“That which has made them drunk has made me bold.” ’Twas thus that Mr. Slope encouraged himself, as he left the dining-room in pursuit of Eleanor. He had not indeed seen in that room any person really intoxicated1, but there had been a good deal of wine drunk, and Mr. Slope had not hesitated to take his share, in order to screw himself up to the undertaking2 which he had in hand. He is not the first man who has thought it expedient3 to call in the assistance of Bacchus on such an occasion.
Eleanor was out through the window and on the grass before she perceived that she was followed. Just at that moment the guests were nearly all occupied at the tables. Here and there were to be seen a constant couple or two, who preferred their own sweet discourse4 to the jingle5 of glasses or the charms of rhetoric6 which fell from the mouths of the Honourable7 George and the Bishop8 of Barchester; but the grounds were as nearly vacant as Mr. Slope could wish them to be.
Eleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer when escape is no longer possible will turn to bay and attack the hounds, so did she turn upon Mr. Slope.
“Pray don’t let me take you from the room,” said she, speaking with all the stiffness which she knew how to use. “I have come out to look for a friend. I must beg of you, Mr. Slope, to go back.”
But Mr. Slope would not be thus entreated9. He had observed all day that Mrs. Bold was not cordial to him, and this had to a certain extent oppressed him. But he did not deduce from this any assurance that his aspirations10 were in vain. He saw that she was angry with him. Might she not be so because he had so long tampered11 with her feelings — might it not arise from his having, as he knew was the case, caused her name to be bruited12 about in conjunction with his own without having given her the opportunity of confessing to the world that henceforth their names were to be one and the same? Poor lady. He had within him a certain Christian14 conscience-stricken feeling of remorse15 on this head. It might be that he had wronged her by his tardiness16. He had, however, at the present moment imbibed17 too much of Mr. Thorne’s champagne18 to have any inward misgivings19. He was right in repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not drunk, but he was bold enough for anything. It was a pity that in such a state he could not have encountered Mrs. Proudie.
“You must permit me to attend you,” said he; “I could not think of allowing you to go alone.”
“Indeed you must, Mr. Slope,” said Eleanor still very stiffly, “for it is my special wish to be alone.”
The time for letting the great secret escape him had already come. Mr. Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was determined20 that it should be now. This was not his first attempt at winning a fair lady. He had been on his knees, looked unutterable things with his eyes, and whispered honeyed words before this. Indeed, he was somewhat an adept21 at these things, and had only to adapt to the perhaps different taste of Mrs. Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies which had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.
“Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs. Bold,” said he with an impassioned look, impassioned and sanctified as well, with that sort of look which is not uncommon22 with gentlemen of Mr. Slope’s school and which may perhaps be called the tender-pious23. “Do not ask me to leave you till I have spoken a few words with which my heart is full — which I have come hither purposely to say.”
Eleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was she was about to go through, and very miserable24 the knowledge made her. Of course she could refuse Mr. Slope, and there would be an end of that, one might say. But there would not be an end of it, as far as Eleanor was concerned. The very fact of Mr. Slope’s making an offer to her would be a triumph to the archdeacon and, in a great measure, a vindication25 of Mr. Arabin’s conduct. The widow could not bring herself to endure with patience the idea that she had been in the wrong. She had defended Mr. Slope, she had declared herself quite justified26 in admitting him among her acquaintance, had ridiculed27 the idea of his considering himself as more than an acquaintance, and had resented the archdeacon’s caution in her behalf: now it was about to be proved to her in a manner sufficiently28 disagreeable that the archdeacon had been right and she herself had been entirely29 wrong.
“I don’t know what you can have to say to me, Mr. Slope, that you could not have said when we were sitting at table just now;” and she closed her lips, and steadied her eyeballs, and looked at him in a manner that ought to have frozen him.
But gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of champagne, and it would not at any time have been easy to freeze Mr. Slope.
