'We'd better have a little lunch before we get off,' St in Churchill said to his two companions, 'Don't you think so, Mr. Audouin?'
Audouin nodded. 'For my part,' he said, 'I shall have a Bath bun and a glass of ale. They remind one so delightfully2 of England, Will you give me a glass of bitter, please.'
Hiram drew back a little in surprise. He gazed at the gorgeous young lady who pulled the handle of the beer-engine (of course he had never seen a woman serving drink before), and then he glanced inquiringly at Sam Churchill. 'Do tell me,' he whispered in an awe5-struck undertone; 'is that a barmaid?' Sam hardly took in the point of the question for the moment, it seemed so natural to him to see a girl drawing beer at an English refreshment-room, though in the land of his adoption6 that function is always performed by a male attendant, known as a saloon-keeper; but he answered unconcernedly: 'Well, yes, she's about that, I reckon, though I dare say she wouldn't admire at you to call her so.' Hiram looked with all his eyes agog7 upon the gorgeous young lady. 'Well,' he said slowly, half to himself, 'that's just charming. A barmaid! Why it's exactly the same as if it were in “Tom Jones” or “Roderick Random8.”'
Sam Churchill's good-humoured face expanded slowly into a broad smile. That was a picturesque9 point of view of barmaids which he had never before conceived as possible 'What'll you take, Hiram?' he asked. 'This is a pork-pie here; will you try it?'
'A pork-pie!' Hiram cried, enchanted10.
'A pork-pie! You don't mean to say so! Will I try it? I should think I would, rather. Why, you know, Sam, one reads about pork-pies in Dickens!'
This time Audouin laughed too. 'Really, Hiram,' he said, 'if you're going on at this rate you'll find all Europe one vast storehouse of bookish allusiveness11. A man who can extract a literary interest out of a pork-pie would be capable of writing poetry, as Stella said, about a broomstick. I assure you you'll find the crust sodden12 and the internal compound frightfully indigestible.'
'But, I say,' Hiram went on, scanning the greasy13 paper on the outside with the deepest attention. 'Look here, ain't this lovely, either? It says, “Patronised by his Grace the Duke of Rutland and the Gentlemen of the Melton Mowbray Hunt.” I shall have some of that, anyway, though it seems rather like desecration14 to go and actually eat them. One can fancy the red coats and all the rest of it, can't you: and the hare running away round the corner just the same as in “Sandford and Merton”?'
''Twouldn't be a hare,' Sam replied, with just a faint British curl of the lip at the Yankee blunder (the Englishman was beginning to come uppermost in him regain15 now his foot was once more, metaphorically16, upon his native heath). 'It'd be a fox, you know, Hiram.'
'Better and better,' Hiram cried enthusiastically, forgetting for once in his life his habitual17 self-restraint. 'A fox! How glorious!
Just fancy eating a Dickens's pork-pie patronised by a man they call a duke, and the red-coated squire18 people who hunt foxes across country with a horn and a halloo. It's every bit as good as going back to the old coaching days or the reign19 of Queen Elizabeth.'
'The pork-pies are quite fresh, sir,' put in the gorgeous young lady in an offended manner, evidently taking the last remark as an unjust aspersion20 upon the character of her saleable goods and chattels21. 'We get them direct twice a week from the makers22 in Leicestershire.'
'There again,' Hiram exclaimed, with a glow of delight; 'why, Mr. Audouin, it's just like fairy-land. Do you hear what the lady says? she says they come from Leicestershire. Just imagine; from Leicestershire! Queen Elizabeth and the ring, and all the rest of it. Goodness gracious, I do believe this country'll be enough to turn one's head, almost, if it goes on like this much longer.'
