There is a gentleman, for instance, who, metaphorically8 speaking, jumps upon me with both feet. This image has no grace, but it is exceedingly apt to the occasion — to the several occasions. I don’t know precisely9 how long he has been indulging in that intermittent10 exercise, whose seasons are ruled by the custom of the publishing trade. Somebody pointed11 him out (in printed shape, of course) to my attention some time ago, and straightway I experienced a sort of reluctant affection for that robust12 man. He leaves not a shred13 of my substance untrodden: for the writer’s substance is his writing; the rest of him is but a vain shadow, cherished or hated on uncritical grounds. Not a shred! Yet the sentiment owned to is not a freak of affectation or perversity14. It has a deeper, and, I venture to think, a more estimable origin than the caprice of emotional lawlessness. It is, indeed, lawful15, in so much that it is given (reluctantly) for a consideration, for several considerations. There is that robustness16, for instance, so often the sign of good moral balance. That’s a consideration. It is not, indeed, pleasant to be stamped upon, but the very thoroughness of the operation, implying not only a careful reading, but some real insight into work whose qualities and defects, whatever they may be, are not so much on the surface, is something to be thankful for in view of the fact that it may happen to one’s work to be condemned17 without being read at all. This is the most fatuous18 adventure that can well happen to a writer venturing his soul among criticisms. It can do one no harm, of course, but it is disagreeable. It is disagreeable in the same way as discovering a three-card-trick man among a decent lot of folk in a third-class compartment19. The open impudence20 of the whole transaction, appealing insidiously21 to the folly22 and credulity of man kind, the brazen23, shameless patter, proclaiming the fraud openly while insisting on the fairness of the game, give one a feeling of sickening disgust. The honest violence of a plain man playing a fair game fairly — even if he means to knock you over — may appear shocking, but it remains24 within the pale of decency25. Damaging as it may be, it is in no sense offensive. One may well feel some regard for honesty, even if practised upon one’s own vile26 body. But it is very obvious that an enemy of that sort will not be stayed by explanations or placated27 by apologies. Were I to advance the plea of youth in excuse of the naiveness to be found in these pages, he would be likely to say “Bosh!” in a column and a half of fierce print. Yet a writer is no older than his first published book, and, not withstanding the vain appearances of decay which attend us in this transitory life, I stand here with the wreath of only fifteen short summers on my brow.
With the remark, then, that at such tender age some naiveness of feeling and expression is excusable, I proceed to admit that, upon the whole, my previous state of existence was not a good equipment for a literary life. Perhaps I should not have used the word literary. That word presupposes an intimacy29 of acquaintance with letters, a turn of mind, and a manner of feeling to which I dare lay no claim. I only love letters; but the love of letters does not make a literary man, any more than the love of the sea makes a seaman31. And it is very possible, too, that I love the letters in the same way a literary man may love the sea he looks at from the shore — a scene of great endeavour and of great achievements changing the face of the world, the great open way to all sorts of undiscovered countries. No, perhaps I had better say that the life at sea — and I don’t mean a mere32 taste of it, but a good broad span of years, something that really counts as real service — is not, upon the whole, a good equipment for a writing life. God forbid, though, that I should be thought of as denying my masters of the quarter-deck. I am not capable of that sort of apostasy33. I have confessed my attitude of piety34 toward their shades in three or four tales, and if any man on earth more than another needs to be true to himself as he hopes to be saved, it is certainly the writer of fiction.
What I meant to say, simply, is that the quarter-deck training does not prepare one sufficiently35 for the reception of literary criticism. Only that, and no more. But this defect is not without gravity. If it be permissible36 to twist, invert37, adapt (and spoil) Mr. Anatole France’s definition of a good critic, then let us say that the good author is he who contemplates38 without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul among criticisms. Far be from me the intention to mislead an attentive39 public into the belief that there is no criticism at sea. That would be dishonest, and even impolite. Ever thing can be found at sea, according to the spirit of your quest — strife40, peace, romance, naturalism of the most pronounced kind, ideals, boredom41, disgust, inspiration — and every conceivable opportunity, including the opportunity to make a fool of yourself, exactly as in the pursuit of literature. But the quarter-deck criticism is somewhat different from literary criticism. This much they have in common, that before the one and the other the answering back, as a general rule, does not pay.