“There are things, Mrs. Bold, which a man cannot well say before a crowd; which perhaps he cannot well say at any time; which indeed he may most fervently30 desire to get spoken and which he may yet find it almost impossible to utter. It is such things as these that I now wish to say to you;” and then the tender-pious look was repeated, with a little more emphasis even than before.
Eleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock still before the dining-room window, there receive his offer in full view of Miss Thorne’s guests. She had therefore in self-defence walked on, and thus Mr. Slope had gained his object of walking with her. He now offered her his arm.
“Thank you, Mr. Slope, I am much obliged to you, but for the very short time that I shall remain with you I shall prefer walking alone.”
“And must it be so short?” said he. “Must it be —”
“Yes,” said Eleanor, interrupting him, “as short as possible, if you please, sir.”
“I had hoped, Mrs. Bold — I had hoped —”
“Pray hope nothing, Mr. Slope, as far as I am concerned; pray do not; I do not know and need not know what hope you mean. Our acquaintance is very slight, and will probably remain so. Pray, pray let that be enough; there is at any rate no necessity for us to quarrel.”
Mrs. Bold was certainly treating Mr. Slope rather cavalierly, and he felt it so. She was rejecting him before he had offered himself, and informing him at the same time that he was taking a great deal too much on himself to be so familiar. She did not even make an attempt
From such a sharp and waspish word as “no” To pluck the sting.
He was still determined to be very tender and very pious, seeing that, in spite of all Mrs. Bold had said to him, he had not yet abandoned hope; but he was inclined also to be somewhat angry. The widow was bearing herself, as he thought, with too high a hand, was speaking of herself in much too imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea that an honour was being conferred on her. Mr. Slope would be tender as long as he could, but he began to think if that failed it would not be amiss if he also mounted himself for awhile on his high horse. Mr. Slope could undoubtedly31 be very tender, but he could be very savage32 also, and he knew his own abilities.
“That is cruel,” said he, “and unchristian, too. The worst of us are still bidden to hope. What have I done that you should pass on me so severe a sentence?” And then he paused a moment, during which the widow walked steadily33 on with measured steps, saying nothing further.
“Beautiful woman,” at last he burst forth13, “beautiful woman, you cannot pretend to be ignorant that I adore you. Yes, Eleanor, yes, I love you. I love you with the truest affection which man can bear to woman. Next to my hopes of heaven are my hopes of possessing you.” (Mr. Slope’s memory here played him false, or he would not have omitted the deanery.) “How sweet to walk to heaven with you by my side, with you for my guide, mutual34 guides. Say, Eleanor, dearest Eleanor, shall we walk that sweet path together?”
Eleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr. Slope on any other path than that special one of Miss Thorne’s which they now occupied, but as she had been unable to prevent the expression of Mr. Slope’s wishes and aspirations she resolved to hear him out to the end before she answered him.
“Ah, Eleanor,” he continued, and it seemed to be his idea that as he had once found courage to pronounce her Christian name, he could not utter it often enough. “Ah, Eleanor, will it not be sweet, with the Lord’s assistance, to travel hand in hand through this mortal valley which His mercies will make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall dwell together at the foot of His throne?” And then a more tenderly pious glance than ever beamed from the lover’s eyes. “Ah, Eleanor —”
“My name, Mr. Slope, is Mrs. Bold,” said Eleanor, who, though determined to hear out the tale of his love, was too much disgusted by his blasphemy35 to be able to bear much more of it.
“Sweetest angel, be not so cold,” said he, and as he said it the champagne broke forth, and he contrived36 to pass his arm round her waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point Eleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from him. They had got into a walk nearly enveloped38 by shrubs39, and Mr. Slope therefore no doubt considered that as they were now alone it was fitting that he should give her some outward demonstration40 of that affection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be presumed that the same stamp of measures had been found to succeed with Olivia Proudie. Be this as it may, it was not successful with Eleanor Bold.
She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder41, but she did not spring far — not, indeed, beyond arm’s length — and then, quick as thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the ear with such right goodwill42 that it sounded among the trees like a miniature thunderclap.