The gorgeous young lady evidently quite agreed with him upon that important point, for she retired23 to a tittering conversation with three other equally gorgeous persons at the far end of the marble-covered counter. Hiram, however, was too charmed with the intense Britainicity (as Audouin called it) of everything around him to take much notice of the gorgeous young lady's personal proceedings24. It was all so new and delightful3, so redolent of things he had read about familiarly from his childhood upward, but never before thoroughly25 realised as tangible26 and visible actualities. Pork-pies, then, positively27 existed in the flesh and crust; London stout28 was no mere29 airy figment of the novelist's imagination; red-cheeked women talked before his very eyes to blue-coated policemen; and porters in medi?val uniforms bundled soldiers in still more medi?val scarlet30 garb31 into cars which they positively described as carriages, and which were seen to be divided inside into small compartments33 by a transverse wooden partition. Those were the third-class passengers he had read about in fiction, and yet they did not seem inclined to rise against their oppressors, but smoked and chaffed as merrily as the favoured occupants of the cushioned carriages—to say the plain truth, indeed, a great deal more merrily. All was wonderful, admirable, phantasmagoric beyond his wildest and dearest expectations. He had looked forward to a marvellous, poetical34 England of cathedrals and castles, but he had hardly expected that all-pervading medi?val tone which came out even in the dedication35 of the practical pork-pie of commerce to the cult36 of his Grace the Duke of Rutland and the Gentlemen of the Melton Mowbray Hunt.
To every intelligent young American, indeed, the first glimpse of England is something more than a mere introduction to a new country; it is as though the sun had gone back upon the dial of history, and had carried one bodily from the democratic modern order of tilings into the midst of an older semifeudal and vastly more heterogeneous37 state of society. But to Hiram Winthrop in particular, that journey by the London and North-Western Line from Liverpool to Euston was, as it were, a new spiritual birth, a first transference into the one world for which alone he was congenitally fitted. Audouin himself, with his cold Boston criticism and his cultivated indifference38, was quite surprised at the young man's undisguised enthusiasm. All along the line, the panorama39 of England seemed but one long unfolding of half-familiar wonders—things pictured, and read about, and dreamt of, for many years, yet never before beheld40 or realised. First it was the carefully tilled fields, the trim hedges, the parks and gardens, the snug41 English farmhouses42, the endless succession of cultivated land, and beautiful pleasure grounds, and well-timbered copses. Hiram cast his eye back upon Syracuse and the deacon's farm with a feeling of awe and gratitude43. Great heavens, what a contrast from the bare wheat fields and treeless roads and long unlovely snake-fences of Geauga County! Here, in fact, was tillage that even the deacon would have admired as good farming, and yet it had not succeeded in defacing the natural beauty of the undulating Cheshire country, but had rather actually improved and heightened it. Yes, this was Cheshire, and those were Cheshire cows, ultimately responsible for the historical Cheshire cheeses; while yonder was a Cheshire cat, sleeping lazily on an ivy44-grown wall, though Hiram was fain to admit, without the grin for which alone the Cheshire cat is proverbially famous. Ivy—lie had never seen ivy before—ay, ivy actually clinging to an old church tower, a tower that even Hiram's unaccustomed eyes could readily date back to the Plantagenet period. That church positively had a rector; and the broken stone by the yew-tree in the churchyard (Sam Churchill being witness) was the last relic45 of the carved cross of Catholic antiquity46. And those little white flowers scattered47 over the pastures, Audouin told him, were really daisies. Take it how he would, Hiram could hardly believe his own senses, that here he was, being whirled by an express train in a small oblong box of a thing they called a first-class compartment32, right across the very face of that living fossil of a country, beautiful, old-fashioned, antique England.
To most of us, the journey from Liverpool to Euston lies only through a high flat country, past a number of dull, ordinary, uninteresting railway stations. It is, in fact, about as unpicturesque a bit of travelling as a man can do within the four girdling sea-walls of this beautiful isle48 of Britain. But to Hiram Winthrop it was the most absolutely fairylike and romantic journey he had ever undertaken in the whole course of his mundane49 existence. First they passed through Lancashire, and then through Cheshire, and then on over the impalpable boundary line into Staffordshire. Why, those tall towers over yonder were Lichfield Cathedral; and that little town on the left was Sam Johnson's countrified Lichfield! Here comes George Eliot's Nuneaton, and after it Tom Brown's and Arnold's Bugby. At Bletchley, you read on the notice-board: 'Change here for Oxford50'; great heavens, just as if Oxford, the Oxford, were nothing more than Orange or Chattawauga! And here is Tring, where Robert Stephenson made his great cutting; and there is Harrow-on-the-Hill, where Paul Howard, the marauding buccaneer of the Caribbean Sea, received the first rudiments51 of faith and religion. Not a village along the line but had its resonant52 echo in the young man's memory; not a manor53 house, steeple, or farmyard but had its glamour54 of romance for the young man's fancy. The very men and women seemed to take the familiar shapes of well-known characters. Colonel Newcome, tall and bronzed by Indian suns, paced the platform alone at Crewe; Dick Swiveller, penniless and jaunty55 as ever, lounged about the refreshment-room at Blisworth Junction56; even Trulliber himself, a little modernised in outer garb, but essentially57 the same in face and feature, dived red-cheeked after his luggage into the crowded van at Willesden. And so, by rapid stages, through a world of unspeakable delight, the engine rolled them swiftly into the midst of seething58, grimy, opulent, squalid, hungry, all-embracing London.
