It is hardly necessary that I should here give to the public any lengthened1 biography of Mr. Harding up to the period of the commencement of this tale. The public cannot have forgotten how ill that sensitive gentleman bore the attack that was made on him in the columns of The Jupiter, with reference to the income which he received as warden2 of Hiram’s Hospital, in the city of Barchester. Nor can it yet be forgotten that a lawsuit3 was instituted against him on the matter of that charity by Mr. John Bold, who afterwards married his, Mr. Harding’s, younger and then only unmarried daughter. Under pressure of these attacks, Mr. Harding had resigned his wardenship4, though strongly recommended to abstain5 from doing so both by his friends and by his lawyers. He did, however, resign it and betook himself manfully to the duties of the small parish of St. Cuthbert’s, in the city, of which he was vicar, continuing also to perform those of precentor of the cathedral, a situation of small emolument6 which had hitherto been supposed to be joined, as a matter of course, to the wardenship of the hospital above spoken of.
When he left the hospital from which he had been so ruthlessly driven and settled himself down in his own modest manner in the High Street of Barchester, he had not expected that others would make more fuss about it than he was inclined to do himself; extent of his hope was that the movement might have been made in time to prevent any further paragraphs in The Jupiter. His affairs, however, were not allowed to subside7 thus quietly, and people were quite as much inclined to talk about the disinterested8 sacrifice he had made as they had before been to upbraid9 him for his cupidity10.
The most remarkable11 thing that occurred was the receipt of an autographed letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which the primate13 very warmly praised his conduct and begged to know what his intentions were for the future. Mr. Harding replied that he intended to be rector of St. Cuthbert’s, in Barchester, and so that matter dropped. Then the newspapers took up his case, The Jupiter among the rest, and wafted14 his name in eulogistic15 strains through every reading-room in the nation. It was discovered also that he was the author of that great musical work, Harding’s Church Music — and a new edition was spoken of, though, I believe, never printed. It is, however, certain that the work was introduced into the Royal Chapel16 at St. James’s and that a long criticism appeared in the Musical Scrutator, declaring that in no previous work of the kind had so much research been joined with such exalted17 musical ability and asserting that the name of Harding would henceforward be known wherever the arts were cultivated, or religion valued.
This was high praise, and I will not deny that Mr. Harding was gratified by such flattery, for if Mr. Harding was vain on any subject, it was on that of music. But here the matter rested. The second edition, if printed, was never purchased; the copies which had been introduced into the Royal Chapel disappeared again and were laid by in peace, with a load of similar literature. Mr. Towers of The Jupiter and his brethren occupied themselves with other names, and the undying fame promised to our friend was clearly intended to be posthumous18.
Mr. Harding had spent much of his time with his friend the bishop12; much with his daughter Mrs. Bold, now alas19, a widow; and had almost daily visited the wretched remnant of his former subjects, the few surviving bedesmen now left at Hiram’s Hospital. Six of them were still living. The number, according to old Hiram’s will, should always have been twelve. But after the abdication20 of their warden, the bishop had appointed no successor to him, no new occupants of the charity had been nominated, and it appeared as though the hospital at Barchester would fall into abeyance21, unless the powers that be should take some steps towards putting it once more into working order.
During the past five years, the powers that be had not overlooked Barchester Hospital, and sundry22 political doctors had taken the matter in hand. Shortly after Mr. Harding’s resignation The Jupiter had very clearly shown what ought to be done. In about half a column it had distributed the income, rebuilt the buildings, put an end to all bickerings, regenerated23 kindly24 feeling, provided for Mr. Harding, and placed the whole thing on a footing which could not but be satisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to the nation at large. The wisdom of this scheme was testified by the number of letters which “Common Sense,” “Veritas,” and “One that loves fair play” sent to The Jupiter, all expressing admiration25 and amplifying26 on the details given. It is singular enough that no adverse27 letter appeared at all, and, therefore, none of course was written.
