If you think, from this prelude5, that anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus7, and melodrama8? Calm your expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is not positively9 affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps towards the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic—ay, even an Anglo-Catholic—might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be cold lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb.
Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England; but in eighteen-hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent10 rain had not descended11. 4 Curates were scarce then: there was no Pastoral Aid—no Additional Curates' Society to stretch a helping12 hand to worn-out old rectors and incumbents13, and give them the wherewithal to pay a vigorous young colleague from Oxford14 or Cambridge. The present successors of the apostles, disciples15 of Dr. Pusey and tools of the Propaganda, were at that time being hatched under cradle-blankets, or undergoing regeneration by nursery-baptism in wash-hand basins. You could not have guessed by looking at any one of them that the Italian-ironed double frills of its net-cap surrounded the brows of a preordained, specially-sanctified successor of St. Paul, St. Peter, or St. John; nor could you have foreseen in the folds of its long night-gown the white surplice in which it was hereafter cruelly to exercise the souls of its parishioners, and strangely to nonplus17 its old-fashioned vicar by flourishing aloft in a pulpit the shirt-like raiment which had never before waved higher than the reading-desk.
Yet even in those days of scarcity18 there were curates: the precious plant was rare, but it might be found. A certain favoured district in the West Riding of Yorkshire could boast three rods of Aaron blossoming within a circuit of twenty miles. You shall see them, reader. Step into this neat garden-house on the skirts of Whinbury, walk forward into the little parlour. There they are at dinner. Allow me to introduce them to you: Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury; Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield; Mr. Sweeting, curate of Nunnely. These are Mr. Donne's lodgings19, being the habitation of one John Gale20, a small clothier. Mr. Donne has kindly21 invited his brethren to regale22 with him. You and I will join the party, see what is to be seen, and hear what is to be heard. At present, however, they are only eating; and while they eat we will talk aside.
These gentlemen are in the bloom of youth; they possess all the activity of that interesting age—an activity which their moping old vicars would fain turn into the channel of their pastoral duties, often expressing a wish to see it expended24 in a diligent25 superintendence of the schools, and in frequent visits to the sick of their respective parishes. But the youthful Levites feel this to be dull work; they prefer lavishing26 their energies on a course of proceeding27 which, though to other eyes it appear more heavy with ennui28, more cursed with monotony, than the toil29 of the 5 weaver30 at his loom23, seems to yield them an unfailing supply of enjoyment31 and occupation.
I allude32 to a rushing backwards33 and forwards, amongst themselves, to and from their respective lodgings—not a round, but a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through, in winter, spring, summer, and autumn. Season and weather make no difference; with unintelligible34 zeal35 they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire36 and dust, to go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them it would be difficult to say. It is not friendship, for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not religion—the thing is never named amongst them; theology they may discuss occasionally, but piety—never. It is not the love of eating and drinking: each might have as good a joint37 and pudding, tea as potent38, and toast as succulent, at his own lodgings, as is served to him at his brother's. Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp—their respective landladies—affirm that "it is just for naught39 else but to give folk trouble." By "folk" the good ladies of course mean themselves, for indeed they are kept in a continual "fry" by this system of mutual40 invasion.
Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting41 a friend to a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently42 exercised of late. The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday Mr. Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting of Nunnely came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on Wednesday morning; now, on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night. "C'en est trop," she would say, if she could speak French.
Mr. Sweeting is mincing43 the slice of roast beef on his plate, and complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says the beer is flat. Ay, that is the worst of it: if they would only be civil Mrs. Gale wouldn't mind it so much, if they would only seem satisfied with what they get she wouldn't care; but "these young parsons is so high and so scornful, they set everybody beneath their 'fit.' They treat her with less than civility, just because she doesn't keep a6 servant, but does the work of the house herself, as her mother did afore her; then they are always speaking against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk," and by that very token Mrs. Gale does not believe one of them to be a real gentleman, or come of gentle kin16. "The old parsons is worth the whole lump of college lads; they know what belongs to good manners, and is kind to high and low."
"More bread!" cries Mr. Malone, in a tone which, though prolonged but to utter two syllables44, proclaims him at once a native of the land of shamrocks and potatoes. Mrs. Gale hates Mr. Malone more than either of the other two; but she fears him also, for he is a tall, strongly-built personage, with real Irish legs and arms, and a face as genuinely national—not the Milesian face, not Daniel O'Connell's style, but the high-featured, North-American-Indian sort of visage, which belongs to a certain class of the Irish gentry45, and has a petrified46 and proud look, better suited to the owner of an estate of slaves than to the landlord of a free peasantry. Mr. Malone's father termed himself a gentleman: he was poor and in debt, and besottedly arrogant47; and his son was like him.
Mrs. Gale offered the loaf.
"Cut it, woman," said her guest; and the "woman" cut it accordingly. Had she followed her inclinations48, she would have cut the parson also; her Yorkshire soul revolted absolutely from his manner of command.
The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was "tough," they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed, too, a tolerable allowance of the "flat beer," while a dish of Yorkshire pudding, and two tureens of vegetables, disappeared like leaves before locusts49. The cheese, too, received distinguished50 marks of their attention; and a "spice-cake," which followed by way of dessert, vanished like a vision, and was no more found. Its elegy51 was chanted in the kitchen by Abraham, Mrs. Gale's son and heir, a youth of six summers; he had reckoned upon the reversion thereof, and when his mother brought down the empty platter, he lifted up his voice and wept sore.
