Gentle readers will not, I trust, think the worse of their most obedient, humble1 servant for the confession2 that I talked to my wife on my return home regarding Philip and his affairs. When I choose to be frank, I hope no man can be more open than myself: when I have a mind to be quiet, no fish can be more mute. I have kept secrets so ineffably3, that I have utterly4 forgotten them, until my memory was refreshed by people who also knew them. But what was the use of hiding this one from the being to whom I open all, or almost all — say all, excepting just one or two — of the closets of this heart? So I say to her, “My love; it is as I suspected. Philip and his cousin Agnes are carrying on together.”
“Is Agnes the pale one, or the very pale one?” asks the joy of my existence.
“No, the elder is Blanche. They are both older than Mr. Firmin: but Blanche is the elder of the two.”
“Well, I am not saying anything malicious5, or contrary to the fact, am I, sir?”
No. Only I know by her looks, when another lady’s name is mentioned, whether my wife likes her or not. And I am bound to say, though this statement may meet with a denial, that her countenance6 does not vouchsafe7 smiles at the mention of all ladies’ names.
“You don’t go to the house? You and Mrs. Twysden have called on each other, and there the matter has stopped? Oh, I know! It is because poor Talbot brags8 so about his wine, and gives such abominable9 stuff, that you have such an un-Christian10 feeling for him!”
“That is the reason, I daresay,” says the lady.
“No. It is no such thing. Though you do know sherry from port, I believe upon my conscience you do not avoid the Twysdens because they give bad wine. Many others sin in that way, and you forgive them. You like your fellow-creatures better than wine — some fellow-creatures — and you dislike some fellow-creatures worse than medicine. You swallow them, madam. You say nothing, but your looks are dreadful. You make wry11 faces: and when you have taken them, you want a piece of sweetmeat to take the taste out of your mouth.”
The lady, thus wittily12 addressed, shrugs13 her lovely shoulders. My wife exasperates14 me in many things; in getting up at insane hours to go to early church, for instance; in looking at me in a particular way at dinner, when I am about to eat one of those entrées which Dr. Goodenough declares disagree with me; in nothing more than in that obstinate15 silence, which she persists in maintaining sometimes when I am abusing people, whom I do not like, whom she does not like, and who abuse me. This reticence16 makes me wild. What confidence can there be between a man and his wife, if he can’t say to her, “Confound So-and-so, I hate him; “ or, “What a prig What-d’-you-call-em is!” or, “What a bloated aristocrat17 Thingamy has become, since he got his place!” or what you will?
“No,” I continue, “I know why you hate the Twysdens, Mrs. Pendennis. You hate them because they move in a world which you can only occasionally visit. You envy them because they are hand in glove with the great: because they possess an easy grace, and a frank and noble elegance18 with which common country people and apothecaries’ sons are not endowed.”
“My dear Arthur, I do think you are ashamed of being an apothecary’s son. You talk about it so often,” says the lady. Which was all very well: but you see she was not answering my remarks about the Twysdens.
“You are right, my dear,” I say then. “I ought not to be censorious, being myself no more virtuous19 than my neighbour.”
“I know people abuse you, Arthur; but I think you are a very good sort of man,” says the lady, over her little tea-tray.
“And so are the Twysdens very good people — very nice, artless, unselfish, simple, generous, well-bred people. Mr. Twysden is all heart: Twysden’s conversational20 powers are remarkable21 and pleasing; and Philip is eminently22 fortunate in getting one of those charming girls for a wife.”
“I’ve no patience with them,” cries my wife, losing that quality to my great satisfaction: for then I knew I had found the crack in Madam Pendennis’s armour23 of steel, and had smitten24 her in a vulnerable little place.
“No patience with them? Quiet, lady-like young women!” I cry.
“Ah,” sighs my wife, “what have they got to give Philip in return for — ”
“In return for his thirty thousand? They will have ten thousand pounds a piece when their mother dies.”
“Oh! I wouldn’t have our boy marry a woman like one of those, not if she had a million. I wouldn’t, my child and my blessing25!” (This is addressed to a little darling who happens to be eating sweet cakes, in a high chair, off the little table by his mother’s side, and who, though he certainly used to cry a good deal at the period, shall be a mute personage in this history.)
“You are alluding26 to Blanche’s little affair with — ”
“No, I am not, sir!”