And now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of these pages will lay down the book with disgust, feeling that, after all, the heroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is a hoyden43, one will say. At any rate she is not a lady, another will exclaim. I have suspected her all through, a third will declare; she has no idea of the dignity of a matron, or of the peculiar44 propriety45 which her position demands. At one moment she is romping46 with young Stanhope; then she is making eyes at Mr. Arabin; anon she comes to fisticuffs with a third lover — and all before she is yet a widow of two years’ standing47.
She cannot altogether be defended, and yet it may be averred48 that she is not a hoyden, not given to romping nor prone49 to boxing. It were to be wished devoutly50 that she had not struck Mr. Slope in the face. In doing so she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she been educated in Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner mentor51 than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a husband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault. As it was, the provocation52 was too much for her, the temptation to instant resentment53 of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the feeling of independence, a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but one in which her position peculiarly tempted54 her to indulge. And then Mr. Slope’s face, tinted55 with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he had drunk, simpering and puckering56 itself with pseudo-pity and tender grimaces57, seemed specially58 to call for such punishment. She had, too, a true instinct as to the man; he was capable of rebuke59 in this way and in no other. To him the blow from her little hand was as much an insult as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went directly to his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his dignity and personally outraged60. He could almost have struck at her again in his rage. Even the pain was a great annoyance61 to him, and the feeling that his clerical character had been wholly disregarded sorely vexed62 him.
There are such men: men who can endure no taint63 on their personal self-respect, even from a woman; men whose bodies are to themselves such sacred temples that a joke against them is desecration64, and a rough touch downright sacrilege. Mr. Slope was such a man, and therefore the slap on the face that he got from Eleanor was, as far as he was concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been administered to him.
But nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand against the man. Ladies’ hands, so soft, so sweet, so delicious to the touch, so graceful65 to the eye, so gracious in their gentle doings, were not made to belabour men’s faces. The moment the deed was done Eleanor felt that she had sinned against all propriety, and would have given little worlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of sorrow she all but begged the man’s pardon. Her next impulse, however, and the one which she obeyed, was to run away.
“I never, never will speak another word to you,” she said, gasping66 with emotion and the loss of breath which her exertion67 and violent feelings occasioned her, and so saying she put foot to the ground and ran quickly back along the path to the house.
But how shall I sing the divine wrath68 of Mr. Slope, or how invoke69 the tragic70 muse71 to describe the rage which swelled72 the celestial73 bosom74 of the bishop’s chaplain? Such an undertaking by no means befits the low-heeled buskin of modern fiction. The painter put a veil over Agamemnon’s face when called on to depict75 the father’s grief at the early doom76 of his devoted77 daughter. The god, when he resolved to punish the rebellious78 winds, abstained79 from mouthing empty threats. We will not attempt to tell with what mighty81 surgings of the inner heart Mr. Slope swore to revenge himself on the woman who had disgraced him, nor will we vainly strive to depict his deep agony of soul.
There he is, however, alone in the garden walk, and we must contrive37 to bring him out of it. He was not willing to come forth quite at once. His cheek was stinging with the weight of Eleanor’s fingers, and he fancied that everyone who looked at him would be able to see on his face the traces of what he had endured. He stood awhile, becoming redder and redder with rage. He stood motionless, undecided, glaring with his eyes, thinking of the pains and penalties of Hades, and meditating82 how he might best devote his enemy to the infernal gods with all the passion of his accustomed eloquence83. He longed in his heart to be preaching at her. ’Twas thus that he was ordinarily avenged84 of sinning mortal men and women. Could he at once have ascended85 his Sunday rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations as his spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly eased.
