When he had told her that if she would take him as he was he should be very happy to dine with her, she excused herself a moment and went to give an order in the dining-room. The young man, left alone, looked about the parlour — the two parlours which, in their prolonged, adjacent narrowness, formed evidently one apartment — and wandered to the windows at the back, where there was a view of the water; Miss Chancellor1 having the good fortune to dwell on that side of Charles Street toward which, in the rear, the afternoon sun slants2 redly, from an horizon indented3 at empty intervals4 with wooden spires5, the masts of lonely boats, the chimneys of dirty “works,” over a brackish6 expanse of anomalous7 character, which is too big for a river and too small for a bay. The view seemed to him very picturesque8, though in the gathered dusk little was left of it save a cold yellow streak9 in the west, a gleam of brown water, and the reflexion of the lights that had begun to show themselves in a row of houses, impressive to Ransom10 in their extreme modernness, which overlooked the same lagoon11 from a long embankment on the left, constructed of stones roughly piled. He thought this prospect12, from a city-house, almost romantic; and he turned from it back to the interior illuminated13 now by a lamp which the parlour-maid had placed on a table while he stood at the window as to something still more genial14 and interesting. The artistic15 sense in Basil Ransom had not been highly cultivated; neither (though he had passed his early years as the son of a rich man) was his conception of material comfort very definite; it consisted mainly of the vision of plenty of cigars and brandy and water and newspapers, and a cane-bottomed arm-chair of the right inclination16, from which he could stretch his legs. Nevertheless it seemed to him he had never seen an interior that was so much an interior as this queer corridor-shaped drawing-room of his new-found kinswoman; he had never felt himself in the presence of so much organised privacy or of so many objects that spoke17 of habits and tastes. Most of the people he had hitherto known had no tastes; they had a few habits, but these were not of a sort that required much upholstery. He had not as yet been in many houses in New York, and he had never before seen so many accessories. The general character of the place struck him as Bostonian; this was, in fact, very much what he had supposed Boston to be. He had always heard Boston was a city of culture, and now there was culture in Miss Chancellor’s tables and sofas, in the books that were everywhere, on little shelves like brackets (as if a book were a statuette), in the photographs and watercolours that covered the walls, in the curtains that were festooned rather stiffly in the doorways18. He looked at some of the books and saw that his cousin read German; and his impression of the importance of this (as a symptom of superiority) was not diminished by the fact that he himself had mastered the tongue (knowing it contained a large literature of jurisprudence) during a long, empty, deadly summer on the plantation19. It is a curious proof of a certain crude modesty20 inherent in Basil Ransom that the main effect of his observing his cousin’s German books was to give him an idea of the natural energy of Northerners. He had noticed it often before; he had already told himself that he must count with it. It was only after much experience he made the discovery that few Northerners were, in their secret soul, so energetic as he. Many other persons had made it before that. He knew very little about Miss Chancellor; he had come to see her only because she wrote to him; he would never have thought of looking her up, and since then there had been no one in New York he might ask about her. Therefore he could only guess that she was a rich young woman; such a house, inhabited in such a way by a quiet spinster, implied a considerable income. How much? he asked himself; five thousand, ten thousand, fifteen thousand a year? There was richness to our panting young man in the smallest of these figures. He was not of a mercenary spirit, but he had an immense desire for success, and he had more than once reflected that a moderate capital was an aid to achievement. He had seen in his younger years one of the biggest failures that history commemorates21, an immense national fiasco, and it had implanted in his mind a deep aversion to the ineffectual. It came over him, while he waited for his hostess to reappear, that she was unmarried as well as rich, that she was sociable22 (her letter answered for that) as well as single; and he had for a moment a whimsical vision of becoming a partner in so flourishing a firm. He ground his teeth a little as he thought of the contrasts of the human lot; this cushioned feminine nest made him feel unhoused and underfed. Such a mood, however, could only be momentary23, for he was conscious at bottom of a bigger stomach than all the culture of Charles Street could fill.
Afterwards, when his cousin had come back and they had gone down to dinner together, where he sat facing her at a little table decorated in the middle with flowers, a position from which he had another view, through a window where the curtain remained undrawn by her direction (she called his attention to this — it was for his benefit), of the dusky, empty river, spotted25 with points of light — at this period, I say, it was very easy for him to remark to himself that nothing would induce him to make love to such a type as that. Several months later, in New York, in conversation with Mrs. Luna, of whom he was destined26 to see a good deal, he alluded27 by chance to this repast, to the way her sister had placed him at table, and to the remark with which she had pointed28 out the advantage of his seat.
