And she had done it all herself, poor thing. She had no maid, and it was almost the only accomplishment5 she could boast of. Hence the unstinted pains.
She was a young invalid6 lady—not so very much of an invalid—sitting in a wheeled chair, which had been pulled up in the front part of a green enclosure, close to a bandstand, where a concert was going on, during a warm June afternoon. It had place in one of the minor7 parks or private gardens that are to be found in the suburbs of London, and was the effort of a local association to raise money for some charity. There are worlds within worlds in the great city, and though nobody outside the immediate8 district had ever heard of the charity, or the band, or the garden, the enclosure was filled with an interested audience sufficiently9 informed on all these.
As the strains proceeded many of the listeners observed the chaired lady, whose back hair, by reason of her prominent position, so challenged inspection10. Her face was not easily discernible, but the aforesaid cunning tress-weavings, the white ear and poll, and the curve of a cheek which was neither flaccid nor sallow, were signals that led to the expectation of good beauty in front. Such expectations are not infrequently disappointed as soon as the disclosure comes; and in the present case, when the lady, by a turn of the head, at length revealed herself, she was not so handsome as the people behind her had supposed, and even hoped—they did not know why.
For one thing (alas! the commonness of this complaint), she was less young than they had fancied her to be. Yet attractive her face unquestionably was, and not at all sickly. The revelation of its details came each time she turned to talk to a boy of twelve or thirteen who stood beside her, and the shape of whose hat and jacket implied that he belonged to a well-known public school. The immediate bystanders could hear that he called her ‘Mother.’
When the end of the recital11 was reached, and the audience withdrew, many chose to find their way out by passing at her elbow. Almost all turned their heads to take a full and near look at the interesting woman, who remained stationary12 in the chair till the way should be clear enough for her to be wheeled out without obstruction13. As if she expected their glances, and did not mind gratifying their curiosity, she met the eyes of several of her observers by lifting her own, showing these to be soft, brown, and affectionate orbs14, a little plaintive15 in their regard.
She was conducted out of the gardens, and passed along the pavement till she disappeared from view, the schoolboy walking beside her. To inquiries16 made by some persons who watched her away, the answer came that she was the second wife of the incumbent17 of a neighbouring parish, and that she was lame18. She was generally believed to be a woman with a story—an innocent one, but a story of some sort or other.
In conversing19 with her on their way home the boy who walked at her elbow said that he hoped his father had not missed them.
‘He have been so comfortable these last few hours that I am sure he cannot have missed us,’ she replied.
‘Has, dear mother—not have!’ exclaimed the public-school boy, with an impatient fastidiousness that was almost harsh. ‘Surely you know that by this time!’
His mother hastily adopted the correction, and did not resent his making it, or retaliate20, as she might well have done, by bidding him to wipe that crumby mouth of his, whose condition had been caused by surreptitious attempts to eat a piece of cake without taking it out of the pocket wherein it lay concealed21. After this the pretty woman and the boy went onward22 in silence.
That question of grammar bore upon her history, and she fell into reverie, of a somewhat sad kind to all appearance. It might have been assumed that she was wondering if she had done wisely in shaping her life as she had shaped it, to bring out such a result as this.
In a remote nook in North Wessex, forty miles from London, near the thriving county-town of Aldbrickham, there stood a pretty village with its church and parsonage, which she knew well enough, but her son had never seen. It was her native village, Gaymead, and the first event bearing upon her present situation had occurred at that place when she was only a girl of nineteen.
How well she remembered it, that first act in her little tragi-comedy, the death of her reverend husband’s first wife. It happened on a spring evening, and she who now and for many years had filled that first wife’s place was then parlour-maid in the parson’s house.
When everything had been done that could be done, and the death was announced, she had gone out in the dusk to visit her parents, who were living in the same village, to tell them the sad news. As she opened the white swing-gate and looked towards the trees which rose westward23, shutting out the pale light of the evening sky, she discerned, without much surprise, the figure of a man standing24 in the hedge, though she roguishly exclaimed as a matter of form, ‘Oh, Sam, how you frightened me!’
He was a young gardener of her acquaintance. She told him the particulars of the late event, and they stood silent, these two young people, in that elevated, calmly philosophic25 mind which is engendered26 when a tragedy has happened close at hand, and has not happened to the philosophers themselves. But it had its bearing upon their relations.
‘And will you stay on now at the Vicarage, just the same?’ asked he.
She had hardly thought of that. ‘Oh, yes—I suppose!’ she said. ‘Everything will be just as usual, I imagine?’
He walked beside her towards her mother’s. Presently his arm stole round her waist. She gently removed it; but he placed it there again, and she yielded the point. ‘You see, dear Sophy, you don’t know that you’ll stay on; you may want a home; and I shall be ready to offer one some day, though I may not be ready just yet.
‘Why, Sam, how can you be so fast! I’ve never even said I liked ’ee; and it is all your own doing, coming after me!’
‘Still, it is nonsense to say I am not to have a try at you like the rest.’ He stooped to kiss her a farewell, for they had reached her mother’s door.
‘No, Sam; you sha’n’t!’ she cried, putting her hand over his mouth. ‘You ought to be more serious on such a night as this.’ And she bade him adieu without allowing him to kiss her or to come indoors.