'I do hope,' Hiram said to Sam, as they drove together through the strange labyrinth59 of narrow, dirty streets, to the big modern hotel of Audouin's choosing—'I do hope we shall be in time to catch your brother before he goes to Rome. Europe does look just too delicious; but you'll admit it's pretty bustling60 and hurrying in some places. I don't know that I'd care so much to go alone as if I had him with me.'
'Oh, he's sure to be here,' Sam answered confidently. 'Since I wired him from New York, I've made my mind easy about that. He'd wait to see me before starting; that's certain.'
'And if he isn't, Hiram,' Audouin put in, 'I'll go on with you. It's rather an undertaking61 to go touring alone in Europe, when you're fresh to it. We're wild men of the woods, you and I, more at home among the woodchucks and sheldrakes, I conceive, than among the hotels, and streets, and railway stations. You were born in the wilderness62: I have fled to it: we're both of us out of our element in the stir and bustle63 here; so to fortify64 one another, we'll face it together.'
The fact is, their joint65 journey had been altogether a very hasty and unpremeditated affair. Audouin had long been urging Hiram to go to Europe, and study art in real earnest; and Hiram had been putting it off and putting it off on various pretences66, but really because he didn't want to go until he was able to pay his way honestly out of his own resources. At last, however, Sam Churchill had received a letter from his brother Colin, full of Colin's completed project of going to Rome. This was a chance for Hiram, both Sam and Audouin argued, which he oughtn't lightly to throw away. Colin had been working with an Italian marble-cutter in London; he would be going to Rome with the intention of studying the highest art at the lowest possible prices; and he would probably be glad enough to meet with another young man to share expenses and to keep him company in the unknown city. So between the two, almost before he knew what he was doing, Hiram had been bustled67 off down to New York, put on board a White Star liner, and conveyed triumphantly68 over to Europe, between a double guard of Sam and Audouin. Sam had long been contemplating69 a visit to the old country, to see his father and mother before they died; and now the occasion thus afforded by Colin's resolution seemed propitious70 for taking his voyage in good company; while as to Audouin, he was so fully4 in earnest about redeeming71 Hiram from the advertising72 style of art, and sending him to Rome to study painting in real earnest, that he undertook to convey him in person, lest any infirmity of purpose should chance to overcome him by the way. He had at last persuaded Hiram to accept a small loan for the necessary expenses of his first year at Rome: and he had also managed to make his young friend believe that at the end of that time his art would begin to bring him in enough to live upon. For which pious73 fraud, Audouin earnestly trusted the powers that be would deal leniently74 with him, judging him only by the measure of his good intentions. For if at the end of the first year, Hiram's exchequer75 still showed a chronic76 deficit77, it would be easy enough, he thought, to float another loan upon himself by way of lightening the temporary tightness of the money market.
It was late that night when they reached the hotel, so they contented78 themselves with dinner in the coffee-room (mark that word—a coffee-room—exactly where they used to dine in David Copperfield!) without making any attempt to see Colin the same evening. But early the next day the three sallied forth79 together into the streets of London, and made their way, by lanes and cross-cuts, whose very names seemed historical to Hiram, up to Cicolari's studio in the Marylebone Road. The little Italian bowed them in with great unction—three American customers by the look of them, good perhaps for a replica80 of the celebrated81 Cicolari Ariadne—and inquired politely what might be their business.
'My name is Churchill,' Sam said abruptly82. 'My brother has been working with you here. Is he still in London?'
