Much has been written about that variety of “cab-wit” which occurs to a man on his way home from dinner: the brilliant sallies he might have made, the smart retorts which would so bravely have reversed the balance of laughter had they only come in time. We are less frank about the other sort. No one dwells in type upon the manner in which we marshal our old jokes and arrange our epigrams as we drive along to the house of feasting.
No doubt the practice of getting up table-talk is going out. The three-bottle men took it to the grave with them, along with the snuff-box, and the toupee3, and the feather-bed, and other amenities4 of the Regency. There never was but one diner-out in the London of my knowledge who was at pains to prepare his conversations, each for its special occasion and audience, and he, poor man, broke down under the strain and disappeared from view. The others are too lazy, too indifferent, too cocksure of themselves, to go to all this bother. The old courtly sense of responsibility to the host is perished from among them. But none the less, the least dutiful and diligent5 of all their number does ask himself questions as the whirling rubber tyres bear him onward6, and the cab-mirror shows him the face of a man to whom people ought to listen.
The question I asked myself, as I drove past the flaring7 shop windows of Old Brompton Road the other evening, was whether the Grundys would probably like my story of Nate Salsbury and the Citizen of South Bend, Indiana. A good deal depended upon the decision. It was a story which had greatly solidified8 my position in other hospitable9 quarters; it could be brought in apropos10 of almost anything, or for that matter of quite nothing at all; it had never been printed, so far as I know, in any of those American comic papers which supply alike the dining-rooms of Mayfair and the editorial offices of Fleet Street with such humour as they come into possession of; and I enjoyed telling it. On the other hand, the Grundys were old friends of mine, who would never suspect that they had missed anything if I preserved silence on the subject of South Bend, and who would go on asking me to dinner whether I told new tales or not; moreover, their attitude towards fresh jokes was always a precarious11 quantity, and I had an uneasy feeling that if I told my story to them and it failed to come off, so to speak, I should never have the same confidence in it again.
When I had entered the drawing-room of Fernbank, shaken hands with Mrs Albert Grundy and Ermyntrude, and stolen a little glance about the circle as I walked over to the fireplace, it had become clear that the story was not to be told. Beside the half-dozen of the family, including the curate, there was a tall young man with a very high collar, shoulders that sloped down like a Rhine-wine bottle, and a stern expression of countenance12. Uncle Dudley whispered to me, as we held our hands over the asbestos, that he was a literary party, and the son of old Sir Watkyn Hump, who was a director in one of Albert’s companies. The other guests were a stout13 and motherly lady in a cap and a purplish smile, and a darkling young woman with a black velvet14 riband around her thin neck, and a look of wearied indifference15 upon her face. This effect of utter boredom16 did not visibly diminish upon my being presented to Miss Wallaby.
I have an extremely well-turned little brace17 of sentences with which to convey the intelligence to a young lady that the honour of taking her down to dinner has fallen upon me—sentences which combine professions of admiring pleasure with just a grateful dash of respectful playfulness; they brought no new light into Miss Wallaby’s somewhat scornful pince-nez. Decidedly I would not tell my South Bend story that night!
But all the same I did. What led up to it I hardly know. It was at the ptarmigan stage, I remember—or was it a capercailzie?—and young Mr Hump had commented upon the great joy of living in England, where one could enjoy delicious game all the year round, instead of in a country like America, where the inhabitants notoriously had nothing but fried salt pork to eat for many months at a time. Perhaps it was not worth while, but I ventured the correcting remark that there was no season of the year when one couldn’t have eighteen edible18 varieties of wild birds in America for every one that England has ever heard of. Mr Hump preened19 his chin about on the summit of his collar and smiled with superior incredulity. The others looked grave. Mrs Grundy whispered to me warningly, over her left shoulder, that Mr Hump had made America his special subject, and wrote most vigorous and comminatory articles about it almost every week. I was painfully conscious that Miss Wallaby’s cold right shoulder had been still further withdrawn20 from me.
Well, it was at this grotesquely21 inauspicious moment that I told my story. It is easy enough now to see that it was sheer folly22, madness if you like, to do so. I was only too bitterly conscious of that when I reviewed the events of the evening in my homeward cab. It was apropos of nothing under the wide sky. But at the moment, I suppose, I hoped that it would relieve the situation. In one sense it did.