“How do you know which one I meant, then? — Or that notorious disappointment of Agnes, when Lord Farintosh became a widower27? If he wouldn’t, she couldn’t, you know, my dear. And I am sure she tried her best: at least, everybody said so.”
“Ah! I have no patience with the way in which you people of the world treat the most sacred of subjects — the most sacred, sir. Do you hear me? Is a woman’s love to be pledged, and withdrawn28 every day? Is her faith and purity only to be a matter of barter29, and rank, and social consideration? I am sorry, because I don’t wish to see Philip, who is good, and honest, and generous, and true as yet — however great his faults may be — because I don’t wish to see him given up to — Oh! it’s shocking, shocking!”
Given up to what? to anything dreadful in this world, or the next? Don’t imagine that Philip’s relations thought they were doing Phil any harm by condescending31 to marry him, or themselves any injury. A doctor’s son, indeed! Why, the Twysdens were far better placed in the world than their kinsmen32 of Old Parr Street; and went to better houses. The year’s levée and drawing-room would have been incomplete without Mr. and Mrs. Twysden. There might be families with higher titles, more wealth, higher positions; but the world did not contain more respectable folks than the Twysdens: of this every one of the family was convinced, from Talbot himself down to his heir. If somebody or some Body of savans would write the history of the harm that has been done in the world by people who believe themselves to be virtuous, what a queer, edifying33 book it would be, and how poor oppressed rogues34 might look up! Who burns the Protestants? — the virtuous Catholics to be sure. Who roasts the Catholics? — the virtuous Reformers. Who thinks I am a dangerous character, and avoids me at the club? — the virtuous Squaretoes. Who scorns? who persecutes35? who doesn’t forgive? — the virtuous Mrs. Grundy. She remembers her neighbour’s peccadilloes36 to the third and fourth generation; and, if she finds a certain man fallen in her path, gathers up her affrighted garments with a shriek37, for fear the muddy, bleeding wretch38 should contaminate her, and passes on.
I do not seek to create even surprises in this modest history, or condescend30 to keep candid39 readers in suspense40 about many matters which might possibly interest them. For instance, the matter of love has interested novel-readers for hundreds of years past, and doubtless will continue so to interest them. Almost all young people read love books and histories with eagerness, as oldsters read books of medicine, and whatever it is — heart complaint, gout, liver, palsy — cry, “Exactly so, precisely41 my case!” Phil’s first love affair, to which we are now coming, was a false start. I own it at once. And in this commencement of his career I believe he was not more or less fortunate than many and many a man and woman in this world. Suppose the course of true love always did run smooth, and everybody married his or her first love. Ah! what would marriage be?
A generous young fellow comes to market with a heart ready to leap out of his waistcoat, for ever thumping42 and throbbing43, and so wild that he can’t have any rest till he has disposed of it. What wonder if he falls upon a wily merchant in Vanity Fair, and barters44 his all for a stale bauble45 not worth sixpence? Phil chose to fall in love with his cousin; and I warn you that nothing will come of that passion, except the influence which it had upon the young man’s character. Though my wife did not love the Twysdens, she loves sentiment, she loves love affairs — all women do. Poor Phil used to bore me after dinner with endless rodomontades about his passion and his charmer; but my wife was never tired of listening. “You are a selfish, heartless, blasé man of the world, you are,” he would say. “Your own immense and undeserved good fortune in the matrimonial lottery46 has rendered you hard, cold, crass47, indifferent. You have been asleep, sir, twice to-night, whilst I was talking. I will go up and tell madam everything. She has a heart.” And presently engaged with my book or my after-dinner doze48, I would hear Phil striding and creaking overhead, and plunging49 energetic pokers50 in the drawing-room fire.
Thirty thousand pounds to begin with; a third part of that sum coming to the lady from her mother; all the doctor’s savings51 and property; — here certainly was enough in possession and expectation to satisfy many young couples; and as Phil is twenty-two, and Agnes (must I own it?) twenty-five, and as she has consented to listen to the warm outpourings of the eloquent52 and passionate53 youth, and exchange for his fresh, new-minted, golden sovereign heart, that used little three-penny-piece, her own — why should they not marry at once, and so let us have an end of them and this history? They have plenty of money to pay the parson and the postchaise; they may drive off to the country, and live on their means, and lead an existence so humdrum54 and tolerably happy that Phil may grow quite too fat, lazy, and unfit for his present post of hero of a novel. But stay — there are obstacles; coy, reluctant, amorous55 delays. After all, Philip is a dear, brave, handsome, wild, reckless, blundering boy, treading upon everybody’s dress skirts, smashing the little Dresden ornaments56 and the pretty little decorous gimcracks of society, life, conversation; — but there is time yet. Are you so very sure about that money of his mother’s ? and how is it that his father the doctor has not settled accounts with him yet! C’est louche. A family of high position and principle must look to have the money matters in perfect order, before they consign57 a darling accustomed to every luxury to the guardianship58 of a confessedly wild and eccentric, though generous and amiable59, young man. Besides — ah! besides — besides!