Yes, you find criticism at sea, and even appreciation42 — I tell you everything is to be found on salt water — criticism generally impromptu43, and always viva voce, which is the outward, obvious difference from the literary operation of that kind, with consequent freshness and vigour44 which may be lacking in the printed word. With appreciation, which comes at the end, when the critic and the criticised are about to part, it is otherwise. The sea appreciation of one’s humble45 talents has the permanency of the written word, seldom the charm of variety, is formal in its phrasing. There the literary master has the superiority, though he, too, can in effect but say — and often says it in the very phrase —“I can highly recommend.” Only usually he uses the word “We,” there being some occult virtue46 in the first person plural47 which makes it specially48 fit for critical and royal declarations. I have a small handful of these sea appreciations49, signed by various masters, yellowing slowly in my writing-table’s left hand drawer, rustling50 under my reverent51 touch, like a handful of dry leaves plucked for a tender memento52 from the tree of knowledge. Strange! It seems that it is for these few bits of paper, headed by the names of a few Scots and English shipmasters, that I have faced the astonished indignations, the mockeries, and the reproaches of a sort hard to bear for a boy of fifteen; that I have been charged with the want of patriotism53, the want of sense, and the want of heart, too; that I went through agonies of self-conflict and shed secret tears not a few, and had the beauties of the Furca Pass spoiled for me, and have been called an “incorrigible Don Quixote,” in allusion54 to the book-born madness of the knight55. For that spoil! They rustle56, those bits of paper — some dozen of them in all. In that faint, ghostly sound there live the memories of twenty years, the voices of rough men now no more, the strong voice of the everlasting57 winds, and the whisper of a mysterious spell, the murmur58 of the great sea, which must have somehow reached my inland cradle and entered my unconscious ear, like that formula of Mohammedan faith the Mussulman father whispers into the ear of his new-born infant, making him one of the faithful almost with his first breath. I do not know whether I have been a good seaman, but I know I have been a very faithful one. And, after all, there is that handful of “characters” from various ships to prove that all these years have not been altogether a dream. There they are, brief, and monotonous59 in tone, but as suggestive bits of writing to me as any inspired page to be found in literature. But then, you see, I have been called romantic. Well, that can’t be helped. But stay. I seem to remember that I have been called a realist, also. And as that charge, too, can be made out, let us try to live up to it, at whatever cost, for a change. With this end in view, I will confide60 to you coyly, and only because there is no one about to see my blushes by the light of the midnight lamp, that these suggestive bits of quarter-deck appreciation, one and all, contain the words “strictly sober.”
Did I overhear a civil murmur, “That’s very gratifying, to be sure?” Well, yes, it is gratifying — thank you. It is at least as gratifying to be certified61 sober as to be certified romantic, though such certificates would not qualify one for the secretaryship of a temperance association or for the post of official troubadour to some lordly democratic institution such as the London County Council, for instance. The above prosaic62 reflection is put down here only in order to prove the general sobriety of my judgment63 in mundane64 affairs. I make a point of it because a couple of years ago, a certain short story of mine being published in a French translation, a Parisian critic — I am almost certain it was M. Gustave Kahn in the “Gil Blas”— giving me a short notice, summed up his rapid impression of the writer’s quality in the words un puissant65 reveur. So be it! Who could cavil66 at the words of a friendly reader? Yet perhaps not such an unconditional67 dreamer as all that. I will make bold to say that neither at sea nor ashore68 have I ever lost the sense of responsibility. There is more than one sort of intoxication69. Even before the most seductive reveries I have remained mindful of that sobriety of interior life, that asceticism70 of sentiment, in which alone the naked form of truth, such as one conceives it, such as one feels it, can be rendered without shame. It is but a maudlin71 and indecent verity72 that comes out through the strength of wine. I have tried to be a sober worker all my life — all my two lives. I did so from taste, no doubt, having an instinctive73 horror of losing my sense of full self-possession, but also from artistic74 conviction. Yet there are so many pitfalls75 on each side of the true path that, having gone some way, and feeling a little battered76 and weary, as a middle-aged77 traveller will from the mere daily difficulties of the march, I ask myself whether I have kept always, always faithful to that sobriety where in there is power and truth and peace.