“That’s what they call in Boston being very ‘thoughtful,’” Mrs. Luna said, “giving you the Back Bay (don’t you hate the name?) to look at, and then taking credit for it.”
This, however, was in the future; what Basil Ransom actually perceived was that Miss Chancellor was a signal old maid. That was her quality, her destiny; nothing could be more distinctly written. There are women who are unmarried by accident, and others who are unmarried by option; but Olive Chancellor was unmarried by every implication of her being. She was a spinster as Shelley was a lyric29 poet, or as the month of August is sultry. She was so essentially30 a celibate31 that Ransom found himself thinking of her as old, though when he came to look at her (as he said to himself) it was apparent that her years were fewer than his own. He did not dislike her, she had been so friendly; but, little by little, she gave him an uneasy feeling — the sense that you could never be safe with a person who took things so hard. It came over him that it was because she took things hard she had sought his acquaintance; it had been because she was strenuous32, not because she was genial; she had had in her eye — and what an extraordinary eye it was!— not a pleasure, but a duty. She would expect him to be strenuous in return; but he couldn’t — in private life, he couldn’t; privacy for Basil Ransom consisted entirely33 in what he called “laying off.” She was not so plain on further acquaintance as she had seemed to him at first; even the young Mississippian had culture enough to see that she was refined. Her white skin had a singular look of being drawn24 tightly across her face; but her features, though sharp and irregular, were delicate in a fashion that suggested good breeding. Their line was perverse34, but it was not poor. The curious tint35 of her eyes was a living colour; when she turned it upon you, you thought vaguely36 of the glitter of green ice. She had absolutely no figure, and presented a certain appearance of feeling cold. With all this, there was something very modern and highly developed in her aspect; she had the advantages as well as the drawbacks of a nervous organisation37. She smiled constantly at her guest, but from the beginning to the end of dinner, though he made several remarks that he thought might prove amusing, she never once laughed. Later, he saw that she was a woman without laughter; exhilaration, if it ever visited her, was dumb. Once only, in the course of his subsequent acquaintance with her, did it find a voice; and then the sound remained in Ransom’s ear as one of the strangest he had heard.
She asked him a great many questions, and made no comment on his answers, which only served to suggest to her fresh inquiries38. Her shyness had quite left her, it did not come back; she had confidence enough to wish him to see that she took a great interest in him. Why should she? he wondered, He couldn’t believe he was one of her kind; he was conscious of much Bohemianism — he drank beer, in New York, in cellars, knew no ladies, and was familiar with a “variety” actress. Certainly, as she knew him better, she would disapprove39 of him, though, of course, he would never mention the actress, nor even, if necessary, the beer. Ransom’s conception of vice40 was purely41 as a series of special cases, of explicable accidents. Not that he cared; if it were a part of the Boston character to be inquiring, he would be to the last a courteous42 Mississippian. He would tell her about Mississippi as much as she liked; he didn’t care how much he told her that the old ideas in the South were played out. She would not understand him any the better for that; she would not know how little his own views could be gathered from such a limited admission. What her sister imparted to him about her mania43 for “reform” had left in his mouth a kind of unpleasant aftertaste; he felt, at any rate, that if she had the religion of humanity — Basil Ransom had read Comte, he had read everything — she would never understand him. He, too, had a private vision of reform, but the first principle of it was to reform the reformers. As they drew to the close of a meal which, in spite of all latent incompatibilities, had gone off brilliantly, she said to him that she should have to leave him after dinner, unless perhaps he should be inclined to accompany her. She was going to a small gathering44 at the house of a friend who had asked a few people, “interested in new ideas,” to meet Mrs. Farrinder.
“Oh, thank you,” said Basil Ransom. “Is it a party? I haven’t been to a party since Mississippi seceded45.”
“No; Miss Birdseye doesn’t give parties. She’s an ascetic46.”
“Oh, well, we have had our dinner,” Ransom rejoined, laughing.
His hostess sat silent a moment, with her eyes on the ground; she looked at such times as if she were hesitating greatly between several things she might say, all so important that it was difficult to choose.
“I think it might interest you,” she remarked presently. “You will hear some discussion, if you are fond of that. Perhaps you wouldn’t agree,” she added, resting her strange eyes on him.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t — I don’t agree with everything,” he said, smiling and stroking his leg.
