We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness when, surrounded by her cubs1, she guards her prey2. Few of us wish to disturb the mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a bone in the midst of her young family. Medea and her children are familiar to us, and so is the grief of Constance. Mrs. Quiverful, when she first heard from her husband the news which he had to impart, felt within her bosom3 all the rage of the lioness, the rapacity4 of the hound, the fury of the tragic5 queen, and the deep despair of the bereaved6 mother.
Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been the tenor7 of Mr. Slope’s discourse8, she rushed back to her husband as soon as the front door was closed behind the visitor. It was well for Mr. Slope that he so escaped — the anger of such a woman, at such a moment, would have cowed even him. As a general rule, it is highly desirable that ladies should keep their temper: a woman when she storms always makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also. There is nothing so odious9 to man as a virago10. Though Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed his love but roughly, and from the time of Theseus downward, no man ever wished to have his wife remarkable11 rather for forward prowess than retiring gentleness. A low voice “is an excellent thing in woman.”
Such may be laid down as a very general rule; and few women should allow themselves to deviate12 from it, and then only on rare occasions. But if there be a time when a woman may let her hair to the winds, when she may loose her arms, and scream out trumpet-tongued to the ears of men, it is when nature calls out within her not for her own wants, but for the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her breasts have suckled, for those who look to her for their daily bread as naturally as man looks to his Creator.
There was nothing poetic13 in the nature of Mrs. Quiverful. She was neither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she spoke14 out her anger in plain words and in a tone which might have been modulated15 with advantage; but she did so, at any rate, without affectation. Now, without knowing it, she rose to a tragic vein16.
“Well, my dear, we are not to have it.” Such were the words with which her ears were greeted when she entered the parlour, still hot from the kitchen fire. And the face of her husband spoke even more plainly than his words:
E’en such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night.
“What!” said she — and Mrs. Siddons could not have put more passion into a single syllable17 —“What! Not have it? Who says so?” And she sat opposite to her husband, with her elbows on the table, her hands clasped together, and her coarse, solid, but once handsome face stretched over it towards him.
She sat as silent as death while he told his story, and very dreadful to him her silence was. He told it very lamely19 and badly but still in such a manner that she soon understood the whole of it.
“And so you have resigned it?” said she.
I have had no opportunity of accepting it,” he replied. “I had no witnesses to Mr. Slope’s offer, even if that offer would bind20 the bishop21. It was better for me, on the whole, to keep on good terms with such men than to fight for what I should never get!”
“Witnesses!” she screamed, rising quickly to her feet and walking up and down the room. “Do clergymen require witnesses to their words? He made the promise in the bishop’s name, and if it is to be broken, I’ll know the reason why. Did he not positively22 say that the bishop had sent him to offer you the place?”
“He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the purpose.”
“It is everything to the purpose, Mr. Quiverful. Witnesses indeed! And then to talk of your honour being questioned because you wish to provide for fourteen children. It is everything to the purpose; and so they shall know, if I scream it into their ears from the town cross of Barchester.”
“You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things in his gift. We must wait a little longer. That is all.”
“Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will waiting put George, and Tom, and Sam out into the world? Will it enable my poor girls to give up some of their drudgery23? Will waiting make Bessy and Jane fit even to be governesses? Will waiting pay for the things we got in Barchester last week?”
“It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as much to me as to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for your sake than my own.”
Mrs. Quiverful was looking full into her husband’s face, and saw a small hot tear appear on each of those furrowed24 cheeks. This was too much for her woman’s heart. He also had risen, and was standing25 with his back to the empty grate. She rushed towards him and, seizing him in her arms, sobbed26 aloud upon his bosom.
“You are too good, too soft, too yielding,” she said at last. “These men, when they want you, they use you like a cat’s paw; and when they want you no longer, they throw you aside like an old shoe. This is twice they have treated you so.”
“In one way this will be all for the better,” argued he. “It will make the bishop feel that he is bound to do something for me.”
“At any rate he shall hear of it,” said the lady, again reverting27 to her more angry mood. “At any rate he shall hear of it, and that loudly, and so shall she. She little knows Letitia Quiverful, if she thinks I will sit down quietly with the loss after all that passed between us at the palace. If there’s any feeling within her, I’ll make her ashamed of herself”— and she paced the room again, stamping the floor as she went with her fat, heavy foot. “Good heavens! What a heart she must have within her to treat in such a way as this the father of fourteen unprovided children!”
Mr. Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn’t think that Mrs. Proudie had had anything to do with it.
