I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander1 and steal . . .
—Tennyson, Maud (1855)
Charles found the curate’s house and rang the bell. A maid answered, but the bewhiskered young man himself hovered2 in the hallway behind her. The maid retreated, as her master came forward to take the heavy old key.
“Thank you, sir. I celebrate Holy Communion at eight every morning. You stay long in Exeter?”
“Alas, no. I am simply en passage.”
“I had hoped to see you again. I can be of no further assistance?”
And he gestured, the poor young shrimp3, towards a door behind which no doubt lay his study. Charles had already noted4 a certain ostentation5 about the church furnishings; and he knew he was being invited to Confession6. It did not need magical powers to see through the wall and discern a prie-dieu and a discreet7 statue of the Virgin8; for this was one of the young men born too late for the Tractarian schism9 and who now dallied10 naughtily but safely—since Dr. Phillpotts was High Church—with rituals and vestments, a very preva-lent form of ecclesiastical dandyism. Charles measured him a moment and took heart in his own new vision: it could not be more foolish than this. So he bowed and refused, and went on his way. He was shriven of established religion for the rest of his life.
His way ... you think, perhaps, that that must lead straight back to Endicott’s Family Hotel. A modern man would no doubt have gone straight back there. But Charles’s accursed sense of Duty and Propriety11 stood like castle walls against that. His first task was to cleanse12 himself of past obligations; only then could he present himself to offer his hand.
He began to understand Sarah’s deceit. She knew he loved her; and she knew he had been blind to the true depth of that love. The false version of her betrayal by Varguennes, her other devices, were but stratagems13 to unblind him; all she had said after she had brought him to the realization14 was but a test of his new vision. He had failed miserably15; and she had then used the same stratagems as a proof of her worthless-ness. Out of what nobility must such self-sacrifice spring! If he had but sprung forward and taken her into his arms again, told her she was his, ungainsayably!
And if only—he might have added, but didn’t—there were not that fatal dichotomy (perhaps the most dreadful result of their mania17 for categorization) in the Victorians, which led them to see the “soul” as more real than the body, far more real, their only real self; indeed hardly connected with the body at all, but floating high over the beast; and yet, by some inexplicable18 flaw in the nature of things, reluctantly dragged along in the wake of the beast’s movements, like a white captive balloon behind a disgraceful and disobedient child.
This—the fact that every Victorian had two minds—is the one piece of equipment we must always take with us on our travels back to the nineteenth century. It is a schizophrenia seen at its clearest, its most notorious, in the poets I have quoted from so often—in Tennyson, Clough, Arnold, Hardy19; but scarcely less clearly in the extraordinary political veerings from Right to Left and back again of men like the younger Mill and Gladstone; in the ubiquitous neuroses and psy-chosomatic illnesses of intellectuals otherwise as different as Charles Kingsley and Darwin; in the execration20 at first poured on the Pre-Raphaelites, who tried—or seemed to be trying—to be one-minded about both art and life; in the endless tug-of-war between Liberty and Restraint, Excess and Moderation, Propriety and Conviction, between the princi-pled man’s cry for Universal Education and his terror of Universal Suffrage21; transparent22 also in the mania for editing and revising, so that if we want to know the real Mill or the real Hardy we can learn far more from the deletions and alterations23 of their autobiographies24 than from the published versions . . . more from correspondence that somehow es-caped burning, from private diaries, from the petty detritus25 of the concealment26 operation. Never was the record so completely confused, never a public facade27 so successfully passed off as the truth on a gullible29 posterity30; and this, I think, makes the best guidebook to the age very possibly Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Behind its latterday Gothick lies a very profound and epoch-revealing truth.
Every Victorian had two minds; and Charles had at least that. Already, as he walked up Fore31 Street towards the Ship, he was rehearsing the words his white balloon would utter when the wicked child saw Sarah again; the passionate33 yet honorable arguments that would reduce her to a tearful gratitude34 and the confession that she could not live without him. He saw it all, so vividly35 I feel tempted36 to set it down. But here is reality, in the form of Sam, standing37 at the doors of the ancient inn.
“The service was hagreeable, Mr. Charles?”
