She hoped she should not soon see him again, and there appeared to be no reason she should, if their intercourse1 was to be conducted by means of cheques. The understanding with Verena was, of course, complete; she had promised to stay with her friend as long as her friend should require it. She had said at first that she couldn’t give up her mother, but she had been made to feel that there was no question of giving up. She should be as free as air, to go and come; she could spend hours and days with her mother, whenever Mrs. Tarrant required her attention; all that Olive asked of her was that, for the time, she should regard Charles Street as her home. There was no struggle about this, for the simple reason that by the time the question came to the front Verena was completely under the charm. The idea of Olive’s charm will perhaps make the reader smile; but I use the word not in its derived3, but in its literal sense. The fine web of authority, of dependence4, that her strenuous5 companion had woven about her, was now as dense6 as a suit of golden mail; and Verena was thoroughly7 interested in their great undertaking8; she saw it in the light of an active, enthusiastic faith. The benefit that her father desired for her was now assured; she expanded, developed, on the most liberal scale. Olive saw the difference, and you may imagine how she rejoiced in it; she had never known a greater pleasure. Verena’s former attitude had been girlish submission9, grateful, curious sympathy. She had given herself, in her young, amused surprise, because Olive’s stronger will and the incisive10 proceedings11 with which she pointed12 her purpose drew her on. Besides, she was held by hospitality, the vision of new social horizons, the sense of novelty, and the love of change. But now the girl was disinterestedly13 attached to the precious things they were to do together; she cared about them for themselves, believed in them ardently14, had them constantly in mind. Her share in the union of the two young women was no longer passive, purely16 appreciative17; it was passionate18, too, and it put forth19 a beautiful energy. If Olive desired to get Verena into training, she could flatter herself that the process had already begun, and that her colleague enjoyed it almost as much as she. Therefore she could say to herself, without the imputation20 of heartlessness, that when she left her mother it was for a noble, a sacred use. In point of fact, she left her very little, and she spent hours in jingling21, aching, jostled journeys between Charles Street and the stale suburban22 cottage. Mrs. Tarrant sighed and grimaced23, wrapped herself more than ever in her mantle24, said she didn’t know as she was fit to struggle alone, and that, half the time, if Verena was away, she wouldn’t have the nerve to answer the door-bell; she was incapable25, of course, of neglecting such an opportunity to posture26 as one who paid with her heart’s blood for leading the van of human progress. But Verena had an inner sense (she judged her mother now, a little, for the first time) that she would be sorry to be taken at her word, and that she felt safe enough in trusting to her daughter’s generosity27. She could not divest28 herself of the faith — even now that Mrs. Luna was gone, leaving no trace, and the grey walls of a sedentary winter were apparently29 closing about the two young women — she could not renounce30 the theory that a residence in Charles Street must at least produce some contact with the brilliant classes. She was vexed31 at her daughter’s resignation to not going to parties and to Miss Chancellor32’s not giving them; but it was nothing new for her to have to practise patience, and she could feel, at least, that it was just as handy for Mr. Burrage to call on the child in town, where he spent half his time, sleeping constantly at Parker’s.
It was a fact that this fortunate youth called very often, and Verena saw him with Olive’s full concurrence33 whenever she was at home. It had now been quite agreed between them that no artificial limits should be set to the famous phase; and Olive had, while it lasted, a sense of real heroism34 in steeling herself against uneasiness. It seemed to her, moreover, only justice that she should make some concession35; if Verena made a great sacrifice of filial duty in coming to live with her (this, of course, should be permanent — she would buy off the Tarrants from year to year), she must not incur36 the imputation (the world would judge her, in that case, ferociously) of keeping her from forming common social ties. The friendship of a young man and a young woman was, according to the pure code of New England, a common social tie; and as the weeks elapsed Miss Chancellor saw no reason to repent37 of her temerity38. Verena was not falling in love; she felt that she should know it, should guess it on the spot. Verena was fond of human intercourse; she was essentially39 a sociable40 creature; she liked to shine and smile and talk and listen; and so far as Henry Burrage was concerned he introduced an element of easy and convenient relaxation41 into a life now a good deal stiffened42 (Olive was perfectly43 willing to own it) by great civic44 purposes. But the girl was being saved, without interference, by the simple operation of her interest in those very designs. From this time there was no need of putting pressure on her; her own springs were working; the fire with which she glowed came from within. Sacredly, brightly single she would remain; her only espousals would be at the altar of a great cause. Olive always absented herself when Mr. Burrage was announced; and when Verena afterwards attempted to give some account of his conversation she checked her, said she would rather know nothing about it — all with a very solemn mildness; this made her feel very superior, truly noble. She knew by this time (I scarcely can tell how, since Verena could give her no report) exactly what sort of a youth Mr. Burrage was: he was weakly pretentious46, softly original, cultivated eccentricity47, patronised progress, liked to have mysteries, sudden appointments to keep, anonymous48 persons to visit, the air of leading a double life, of being devoted49 to a girl whom people didn’t know, or at least didn’t meet. Of course he liked to make an impression on Verena; but what he mainly liked was to play her off upon the other girls, the daughters of fashion, with whom he danced at Papanti’s. Such were the images that proceeded from Olive’s rich moral consciousness. “Well, he is greatly interested in our movement”: so much Verena once managed to announce; but the words rather irritated Miss Chancellor, who, as we know, did not care to allow for accidental exceptions in the great masculine conspiracy50.