“Don’t you care for human progress?” Miss Chancellor went on.
“I don’t know — I never saw any. Are you going to show me some?”
“I can show you an earnest effort towards it. That’s the most one can be sure of. But I am not sure you are worthy47.”
“Is it something very Bostonian? I should like to see that,” said Basil Ransom.
“There are movements in other cities. Mrs. Farrinder goes everywhere; she may speak to-night.”
“Mrs. Farrinder, the celebrated48 ——?”
“Yes, the celebrated; the great apostle of the emancipation49 of women. She is a great friend of Miss Birdseye.”
“And who is Miss Birdseye?”
“She is one of our celebrities50. She is the woman in the world, I suppose, who has laboured most for every wise reform. I think I ought to tell you,” Miss Chancellor went on in a moment, “she was one of the earliest, one of the most passionate51, of the old Abolitionists.”
She had thought, indeed, she ought to tell him that, and it threw her into a little tremor52 of excitement to do so. Yet, if she had been afraid he would show some irritation53 at this news, she was disappointed at the geniality54 with which he exclaimed:
“Why, poor old lady — she must be quite mature!”
It was therefore with some severity that she rejoined:
“She will never be old. She is the youngest spirit I know. But if you are not in sympathy, perhaps you had better not come,” she went on.
“In sympathy with what, dear madam?” Basil Ransom asked, failing still, to her perception, to catch the tone of real seriousness. “If, as you say, there is to be a discussion, there will be different sides, and of course one can’t sympathise with both.”
“Yes, but every one will, in his way — or in her way — plead the cause of the new truths. If you don’t care for them, you won’t go with us.”
“I tell you I haven’t the least idea what they are! I have never yet encountered in the world any but old truths — as old as the sun and moon. How can I know? But do take me; it’s such a chance to see Boston.”
“It isn’t Boston — it’s humanity!” Miss Chancellor, as she made this remark, rose from her chair, and her movement seemed to say that she consented. But before she quitted her kinsman55 to get ready, she observed to him that she was sure he knew what she meant; he was only pretending he didn’t.
“Well, perhaps, after all, I have a general idea,” he confessed; “but don’t you see how this little reunion will give me a chance to fix it?”
She lingered an instant, with her anxious face. “Mrs. Farrinder will fix it!” she said; and she went to prepare herself.
It was in this poor young lady’s nature to be anxious, to have scruple56 within scruple and to forecast the consequences of things. She returned in ten minutes, in her bonnet57, which she had apparently58 assumed in recognition of Miss Birdseye’s asceticism59. As she stood there drawing on her gloves — her visitor had fortified60 himself against Mrs. Farrinder by another glass of wine — she declared to him that she quite repented61 of having proposed to him to go; something told her that he would be an unfavourable element.
“Why, is it going to be a spiritual séance?” Basil Ransom asked.
“Well, I have heard at Miss Birdseye’s some inspirational speaking.” Olive Chancellor was determined62 to look him straight in the face as she said this; her sense of the way it might strike him operated as a cogent63, not as a deterrent64, reason.
“Why, Miss Olive, it’s just got up on purpose for me!” cried the young Mississippian, radiant, and clasping his hands. She thought him very handsome as he said this, but reflected that unfortunately men didn’t care for the truth, especially the new kinds, in proportion as they were good-looking. She had, however, a moral resource that she could always fall back upon; it had already been a comfort to her, on occasions of acute feeling, that she hated men, as a class, anyway. “And I want so much to see an old Abolitionist; I have never laid eyes on one,” Basil Ransom added.
“Of course you couldn’t see one in the South; you were too afraid of them to let them come there!” She was now trying to think of something she might say that would be sufficiently65 disagreeable to make him cease to insist on accompanying her; for, strange to record — if anything, in a person of that intense sensibility, be stranger than any other — her second thought with regard to having asked him had deepened with the elapsing moments into an unreasoned terror of the effect of his presence. “Perhaps Miss Birdseye won’t like you,” she went on, as they waited for the carriage.
“I don’t know; I reckon she will,” said Basil Ransom good-humouredly. He evidently had no intention of giving up his opportunity.