As to my sea sobriety, that is quite properly certified under the sign-manual of several trustworthy shipmasters of some standing28 in their time. I seem to hear your polite murmur that “Surely this might have been taken for granted.” Well, no. It might not have been. That August academical body, the Marine78 Department of the Board of Trade, takes nothing for granted in the granting of its learned degrees. By its regulations issued under the first Merchant Shipping79 Act, the very word SOBER must be written, or a whole sackful, a ton, a mountain of the most enthusiastic appreciation will avail you nothing. The door of the examination rooms shall remain closed to your tears and entreaties80. The most fanatical advocate of temperance could not be more pitilessly fierce in his rectitude than the Marine Department of the Board of Trade. As I have been face to face at various times with all the examiners of the Port of London in my generation, there can be no doubt as to the force and the continuity of my abstemiousness81. Three of them were examiners in seamanship, and it was my fate to be delivered into the hands of each of them at proper intervals82 of sea service. The first of all, tall, spare, with a perfectly83 white head and mustache, a quiet, kindly84 manner, and an air of benign85 intelligence, must, I am forced to conclude, have been unfavourably impressed by something in my appearance. His old, thin hands loosely clasped resting on his crossed legs, he began by an elementary question, in a mild voice, and went on, went on. . . . It lasted for hours, for hours. Had I been a strange microbe with potentialities of deadly mischief86 to the Merchant Service I could not have been submitted to a more microscopic87 examination. Greatly reassured88 by his apparent benevolence89, I had been at first very alert in my answers. But at length the feeling of my brain getting addled90 crept upon me. And still the passionless process went on, with a sense of untold91 ages having been spent already on mere preliminaries. Then I got frightened. I was not frightened of being plucked; that eventuality did not even present itself to my mind. It was something much more serious and weird92. “This ancient person,” I said to myself, terrified, “is so near his grave that he must have lost all notion of time. He is considering this examination in terms of eternity93. It is all very well for him. His race is run. But I may find myself coming out of this room into the world of men a stranger, friendless, forgotten by my very landlady94, even were I able after this endless experience to remember the way to my hired home.” This statement is not so much of a verbal exaggeration as may be supposed. Some very queer thoughts passed through my head while I was considering my answers; thoughts which had nothing to do with seamanship, nor yet with anything reasonable known to this earth. I verily believe that at times I was light-headed in a sort of languid way. At last there fell a silence, and that, too, seemed to last for ages, while, bending over his desk, the examiner wrote out my pass-slip slowly with a noiseless pen. He extended the scrap95 of paper to me without a word, inclined his white head gravely to my parting bow . . . .
When I got out of the room I felt limply flat, like a squeezed lemon, and the doorkeeper in his glass cage, where I stopped to get my hat and tip him a shilling, said:
“Well! I thought you were never coming out.”
“How long have I been in there?” I asked, faintly.
He pulled out his watch.
“He kept you, sir, just under three hours. I don’t think this ever happened with any of the gentlemen before.”