In the month of March Verena told her that Mr. Burrage was offering matrimony — offering it with much insistence51, begging that she would at least wait and think of it before giving him a final answer. Verena was evidently very glad to be able to say to Olive that she had assured him she couldn’t think of it, and that if he expected this he had better not come any more. He continued to come, and it was therefore to be supposed that he had ceased to count on such a concession; it was now Olive’s opinion that he really didn’t desire it. She had a theory that he proposed to almost any girl who was not likely to accept him — did it because he was making a collection of such episodes — a mental album of declarations, blushes, hesitations53, refusals that just missed imposing54 themselves as acceptances, quite as he collected enamels55 and Cremona violins. He would be very sorry indeed to ally himself to the house of Tarrant; but such a fear didn’t prevent him from holding it becoming in a man of taste to give that encouragement to low-born girls who were pretty, for one looked out for the special cases in which, for reasons (even the lowest might have reasons), they wouldn’t “rise.” “I told you I wouldn’t marry him, and I won’t,” Verena said, delightedly, to her friend; her tone suggested that a certain credit belonged to her for the way she carried out her assurance. “I never thought you would, if you didn’t want to,” Olive replied to this; and Verena could have no rejoinder but the good-humour that sat in her eyes, unable as she was to say that she had wanted to. They had a little discussion, however, when she intimated that she pitied him for his discomfiture56, Olive’s contention57 being that, selfish, conceited58, pampered59 and insincere, he might properly be left now to digest his affront60. Miss Chancellor felt none of the remorse61 now that she would have felt six months before at standing2 in the way of such a chance for Verena, and she would have been very angry if any one had asked her if she were not afraid of taking too much upon herself. She would have said, moreover, that she stood in no one’s way, and that even if she were not there Verena would never think seriously of a frivolous62 little man who fiddled63 while Rome was burning. This did not prevent Olive from making up her mind that they had better go to Europe in the spring; a year’s residence in that quarter of the globe would be highly agreeable to Verena, and might even contribute to the evolution of her genius. It cost Miss Chancellor an effort to admit that any virtue64 still lingered in the elder world, and that it could have any important lesson for two such good Americans as her friend and herself; but it suited her just then to make this assumption, which was not altogether sincere. It was recommended by the idea that it would get her companion out of the way — out of the way of officious fellow-citizens — till she should be absolutely firm on her feet, and would also give greater intensity65 to their own long conversation. On that continent of strangers they would cleave66 more closely still to each other. This, of course, would be to fly before the inevitable67 “phase,” much more than to face it; but Olive decided68 that if they should reach unscathed the term of their delay (the first of July) she should have faced it as much as either justice or generosity demanded. I may as well say at once that she traversed most of this period without further serious alarms and with a great many little thrills of bliss69 and hope.
