狄更斯的小说特点 狄更斯双语小说:《董贝父子》第33章Part 1

狄更斯双语小说:《董贝父子》第33章Part 1  

Turn we our eyes upon o homes; not lying side by side
but wide apart
though both within easy range and reach of the great city of London.
The first is situated in the green and wooded country near Norwood. It is not a mansion; it is of no pretensions as to size; but it is beautifully arranged
and tastefully kept. The lawn
the soft
smooth slope
the flower-garden
the clumps of trees where graceful forms of ash and willow are not wanting
the conservatory
the rustic verandah with sweet-smelling creeping plants enined about the pillars
the simple exterior of the house
the well-ordered offices
though all upon the diminutive scale proper to a mere cottage
bespeak an amount of elegant fort within
that might serve for a palace. This indication is not without warrant; for
within
it is a house of refinement and luxury. Rich colours
excellently blended
meet the eye at every turn; in the furniture - its proportions admirably devised to suit the shapes and sizes of the small rooms; on the walls; upon the floors; tingeing and subduing the light that es in through the odd glass doors and windows here and there. There are a few choice prints and pictures too; in quaint nooks and recesses there is no want of books; and there are games of skill and chance set forth on tables - fantastic chessmen
dice
backgammon
cards
and billiards.
And yet amidst this opulence of fort
there is something in the general air that is not well. Is it that the carpets and the cushions are too soft and noiseless
so that those who move or repose among them seem to act by stealth? Is it that the prints and pictures do not memorate great thoughts or deeds
or render nature in the Poetry of landscape
hall
or hut
but are of one voluptuous cast - mere shows of form and colour - and no more? Is it that the books have all their gold outside
and that the titles of the greater part qualify them to be panions of the prints and pictures? Is it that the pleteness and the beauty of the place are here and there belied by an affectation of humility
in some unimportant and inexpensive regard
which is as false as the face of the too truly painted portrait hanging yonder
or its original at breakfast in his easy chair below it? Or is it that
with the daily breath of that original and master of all here
there issues forth some subtle portion of himself
which gives a vague expression of himself to everything about him?
It is Mr Carker the Manager who sits in the easy chair. A gaudy parrot in a burnished cage upon the table tears at the wires with her beak
and goes walking
upside down
in its dome-top
shaking her house and screeching; but Mr Carker is indifferent to the bird
and looks with a musing smile at a picture on the opposite wall.
'A most extraordinary accidental likeness
certainly
' says he.
Perhaps it is a Juno; perhaps a Potiphar's Wife'; perhaps some scornful Nymph - according as the Picture Dealers found the market
when they christened it. It is the figure of a woman
supremely handsome
who
turning away
but with her face addressed to the spectator
flashes her proud glance upon him.
It is like Edith.