It was only when I got out of the building that I began to walk on air. And the human animal being averse96 from change and timid before the unknown, I said to myself that I really would not mind being examined by the same man on a future occasion. But when the time of ordeal97 came round again the doorkeeper let me into another room, with the now familiar paraphernalia98 of models of ships and tackle, a board for signals on the wall, a big, long table covered with official forms and having an unrigged mast fixed99 to the edge. The solitary100 tenant101 was unknown to me by sight, though not by reputation, which was simply execrable. Short and sturdy, as far as I could judge, clad in an old brown morning-suit, he sat leaning on his elbow, his hand shading his eyes, and half averted102 from the chair I was to occupy on the other side of the table. He was motionless, mysterious, remote, enigmatical, with something mournful, too, in the pose, like that statue of Giugliano (I think) de Medici shading his face on the tomb by Michael Angelo, though, of course, he was far, far from being beautiful. He began by trying to make me talk nonsense. But I had been warned of that fiendish trait, and contradicted him with great assurance. After a while he left off. So far good. But his immobility, the thick elbow on the table, the abrupt103, unhappy voice, the shaded and averted face grew more and more impressive. He kept inscrutably silent for a moment, and then, placing me in a ship of a certain size, at sea, under conditions of weather, season, locality, etc. — all very clear and precise — ordered me to execute a certain manoeuvre104. Before I was half through with it he did some material damage to the ship. Directly I had grappled with the difficulty he caused another to present itself, and when that, too, was met he stuck another ship before me, creating a very dangerous situation. I felt slightly outraged105 by this ingenuity106 in piling trouble upon a man.
“I wouldn’t have got into that mess,” I suggested, mildly. “I could have seen that ship before.”
He never stirred the least bit.
“No, you couldn’t. The weather’s thick.”
“Oh! I didn’t know,” I apologized blankly.
I suppose that after all I managed to stave off the smash with sufficient approach to verisimilitude, and the ghastly business went on. You must understand that the scheme of the test he was applying to me was, I gathered, a homeward passage — the sort of passage I would not wish to my bitterest enemy. That imaginary ship seemed to labour under a most comprehensive curse. It’s no use enlarging on these never-ending misfortunes; suffice it to say that long before the end I would have welcomed with gratitude107 an opportunity to exchange into the Flying Dutchman. Finally he shoved me into the North Sea (I suppose) and provided me with a lee shore with outlying sand-banks — the Dutch coast, presumably. Distance, eight miles. The evidence of such implacable animosity deprived me of speech for quite half a minute.
“Well,” he said — for our pace had been very smart, indeed, till then.
“I will have to think a little, sir.”
“Doesn’t look as if there were much time to think,” he muttered, sardonically108, from under his hand.
“No, sir,” I said, with some warmth. “Not on board a ship, I could see. But so many accidents have happened that I really can’t remember what there’s left for me to work with.”
Still half averted, and with his eyes concealed109, he made unexpectedly a grunting110 remark.
“You’ve done very well.”
“Have I the two anchors at the bow, sir?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I prepared myself then, as a last hope for the ship, to let them both go in the most effectual manner, when his infernal system of testing resourcefulness came into play again.
“But there’s only one cable. You’ve lost the other.”
It was exasperating111.
“Then I would back them, if I could, and tail the heaviest hawser112 on board on the end of the chain before letting go, and if she parted from that, which is quite likely, I would just do nothing.
She would have to go.”
“Nothing more to do, eh?”
“No, sir. I could do no more.”
He gave a bitter half-laugh.
“You could always say your prayers.”
He got up, stretched himself, and yawned slightly. It was a sallow, strong, unamiable face. He put me, in a surly, bored fashion, through the usual questions as to lights and signals, and I escaped from the room thank fully114 — passed! Forty minutes! And again I walked on air along Tower Hill, where so many good men had lost their heads because, I suppose, they were not resourceful enough to save them. And in my heart of hearts I had no objection to meeting that examiner once more when the third and last ordeal became due in another year or so. I even hoped I should. I knew the worst of him now, and forty minutes is not an unreasonable115 time. Yes, I distinctly hoped . . . .
But not a bit of it. When I presented my self to be examined for master the examiner who received me was short, plump, with a round, soft face in gray, fluffy116 whiskers, and fresh, loquacious117 lips.