Nothing happened to dissipate the good omens70 with which her partnership71 with Verena Tarrant was at present surrounded. They threw themselves into study; they had innumerable big books from the Athen?um, and consumed the midnight oil. Henry Burrage, after Verena had shaken her head at him so sweetly and sadly, returned to New York, giving no sign; they only heard that he had taken refuge under the ruffled72 maternal73 wing. (Olive, at least, took for granted the wing was ruffled; she could fancy how Mrs. Burrage would be affected74 by the knowledge that her son had been refused by the daughter of a mesmeric healer. She would be almost as angry as if she had learnt that he had been accepted.) Matthias Pardon had not yet taken his revenge in the newspapers; he was perhaps nursing his thunderbolts; at any rate, now that the operatic season had begun, he was much occupied in interviewing the principal singers, one of whom he described in one of the leading journals (Olive, at least, was sure it was only he who could write like that) as “a dear little woman with baby dimples and kittenish movements.” The Tarrants were apparently given up to a measure of sensual ease with which they had not hitherto been familiar, thanks to the increase of income that they drew from their eccentric protectress. Mrs. Tarrant now enjoyed the ministrations of a “girl”; it was partly her pride (at any rate, she chose to give it this turn) that her house had for many years been conducted without the element — so debasing on both sides — of servile, mercenary labour. She wrote to Olive (she was perpetually writing to her now, but Olive never answered) that she was conscious of having fallen to a lower plane, but she admitted that it was a prop52 to her wasted spirit to have some one to converse76 with when Selah was off. Verena, of course, perceived the difference, which was inadequately77 explained by the theory of a sudden increase of her father’s practice (nothing of her father’s had ever increased like that), and ended by guessing the cause of it — a discovery which did not in the least disturb her equanimity78. She accepted the idea that her parents should receive a pecuniary79 tribute from the extraordinary friend whom she had encountered on the threshold of womanhood, just as she herself accepted that friend’s irresistible80 hospitality. She had no worldly pride, no traditions of independence, no ideas of what was done and what was not done; but there was only one thing that equalled this perfectly gentle and natural insensibility to favours — namely, the inveteracy81 of her habit of not asking them. Olive had had an apprehension82 that she would flush a little at learning the terms on which they should now be able to pursue their career together; but Verena never changed colour; it was either not new or not disagreeable to her that the authors of her being should be bought off, silenced by money, treated as the troublesome of the lower orders are treated when they are not locked up; so that her friend had a perception, after this, that it would probably be impossible in any way ever to offend her. She was too rancourless, too detached from conventional standards, too free from private self-reference. It was too much to say of her that she forgave injuries, since she was not conscious of them; there was in forgiveness a certain arrogance83 of which she was incapable, and her bright mildness glided84 over the many traps that life sets for our consistency85. Olive had always held that pride was necessary to character, but there was no peculiarity87 of Verena’s that could make her spirit seem less pure. The added luxuries in the little house at Cambridge, which even with their help was still such a penal88 settlement, made her feel afresh that before she came to the rescue the daughter of that house had traversed a desert of sordid89 misery90. She had cooked and washed and swept and stitched; she had worked harder than any of Miss Chancellor’s servants. These things had left no trace upon her person or her mind; everything fresh and fair renewed itself in her with extraordinary facility, everything ugly and tiresome91 evaporated as soon as it touched her; but Olive deemed that, being what she was, she had a right to immense compensations. In the future she should have exceeding luxury and ease, and Miss Chancellor had no difficulty in persuading herself that persons doing the high intellectual and moral work to which the two young ladies in Charles Street were now committed owed it to themselves, owed it to the groaning92 sisterhood, to cultivate the best material conditions. She herself was nothing of a sybarite, and she had proved, visiting the alleys93 and slums of Boston in the service of the Associated Charities, that there was no foulness94 of disease or misery she feared to look in the face; but her house had always been thoroughly well regulated, she was passionately95 clean, and she was an excellent woman of business. Now, however, she elevated daintiness to a religion; her interior shone with superfluous96 friction97, with punctuality, with winter roses. Among these soft influences Verena herself bloomed like the flower that attains98 such perfection in Boston. Olive had always rated high the native refinement99 of her country-women, their latent “adaptability,” their talent for accommodating themselves at a glance to changed conditions; but the way her companion rose with the level of the civilisation100 that surrounded her, the way she assimilated all delicacies101 and absorbed all traditions, left this friendly theory halting behind. The winter days were still, indoors, in Charles Street, and the winter nights secure from interruption. Our two young women had plenty of duties, but Olive had never favoured the custom of running in and out. Much conference on social and reformatory topics went forward under her roof, and she received her colleagues — she belonged to twenty associations and committees — only at preappointed hours, which she expected them to observe rigidly102. Verena’s share in these proceedings was not active; she hovered103 over them, smiling, listening, dropping occasionally a fanciful though never an idle word, like some gently animated104 image placed there for good omen15. It was understood that her part was before the scenes, not behind; that she was not a prompter, but (potentially, at least) a “popular favourite,” and that the work over which Miss Chancellor presided so efficiently105 was a general preparation of the platform on which, later, her companion would execute the most striking steps.