But how preach to Mr. Thorne’s laurels86, or how preach indeed at all in such a vanity fair as this now going on at Ullathorne? And then he began to feel a righteous disgust at the wickedness of the doings around him. He had been justly chastised87 for lending, by his presence, a sanction to such worldly lures88. The gaiety of society, the mirth of banquets, the laughter of the young, and the eating and drinking of the elders were, for awhile, without excuse in his sight. What had he now brought down upon himself by sojourning thus in the tents of the heathen? He had consorted89 with idolaters round the altars of Baal, and therefore a sore punishment had come upon him. He then thought of the Signora Neroni, and his soul within him was full of sorrow. He had an inkling — a true inkling — that he was a wicked, sinful man, but it led him in no right direction; he could admit no charity in his heart. He felt debasement coming on him, and he longed to shake it off, to rise up in his stirrup, to mount to high places and great power, that he might get up into a mighty pulpit and preach to the world a loud sermon against Mrs. Bold.
There he stood fixed90 to the gravel91 for about ten minutes. Fortune favoured him so far that no prying92 eyes came to look upon him in his misery93. Then a shudder94 passed over his whole frame; he collected himself and slowly wound his way round to the lawn, advancing along the path and not returning in the direction which Eleanor had taken. When he reached the tent, he found the bishop standing there in conversation with the Master of Lazarus. His lordship had come out to air himself after the exertion of his speech.
“This is very pleasant — very pleasant, my lord, is it not?” said Mr. Slope with his most gracious smile, pointing to the tent; “very pleasant. It is delightful95 to see so many persons enjoying themselves so thoroughly96.”
Mr. Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him to Dr. Gwynne. A very great example had declared and practised the wisdom of being everything to everybody, and Mr. Slope was desirous of following it. His maxim97 was never to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the present moment was not very anxious to increase Mr. Slope’s circle of acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own reasons for dropping any marked allusion98 to his domestic chaplain, and he therefore made his shoulder rather cold for the occasion.
“Very, very,” said he without turning round, or even deigning99 to look at Mr. Slope. “And therefore, Dr. Gwynne, I really think that you will find that the hebdomadal board will exercise as wide and as general an authority as at the present moment. I, for one, Dr. Gwynne —”
“Dr. Gwynne,” said Mr. Slope, raising his hat and resolving not to be outwitted by such an insignificant100 little goose as the Bishop of Barchester.
The Master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very politely to Mr. Slope. There is not a more courteous101 gentleman in the queen’s dominions102 than the Master of Lazarus.
“My lord,” said Mr. Slope, “pray do me the honour of introducing me to Dr. Gwynne. The opportunity is too much in my favour to be lost.”
The bishop had no help for it. “My chaplain, Dr. Gwynne,” said he, “my present chaplain, Mr. Slope.” He certainly made the introduction as unsatisfactory to the chaplain as possible, and by the use of the word present seemed to indicate that Mr. Slope might probably not long enjoy the honour which he now held. But Mr. Slope cared nothing for this. He understood the innuendo103 and disregarded it. It might probably come to pass that he would be in a situation to resign his chaplaincy before the bishop was in a situation to dismiss him from it. What need the future Dean of Barchester care for the bishop, or for the bishop’s wife? Had not Mr. Slope, just as he was entering Dr. Stanhope’s carriage, received an all-important note from Tom Towers of The Jupiter? Had he not that note this moment in his pocket?
So disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a conversation with the Master of Lazarus.
But suddenly an interruption came, not altogether unwelcome to Mr. Slope. One of the bishop’s servants came up to his master’s shoulder with a long, grave face and whispered into the bishop’s ear.
What is it, John?” said the bishop.
“The dean, my lord; he is dead.”
Mr. Slope had no further desire to converse104 with the Master of Lazarus, and was very soon on his road back to Barchester.
Eleanor, as we have said, having declared her intention of never holding further communication with Mr. Slope, ran hurriedly back towards the house. The thought, however, of what she had done grieved her greatly, and she could not abstain80 from bursting into tears. ’Twas thus she played the second act in that day’s melodrama105.
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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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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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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bruited
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| v.传播（传说或谣言）( bruit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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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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vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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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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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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57
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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63
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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72
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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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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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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83
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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84
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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85
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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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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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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99
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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100
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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101
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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102
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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103
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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104
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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105
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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