He commenced operations with an easy going “Let’s see. H’m. Suppose you tell me all you know of charter-parties.” He kept it up in that style all through, wandering off in the shape of comment into bits out of his own life, then pulling himself up short and returning to the business in hand. It was very interesting. “What’s your idea of a jury-rudder now?” he queried118, suddenly, at the end of an instructive anecdote119 bearing upon a point of stowage.
I warned him that I had no experience of a lost rudder at sea, and gave him two classical examples of makeshifts out of a text-book. In exchange he described to me a jury-rudder he had invented himself years before, when in command of a three-thousand-ton steamer. It was, I declare, the cleverest contrivance imaginable. “May be of use to you some day,” he concluded. “You will go into steam presently. Everybody goes into steam.”
There he was wrong. I never went into steam — not really. If I only live long enough I shall become a bizarre relic120 of a dead barbarism, a sort of monstrous121 antiquity122, the only seaman of the dark ages who had never gone into steam — not really.
Before the examination was over he imparted to me a few interesting details of the transport service in the time of the Crimean War.
“The use of wire rigging became general about that time, too,” he observed. “I was a very young master then. That was before you were born.”
“Yes, sir. I am of the year of 1857.”
“The Mutiny year,” he commented, as if to himself, adding in a louder tone that his ship happened then to be in the Gulf123 of Bengal, employed under a government charter.
Clearly the transport service had been the making of this examiner, who so unexpectedly had given me an insight into his existence, awakening124 in me the sense of the continuity of that sea life into which I had stepped from outside; giving a touch of human intimacy to the machinery125 of official relations. I felt adopted. His experience was for me, too, as though he had been an ancestor.
Writing my long name (it has twelve letters) with laborious126 care on the slip of blue paper, he remarked:
“You are of Polish extraction.”
“Born there, sir.”
He laid down the pen and leaned back to look at me as it were for the first time.
“Not many of your nationality in our service, I should think. I never remember meeting one either before or after I left the sea. Don’t remember ever hearing of one. An inland people, aren’t you?”
I said yes — very much so. We were remote from the sea not only by situation, but also from a complete absence of indirect association, not being a commercial nation at all, but purely127 agricultural. He made then the quaint30 reflection that it was “a long way for me to come out to begin a sea life”; as if sea life were not precisely a life in which one goes a long way from home.
I told him, smiling, that no doubt I could have found a ship much nearer my native place, but I had thought to myself that if I was to be a seaman, then I would be a British seaman and no other. It was a matter of deliberate choice.
He nodded slightly at that; and, as he kept on looking at me interrogatively, I enlarged a little, confessing that I had spent a little time on the way in the Mediterranean128 and in the West Indies. I did not want to present myself to the British Merchant Service in an altogether green state. It was no use telling him that my mysterious vocation129 was so strong that my very wild oats had to be sown at sea. It was the exact truth, but he would not have understood the somewhat exceptional psychology130 of my sea-going, I fear.
“I suppose you’ve never come across one of your countrymen at sea. Have you, now?”
I admitted I never had. The examiner had given himself up to the spirit of gossiping idleness. For myself, I was in no haste to leave that room. Not in the least. The era of examinations was over. I would never again see that friendly man who was a professional ancestor, a sort of grandfather in the craft. Moreover, I had to wait till he dismissed me, and of that there was no sign. As he remained silent, looking at me, I added:
“But I have heard of one, some years ago. He seems to have been a boy serving his time on board a Liverpool ship, if I am not mistaken.”
“What was his name?”
I told him.
“How did you say that?” he asked, puckering131 up his eyes at the uncouth132 sound.
I repeated the name very distinctly.
“How do you spell it?”
I told him. He moved his head at the impracticable nature of that name, and observed:
“It’s quite as long as your own — isn’t it?”
There was no hurry. I had passed for master, and I had all the rest of my life before me to make the best of it. That seemed a long time. I went leisurely133 through a small mental calculation, and said:
“Not quite. Shorter by two letters, sir.”
