With head aloft, nor ever turns her eyes
But to these
With cheerful morning thoughts and quick device
To find the much in little.
Mrs. Meyrick’s house was not noisy: the front parlor7 looked on the river, and the back on gardens, so that though she was reading aloud to her daughters, the window could be left open to freshen the air of the small double room where a lamp and two candles were burning. The candles were on a table apart for Kate, who was drawing illustrations for a publisher; the lamp was not only for the reader but for Amy and Mab, who were embroidering8 satin cushions for “the great world.”
Outside, the house looked very narrow and shabby, the bright light through the holland blind showing the heavy old-fashioned window-frame; but it is pleasant to know that many such grim-walled slices of space in our foggy London have been and still are the homes of a culture the more spotlessly free from vulgarity, because poverty has rendered everything like display an impersonal9 question, and all the grand shows of the world simply a spectacle which rouses petty rivalry10 or vain effort after possession.
The Meyricks’ was a home of that kind: and they all clung to this particular house in a row because its interior was filled with objects always in the same places, which, for the mother held memories of her marriage time, and for the young ones seemed as necessary and uncriticised a part of their world as the stars of the Great Bear seen from the back windows. Mrs. Meyrick had borne much stint11 of other matters that she might be able to keep some engravings specially12 cherished by her husband; and the narrow spaces of wall held a world history in scenes and heads which the children had early learned by heart. The chairs and tables were also old friends preferred to new. But in these two little parlors13 with no furniture that a broker14 would have cared to cheapen except the prints and piano, there was space and apparatus15 for a wide-glancing, nicely-select life, opened to the highest things in music, painting and poetry. I am not sure that in the times of greatest scarcity16, before Kate could get paid-work, these ladies had always had a servant to light their fires and sweep their rooms; yet they were fastidious in some points, and could not believe that the manners of ladies in the fashionable world were so full of coarse selfishness, petty quarreling, and slang as they are represented to be in what are called literary photographs. The Meyricks had their little oddities, streaks17 of eccentricity18 from the mother’s blood as well as the father’s, their minds being like mediæval houses with unexpected recesses19 and openings from this into that, flights of steps and sudden outlooks.
But mother and daughters were all united by a triple bond—family love; admiration20 for the finest work, the best action; and habitual21 industry. Hans’ desire to spend some of his money in making their lives more luxurious22 had been resisted by all of them, and both they and he had been thus saved from regrets at the threatened triumphs of his yearning23 for art over the attractions of secured income—a triumph that would by-and-by oblige him to give up his fellowship. They could all afford to laugh at his Gavarni-caricatures and to hold him blameless in following a natural bent24 which their unselfishness and independence had left without obstacle. It was enough for them to go on in their old way, only having a grand treat of opera-going (to the gallery) when Hans came home on a visit.
Seeing the group they made this evening, one could hardly wish them to change their way of life. They were all alike small, and so in due proportion to their miniature rooms. Mrs. Meyrick was reading aloud from a French book; she was a lively little woman, half French, half Scotch25, with a pretty articulateness of speech that seemed to make daylight in her hearer’s understanding. Though she was not yet fifty, her rippling26 hair, covered by a quakerish net cap, was chiefly gray, but her eyebrows27 were brown as the bright eyes below them; her black dress, almost like a priest’s cassock with its rows of buttons, suited a neat figure hardly five feet high. The daughters were to match the mother, except that Mab had Hans’ light hair and complexion28, with a bossy29, irregular brow, and other quaintnesses that reminded one of him. Everything about them was compact, from the firm coils of their hair, fastened back à la Chinoise, to their gray skirts in Puritan nonconformity with the fashion, which at that time would have demanded that four feminine circumferences30 should fill all the free space in the front parlor. All four, if they had been wax-work, might have been packed easily in a fashionable lady’s traveling trunk. Their faces seemed full of speech, as if their minds had been shelled, after the manner of horse-chestnuts, and become brightly visible. The only large thing of its kind in the room was Hafiz, the Persian cat, comfortably poised31 on the brown leather back of a chair, and opening his large eyes now and then to see that the lower animals were not in any mischief32.
The book Mrs. Meyrick had before her was Erckmann-Chatrian’s Historie d’un Conscrit. She had just finished reading it aloud, and Mab, who had let her work fall on the ground while she stretched her head forward and fixed33 her eyes on the reader, exclaimed,
“I think that is the finest story in the world.”
“Of course, Mab!” said Amy, “it is the last you have heard. Everything that pleases you is the best in its turn.”
“It is hardly to be called a story,” said Kate. “It is a bit of history brought near us with a strong telescope. We can see the soldiers’ faces: no, it is more than that—we can hear everything—we can almost hear their hearts beat.”
“I don’t care what you call it,” said Mab, flirting34 away her thimble. “Call it a chapter in Revelations. It makes me want to do something good, something grand. It makes me so sorry for everybody. It makes me like Schiller—I want to take the world in my arms and kiss it. I must kiss you instead, little mother!” She threw her arms round her mother’s neck.
“Whenever you are in that mood, Mab, down goes your work,” said Amy. “It would be doing something good to finish your cushion without soiling it.”
“Oh—oh—oh!” groaned35 Mab, as she stooped to pick up her work and thimble. “I wish I had three wounded conscripts to take care of.”
“You would spill their beef tea while you were talking,” said Amy.
“Poor Mab! don’t be hard on her,” said the mother. “Give me the embroidery36 now, child. You go on with your enthusiasm, and I will go on with the pink and white poppy.”
“Well, ma, I think you are more caustic37 than Amy,” said Kate, while she drew her head back to look at her drawing.