“I ... I lost my way, Sam. And I’ve got damnably wet.” Which was not at all the adjective to apply to Sam’s eyes. “Fill a tub for me, there’s a good fellow. I’ll sup in my rooms.”
“Yes, Mr. Charles.”
Some fifteen minutes later you might have seen Charles stark38 naked and engaged in an unaccustomed occupation: that of laundering39. He had his bloodstained garments pressed against the side of the vast hip32 bath that had been filled for him and was assiduously rubbing them with a piece of soap. He felt foolish, and did not make a very good job of it. When Sam came, some time later, with the supper tray, the gar-ments lay as if thrown negligently40 half in and half out of the bath. Sam collected them up without remark; and for once Charles was grateful for his notorious carelessness in such matters.
Having eaten his supper, he opened his writing case.
My dearest,
One half of me is inexpressibly glad to address you thus, while the other wonders how he can so speak of a being he yet but scarcely understands. Something in you I would fain say I know profoundly: and something else I am as ignorant of as when I first saw you. I say this not to excuse, but to explain my behavior this evening. I cannot excuse it; yet I must believe that there was one way in which it may be termed fortunate, since it prompted a searching of my conscience that was long overdue41. I shall not go into all the circumstance. But I am resolved, my sweet and mys-terious Sarah, that what now binds43 us shall bind42 us forevermore. I am but too well aware that I have no right to see you again, let alone to ask to know you fully28, in my present situation. My first necessity is therefore to terminate my engagement.
A premonition that it was folly44 to enter into that arrangement has long been with me—before ever you came into my life. I im-plore you, therefore, not to feel guilt45 in that respect. What is to blame is a blindness in myself as to my own real nature. Had I been ten years younger, had I not seen so much in my age and my society with which I am not in sympathy, I have no doubt I could have been happy with Miss Freeman. My mistake was to forget that I am thirty-two, not twenty-two.
I therefore go early tomorrow on the most painful journey to Lyme. You will appreciate that to conclude its purpose is the pre-dominant thought in my mind at this moment. But my duty in that respect done, my thoughts shall be only of you—nay, of our future. What strange fate brought me to you I do not know, but, God willing, nothing shall take you from me unless it be yourself that wishes it so. Let me say no more now, my sweet enigma46, than that you will have to provide far stronger proofs and arguments than you have hitherto adduced. I cannot believe you will attempt to do so. Your heart knows I am yours and that I would call you mine.
Need I assure you, my dearest Sarah, that my intentions are henceforth of the most honorable? There are a thousand things I wish to ask you, a thousand attentions to pay you, a thousand pleasures to give you. But always with every regard to whatever propriety your delicacy47 insists on.
I am he who will know no peace, no happiness until he holds you in his arms again.
C.S.
P.S. On re-reading what I have written I perceive a formality my heart does not intend. Forgive it. You are both so close and yet a stranger—I know not how to phrase what I really feel.
Your fondest C.
This anabatic epistle was not arrived at until after several drafts. It had by then grown late, and Charles changed his mind about its immediate48 dispatch. She, by now, would have wept herself to sleep; he would let her suffer one more black night; but she should wake to joy. He re-read the letter several times; it had a little aftermath of the tone he had used, only a day or two before, in letters from London to Ernestina; but those letters had been agony to write, mere49 concessions50 to convention, which is why he had added that postscript51. He still felt, as he had told Sarah, a stranger to himself; but now it was with a kind of awed52 pleasure that he stared at his face in the mirror. He felt a great courage in himself, both present and future—and a uniqueness, a having done something unparalleled. And he had his wish: he was off on a journey again, a journey made doubly delicious by its promised companion. He tried to imagine unknown Sarahs— a Sarah laughing, Sarah singing, Sarah dancing. They were hard to imagine, and yet not impossible ... he remembered that smile when they had been so nearly discovered by Sam and Mary. It had been a clairvoyant53 smile, a seeing into the future. And that time he had raised her from her knees— with what infinite and long pleasure he would now do that in their life together!
If these were the thorns and the stones that threatened about him, he could bear them. He did think a moment of one small thorn: Sam. But Sam was like all servants, dismissable.