The western windows of Olive’s drawing-room, looking over the water, took in the red sunsets of winter; the long, low bridge that crawled, on its staggering posts, across the Charles; the casual patches of ice and snow; the desolate106 suburban horizons, peeled and made bald by the rigour of the season; the general hard, cold void of the prospect107; the extrusion108, at Charlestown, at Cambridge, of a few chimneys and steeples, straight, sordid tubes of factories and engine-shops, or spare, heavenward finger of the New England meeting-house. There was something inexorable in the poverty of the scene, shameful109 in the meanness of its details, which gave a collective impression of boards and tin and frozen earth, sheds and rotting piles, railway-lines striding flat across a thoroughfare of puddles110, and tracks of the humbler, the universal horse-car, traversing obliquely111 this path of danger; loose fences, vacant lots, mounds112 of refuse, yards bestrewn with iron pipes, telegraph poles, and bare wooden backs of places. Verena thought such a view lovely, and she was by no means without excuse when, as the afternoon closed, the ugly picture was tinted113 with a clear, cold rosiness114. The air, in its windless chill, seemed to tinkle115 like a crystal, the faintest gradations of tone were perceptible in the sky, the west became deep and delicate, everything grew doubly distinct before taking on the dimness of evening. There were pink flushes on snow, “tender” reflexions in patches of stiffened marsh116, sounds of car-bells, no longer vulgar, but almost silvery, on the long bridge, lonely outlines of distant dusky undulations against the fading glow. These agreeable effects used to light up that end of the drawing-room, and Olive often sat at the window with her companion before it was time for the lamp. They admired the sunsets, they rejoiced in the ruddy spots projected upon the parlour-wall, they followed the darkening perspective in fanciful excursions. They watched the stellar points come out at last in a colder heaven, and then, shuddering117 a little, arm in arm, they turned away, with a sense that the winter night was even more cruel than the tyranny of men — turned back to drawn118 curtains and a brighter fire and a glittering tea-tray and more and more talk about the long martyrdom of women, a subject as to which Olive was inexhaustible and really most interesting. There were some nights of deep snowfall, when Charles Street was white and muffled119 and the door-bell foredoomed to silence, which seemed little islands of lamp-light, of enlarged and intensified120 vision. They read a great deal of history together, and read it ever with the same thought — that of finding confirmation121 in it for this idea that their sex had suffered inexpressibly, and that at any moment in the course of human affairs the state of the world would have been so much less horrible (history seemed to them in every way horrible) if women had been able to press down the scale. Verena was full of suggestions which stimulated122 discussions; it was she, oftenest, who kept in view the fact that a good many women in the past had been entrusted123 with power and had not always used it amiably124, who brought up the wicked queens, the profligate125 mistresses of kings. These ladies were easily disposed of between the two, and the public crimes of Bloody126 Mary, the private misdemeanours of Faustina, wife of the pure Marcus Aurelius, were very satisfactorily classified. If the influence of women in the past accounted for every act of virtue that men had happened to achieve, it only made the matter balance properly that the influence of men should explain the casual irregularities of the other sex. Olive could see how few books had passed through Verena’s hands, and how little the home of the Tarrants had been a house of reading; but the girl now traversed the fields of literature with her characteristic lightness of step. Everything she turned to or took up became an illustration of the facility, the “giftedness,” which Olive, who had so little of it, never ceased to wonder at and prize. Nothing frightened her; she always smiled at it, she could do anything she tried. As she knew how to do other things, she knew how to study; she read quickly and remembered infallibly; could repeat, days afterward45, passages that she appeared only to have glanced at. Olive, of course, was more and more happy to think that their cause should have the services of an organisation127 so rare.