“Oh—oh—oh!” cried Mab again, rising and stretching her arms. “I wish something wonderful would happen. I feel like the deluge38. The waters of the great deep are broken up, and the windows of heaven are opened. I must sit down and play the scales.”
Mab was opening the piano while the others were laughing at this climax39, when a cab stopped before the house, and there forthwith came a quick rap of the knocker.
“Dear me!” said Mrs. Meyrick, starting up, “it is after ten, and Phoebe is gone to bed.” She hastened out, leaving the parlor door open.
“Mr. Deronda!” The girls could hear this exclamation40 from their mamma. Mab clasped her hands, saying in a loud whisper, “There now! something is going to happen.” Kate and Amy gave up their work in amazement41. But Deronda’s tone in reply was so low that they could not hear his words, and Mrs. Meyrick immediately closed the parlor door.
“I know I am trusting to your goodness in a most extraordinary way,” Deronda went on, after giving his brief narrative42; “but you can imagine how helpless I feel with a young creature like this on my hands. I could not go with her among strangers, and in her nervous state I should dread43 taking her into a house full of servants. I have trusted to your mercy. I hope you will not think my act unwarrantable.”
“On the contrary. You have honored me by trusting me. I see your difficulty. Pray bring her in. I will go and prepare the girls.”
While Deronda went back to the cab, Mrs. Meyrick turned into the parlor again and said: “Here is somebody to take care of instead of your wounded conscripts, Mab: a poor girl who was going to drown herself in despair. Mr. Deronda found her only just in time to save her. He brought her along in his boat, and did not know what else it would be safe to do with her, so he has trusted us and brought her here. It seems she is a Jewess, but quite refined, he says—knowing Italian and music.”
The three girls, wondering and expectant, came forward and stood near each other in mute confidence that they were all feeling alike under this appeal to their compassion44. Mab looked rather awe-stricken, as if this answer to her wish were something preternatural.
Meanwhile Deronda going to the door of the cab where the pale face was now gazing out with roused observation, said, “I have brought you to some of the kindest people in the world: there are daughters like you. It is a happy home. Will you let me take you to them?”
She stepped out obediently, putting her hand in his and forgetting her hat; and when Deronda led her into the full light of the parlor where the four little women stood awaiting her, she made a picture that would have stirred much duller sensibilities than theirs. At first she was a little dazed by the sudden light, and before she had concentrated her glance he had put her hand into the mother’s. He was inwardly rejoicing that the Meyricks were so small: the dark-curled head was the highest among them. The poor wanderer could not be afraid of these gentle faces so near hers: and now she was looking at each of them in turn while the mother said, “You must be weary, poor child.”
“We will take care of you—we will comfort you—we will love you,” cried Mab, no longer able to restrain herself, and taking the small right hand caressingly45 between both her own. This gentle welcoming warmth was penetrating46 the bewildered one: she hung back just enough to see better the four faces in front of her, whose good will was being reflected in hers, not in any smile, but in that undefinable change which tells us that anxiety is passing in contentment. For an instant she looked up at Deronda, as if she were referring all this mercy to him, and then again turning to Mrs. Meyrick, said with more collectedness in her sweet tones than he had heard before,
“I am a stranger. I am a Jewess. You might have thought I was wicked.”
“No, we are sure you are good,” burst out Mab.
“We think no evil of you, poor child. You shall be safe with us,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “Come now and sit down. You must have some food, and then you must go to rest.”
The stranger looked up again at Deronda, who said,
“You will have no more fears with these friends? You will rest to-night?”
“Oh, I should not fear. I should rest. I think these are the ministering angels.”
Mrs. Meyrick wanted to lead her to seat, but again hanging back gently, the poor weary thing spoke47 as if with a scruple48 at being received without a further account of herself.
“My name is Mirah Lapidoth. I am come a long way, all the way from Prague by myself. I made my escape. I ran away from dreadful things. I came to find my mother and brother in London. I had been taken from my mother when I was little, but I thought I could find her again. I had trouble—the houses were all gone—I could not find her. It has been a long while, and I had not much money. That is why I am in distress49.”
“Our mother will be good to you,” cried Mab. “See what a nice little mother she is!”
“Do sit down now,” said Kate, moving a chair forward, while Amy ran to get some tea.
Mirah resisted no longer, but seated herself with perfect grace, crossing her little feet, laying her hands one over the other on her lap, and looking at her friends with placid50 reverence51; whereupon Hafiz, who had been watching the scene restlessly came forward with tail erect52 and rubbed himself against her ankles. Deronda felt it time to go.
“Will you allow me to come again and inquire—perhaps at five to-morrow?” he said to Mrs. Meyrick.
“Yes, pray; we shall have had time to make acquaintance then.”
“Good-bye,” said Deronda, looking down at Mirah, and putting out his hand. She rose as she took it, and the moment brought back to them both strongly the other moment when she had first taken that outstretched hand. She lifted her eyes to his and said with reverential fervor53, “The God of our fathers bless you and deliver you from all evil as you have delivered me. I did not believe there was any man so good. None before have thought me worthy54 of the best. You found me poor and miserable55, yet you have given me the best.”
Deronda could not speak, but with silent adieux to the Meyricks, hurried away.
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收听单词发音
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1
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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2
lackeys
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| n.听差( lackey的名词复数 )；男仆（通常穿制服）；卑躬屈膝的人；被待为奴仆的人 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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7
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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9
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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11
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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12
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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14
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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17
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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20
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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21
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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25
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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bossy
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| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
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circumferences
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| 周围，圆周( circumference的名词复数 ) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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32
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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35
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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36
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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37
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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38
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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39
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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40
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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41
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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42
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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43
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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44
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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45
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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46
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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47
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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48
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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49
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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50
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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51
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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52
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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53
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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