The curates, meantime, sat and sipped52 their wine, a liquor of unpretending vintage, moderately enjoyed. Mr. Malone, indeed, would much rather have had whisky; but Mr. Donne, being an Englishman, did not keep the beverage53. While they sipped they argued, not on politics, nor on philosophy, nor on literature—these topics were now,7 as ever, totally without interest for them—not even on theology, practical or doctrinal, but on minute points of ecclesiastical discipline, frivolities which seemed empty as bubbles to all save themselves. Mr. Malone, who contrived54 to secure two glasses of wine, when his brethren contented55 themselves with one, waxed by degrees hilarious56 after his fashion; that is, he grew a little insolent57, said rude things in a hectoring tone, and laughed clamorously at his own brilliancy.
Each of his companions became in turn his butt58. Malone had a stock of jokes at their service, which he was accustomed to serve out regularly on convivial59 occasions like the present, seldom varying his wit; for which, indeed, there was no necessity, as he never appeared to consider himself monotonous60, and did not at all care what others thought. Mr. Donne he favoured with hints about his extreme meagreness, allusions61 to his turned-up nose, cutting sarcasms62 on a certain threadbare chocolate surtout which that gentleman was accustomed to sport whenever it rained or seemed likely to rain, and criticisms on a choice set of cockney phrases and modes of pronunciation, Mr. Donne's own property, and certainly deserving of remark for the elegance63 and finish they communicated to his style.
Mr. Sweeting was bantered64 about his stature65—he was a little man, a mere66 boy in height and breadth compared with the athletic67 Malone; rallied on his musical accomplishments—he played the flute69 and sang hymns70 like a seraph71, some young ladies of his parish thought; sneered72 at as "the ladies' pet;" teased about his mamma and sisters, for whom poor Mr. Sweeting had some lingering regard, and of whom he was foolish enough now and then to speak in the presence of the priestly Paddy, from whose anatomy73 the bowels74 of natural affection had somehow been omitted.
The victims met these attacks each in his own way: Mr. Donne with a stilted75 self-complacency and half-sullen phlegm, the sole props76 of his otherwise somewhat rickety dignity; Mr. Sweeting with the indifference77 of a light, easy disposition78, which never professed79 to have any dignity to maintain.
When Malone's raillery became rather too offensive, which it soon did, they joined, in an attempt to turn the tables on him by asking him how many boys had shouted "Irish Peter!" after him as he came along the road that day (Malones name was Peter 8 Malone----the Rev6. Peter Augustus Malone); requesting to be informed whether it was the mode in Ireland for clergymen to carry loaded pistols in their pockets, and a shillelah in their hands, when they made pastoral visits; inquiring the signification of such words as vele, firrum, hellum, storrum (so Mr. Malone invariably pronounced veil, firm, helm, storm), and employing such other methods of retaliation81 as the innate82 refinement83 of their minds suggested.
This, of course, would not do. Malone, being neither good-natured nor phlegmatic84, was presently in a towering passion. He vociferated, gesticulated; Donne and Sweeting laughed. He reviled85 them as Saxons and snobs86 at the very top pitch of his high Celtic voice; they taunted87 him with being the native of a conquered land. He menaced rebellion in the name of his "counthry," vented88 bitter hatred89 against English rule; they spoke90 of rags, beggary, and pestilence91. The little parlour was in an uproar92; you would have thought a duel93 must follow such virulent94 abuse; it seemed a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Gale did not take alarm at the noise, and send for a constable95 to keep the peace. But they were accustomed to such demonstrations96; they well knew that the curates never dined or took tea together without a little exercise of the sort, and were quite easy as to consequences, knowing that these clerical quarrels were as harmless as they were noisy, that they resulted in nothing, and that, on whatever terms the curates might part to-night, they would be sure to meet the best friends in the world to-morrow morning.
As the worthy97 pair were sitting by their kitchen fire, listening to the repeated and sonorous98 contact of Malone's fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour table, and to the consequent start and jingle99 of decanters and glasses following each assault, to the mocking laughter of the allied68 English disputants, and the stuttering declamation100 of the isolated101 Hibernian—as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the outer door-step, and the knocker quivered to a sharp appeal.
Mr. Gale went and opened.
"Whom have you upstairs in the parlour?" asked a voice—a rather remarkable102 voice, nasal in tone, abrupt103 in utterance104.
"O Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir? I could hardly see you for the darkness; it is so soon dark now. Will you walk in, sir?"
9 "I want to know first whether it is worth my while walking in. Whom have you upstairs?"
"The curates, sir."
"What! all of them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Been dining here?"
"Yes, sir."
"That will do."
With these words a person entered—a middle-aged105 man, in black. He walked straight across the kitchen to an inner door, opened it, inclined his head forward, and stood listening. There was something to listen to, for the noise above was just then louder than ever.
"Hey!" he ejaculated to himself; then turning to Mr. Gale—"Have you often this sort of work?"
"They're young, you know, sir—they're young," said he deprecatingly.
"Young! They want caning106. Bad boys—bad boys! And if you were a Dissenter107, John Gale, instead of being a good Churchman, they'd do the like—they'd expose themselves; but I'll——"
By way of finish to this sentence, he passed through the inner door, drew it after him, and mounted the stair. Again he listened a few minutes when he arrived at the upper room. Making entrance without warning, he stood before the curates.
And they were silent; they were transfixed; and so was the invader108. He—a personage short of stature, but straight of port, and bearing on broad shoulders a hawk's head, beak109, and eye, the whole surmounted110 by a Rehoboam, or shovel111 hat, which he did not seem to think it necessary to lift or remove before the presence in which he then stood—he folded his arms on his chest and surveyed his young friends, if friends they were, much at his leisure.
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《Jane Eyre简爱》
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《Jane Eyre简爱》
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1
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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incumbents
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| 教区牧师( incumbent的名词复数 )； 教会中的任职者 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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nonplus
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| v.使困窘；使狼狈 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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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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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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54
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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56
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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64
bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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71
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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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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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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caning
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| n.鞭打 | |
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dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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