It is precisely29 the proudest and most obstinate30 men who are the most liable to shift their position and contradict themselves in this sudden manner; everything is easier to them than to face the simple fact that they have been thoroughly31 defeated, and must begin life anew. And Mr. Tulliver, you perceive, though nothing more than a superior miller and maltster, was as proud and obstinate as if he had been a very lofty personage, in whom such dispositions32 might be a source of that conspicuous33, far-echoing tragedy, which sweeps the stage in regal robes, and makes the dullest chronicler sublime34. The pride and obstinacy of millers35 and other insignificant36 people, whom you pass unnoticingly on the road every day, have their tragedy too; but it is of that unwept, hidden sort that goes on from generation to generation, and leaves no record — such tragedy, perhaps, as lies in the conflicts of young souls, hungry for joy, under a lot made suddenly hard to them, under the dreariness37 of a home where the morning brings no promise with it, and where the unexpectant discontent of worn and disappointed parents weighs on the children like a damp, thick air, in which all the functions of life are depressed38; or such tragedy as lies in the slow or sudden death that follows on a bruised39 passion, though it may be a death that finds only a parish funeral. There are certain animals to which tenacity40 of position is a law of life — they can never flourish again, after a single wrench41: and there are certain human beings to whom predominance is a law of life — they can only sustain humiliation42 so long as they can refuse to believe in it, and, in their own conception, predominate still.
Mr. Tulliver was still predominating, in his own imagination, as he approached St. Ogg’s, through which he had to pass on his way homeward. But what was it that suggested to him, as he saw the Laceham coach entering the town, to follow it to the coach-office, and get the clerk there to write a letter, requiring Maggie to come home the very next day? Mr. Tulliver’s own hand shook too much under his excitement for him to write himself, and he wanted the letter to be given to the coachman to deliver at Miss Firniss’s school in the morning. There was a craving43 which he would not account for to himself, to have Maggie near him, without delay — she must come back by the coach to-morrow.
To Mrs. Tulliver, when he got home, he would admit no difficulties, and scolded down her burst of grief on hearing that the lawsuit was lost, by angry assertions that there was nothing to grieve about. He said nothing to her that night about the bill of sale and the application to Mrs. Pullet, for he had kept her in ignorance of the nature of that transaction, and had explained the necessity for taking an inventory44 of the goods as a matter connected with his will. The possession of a wife conspicuously45 one’s inferior in intellect is, like other high privileges, attended with a few inconveniences, and, among the rest, with the occasional necessity for using a little deception46.
The next day Mr. Tulliver was again on horseback in the afternoon, on his way to Mr. Gore’s office at St. Ogg’s. Gore was to have seen Furley in the morning, and to have sounded him in relation to Mr. Tulliver’s affairs. But he had not gone half-way when he met a clerk from Mr. Gore’s office, who was bringing a letter to Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Gore had been prevented by a sudden call of business from waiting at his office to see Mr. Tulliver, according to appointment, but would be at his office at eleven to-morrow morning, and meanwhile had sent some important information by letter.
“Oh!” said Mr. Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening it. “Then tell Gore I’ll see him to-morrow at eleven”; and he turned his horse.
The clerk, struck with Mr. Tulliver’s glistening47, excited glance, looked after him for a few moments, and then rode away. The reading of a letter was not the affair of an instant to Mr. Tulliver; he took in the sense of a statement very slowly through the medium of written or even printed characters; so he had put the letter in his pocket, thinking he would open it in his armchair at home. But by-and-by it occurred to him that there might be something in the letter Mrs. Tulliver must not know about, and if so, it would be better to keep it out of her sight altogether. He stopped his horse, took out the letter, and read it. It was only a short letter; the substance was, that Mr. Gore had ascertained48, on secret, but sure authority, that Furley had been lately much straitened for money, and had parted with his securities — among the rest, the mortgage on Mr. Tulliver’s property, which he had transferred to —— Wakem.
In half an hour after this Mr. Tulliver’s own wagoner found him lying by the roadside insensible, with an open letter near him, and his gray horse snuffing uneasily about him.
When Maggie reached home that evening, in obedience49 to her father’s call, he was no longer insensible. About an hour before he had become conscious, and after vague, vacant looks around him, had muttered something about “a letter,” which he presently repeated impatiently. At the instance of Mr. Turnbull, the medical man, Gore’s letter was brought and laid on the bed, and the previous impatience50 seemed to be allayed51. The stricken man lay for some time with his eyes fixed52 on the letter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts by its help. But presently a new wave of memory seemed to have come and swept the other away; he turned his eyes from the letter to the door, and after looking uneasily, as if striving to see something his eyes were too dim for, he said, “The little wench.”
He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, appearing entirely53 unconscious of everything except this one importunate54 want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife or any one else; and poor Mrs. Tulliver, her feeble faculties55 almost paralyzed by this sudden accumulation of troubles, went backward and forward to the gate to see if the Laceham coach were coming, though it was not yet time.
But it came at last, and set down the poor anxious girl, no longer the “little wench,” except to her father’s fond memory.
“Oh, mother, what is the matter?” Maggie said, with pale lips, as her mother came toward her crying. She didn’t think her father was ill, because the letter had come at his dictation from the office at St. Ogg’s.
But Mr. Turnbull came now to meet her; a medical man is the good angel of the troubled house, and Maggie ran toward the kind old friend, whom she remembered as long as she could remember anything, with a trembling, questioning look.