But Cassandra was not believed, and even the wisdom of The Jupiter sometimes falls on deaf ears. Though other plans did not put themselves forward in the columns of The Jupiter, reformers of church charities were not slack to make known in various places their different nostrums28 for setting Hiram’s Hospital on its feet again. A learned bishop took occasion, in the Upper House, to allude29 to the matter, intimating that he had communicated on the subject with his right reverend brother of Barchester. The radical30 member for Staleybridge had suggested that the funds should be alienated31 for the education of the agricultural poor of the country, and he amused the house by some anecdotes32 touching33 the superstition34 and habits of the agriculturists in question. A political pamphleteer had produced a few dozen pages which he called “Who are John Hiram’s heirs?” intended to give an infallible rule for the governance of all such establishments; at last, a member of the government promised that in the next session a short bill should be introduced for regulating the affairs of Barchester and other kindred concerns.
The next session came, and, contrary to custom, the bill came also. Men’s minds were then intent on other things. The first threatenings of a huge war hung heavily over the nation, and the question as to Hiram’s heirs did not appear to interest very many people either in or out of the house. The bill, however, was read and re-read, and in some undistinguished manner passed through its eleven stages without appeal or dissent35. What would John Hiram have said in the matter, could he have predicted that some forty-five gentlemen would take on themselves to make a law altering the whole purport36 of his will without in the least knowing at the moment of their making it what it was that they were doing? It is however to be hoped that the under-secretary for the Home Office knew, for to him had the matter been confided37.
The bill, however, did pass, and at the time at which this history is supposed to commence it had been ordained38 that there should be, as heretofore, twelve old men in Barchester Hospital, each with 1s. 4d. a day; that there should also be twelve old women to be located in a house to be built, each with 1s. 2d. a day; that there should be a matron, with a house and ￡70 a year; a steward39 with ￡150 a year; and latterly a warden with ￡450 a year, who should have the spiritual guidance of both establishments and the temporal guidance of that appertaining to the male sex. The bishop, dean, and warden were, as formerly40, to appoint in turn the recipients41 of the charity, and the bishop was to appoint the officers. There was nothing said as to the wardenship being held by the precentor of the cathedral, nor a word as to Mr. Harding’s right to the situation.
It was not, however, till some months after the death of the old bishop, and almost immediately consequent on the installation of his successor, that notice was given that the reform was about to be carried out. The new law and the new bishop were among the earliest works of a new ministry42, or rather of a ministry who, having for awhile given place to their opponents, had then returned to power; and the death of Dr. Grantly occurred, as we have seen, exactly at the period of the change.
Poor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow’s cap be-come her, and the solemn gravity with which she devotes herself to her new duties. Poor Eleanor!
Poor Eleanor! I cannot say that with me John Bold was ever a favourite. I never thought him worthy43 of the wife he had won. But in her estimation he was most worthy. Hers was one of those feminine hearts which cling to a husband, not with idolatry, for worship can admit of no defect in its idol44, but with the perfect tenacity45 of ivy46. As the parasite47 plant will follow even the defects of the trunk which it embraces, so did Eleanor cling to and love the very faults of her husband. She had once declared that whatever her father did should in her eyes be right. She then transferred her allegiance and became ever ready to defend the worst failings of her lord and master.
And John Bold was a man to be loved by a woman; he was himself affectionate; he was confiding48 and manly49; and that arrogance50 of thought, unsustained by first-rate abilities, that attempt at being better than his neighbours which jarred so painfully on the feelings of his acquaintance did not injure him in the estimation of his wife.
Could she even have admitted that he had a fault, his early death would have blotted51 out the memory of it. She wept as for the loss of the most perfect treasure with which mortal woman had ever been endowed; for weeks after he was gone the idea of future happiness in this world was hateful to her; consolation52, as it is called, was insupportable, and tears and sleep were her only relief.