Cicolari went quickly through a short pantomime expressive83 of deep regret that Sam should have come to make inquiries84 a week too late, mingled85 with effusive86 pleasure at securing the acquaintance of Colin's most excellent and highly respected brother. 'If you had come a week ago,' he added, supplementarily87, in spoken language, 'you would have been in time to see my very dear friend, your brozzer. But you are not in time; your brozzer is gone away. He is gone to Rome, to Rome' (with a spacious88 wave of the hand) 'to become ze greatest of living sculptors90. He is a genius, and all geniuses must go to Rome. Zat is ze proper home for zem.' And Cicolari, drawing his finger rapidly round in an ever-diminishing circle, planted it at last on a spot in the very centre, supposed to symbolise the metropolis91 of art.
'Gone to Rome!' Sam cried disappointed. 'But why did he go so soon? Didn't he get my telegram?'
'He has had no telegram from you or he would tell me of it,' answered the Italian, with a pantomimic expression of the closest intimacy92 between himself and Colin. 'He went away a week ago.'
'Do you know where he's gone to in Rome?' asked Audouin.
'I do not know where he is gone to, but he has gone as valet to Sir Somebody—Sir Henry Wilberforce I sink zey call him'—Cicolari answered with open hands spread before him.
Sam Churchill's democratic instincts rose at once in horror and astonishment93. 'As what!' he cried. 'As valet?'
Cicolari only replied by going through the operation of brushing an imaginary coat with an aerial clothes-brush and folding it neatly94 on a non-existent chair by the side of the inconsolable marble widow.
After twelve years of America, Sam Churchill was certainly a little, shocked and annoyed at the idea of his own brother Colin—the future great sculptor89 and artist—having gone to Rome as another man's body-servant. It hurt not only his acquired republican feelings, but what lies far deeper than those, his amour propre. And he was vexed95, too, that Cicolari should have blurted96 out the plain truth so carelessly before Hiram and Audouin. His cheeks burned hot with his discomfiture97; but he only turned and said to them as coolly as he was able: 'Our bird has flown, it seems. We must fly after him.'
'How soon?' asked Audouin quickly.
'This very day,' Sam answered with decision.
'And you, Hiram?' Audouin said.
'I am as clay in the hands of the potter,' Hiram replied, smiling. 'For my own part, I should have liked to stop a week or two in London, and see some of the places one has heard and read so much about. But you've brought me over by main force between you, Mr. Audouin, and I suppose I must let you both do as you will with me. If Sam wants to follow his brother immediately, I'm ready to go with you and leave London for some future visit.'
Sam got what further particulars he could from Cicolari, hailed a passing cab impetuously, and drove straight back to the hotel. In an hour they had packed their valises again after their one night in England, and were off to Charing98 Cross, to catch the tidal train for Paris, on their way to Italy. Hiram watched the cliffs of Folkestone fading behind him with a somewhat heavy heart; for artist as he was, he somehow felt in the corners of his being as though England were the real unknown lady of his love, and Rome, which he had never seen, likely to prove but a cold and irresponsive sort of mistress. Still, in Audouin's care, he was just what he himself had said, clay in the hands of the potter; for Hiram Winthrop was one of those natures that no man can drive, but that any man can lead with the slightest display of genuine sympathy.
Yet he had one other cause of regret at leaving England: for Chester is in England, and Gwen was presumably at Chester. Gwen—Chester, Gwen—Chester, Gwen—Chester: absurd, romantic, utterly99 ridiculous; yet all the way from Folkestone to Boulogne, as the vessel100 lurched from side to side, it made a sort of long-drawn see-saw melody in Hiram Winthrop's brain to the reiterated101 names of Gwen and Chester.
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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picturesque
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enchanted
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allusiveness
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sodden
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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desecration
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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metaphorically
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habitual
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squire
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reign
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aspersion
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chattels
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makers
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retired
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proceedings
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thoroughly
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tangible
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positively
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mere
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scarlet
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garb
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compartment
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compartments
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poetical
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dedication
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cult
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heterogeneous
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indifference
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panorama
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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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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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farmhouses
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gratitude
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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isle
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 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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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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supplementarily
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| 增补地（supplementary的副词形式） | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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