“Don’t tell me,” said Mrs. Quiverful; “I know more about it than that. Doesn’t all the world know that Mrs. Proudie is bishop of Barchester and that Mr. Slope is merely her creature? Wasn’t it she that made me the promise, just as though the thing was in her own particular gift? I tell you, it was that woman who sent him over here today, because, for some reason of her own, she wants to go back from her word.”
“My dear, you’re wrong —”
“Now, Q., don’t be so soft,” she continued. “Take my word for it, the bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does.” Jemima was the two-year-old. “And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll lose no time in going over and seeing him yourself.”
Soft, however, as Mr. Quiverful might be, he would not allow himself to be talked out of his opinion on this occasion, and proceeded with much minuteness to explain to his wife the tone in which Mr. Slope had spoken of Mrs. Proudie’s interference in diocesan matters. As he did so, a new idea gradually instilled29 itself into the matron’s head, and a new course of conduct presented itself to her judgement. What if, after all, Mrs. Proudie knew nothing of this visit of Mr. Slope’s? In that case, might it not be possible that that lady would still be staunch to her in this matter, still stand her friend, and, perhaps, possibly carry her through in opposition30 to Mr. Slope? Mrs. Quiverful said nothing as this vague hope occurred to her but listened with more than ordinary patience to what her husband had to say. While he was still explaining that in all probability the world was wrong in its estimation of Mrs. Proudie’s power and authority, she had fully31 made up her mind as to her course of action. She did not, however, proclaim her intention. She shook her head ominously32 as he continued his narration33, and when he had completed, she rose to go, merely observing that it was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked him if he would mind waiting for a late dinner instead of dining at their usual hour of three, and, having received from him a concession34 on this point, she proceeded to carry her purpose into execution.
She determined35 that she would at once go to the palace, that she would do so, if possible, before Mrs. Proudie could have had an interview with Mr. Slope, and that she would be either submissive, piteous, and pathetic, or else indignant, violent, and exacting36 according to the manner in which she was received.
She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as she was by the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt that she could make her way through legions of episcopal servants and force herself, if need be, into the presence of the lady who had so wronged her. She had no shame about it, no mauvaise honte, no dread18 of archdeacons. She would, as she declared to her husband, make her wail37 heard in the market-place if she did not get redress38 and justice. It might be very well for an unmarried young curate to be shamefaced in such matters; it might be all right that a snug39 rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking for better preferment, should carry on his affairs decently under the rose. But Mrs. Quiverful, with fourteen children, had given over being shamefaced and, in some things, had given over being decent. If it were intended that she should be ill-used in the manner proposed by Mr. Slope, it should not be done under the rose. All the world should know of it.
In her present mood, Mrs. Quiverful was not over-careful about her attire40. She tied her bonnet41 under her chin, threw her shawl over her shoulders, armed herself with the old family cotton umbrella, and started for Barchester. A journey to the palace was not quite so easy a thing for Mrs. Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead. Plumstead is nine miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but four. But the archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his high-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was no method of locomotion42 for its inhabitants but that which nature has assigned to man.
Mrs. Quiverful was a broad, heavy woman, not young, nor given to walking. In her kitchen, and in the family dormitories, she was active enough, but her pace and gait were not adapted for the road. A walk into Barchester and back in the middle of an August day would be to her a terrible task, if not altogether impracticable. There was living in the parish, about half a mile from the vicarage on the road to the city, a decent, kindly43 farmer, well to do as regards this world and so far mindful of the next that he attended his parish church with decent regularity44. To him Mrs. Quiverful had before now appealed in some of her more pressing family troubles and had not appealed in vain. At his door she now presented herself, and, having explained to his wife that most urgent business required her to go at once to Barchester, begged that Farmer Subsoil would take her thither45 in his tax-cart. The farmer did not reject her plan, and, as soon as Prince could be got into his collar, they started on their journey.
Mrs. Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, nor did the farmer alloy46 his kindness by any unseemly questions. She merely begged to be put down at the bridge going into the city and to be taken up again at the same place in the course of two hours. The farmer promised to be punctual to his appointment, and the lady, supported by her umbrella, took the short cut to the close and, in a few minutes, was at the bishop’s door.
Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming interview. She had felt nothing but an indignant longing47 to pour forth48 her claims, and declare her wrongs, if those claims were not fully admitted. But now the difficulty of her situation touched her a little. She had been at the palace once before, but then she went to give grateful thanks. Those who have thanks to return for favours received find easy admittance to the halls of the great. Such is not always the case with men, or even with women, who have favours to beg. Still less easy is access for those who demand the fulfilment of promises already made.
Mrs. Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the world. She knew all this, and she knew also that her cotton umbrella and all but ragged49 shawl would not command respect in the eyes of the palatial50 servants. If she were too humble51, she knew well that she would never succeed. To overcome by imperious overbearing with such a shawl as hers upon her shoulders and such a bonnet on her head would have required a personal bearing very superior to that with which nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs. Quiverful was aware. She must make it known that she was the wife of a gentleman and a clergyman and must yet condescend52 to conciliate.