“Is it?” The examiner pushed the signed blue slip across the table to me, and rose from his chair. Somehow this seemed a very abrupt ending of our relations, and I felt almost sorry to part from that excellent man, who was master of a ship before the whisper of the sea had reached my cradle. He offered me his hand and wished me well. He even made a few steps toward the door with me, and ended with good-natured advice.
“I don’t know what may be your plans, but you ought to go into steam. When a man has got his master’s certificate it’s the proper time. If I were you I would go into steam.”
I thanked him, and shut the door behind me definitely on the era of examinations. But that time I did not walk on air, as on the first two occasions. I walked across the hill of many beheadings with measured steps. It was a fact, I said to myself, that I was now a British master mariner134 beyond a doubt. It was not that I had an exaggerated sense of that very modest achievement, with which, however, luck, opportunity, or any extraneous135 influence could have had nothing to do. That fact, satisfactory and obscure in itself, had for me a certain ideal significance. It was an answer to certain outspoken136 scepticism and even to some not very kind aspersions. I had vindicated137 myself from what had been cried upon as a stupid obstinacy138 or a fantastic caprice. I don’t mean to say that a whole country had been convulsed by my desire to go to sea. But for a boy between fifteen and sixteen, sensitive enough, in all conscience, the commotion139 of his little world had seemed a very considerable thing indeed. So considerable that, absurdly enough, the echoes of it linger to this day. I catch myself in hours of solitude140 and retrospect meeting arguments and charges made thirty-five years ago by voices now forever still; finding things to say that an assailed141 boy could not have found, simply because of the mysteriousness of his impulses to himself. I understood no more than the people who called upon me to explain myself. There was no precedent142. I verily believe mine was the only case of a boy of my nationality and antecedents taking a, so to speak, standing jump out of his racial surroundings and associations. For you must understand that there was no idea of any sort of “career” in my call. Of Russia or Germany there could be no question. The nationality, the antecedents, made it impossible. The feeling against the Austrian service was not so strong, and I dare say there would have been no difficulty in finding my way into the Naval143 School at Pola. It would have meant six months’ extra grinding at German, perhaps; but I was not past the age of admission, and in other respects I was well qualified144. This expedient145 to palliate my folly was thought of — but not by me. I must admit that in that respect my negative was accepted at once. That order of feeling was comprehensible enough to the most inimical of my critics. I was not called upon to offer explanations; but the truth is that what I had in view was not a naval career, but the sea. There seemed no way open to it but through France. I had the language, at any rate, and of all the countries in Europe it is with France that Poland has most connection. There were some facilities for having me a little looked after, at first. Letters were being written, answers were being received, arrangements were being made for my departure for Marseilles, where an excellent fellow called Solary, got at in a round about fashion through various French channels, had promised good-naturedly to put le jeune homme in the way of getting a decent ship for his first start if he really wanted a taste of ce metier de chien.
I watched all these preparations gratefully, and kept my own counsel. But what I told the last of my examiners was perfectly true. Already the determined146 resolve that “if a seaman, then an English seaman” was formulated147 in my head, though, of course, in the Polish language. I did not know six words of English, and I was astute148 enough to understand that it was much better to say nothing of my purpose. As it was I was already looked upon as partly insane, at least by the more distant acquaintances. The principal thing was to get away. I put my trust in the good-natured Solary’s very civil letter to my uncle, though I was shocked a little by the phrase about the metier de chien.
This Solary (Baptistin), when I beheld149 him in the flesh, turned out a quite young man, very good-looking, with a fine black, short beard, a fresh complexion150, and soft, merry black eyes. He was as jovial151 and good natured as any boy could desire. I was still asleep in my room in a modest hotel near the quays152 of the old port, after the fatigues153 of the journey via Vienna, Zurich, Lyons, when he burst in, flinging the shutters154 open to the sun of Provence and chiding155 me boisterously156 for lying abed. How pleasantly he startled me by his noisy objurgations to be up and off instantly for a “three years’ campaign in the South Seas!” O magic words! “Une campagne de trois ans dans les mers du sud”— that is the French for a three years’ deep-water voyage.