“Don’t alarm yourself too much, my dear,” he said, taking her hand. “Your father has had a sudden attack, and has not quite recovered his memory. But he has been asking for you, and it will do him good to see you. Keep as quiet as you can; take off your things, and come upstairs with me.”
Maggie obeyed, with that terrible beating of the heart which makes existence seem simply a painful pulsation56. The very quietness with which Mr. Turnbull spoke57 had frightened her susceptible58 imagination. Her father’s eyes were still turned uneasily toward the door when she entered and met the strange, yearning59, helpless look that had been seeking her in vain. With a sudden flash and movement, he raised himself in the bed; she rushed toward him, and clasped him with agonized60 kisses.
Poor child! it was very early for her to know one of those supreme61 moments in life when all we have hoped or delighted in, all we can dread62 or endure, falls away from our regard as insignificant; is lost, like a trivial memory, in that simple, primitive63 love which knits us to the beings who have been nearest to us, in their times of helplessness or of anguish64.
But that flash of recognition had been too great a strain on the father’s bruised, enfeebled powers. He sank back again in renewed insensibility and rigidity65, which lasted for many hours, and was only broken by a flickering66 return of consciousness, in which he took passively everything that was given to him, and seemed to have a sort of infantine satisfaction in Maggie’s near presence — such satisfaction as a baby has when it is returned to the nurse’s lap.
Mrs. Tulliver sent for her sisters, and there was much wailing67 and lifting up of hands below stairs. Both uncles and aunts saw that the ruin of Bessy and her family was as complete as they had ever foreboded it, and there was a general family sense that a judgment68 had fallen on Mr. Tulliver, which it would be an impiety69 to counteract70 by too much kindness. But Maggie heard little of this, scarcely ever leaving her father’s bedside, where she sat opposite him with her hand on his. Mrs. Tulliver wanted to have Tom fetched home, and seemed to be thinking more of her boy even than of her husband; but the aunts and uncles opposed this. Tom was better at school, since Mr. Turnbull said there was no immediate danger, he believed. But at the end of the second day, when Maggie had become more accustomed to her father’s fits of insensibility, and to the expectation that he would revive from them, the thought of Tom had become urgent with her too; and when her mother sate71 crying at night and saying, “My poor lad — it’s nothing but right he should come home,” Maggie said, “Let me go for him, and tell him, mother; I’ll go to-morrow morning if father doesn’t know me and want me. It would be so hard for Tom to come home and not know anything about it beforehand.”
And the next morning Maggie went, as we have seen. Sitting on the coach on their way home, the brother and sister talked to each other in sad, interrupted whispers.
“They say Mr. Wakem has got a mortgage or something on the land, Tom,” said Maggie. “It was the letter with that news in it that made father ill, they think.”
“I believe that scoundrel’s been planning all along to ruin my father,” said Tom, leaping from the vaguest impressions to a definite conclusion. “I’ll make him feel for it when I’m a man. Mind you never speak to Philip again.”
“Oh, Tom!” said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance72; but she had no spirit to dispute anything then, still less to vex23 Tom by opposing him.
点击收听单词发音
1 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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2 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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3 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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4 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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5 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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6 expedients | |
n.应急有效的,权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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7 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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8 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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9 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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10 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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11 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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12 gore | |
n.凝血,血污;v.(动物)用角撞伤,用牙刺破;缝以补裆;顶 | |
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13 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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14 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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15 alacrity | |
n.敏捷,轻快,乐意 | |
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16 lawsuit | |
n.诉讼,控诉 | |
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17 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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18 miller | |
n.磨坊主 | |
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19 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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20 banking | |
n.银行业,银行学,金融业 | |
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21 sneaks | |
abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋(网球鞋)v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 );偷偷溜走;(儿童向成人)打小报告;告状 | |
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22 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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23 vex | |
vt.使烦恼,使苦恼 | |
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24 creditor | |
n.债仅人,债主,贷方 | |
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25 eminently | |
adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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26 inconvenient | |
adj.不方便的,令人感到麻烦的 | |
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27 acceded | |
v.(正式)加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 );答应;(通过财产的添附而)增加;开始任职 | |
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28 stoutly | |
adv.牢固地,粗壮的 | |
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29 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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30 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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31 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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32 dispositions | |
安排( disposition的名词复数 ); 倾向; (财产、金钱的)处置; 气质 | |
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33 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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34 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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35 millers | |
n.(尤指面粉厂的)厂主( miller的名词复数 );磨房主;碾磨工;铣工 | |
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36 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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37 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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38 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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39 bruised | |
[医]青肿的,瘀紫的 | |
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40 tenacity | |
n.坚韧 | |
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41 wrench | |
v.猛拧;挣脱;使扭伤;n.扳手;痛苦,难受 | |
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42 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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43 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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44 inventory | |
n.详细目录,存货清单 | |
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45 conspicuously | |
ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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46 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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47 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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48 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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50 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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51 allayed | |
v.减轻,缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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53 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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54 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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55 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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56 pulsation | |
n.脉搏,悸动,脉动;搏动性 | |
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57 spoke | |
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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58 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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59 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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60 agonized | |
v.使(极度)痛苦,折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 );苦斗;苦苦思索;感到极度痛苦 | |
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61 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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62 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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63 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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64 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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65 rigidity | |
adj.钢性,坚硬 | |
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66 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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67 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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68 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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69 impiety | |
n.不敬;不孝 | |
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70 counteract | |
vt.对…起反作用,对抗,抵消 | |
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71 sate | |
v.使充分满足 | |
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72 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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