All this doubtless sounds rather dry, and I hasten to add that our friends were not always shut up in Miss Chancellor’s strenuous parlour. In spite of Olive’s desire to keep her precious inmate128 to herself and to bend her attention upon their common studies, in spite of her constantly reminding Verena that this winter was to be purely educative and that the platitudes129 of the satisfied and unregenerate would have little to teach her, in spite, in short, of the severe and constant duality of our young women, it must not be supposed that their life had not many personal confluents and tributaries130. Individual and original as Miss Chancellor was universally acknowledged to be, she was yet a typical Bostonian, and as a typical Bostonian she could not fail to belong in some degree to a “set.” It had been said of her that she was in it but not of it; but she was of it enough to go occasionally into other houses and to receive their occupants in her own. It was her belief that she filled her tea-pot with the spoon of hospitality, and made a good many select spirits feel that they were welcome under her roof at convenient hours. She had a preference for what she called real people, and there were several whose reality she had tested by arts known to herself. This little society was rather suburban and miscellaneous; it was prolific131 in ladies who trotted132 about, early and late, with books from the Athen?um nursed behind their muff, or little nosegays of exquisite133 flowers that they were carrying as presents to each other. Verena, who, when Olive was not with her, indulged in a good deal of desultory134 contemplation at the window, saw them pass the house in Charles Street, always apparently straining a little, as if they might be too late for something. At almost any time, for she envied their preoccupation, she would have taken the chance with them. Very often, when she described them to her mother, Mrs. Tarrant didn’t know who they were; there were even days (she had so many discouragements) when it seemed as if she didn’t want to know. So long as they were not some one else, it seemed to be no use that they were themselves; whoever they were, they were sure to have that defect. Even after all her mother’s disquisitions Verena had but vague ideas as to whom she would have liked them to be; and it was only when the girl talked of the concerts, to all of which Olive subscribed135 and conducted her inseparable friend, that Mrs. Tarrant appeared to feel in any degree that her daughter was living up to the standard formed for her in their Cambridge home. As all the world knows, the opportunities in Boston for hearing good music are numerous and excellent, and it had long been Miss Chancellor’s practice to cultivate the best. She went in, as the phrase is, for the superior programmes, and that high, dim, dignified136 Music Hall, which has echoed in its time to so much eloquence137 and so much melody, and of which the very proportions and colour seem to teach respect and attention, shed the protection of its illuminated138 cornice, this winter, upon no faces more intelligently upturned than those of the young women for whom Bach and Beethoven only repeated, in a myriad139 forms, the idea that was always with them. Symphonies and fugues only stimulated their convictions, excited their revolutionary passion, led their imagination further in the direction in which it was always pressing. It lifted them to immeasurable heights; and as they sat looking at the great florid, sombre organ, overhanging the bronze statue of Beethoven, they felt that this was the only temple in which the votaries140 of their creed141 could worship.
And yet their music was not their greatest joy, for they had two others which they cultivated at least as zealously142. One of these was simply the society of old Miss Birdseye, of whom Olive saw more this winter than she had ever seen before. It had become apparent that her long and beautiful career was drawing to a close, her earnest, unremitting work was over, her old-fashioned weapons were broken and dull. Olive would have liked to hang them up as venerable relics143 of a patient fight, and this was what she seemed to do when she made the poor lady relate her battles — never glorious and brilliant, but obscure and wastefully144 heroic — call back the figures of her companions in arms, exhibit her medals and scars. Miss Birdseye knew that her uses were ended; she might pretend still to go about the business of unpopular causes, might fumble145 for papers in her immemorial satchel146 and think she had important appointments, might sign petitions, attend conventions, say to Doctor Prance147 that if she would only make her sleep she should live to see a great many improvements yet; she ached and was weary, growing almost as glad to look back (a great anomaly for Miss Birdseye) as to look forward. She let herself be coddled now by her friends of the new generation; there were days when she seemed to want nothing better than to sit by Olive’s fire and ramble148 on about the old struggles, with a vague, comfortable sense — no physical rapture149 of Miss Birdseye’s could be very acute — of immunity150 from wet feet, from the draughts151 that prevail at thin meetings, of