From the window of the dining-room, at that moment, they heard the carriage drive up. Miss Birdseye lived at the South End; the distance was considerable, and Miss Chancellor had ordered a hackney-coach, it being one of the advantages of living in Charles Street that stables were near. The logic66 of her conduct was none of the clearest; for if she had been alone she would have proceeded to her destination by the aid of the street-car; not from economy (for she had the good fortune not to be obliged to consult it to that degree), and not from any love of wandering about Boston at night (a kind of exposure she greatly disliked), but by reason of a theory she devotedly67 nursed, a theory which bade her put off invidious differences and mingle68 in the common life. She would have gone on foot to Boylston Street, and there she would have taken the public conveyance69 (in her heart she loathed70 it) to the South End. Boston was full of poor girls who had to walk about at night and to squeeze into horse-cars in which every sense was displeased71; and why should she hold herself superior to these? Olive Chancellor regulated her conduct on lofty principles, and this is why, having to-night the advantage of a gentleman’s protection, she sent for a carriage to obliterate72 that patronage73. If they had gone together in the common way she would have seemed to owe it to him that she should be so daring, and he belonged to a sex to which she wished to be under no obligations. Months before, when she wrote to him, it had been with the sense, rather, of putting him in debt. As they rolled toward the South End, side by side, in a good deal of silence, bouncing and bumping over the railway-tracks very little less, after all, than if their wheels had been fitted to them, and looking out on either side at rows of red houses, dusky in the lamp-light, with protuberant74 fronts, approached by ladders of stone; as they proceeded, with these contemplative undulations, Miss Chancellor said to her companion, with a concentrated desire to defy him, as a punishment for having thrown her (she couldn’t tell why) into such a tremor:
“Don’t you believe, then, in the coming of a better day — in its being possible to do something for the human race?”
Poor Ransom perceived the defiance75, and he felt rather bewildered; he wondered what type, after all, he had got hold of, and what game was being played with him. Why had she made advances, if she wanted to pinch him this way? However, he was good for any game — that one as well as another — and he saw that he was “in” for something of which he had long desired to have a nearer view. “Well, Miss Olive,” he answered, putting on again his big hat, which he had been holding in his lap, “what strikes me most is that the human race has got to bear its troubles.”
“That’s what men say to women, to make them patient in the position they have made for them.”
“Oh, the position of women!” Basil Ransom exclaimed. “The position of women is to make fools of men. I would change my position for yours any day,” he went on. “That’s what I said to myself as I sat there in your elegant home.”
He could not see, in the dimness of the carriage, that she had flushed quickly, and he did not know that she disliked to be reminded of certain things which, for her, were mitigations of the hard feminine lot. But the passionate quaver with which, a moment later, she answered him sufficiently assured him that he had touched her at a tender point.
“Do you make it a reproach to me that I happen to have a little money? The dearest wish of my heart is to do something with it for others — for the miserable76.”
Basil Ransom might have greeted this last declaration with the sympathy it deserved, might have commended the noble aspirations77 of his kinswoman. But what struck him, rather, was the oddity of so sudden a sharpness of pitch in an intercourse78 which, an hour or two before, had begun in perfect amity79, and he burst once more into an irrepressible laugh. This made his companion feel, with intensity80, how little she was joking. “I don’t know why I should care what you think,” she said.
“Don’t care — don’t care. What does it matter? It is not of the slightest importance.”
He might say that, but it was not true; she felt that there were reasons why she should care. She had brought him into her life, and she should have to pay for it. But she wished to know the worst at once. “Are you against our emancipation?” she asked, turning a white face on him in the momentary radiance of a street-lamp.
“Do you mean your voting and preaching and all that sort of thing?” He made this inquiry81, but seeing how seriously she would take his answer, he was almost frightened, and hung fire. “I will tell you when I have heard Mrs. Farrinder.”
They had arrived at the address given by Miss Chancellor to the coachman, and their vehicle stopped with a lurch82. Basil Ransom got out; he stood at the door with an extended hand, to assist the young lady. But she seemed to hesitate; she sat there with her spectral83 face. “You hate it!” she exclaimed, in a low tone.
“Miss Birdseye will convert me,” said Ransom, with intention; for he had grown very curious, and he was afraid that now, at the last, Miss Chancellor would prevent his entering the house. She alighted without his help, and behind her he ascended84 the high steps of Miss Birdseye’s residence. He had grown very curious, and among the things he wanted to know was why in the world this ticklish85 spinster had written to him.
收听单词发音 |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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slants
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| （使）倾斜，歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 )； 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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indented
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| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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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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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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commemorates
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| n.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的名词复数 )v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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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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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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seceded
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| v.脱离，退出( secede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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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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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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82
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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84
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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