The vicar just left a widower27 was at this time a man about forty years of age, of good family, and childless. He had led a secluded28 existence in this college living, partly because there were no resident landowners; and his loss now intensified29 his habit of withdrawal30 from outward observation. He was still less seen than heretofore, kept himself still less in time with the rhythm and racket of the movements called progress in the world without. For many months after his wife’s decease the economy of his household remained as before; the cook, the housemaid, the parlour-maid, and the man out-of-doors performed their duties or left them undone31, just as Nature prompted them—the vicar knew not which. It was then represented to him that his servants seemed to have nothing to do in his small family of one. He was struck with the truth of this representation, and decided32 to cut down his establishment. But he was forestalled33 by Sophy, the parlour-maid, who said one evening that she wished to leave him.
‘And why?’ said the parson.
‘Sam Hobson has asked me to marry him, sir.’
‘Well—do you want to marry?’
‘Not much. But it would be a home for me. And we have heard that one of us will have to leave.’
A day or two after she said: ‘I don’t want to leave just yet, sir, if you don’t wish it. Sam and I have quarrelled.’
He looked up at her. He had hardly ever observed her before, though he had been frequently conscious of her soft presence in the room. What a kitten-like, flexuous, tender creature she was! She was the only one of the servants with whom he came into immediate and continuous relation. What should he do if Sophy were gone?
Sophy did not go, but one of the others did, and things went on quietly again.
When Mr. Twycott, the vicar, was ill, Sophy brought up his meals to him, and she had no sooner left the room one day than he heard a noise on the stairs. She had slipped down with the tray, and so twisted her foot that she could not stand. The village surgeon was called in; the vicar got better, but Sophy was incapacitated for a long time; and she was informed that she must never again walk much or engage in any occupation which required her to stand long on her feet. As soon as she was comparatively well she spoke34 to him alone. Since she was forbidden to walk and bustle35 about, and, indeed, could not do so, it became her duty to leave. She could very well work at something sitting down, and she had an aunt a seamstress.
The parson had been very greatly moved by what she had suffered on his account, and he exclaimed, ‘No, Sophy; lame or not lame, I cannot let you go. You must never leave me again!’
He came close to her, and, though she could never exactly tell how it happened, she became conscious of his lips upon her cheek. He then asked her to marry him. Sophy did not exactly love him, but she had a respect for him which almost amounted to veneration36. Even if she had wished to get away from him she hardly dared refuse a personage so reverend and august in her eyes, and she assented37 forthwith to be his wife.
Thus it happened that one fine morning, when the doors of the church were naturally open for ventilation, and the singing birds fluttered in and alighted on the tie-beams of the roof, there was a marriage-service at the communion-rails, which hardly a soul knew of. The parson and a neighbouring curate had entered at one door, and Sophy at another, followed by two necessary persons, whereupon in a short time there emerged a newly-made husband and wife.
Mr. Twycott knew perfectly38 well that he had committed social suicide by this step, despite Sophy’s spotless character, and he had taken his measures accordingly. An exchange of livings had been arranged with an acquaintance who was incumbent of a church in the south of London, and as soon as possible the couple removed thither39, abandoning their pretty country home, with trees and shrubs40 and glebe, for a narrow, dusty house in a long, straight street, and their fine peal41 of bells for the wretchedest one-tongued clangour that ever tortured mortal ears. It was all on her account. They were, however, away from every one who had known her former position; and also under less observation from without than they would have had to put up with in any country parish.
Sophy the woman was as charming a partner as a man could possess, though Sophy the lady had her deficiencies. She showed a natural aptitude42 for little domestic refinements43, so far as related to things and manners; but in what is called culture she was less intuitive. She had now been married more than fourteen years, and her husband had taken much trouble with her education; but she still held confused ideas on the use of ‘was’ and ‘were,’ which did not beget44 a respect for her among the few acquaintances she made. Her great grief in this relation was that her only child, on whose education no expense had been and would be spared, was now old enough to perceive these deficiencies in his mother, and not only to see them but to feel irritated at their existence.
Thus she lived on in the city, and wasted hours in braiding her beautiful hair, till her once apple cheeks waned45 to pink of the very faintest. Her foot had never regained46 its natural strength after the accident, and she was mostly obliged to avoid walking altogether. Her husband had grown to like London for its freedom and its domestic privacy; but he was twenty years his Sophy’s senior, and had latterly been seized with a serious illness. On this day, however, he had seemed to be well enough to justify47 her accompanying her son Randolph to the concert.
该作者的其它作品
《忧郁的双眸 A Pair of Blue Eyes》
《韦塞克斯的故事 Wessex Tales》
《无名的裘德 Jude the Obscure》
《Tess of the D‘Urbervilles德伯家的苔丝》
该作者的其它作品
《忧郁的双眸 A Pair of Blue Eyes》
《韦塞克斯的故事 Wessex Tales》
《无名的裘德 Jude the Obscure》
《Tess of the D‘Urbervilles德伯家的苔丝》
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1
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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2
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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3
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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4
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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6
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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7
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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8
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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9
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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10
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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11
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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12
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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14
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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15
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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16
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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17
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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18
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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19
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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20
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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21
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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22
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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24
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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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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28
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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29
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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31
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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32
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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33
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
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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35
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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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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38
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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40
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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41
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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42
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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43
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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44
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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45
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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46
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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47
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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