independence of street-cars that would probably arrive overflowing152; and also a pleased perception, not that she was an example to these fresh lives which began with more advantages than hers, but that she was in some degree an encouragement, as she helped them to measure the way the new truths had advanced — being able to tell them of such a different state of things when she was a young lady, the daughter of a very talented teacher (indeed her mother had been a teacher too), down in Connecticut. She had always had for Olive a kind of aroma153 of martyrdom, and her battered154, unremunerated, unpensioned old age brought angry tears, springing from depths of outraged155 theory, into Miss Chancellor’s eyes. For Verena, too, she was a picturesque156 humanitary figure. Verena had been in the habit of meeting martyrs157 from her childhood up, but she had seen none with so many reminiscences as Miss Birdseye, or who had been so nearly scorched158 by penal fires. She had had escapes, in the early days of abolitionism, which it was a marvel159 she could tell with so little implication that she had shown courage. She had roamed through certain parts of the South, carrying the Bible to the slave; and more than one of her companions, in the course of these expeditions, had been tarred and feathered. She herself, at one season, had spent a month in a Georgian jail. She had preached temperance in Irish circles where the doctrine160 was received with missiles; she had interfered161 between wives and husbands mad with drink; she had taken filthy162 children, picked up in the street, to her own poor rooms, and had removed their pestilent rags and washed their sore bodies with slippery little hands. In her own person she appeared to Olive and Verena a representative of suffering humanity; the pity they felt for her was part of their pity for all who were weakest and most hardly used; and it struck Miss Chancellor (more especially) that this frumpy little missionary163 was the last link in a tradition, and that when she should be called away the heroic age of New England life — the age of plain living and high thinking, of pure ideals and earnest effort, of moral passion and noble experiment — would effectually be closed. It was the perennial164 freshness of Miss Birdseye’s faith that had had such a contagion165 for these modern maidens166, the unquenched flame of her transcendentalism, the simplicity167 of her vision, the way in which, in spite of mistakes, deceptions168, the changing fashions of reform, which make the remedies of a previous generation look as ridiculous as their bonnets169, the only thing that was still actual for her was the elevation170 of the species by the reading of Emerson and the frequentation of Tremont Temple. Olive had been active enough, for years, in the city-missions; she too had scoured171 dirty children, and, in squalid lodging-houses, had gone into rooms where the domestic situation was strained and the noises made the neighbours turn pale. But she reflected that after such exertions172 she had the refreshment173 of a pretty house, a drawing-room full of flowers, a crackling hearth174, where she threw in pine-cones and made them snap, an imported tea-service, a Chickering piano, and the Deutsche Rundschau; whereas Miss Birdseye had only a bare, vulgar room, with a hideous175 flowered carpet (it looked like a dentist’s), a cold furnace, the evening paper, and Doctor Prance. Olive and Verena were present at another of her gatherings176 before the winter ended; it resembled the occasion that we described at the beginning of this history, with the difference that Mrs. Farrinder was not there to oppress the company with her greatness, and that Verena made a speech without the co-operation of her father. This young lady had delivered herself with even finer effect than before, and Olive could see how much she had gained, in confidence and range of allusion177, since the educative process in Charles Street began. Her motif178 was now a kind of unprepared tribute to Miss Birdseye, the fruit of the occasion and of the unanimous tenderness of the younger members of the circle, which made her a willing mouthpiece. She pictured her laborious179 career, her early associates (Eliza P. Moseley was not neglected as Verena passed), her difficulties and dangers and triumphs, her humanising effect upon so many, her serene180 and honoured old age — expressed, in short, as one of the ladies said, just the very way they all felt about her. Verena’s face brightened and grew triumphant181 as she spoke182, but she brought tears into the eyes of most of the others. It was Olive’s opinion that nothing could be more graceful183 and touching184, and she saw that the impression made was now deeper than on the former evening. Miss Birdseye went about with her eighty years of innocence185, her undiscriminating spectacles, asking her friends if it wasn’t perfectly splendid; she took none of it to herself, she regarded it only as a brilliant expression of Verena’s gift. Olive thought, afterwards, that if a collection could only be taken up on the spot, the good lady would be made easy for the rest of her days; then she remembered that most of her guests were as impecunious186 as herself.