The poor lady knew but one way to overcome these difficulties at the very threshold of her enterprise, and to this she resorted. Low as were the domestic funds at Puddingdale, she still retained possession of half a crown, and this she sacrificed to the avarice53 of Mrs. Proudie’s metropolitan54 sesquipedalian serving-man. She was, she said, Mrs. Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev28. Mr. Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs. Proudie. It was indeed quite indispensable that she should see Mrs. Proudie. James Fitzplush looked worse than dubious55, did not know whether his lady were out, or engaged, or in her bedroom; thought it most probable she was subject to one of these or to some other cause that would make her invisible; but Mrs. Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room while inquiry56 was being made of Mrs. Proudie’s maid.
“Look here, my man,” said Mrs. Quiverful; “I must see her;” and she put her card and half-crown — think of it, my reader, think of it; her last half-crown — into the man’s hand and sat herself down on a chair in the waiting-room.
Whether the bribe57 carried the day, or whether the bishop’s wife really chose to see the vicar’s wife, it boots not now to inquire. The man returned and, begging Mrs. Quiverful to follow him, ushered58 her into the presence of the mistress of the diocese.
Mrs. Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a smiling humour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all the joys of dominion59 hovered60 about her curls. Her lord had that morning contested with her a great point. He had received an invitation to spend a couple of days with the archbishop. His soul longed for the gratification. Not a word, however, in his grace’s note alluded61 to the fact of his being a married man; if he went at all, he must go alone. This necessity would have presented no insurmountable bar to the visit, or have militated much against the pleasure, had he been able to go without any reference to Mrs. Proudie. But this he could not do. He could not order his portmanteau to be packed and start with his own man, merely telling the lady of his heart that he would probably be back on Saturday. There are men — may we not rather say monsters?— who do such things, and there are wives — may we not rather say slaves?— who put up with such usage. But Dr. and Mrs. Proudie were not among the number.
The bishop, with some beating about the bush, made the lady understand that he very much wished to go. The lady, without any beating about the bush, made the bishop understand that she wouldn’t hear of it. It would be useless here to repeat the arguments that were used on each side, and needless to record the result. Those who are married will understand very well how the battle was lost and won, and those who are single will never understand it till they learn the lesson which experience alone can give. When Mrs. Quiverful was shown into Mrs. Proudie’s room, that lady had only returned a few minutes from her lord. But before she left him she had seen the answer to the archbishop’s note written and sealed. No wonder that her face was wreathed with smiles as she received Mrs. Quiverful.
She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the heart of her visitor. “Well, Mrs. Quiverful,” said she, “is it decided62 yet when you are to move into Barchester?”
“That woman,” as she had an hour or two since been called, became instantly re-endowed with all the graces that can adorn63 a bishop’s wife. Mrs. Quiverful immediately saw that her business was to be piteous and that nothing was to be gained by indignation — nothing, indeed, unless she could be indignant in company with her patroness.
“Oh, Mrs. Proudie,” she began, “I fear we are not to move to Barchester at all.”
“Why not?” said that lady sharply, dropping at a moment’s notice her smiles and condescension64 and turning with her sharp quick way to business which she saw at a glance was important.
And then Mrs. Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed in the history of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier she leant upon Mr. Slope the blacker became Mrs. Proudie’s brow, but that such blackness was not injurious to her own case. When Mr. Slope was at Puddingdale Vicarage that morning she had regarded him as the creature of the lady-bishop; now she perceived that they were enemies. She admitted her mistake to herself without any pain or humiliation65. She had but one feeling, and that was confined to her family. She cared little how she twisted and turned among these new-comers at the bishop’s palace so long as she could twist her husband into the warden66’s house. She cared not which was her friend or which was her enemy, if only she could get this preferment which she so sorely wanted.
She told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie listened to it almost in silence. She told how Mr. Slope had cozened her husband into resigning his claim and had declared that it was the bishop’s will that none but Mr. Harding should be warden. Mrs. Proudie’s brow became blacker and blacker. At last she started from her chair and, begging Mrs. Quiverful to sit and wait for her return, marched out of the room.
“Oh, Mrs. Proudie, it’s for fourteen children — for fourteen children.” Such was the burden that fell on her ear as she closed the door behind her.
收听单词发音 |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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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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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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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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deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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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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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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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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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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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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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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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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alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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50
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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52
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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53
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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54
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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55
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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56
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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57
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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58
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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60
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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61
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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63
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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64
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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65
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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66
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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