But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. She knew that she had within her the living source of other cares. She knew that there was to be created for her another subject of weal or woe53, of unutterable joy or despairing sorrow, as God in his mercy might vouchsafe54 to her. At first this did but augment55 her grief! To be the mother of a poor infant, orphaned56 before it was born, brought forth57 to the sorrows of an ever desolate58 hearth59, nurtured60 amidst tears and wailing61, and then turned adrift into the world without the aid of a father’s care! There was at first no joy in this.
By degrees, however, her heart became anxious for another object, and, before its birth, the stranger was expected with all the eagerness of a longing62 mother. Just eight months after the father’s death a second John Bold was born, and if the worship of one creature can be innocent in another, let us hope that the adoration63 offered over the cradle of the fatherless infant may not be imputed64 as a sin.
It will not be worth our while to define the character of the child, or to point out in how far the faults of the father were redeemed65 within that little breast by the virtues66 of the mother. The baby, as a baby, was all that was delightful67, and I cannot foresee that it will be necessary for us to inquire into the facts of his after-life. Our present business at Barchester will not occupy us above a year or two at the furthest, and I will leave it to some other pen to produce, if necessary, the biography of John Bold the Younger.
But, as a baby, this baby was all that could be desired. This fact no one attempted to deny. “Is he not delightful?” she would say to her father, looking up into his face from her knees, her lustrous68 eyes overflowing69 with soft tears, her young face encircled by her close widow’s cap, and her hands on each side of the cradle in which her treasure was sleeping. The grandfather would gladly admit that the treasure was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself would agree, and Mrs. Grantly, Eleanor’s sister, would re-echo the word with true sisterly energy, and Mary Bold — but Mary Bold was a second worshipper at the same shrine70.
The baby was really delightful; he took his food with a will, struck out his toes merrily whenever his legs were uncovered, and did not have fits. These are supposed to be the strongest points of baby perfection, and in all these our baby excelled.
And thus the widow’s deep grief was softened71, and a sweet balm was poured into the wound which she had thought nothing but death could heal. How much kinder is God to us than we are willing to be to ourselves! At the loss of every dear face, at the last going of every well-beloved one, we all doom72 ourselves to an eternity73 of sorrow and look to waste ourselves away in an ever-running fountain of tears. How seldom does such grief endure! How blessed is the goodness which forbids it to do so! “Let me ever remember my living friends, but forget them as soon as dead,” was the prayer of a wise man who understood the mercy of God. Few perhaps would have the courage to express such a wish, and yet to do so would only be to ask for that release from sorrow which a kind Creator almost always extends to us.
I would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs. Bold forgot her husband. She daily thought of him with all conjugal74 love and enshrined his memory in the innermost centre of her heart. But yet she was happy in her baby. It was so sweet to press the living toy to her breast and feel that a human being existed who did owe, and was to owe, everything to her; whose daily food was drawn75 from herself; whose little wants could all be satisfied by her; whose little heart would first love her and her only; whose infant tongue would make its first effort in calling her by the sweetest name a woman can hear. And so Eleanor’s bosom76 became tranquil77, and she set about her new duties eagerly and gratefully.
As regards the concerns of the world, John Bold had left his widow in prosperous circumstances. He had bequeathed to her all that he possessed78, and that comprised an income much exceeding what she or her friends thought necessary for her. It amounted to nearly a thousand a year; when she reflected on its extent, her dearest hope was to hand it over not only unimpaired but increased to her husband’s son, to her own darling, to the little man who now lay sleeping on her knee, happily ignorant of the cares which were to be accumulated in his behalf.
When John Bold died, she earnestly implored79 her father to come and live with her, but this Mr. Harding declined, though for some weeks he remained with her as a visitor. He could not be prevailed upon to forego the possession of some small home of his own and so remained in the lodgings80 he had first selected over a chemist’s shop in the High Street of Barchester.
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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wardenship
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| n.warden之职权（或职务） | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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emolument
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| n.报酬，薪水 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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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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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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primate
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| n.灵长类（目）动物，首席主教；adj.首要的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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regenerated
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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amplifying
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的现在分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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nostrums
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| n.骗人的疗法，有专利权的药品( nostrum的名词复数 )；妙策 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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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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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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