I have intimated that our young friends had a source of fortifying187 emotion which was distinct from the hours they spent with Beethoven and Bach, or in hearing Miss Birdseye describe Concord188 as it used to be. This consisted in the wonderful insight they had obtained into the history of feminine anguish189. They perused190 that chapter perpetually and zealously, and they derived from it the purest part of their mission. Olive had pored over it so long, so earnestly, that she was now in complete possession of the subject; it was the one thing in life which she felt she had really mastered. She was able to exhibit it to Verena with the greatest authority and accuracy, to lead her up and down, in and out, through all the darkest and most tortuous191 passages. We know that she was without belief in her own eloquence, but she was very eloquent192 when she reminded Verena how the exquisite weakness of women had never been their defence, but had only exposed them to sufferings more acute than masculine grossness can conceive. Their odious193 partner had trampled194 upon them from the beginning of time, and their tenderness, their abnegation, had been his opportunity. All the bullied195 wives, the stricken mothers, the dishonoured196, deserted197 maidens who have lived on the earth and longed to leave it, passed and repassed before her eyes, and the interminable dim procession seemed to stretch out a myriad hands to her. She sat with them at their trembling vigils, listened for the tread, the voice, at which they grew pale and sick, walked with them by the dark waters that offered to wash away misery and shame, took with them, even, when the vision grew intense, the last shuddering leap. She had analysed to an extraordinary fineness their susceptibility, their softness; she knew (or she thought she knew) all the possible tortures of anxiety, of suspense198 and dread199; and she had made up her mind that it was women, in the end, who had paid for everything. In the last resort the whole burden of the human lot came upon them; it pressed upon them far more than on the others, the intolerable load of fate. It was they who sat cramped200 and chained to receive it; it was they who had done all the waiting and taken all the wounds. The sacrifices, the blood, the tears, the terrors were theirs. Their organism was in itself a challenge to suffering, and men had practised upon it with an impudence201 that knew no bounds. As they were the weakest most had been wrung202 from them, and as they were the most generous they had been most deceived. Olive Chancellor would have rested her case, had it been necessary, on those general facts; and her simple and comprehensive contention was that the peculiar86 wretchedness which had been the very essence of the feminine lot was a monstrous203 artificial imposition, crying aloud for redress204. She was willing to admit that women, too, could be bad; that there were many about the world who were false, immoral205, vile75. But their errors were as nothing to their sufferings; they had expiated206, in advance, an eternity207, if need be, of misconduct. Olive poured forth these views to her listening and responsive friend; she presented them again and again, and there was no light in which they did not seem to palpitate with truth. Verena was immensely wrought208 upon; a subtle fire passed into her; she was not so hungry for revenge as Olive, but at the last, before they went to Europe (I shall take no place to describe the manner in which she threw herself into that project), she quite agreed with her companion that after so many ages of wrong (it would also be after the European journey) men must take their turn, men must pay!
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intercourse
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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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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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5
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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6
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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7
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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8
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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9
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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10
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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11
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
disinterestedly
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14
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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15
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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16
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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17
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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18
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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19
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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20
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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21
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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22
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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23
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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25
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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26
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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27
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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28
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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29
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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30
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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31
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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32
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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33
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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34
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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35
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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36
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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37
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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38
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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39
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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40
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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41
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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42
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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43
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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44
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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45
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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46
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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47
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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48
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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49
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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50
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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51
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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52
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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53
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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54
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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55
enamels
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| 搪瓷( enamel的名词复数 )； 珐琅； 釉药； 瓷漆 | |
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56
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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57
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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58
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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59
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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61
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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62
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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63
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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64
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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65
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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66
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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67
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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68
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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69
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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70
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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71
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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72
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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74
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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75
vile
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|
| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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76
converse
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|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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77
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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78
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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79
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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80
irresistible
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|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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81
inveteracy
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| n.根深蒂固，积习 | |
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82
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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83
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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84
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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85
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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86
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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87
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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88
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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89
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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90
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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91
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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92
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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93
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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94
foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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95
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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96
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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97
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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98
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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99
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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100
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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101
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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102
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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103
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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104
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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105
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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106
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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107
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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108
extrusion
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| n.挤出；推出；喷出；赶出 | |
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109
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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110
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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111
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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112
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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113
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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114
rosiness
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| n.玫瑰色；淡红色；光明；有希望 | |
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115
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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116
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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117
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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118
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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119
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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120
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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122
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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123
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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125
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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126
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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127
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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128
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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129
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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130
tributaries
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| n. 支流 | |
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131
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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132
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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133
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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134
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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135
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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136
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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137
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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138
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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139
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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140
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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141
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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142
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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143
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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144
wastefully
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| 浪费地，挥霍地，耗费地 | |
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145
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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146
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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147
prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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148
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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149
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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150
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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151
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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152
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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153
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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154
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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155
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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156
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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157
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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158
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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159
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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160
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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161
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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162
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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163
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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164
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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165
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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166
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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167
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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168
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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169
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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170
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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171
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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172
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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173
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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174
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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175
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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176
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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177
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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178
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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179
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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180
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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181
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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182
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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183
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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184
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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185
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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186
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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187
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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188
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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189
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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190
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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191
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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192
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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193
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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194
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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195
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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197
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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198
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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199
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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200
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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201
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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202
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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203
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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204
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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205
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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206
expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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208
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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