He gave me a delightful157 waking, and his friendliness158 was unwearied; but I fear he did not enter upon the quest for a ship for me in a very solemn spirit. He had been at sea himself, but had left off at the age of twenty-five, finding he could earn his living on shore in a much more agreeable manner. He was related to an incredible number of Marseilles well-to-do families of a certain class. One of his uncles was a ship-broker of good standing, with a large connection among English ships; other relatives of his dealt in ships’ stores, owned sail-lofts, sold chains and anchors, were master-stevedores, calkers, shipwrights159.
His grandfather (I think) was a dignitary of a kind, the Syndic of the Pilots. I made acquaintances among these people, but mainly among the pilots. The very first whole day I ever spent on salt water was by invitation, in a big half-decked pilot-boat, cruising under close reefs on the lookout160, in misty161, blowing weather, for the sails of ships and the smoke of steamers rising out there, beyond the slim and tall Planier lighthouse cutting the line of the wind-swept horizon with a white perpendicular162 stroke. They were hospitable163 souls, these sturdy Provencal seamen164. Under the general designation of le petit ami de Baptistin I was made the guest of the corporation of pilots, and had the freedom of their boats night or day. And many a day and a night, too, did I spend cruising with these rough, kindly men, under whose auspices165 my intimacy with the sea began. Many a time “the little friend of Baptistin” had the hooded166 cloak of the Mediterranean sailor thrown over him by their honest hands while dodging167 at night under the lee of Chateau168 daft on the watch for the lights of ships. Their sea tanned faces, whiskered or shaved, lean or full, with the intent, wrinkled sea eyes of the pilot breed, and here and there a thin gold hoop169 at the lobe170 of a hairy ear, bent171 over my sea infancy172. The first operation of seamanship I had an opportunity of observing was the boarding of ships at sea, at all times, in all states of the weather. They gave it to me to the full. And I have been invited to sit in more than one tall, dark house of the old town at their hospitable board, had the bouillabaisse ladled out into a thick plate by their high-voiced, broad-browed wives, talked to their daughters — thick-set girls, with pure profiles, glorious masses of black hair arranged with complicated art, dark eyes, and dazzlingly white teeth.
I had also other acquaintances of quite a different sort. One of them, Madame Delestang, an imperious, handsome lady in a statuesque style, would carry me off now and then on the front seat of her carriage to the Prado, at the hour of fashionable airing. She belonged to one of the old aristocratic families in the south. In her haughty173 weariness she used to make me think of Lady Dedlock in Dickens’s “Bleak House,” a work of the master for which I have such an admiration174, or rather such an intense and unreasoning affection, dating from the days of my childhood, that its very weaknesses are more precious to me than the strength of other men’s work. I have read it innumerable times, both in Polish and in English; I have read it only the other day, and, by a not very surprising inversion175, the Lady Dedlock of the book reminded me strongly of the “belle Madame Delestang.”