... “It’s horrible, Arthur! It’s cruel, Arthur! It’s a shame to judge a woman, or Christian people so! Oh! my loves! my blessings60! would I sell you?” says this young mother, clutching a little belaced, befurbelowed being to her heart, infantine, squalling, with blue shoulder-ribbons, a mottled little arm that has just been vaccinated61, and the sweetest red shoes. “Would I sell you?” says mamma. Little Arty, I say, squalls; and little Nelly looks up from her bricks with a wondering, whimpering expression.
Well, I am ashamed to say what the “besides” is; but the fact is, that young Woolcomb of the Life Guards Green, who has inherited immense West India property, and, we will say, just a teaspoonful62 of that dark blood which makes a man naturally partial to blonde beauties, has cast his opal eyes very warmly upon the golden-haired Agnes of late; has danced with her not a little; and when Mrs. Twysden’s barouche appears by the Serpentine63, you may not unfrequently see a pair of the neatest little yellow kid gloves just playing with the reins64, a pair of the prettiest little boots just touching65 the stirrup, a magnificent horse dancing, and tittupping, and tossing, and performing the most graceful66 caracoles and gambadoes, and on the magnificent horse a neat little man with a blazing red flower in his bosom67, and glancing opal eyes, and a dark complexion68, and hair so very black and curly, that I really almost think in some of the Southern States of America he would be likely to meet with rudeness in a railway car.
But in England we know better. In England Grenville Woolcomb is a man and a brother. Half of Arrowroot Island, they say, belongs to him; besides Mangrove69 Hall, in Hertfordshire; ever so much property in other counties, and that fine house in Berkeley Square. He is called the Black Prince behind the scenes of many theatres: ladies nod at him from those broughams which, you understand, need not be particularized. The idea of his immense riches is confirmed by the known fact that he is a stingy black Prince, and most averse70 to parting with his money except for his own adornment71 or amusement. When he receives at his country house, his entertainments are, however, splendid. He has been flattered, followed, caressed72 all his life, and allowed by a fond mother to have his own way; and as this has never led him to learning, it must be owned that his literary acquirements are small, and his writing defective73. But in the management of his pecuniary74 affairs he is very keen and clever. His horses cost him less than any young man’s in England who is so well mounted. No dealer75 has ever been known to get the better of him; and, though he is certainly close about money, when his wishes have very keenly prompted him, no sum has been known to stand in his way.
Witness the purchase of the — . But never mind scandal. Let bygones be bygones. A young doctor’s son, with a thousand a year for a fortune, may be considered a catch in some circles, but not, vous concevez, in the upper regions of society. And dear woman — dear, angelic, highly accomplished76, respectable woman — does she not know how to pardon many failings in our sex? Age? psha! She will crown my bare old poll with the roses of her youth. Complexion? What contrast is sweeter and more touching than Desdemona’s golden ringlets on swart Othello’s shoulder. A past life of selfishness and bad company? Come out from among the swine, my prodigal77, and I will purify thee!
This is what is called cynicism, you know. Then I suppose my wife is a cynic, who clutches her children to her pure heart, and prays gracious heaven to guard them from selfishness, from worldliness, from heartlessness, from wicked greed.
收听单词发音 |
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humble
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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brags
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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exasperates
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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persecutes
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的第三人称单数 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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peccadilloes
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| n.轻罪，小过失( peccadillo的名词复数 ) | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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barters
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| n.物物交换，易货( barter的名词复数 )v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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pokers
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| n.拨火铁棒( poker的名词复数 )；纸牌；扑克；（通常指人）（坐或站得）直挺挺的 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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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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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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vaccinated
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| [医]已接种的，种痘的，接种过疫菌的 | |
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teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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mangrove
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| n.(植物)红树，红树林 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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71
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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72
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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74
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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75
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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76
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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77
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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