And summonable. Summoned he was, at a surprisingly early hour that next morning. He found Charles in his dress-ing gown, with a sealed letter and packet in his hands.
“Sam, I wish you to take these to the address on the envelope. You will wait ten minutes to see if there is an answer. If there is none—I expect none, but wait just in case—if there is none, you are to come straight back here. And hire a fast carriage. We go to Lyme.” He added, “But no baggage. We return here tonight.”
“Tonight, Mr. Charles! But I thought we was—“ “Never mind what you thought. Just do as I say.” Sam put on his footman face, and withdrew. As he went slowly downstairs it became clear to him that his position was intolerable. How could he fight a battle without informa-tion? With so many conflicting rumors54 as to the disposition55 of the enemy forces? He stared at the envelope in his hand. Its destination was flagrant: Miss Woodruff, at Endicott’s Family Hotel. And only one day in Lyme? With portmanteaux to wait here! He turned the small packet over, pressed the envelope.
It seemed fat, three pages at least. He glanced round surrep-titously, then examined the seal. Sam cursed the man who in-vented wax.
And now he stands again before Charles, who has dressed.
“Well?”
“No answer, Mr. Charles.”
Charles could not quite control his face. He turned away.
“And the carriage?”
“Ready and waitin’, sir.”
“Very well. I shall be down shortly.”
Sam withdrew. The door had no sooner closed when Charles raised his hands to his head, then threw them apart, as if to an audience, an actor accepting applause, a smile of gratitude on his lips. For he had, upon his ninety-ninth re-reading of his letter that previous night, added a second postscript. It concerned that brooch we have already seen in Ernestina’s hands. Charles begged Sarah to accept it; and by way of a sign, to allow that her acceptance of it meant that she accepted his apologies for his conduct. This second post-script had ended: “The bearer will wait till you have read this. If he should bring the contents of the packet back ... but I know you cannot be so cruel.”
Yet the poor man had been in agony during Sam’s ab-sence.
And here Sam is again, volubly talking in a low voice, with frequent agonized56 looks. The scene is in the shadow of a lilac bush, which grows outside the kitchen door in Aunt Tranter’s garden and provides a kind of screen from the garden proper. The afternoon sun slants57 through the branches and first white buds. The listener is Mary, with her cheeks flushed and her hand almost constantly covering her mouth.
“’Tisn’t possible, ‘tisn’t possible.”
“It’s ‘is uncle. It’s turned ‘is “ead.”
“But young mistress—oh, what’ll ‘er do now, Sam?”
And both their eyes traveled up with dread16, as if they thought to hear a scream or see a falling body, to the windows through the branches above.
“And bus, Mary. What’ll us do?”
“Oh Sam—‘tisn’t fair ...”
“I love yer, Mary.”
“Oh Sam ...”
“’Tweren’t just bein’ wicked. I’d as soon die as lose yer now.”
“Oh what’ll us do?”
“Don’t cry, my darling, don’t cry. I’ve ‘ad enough of
hupstairs. They’re no better’n us,” He gripped her by the arms. “If ‘is lordship thinks like master, like servant, ‘e’s mistook, Mary. If it’s you or ‘im, it’s you.” He stiffened58, like a soldier about to charge. “I’ll leave ‘is hemploy.”
“Sam!”
“I will. I’ll ‘aul coals. Hanything!”
“But your money—‘e woan’ give’ee that no more now!”
“’E ain’t got it to give.” His bitterness looked at her dismay. But then he smiled and reached out his hands. “But shall I tell yer someone who ‘as? If you and me play our cards right?”
收听单词发音 |
1
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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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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shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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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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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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autobiographies
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| n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 )；自传文学 | |
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detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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laundering
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| n.洗涤（衣等），洗烫（衣等）；洗（钱）v.洗（衣服等），洗烫（衣服等）( launder的现在分词 )；洗（黑钱）（把非法收入改头换面，变为貌似合法的收入） | |
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negligently
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clairvoyant
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| adj.有预见的；n.有预见的人 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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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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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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slants
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| （使）倾斜，歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 )； 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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