Her husband (as I sat facing them both), with his thin, bony nose and a perfectly bloodless, narrow physiognomy clamped together, as it were, by short, formal side whiskers, had nothing of Sir Leicester Dedlock’s “grand air” and courtly solemnity. He belonged to the haute bourgeoisie only, and was a banker, with whom a modest credit had been opened for my needs. He was such an ardent176 — no, such a frozen-up, mummified Royalist that he used in current conversation turns of speech contemporary, I should say, with the good Henri Quatre; and when talking of money matters, reckoned not in francs, like the common, godless herd177 of post-Revolutionary Frenchmen, but in obsolete178 and forgotten ecus — ecus of all money units in the world! — as though Louis Quatorze were still promenading179 in royal splendour the gardens of Versailles, and Monsieur de Colbert busy with the direction of maritime180 affairs. You must admit that in a banker of the nineteenth century it was a quaint idiosyncrasy. Luckily, in the counting-house (it occupied part of the ground floor of the Delestang town residence, in a silent, shady street) the accounts were kept in modern money, so that I never had any difficulty in making my wants known to the grave, low-voiced, decorous, Legitimist (I suppose) clerks, sitting in the perpetual gloom of heavily barred windows behind the sombre, ancient counters, beneath lofty ceilings with heavily molded cornices. I always felt, on going out, as though I had been in the temple of some very dignified181 but completely temporal religion. And it was generally on these occasions that under the great carriage gateway182 Lady Ded — I mean Madame Delestang — catching183 sight of my raised hat, would beckon184 me with an amiable113 imperiousness to the side of the carriage, and suggest with an air of amused nonchalance185, “Venez donc faire un tour avec nous,” to which the husband would add an encouraging “C’est ca. Allons, montez, jeune homme.” He questioned me some times, significantly but with perfect tact186 and delicacy187, as to the way I employed my time, and never failed to express the hope that I wrote regularly to my “honoured uncle.” I made no secret of the way I employed my time, and I rather fancy that my artless tales of the pilots and so on entertained Madame Delestang so far as that ineffable188 woman could be entertained by the prattle189 of a youngster very full of his new experience among strange men and strange sensations. She expressed no opinions, and talked to me very little; yet her portrait hangs in the gallery of my intimate memories, fixed there by a short and fleeting190 episode. One day, after putting me down at the corner of a street, she offered me her hand, and detained me, by a slight pressure, for a moment. While the husband sat motionless and looking straight before him, she leaned forward in the carriage to say, with just a shade of warning in her leisurely tone: “Il faut, cependant, faire attention a ne pas gater sa vie.” I had never seen her face so close to mine before. She made my heart beat and caused me to remain thoughtful for a whole evening. Certainly one must, after all, take care not to spoil one’s life. But she did not know — nobody could know — how impossible that danger seemed to me.
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1
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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naiveness
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| 自然； 朴素 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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14
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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17
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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18
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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19
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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20
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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24
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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27
placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
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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29
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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30
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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34
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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invert
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| vt.使反转，使颠倒，使转化 | |
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38
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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39
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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40
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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41
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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42
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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43
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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44
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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45
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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46
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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47
plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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48
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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49
appreciations
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| n.欣赏( appreciation的名词复数 )；感激；评定；（尤指土地或财产的）增值 | |
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50
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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51
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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52
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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53
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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54
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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55
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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56
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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57
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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58
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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59
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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60
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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61
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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62
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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63
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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64
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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65
puissant
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| adj.强有力的 | |
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66
cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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67
unconditional
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| adj.无条件的，无限制的，绝对的 | |
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68
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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69
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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70
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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71
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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72
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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73
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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74
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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75
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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76
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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77
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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78
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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79
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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80
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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81
abstemiousness
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| n.适中，有节制 | |
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82
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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83
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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84
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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85
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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86
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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87
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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88
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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89
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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90
addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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91
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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92
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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93
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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94
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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95
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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96
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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97
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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98
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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99
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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100
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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101
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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102
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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103
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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104
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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105
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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106
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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107
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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108
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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109
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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110
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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111
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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112
hawser
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| n.大缆；大索 | |
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113
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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114
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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115
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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116
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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117
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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118
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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119
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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120
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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121
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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122
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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123
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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124
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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125
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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126
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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127
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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128
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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129
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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130
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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131
puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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132
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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133
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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134
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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135
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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136
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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137
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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138
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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139
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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140
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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142
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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143
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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145
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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147
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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148
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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149
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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150
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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151
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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152
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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154
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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155
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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156
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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157
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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158
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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159
shipwrights
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| n.造船者，修船者( shipwright的名词复数 ) | |
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160
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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161
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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162
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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164
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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165
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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166
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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167
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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168
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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169
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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170
lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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171
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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172
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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173
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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174
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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175
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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176
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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177
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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178
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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179
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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180
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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181
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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182
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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183
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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184
beckon
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| v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意，召唤 | |
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185
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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186
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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187
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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188
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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189
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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190
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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