Baldly summarised, this is the tale. Years ago the admirable Nate Salsbury was on a “one-night-stand” tour with his bright little company of comedians23 through the least urban districts of Indiana, and came upon South Bend, which is an important centre of the wagon-making industry, but is not precisely24 a focussing point of dramatic traditions and culture.
In the vestibule of the small theatre that evening there paced up and down a tall, middle-aged25, weasel-backed citizen, his hands plunged26 deep in his pockets, doubt and irresolution27 written all over his face. As others paid their money and passed in he would watch them with obvious longing28; then he would go and study once more the attractive coloured bill of the Company, with its bevy29 of pretty girls in skirts just short enough to disclose most enticing30 little ankles; then once more he would resume his perplexed31 walk to and fro. At last he made up his mind, and approached Salsbury with diffidence. “Mister,” he said, “air you the boss of this show?” “What can I do for you?” asked Nate. “Well—no offence meant—but—can I—that is to say—will it be all right to bring a lady to your show?” “That, sir, depends!” responded the manager firmly. “Well,” the citizen went on, “what I was gittin’ at is this—can I be perfectly32 safe in bringin’ my wife here?”
“Sir,” said Salsbury with dignity, and an eye trained to abstain33 from twinkling, “it is no portion of my business to inquire whether she is your wife or not, but if she comes in here she’s got to behave herself!”
A solitary34 note of laughter fell upon the air when I had told this story, and on the instant Uncle Dudley, perceiving that he had made a mistake, dropped his napkin, and came up from fishing for it on the floor red-faced and dumb. All else was deadly silence.
“I—I suppose they really weren’t married at all?” said the curate, after a chilling pause.
“Marriage, I regret to say, means next to nothing in most parts of America,” remarked Mr Hump, judicially35. “The most sacred ties are there habitually36 made the subject of ribald jests. I have been assured by a person who spent nearly three weeks in the United States some years since that it is an extremely rare experience to meet an adult American who has not been divorced at least once. This fact made a vivid impression on my mind at the time, and I—ahem!—have written frequently upon it since.”
“I suppose the trouble arises from their all living in hotels—having no home life whatever,” said Mrs Albert, with a kindly37 air of coming to my rescue.
“Who on earth told you that?” I began, but was cut short.
“I confess,” broke in Miss Wallaby, with frosty distinctness of tone and enunciation38, “that the assumption upon which the incident just related is based—the assumption that the la—woman referred to would probably misconduct herself in a place of public resort—seems to me startlingly characteristic of the country of which it is narrated39. It has been truly said that the most valuable test of a country’s actual, as distinct from its assumed, worth, is the respect it pays to its women. Both at Cheltenham and at Newnham the idea is steadily40 inculcated—I might say insisted upon as of paramount41 importance—that the nation’s real civilisation42 rests upon the measure, not alone of chivalrous43 deference44, but of esteem45 and confidence which my sex, by its devotion to duty, and its intellectual sympathy with broad aims and lofty purposes, is able to inspire and command.”
“But I assure you,” I protested feebly, “the story I told was a joke.”
“There are some subjects,” interposed Lady Willoughby Wallaby, the fixed46 smile lighting47 up with an angry, winter-sunset glow her inflamed48 countenance—“there are some subjects on which it is best not to joke.” As she spoke49 she wagged a mitted thumb at her hostess, and on the instant the ladies rose. Mr Hump hastened round to hold the door open as they filed out, their heads high in air, their skirts rustling50 indignantly over the threshold. Then he followed them, closing the door with decision behind him.
“Gad, Albert,” said Uncle Dudley, reaching over for the port, “I don’t wonder that the pick of our young fellows go in for marrying American girls.”
“Pass it along!” remarked the father of Mrs Albert’s three daughters, in a voice of confirmed dejection.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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3
toupee
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| n.假发 | |
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4
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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5
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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6
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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7
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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8
solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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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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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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12
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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14
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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15
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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17
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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preened
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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24
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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28
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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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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38
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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41
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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42
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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43
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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44
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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45
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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46
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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47
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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48
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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50
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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