So it was that in the course of an extraordinarily3 short time she found herself as deeply absorbed in the image of the little dead Clara Matilda, who, on a crossing in the Harrow Road, had been knocked down and crushed by the cruellest of hansoms, as she had ever found herself in the family group made vivid by one of seven. "She's your little dead sister," Mrs. Wix ended by saying, and Maisie, all in a tremor4 of curiosity and compassion5, addressed from that moment a particular piety6 to the small accepted acquisition. Somehow she wasn't a real sister, but that only made her the more romantic. It contributed to this view of her that she was never to be spoken of in that character to any one else—least of all to Mrs. Farange, who wouldn't care for her nor recognise the relationship: it was to be just an unutterable and inexhaustible little secret with Mrs. Wix. Maisie knew everything about her that could be known, everything she had said or done in her little mutilated life, exactly how lovely she was, exactly how her hair was curled and her frocks were trimmed. Her hair came down far below her waist—it was of the most wonderful golden brightness, just as Mrs. Wix's own had been a long time before. Mrs. Wix's own was indeed very remarkable7 still, and Maisie had felt at first that she should never get on with it. It played a large part in the sad and strange appearance, the appearance as of a kind of greasy8 greyness, which Mrs. Wix had presented on the child's arrival. It had originally been yellow, but time had turned that elegance9 to ashes, to a turbid10 sallow unvenerable white. Still excessively abundant, it was dressed in a manner of which the poor lady appeared not yet to have recognised the supersession11, with a glossy12 braid, like a large diadem13, on the top of the head, and behind, at the nape of the neck, a dingy14 rosette like a large button. She wore glasses which, in humble15 reference to a divergent obliquity16 of vision, she called her straighteners, and a little ugly snuff-coloured dress trimmed with satin bands in the form of scallops and glazed17 with antiquity18. The straighteners, she explained to Maisie, were put on for the sake of others, whom, as she believed, they helped to recognise the bearing, otherwise doubtful, of her regard; the rest of the melancholy19 garb20 could only have been put on for herself. With the added suggestion of her goggles21 it reminded her pupil of the polished shell or corslet of a horrid22 beetle23. At first she had looked cross and almost cruel; but this impression passed away with the child's increased perception of her being in the eyes of the world a figure mainly to laugh at. She was as droll24 as a charade25 or an animal toward the end of the "natural history"—a person whom people, to make talk lively, described to each other and imitated. Every one knew the straighteners; every one knew the diadem and the button, the scallops and satin bands; every one, though Maisie had never betrayed her, knew even Clara Matilda.
It was on account of these things that mamma got her for such low pay, really for nothing: so much, one day when Mrs. Wix had accompanied her into the drawing-room and left her, the child heard one of the ladies she found there—a lady with eyebrows26 arched like skipping-ropes and thick black stitching, like ruled lines for musical notes on beautiful white gloves—announce to another. She knew governesses were poor; Miss Overmore was unmentionably and Mrs. Wix ever so publicly so. Neither this, however, nor the old brown frock nor the diadem nor the button, made a difference for Maisie in the charm put forth27 through everything, the charm of Mrs. Wix's conveying that somehow, in her ugliness and her poverty, she was peculiarly and soothingly28 safe; safer than any one in the world, than papa, than mamma, than the lady with the arched eyebrows; safer even, though so much less beautiful, than Miss Overmore, on whose loveliness, as she supposed it, the little girl was faintly conscious that one couldn't rest with quite the same tucked-in and kissed-for-good-night feeling. Mrs. Wix was as safe as Clara Matilda, who was in heaven and yet, embarrassingly, also in Kensal Green, where they had been together to see her little huddled29 grave. It was from something in Mrs. Wix's tone, which in spite of caricature remained indescribable and inimitable, that Maisie, before her term with her mother was over, drew this sense of a support, like a breast-high banister in a place of "drops," that would never give way. If she knew her instructress was poor and queer she also knew she was not nearly so "qualified30" as Miss Overmore, who could say lots of dates straight off (letting you hold the book yourself), state the position of Malabar, play six pieces without notes and, in a sketch31, put in beautifully the trees and houses and difficult parts. Maisie herself could play more pieces than Mrs. Wix, who was moreover visibly ashamed of her houses and trees and could only, with the help of a smutty forefinger32, of doubtful legitimacy33 in the field of art, do the smoke coming out of the chimneys. They dealt, the governess and her pupil, in "subjects," but there were many the governess put off from week to week and that they never got to at all: she only used to say "We'll take that in its proper order." Her order was a circle as vast as the untravelled globe. She had not the spirit of adventure—the child could perfectly34 see how many subjects she was afraid of. She took refuge on the firm ground of fiction, through which indeed there curled the blue river of truth. She knew swarms35 of stories, mostly those of the novels she had read; relating them with a memory that never faltered36 and a wealth of detail that was Maisie's delight. They were all about love and beauty and countesses and wickedness. Her conversation was practically an endless narrative37, a great garden of romance, with sudden vistas38 into her own life and gushing39 fountains of homeliness40. These were the parts where they most lingered; she made the child take with her again every step of her long, lame41 course and think it beyond magic or monsters. Her pupil acquired a vivid vision of every one who had ever, in her phrase, knocked against her—some of them oh so hard!—every one literally42 but Mr. Wix, her husband, as to whom nothing was mentioned save that he had been dead for ages. He had been rather remarkably43 absent from his wife's career, and Maisie was never taken to see his grave.
点击收听单词发音
1 culminated | |
v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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3 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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4 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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5 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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6 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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7 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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8 greasy | |
adj. 多脂的,油脂的 | |
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9 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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10 turbid | |
adj.混浊的,泥水的,浓的 | |
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11 supersession | |
取代,废弃; 代谢 | |
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12 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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13 diadem | |
n.王冠,冕 | |
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14 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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15 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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16 obliquity | |
n.倾斜度 | |
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17 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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18 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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19 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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20 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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21 goggles | |
n.护目镜 | |
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22 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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23 beetle | |
n.甲虫,近视眼的人 | |
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24 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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25 charade | |
n.用动作等表演文字意义的字谜游戏 | |
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26 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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27 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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28 soothingly | |
adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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29 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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30 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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31 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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32 forefinger | |
n.食指 | |
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33 legitimacy | |
n.合法,正当 | |
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34 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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35 swarms | |
蜂群,一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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36 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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37 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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38 vistas | |
长条形景色( vista的名词复数 ); 回顾; 展望; (未来可能发生的)一系列情景 | |
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39 gushing | |
adj.迸出的;涌出的;喷出的;过分热情的v.喷,涌( gush的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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40 homeliness | |
n.简朴,朴实;相貌平平 | |
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41 lame | |
adj.跛的,(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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42 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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43 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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