Who am I.
I am remarkably2 well connected, I can tell you. I came into this world with the great advantage of having Lady Malkinshaw for a grandmother, her ladyship’s daughter for a mother, and Francis James Softly, Esq., M. D. (commonly called Doctor Softly), for a father. I put my father last, because he was not so well connected as my mother, and my grandmother first, because she was the most nobly-born person of the three. I have been, am still, and may continue to be, a Rogue3; but I hope I am not abandoned enough yet to forget the respect that is due to rank. On this account, I trust, nobody will show such want of regard for my feelings as to expect me to say much about my mother’s brother. That inhuman4 person committed an outrage5 on his family by making a fortune in the soap and candle trade. I apologize for mentioning him, even in an accidental way. The fact is, he left my sister, Annabella, a legacy6 of rather a peculiar7 kind, saddled with certain conditions which indirectly8 affected9 me; but this passage of family history need not be produced just yet. I apologize a second time for alluding10 to money matters before it was absolutely necessary. Let me get back to a pleasing and reputable subject, by saying a word or two more about my father.
I am rather afraid that Doctor Softly was not a clever medical man; for in spite of his great connections, he did not get a very magnificent practice as a physician.
As a general practitioner11, he might have bought a comfortable business, with a house and snug12 surgery-shop attached; but the son-in-law of Lady Malkinshaw was obliged to hold up his head, and set up his carriage, and live in a street near a fashionable square, and keep an expensive and clumsy footman to answer the door, instead of a cheap and tidy housemaid. How he managed to “maintain his position” (that is the right phrase, I think), I never could tell. His wife did not bring him a farthing. When the honorable and gallant13 baronet, her father, died, he left the widowed Lady Malkinshaw with her worldly affairs in a curiously14 involved state. Her son (of whom I feel truly ashamed to be obliged to speak again so soon) made an effort to extricate15 his mother—involved himself in a series of pecuniary16 disasters, which commercial people call, I believe, transactions—struggled for a little while to get out of them in the character of an independent gentleman—failed—and then spiritlessly availed himself of the oleaginous refuge of the soap and candle trade. His mother always looked down upon him after this; but borrowed money of him also—in order to show, I suppose, that her maternal17 interest in her son was not quite extinct. My father tried to follow her example—in his wife’s interests, of course; but the soap-boiler brutally18 buttoned up his pockets, and told my father to go into business for himself. Thus it happened that we were certainly a poor family, in spite of the fine appearance we made, the fashionable street we lived in, the neat brougham we kept, and the clumsy and expensive footman who answered our door.
What was to be done with me in the way of education?
If my father had consulted his means, I should have been sent to a cheap commercial academy; but he had to consult his relationship to Lady Malkinshaw; so I was sent to one of the most fashionable and famous of the great public schools. I will not mention it by name, because I don’t think the masters would be proud of my connection with it. I ran away three times, and was flogged three times. I made four aristocratic connections, and had four pitched battles with them: three thrashed me, and one I thrashed. I learned to play at cricket, to hate rich people, to cure warts19, to write Latin verses, to swim, to recite speeches, to cook kidneys on toast, to draw caricatures of the masters, to construe20 Greek plays, to black boots, and to receive kicks and serious advice resignedly. Who will say that the fashionable public school was of no use to me after that?
After I left school, I had the narrowest escape possible of intruding21 myself into another place of accommodation for distinguished22 people; in other words, I was very nearly being sent to college. Fortunately for me, my father lost a lawsuit23 just in the nick of time, and was obliged to scrape together every farthing of available money that he possessed24 to pay for the luxury of going to law. If he could have saved his seven shillings, he would certainly have sent me to scramble25 for a place in the pit of the great university theater; but his purse was empty, and his son was not eligible26 therefore for admission, in a gentlemanly capacity, at the doors.
The next thing was to choose a profession.
Here the Doctor was liberality itself, in leaving me to my own devices. I was of a roving adventurous temperament27, and I should have liked to go into the army. But where was the money to come from, to pay for my commission? As to enlisting28 in the ranks, and working my way up, the social institutions of my country obliged the grandson of Lady Malkinshaw to begin military life as an officer and gentleman, or not to begin it at all. The army, therefore, was out of the question. The Church? Equally out of the question: since I could not pay for admission to the prepared place of accommodation for distinguished people, and could not accept a charitable free pass, in consequence of my high connections. The Bar? I should be five years getting to it, and should have to spend two hundred a year in going circuit before I had earned a farthing. Physic? This really seemed the only gentlemanly refuge left; and yet, with the knowledge of my father’s experience before me, I was ungrateful enough to feel a secret dislike for it. It is a degrading confession29 to make; but I remember wishing I was not so highly connected, and absolutely thinking that the life of a commercial traveler would have suited me exactly, if I had not been a poor gentleman. Driving about from place to place, living jovially30 at inns, seeing fresh faces constantly, and getting money by all this enjoyment31, instead of spending it—what a life for me, if I had been the son of a haberdasher and the grandson of a groom’s widow!
While my father was uncertain what to do with me, a new profession was suggested by a friend, which I shall repent32 not having been allowed to adopt, to the last day of my life. This friend was an eccentric old gentleman of large property, much respected in our family. One day, my father, in my presence, asked his advice about the best manner of starting me in life, with due credit to my connections and sufficient advantage to myself.
“Listen to my experience,” said our eccentric friend, “and, if you are a wise man, you will make up your mind as soon as you have heard me. I have three sons. I brought my eldest33 son up to the Church; he is said to be getting on admirably, and he costs me three hundred a year. I brought my second son up to the Bar; he is said to be getting on admirably, and he costs me four hundred a year. I brought my third son up to Quadrilles—he has married an heiress, and he costs me nothing.”
Ah, me! if that worthy34 sage’s advice had only been followed—if I had been brought up to Quadrilles!—if I had only been cast loose on the ballrooms35 of London, to qualify under Hymen, for a golden degree! Oh! you young ladies with money, I was five feet ten in my stockings; I was great at small-talk and dancing; I had glossy36 whiskers, curling locks, and a rich voice! Ye girls with golden guineas, ye nymphs with crisp bank-notes, mourn over the husband you have lost among you—over the Rogue who has broken the laws which, as the partner of a landed or fund-holding woman, he might have helped to make on the benches of the British Parliament! Oh! ye hearths37 and homes sung about in so many songs—written about in so many books—shouted about in so many speeches, with accompaniment of so much loud cheering: what a settler on the hearth-rug; what a possessor of property; what a bringer-up of a family, was snatched away from you, when the son of Dr. Softly was lost to the profession of Quadrilles!
It ended in my resigning myself to the misfortune of being a doctor.
If I was a very good boy and took pains, and carefully mixed in the best society, I might hope in the course of years to succeed to my father’s brougham, fashionably-situated house, and clumsy and expensive footman. There was a prospect38 for a lad of spirit, with the blood of the early Malkinshaws (who were Rogues39 of great capacity and distinction in the feudal40 times) coursing adventurous through every vein41! I look back on my career, and when I remember the patience with which I accepted a medical destiny, I appear to myself in the light of a hero. Nay42, I even went beyond the passive virtue43 of accepting my destiny—I actually studied, I made the acquaintance of the skeleton, I was on friendly terms with the muscular system, and the mysteries of Physiology44 dropped in on me in the kindest manner whenever they had an evening to spare.
Even this was not the worst of it. I disliked the abstruse45 studies of my new profession; but I absolutely hated the diurnal46 slavery of qualifying myself, in a social point of view, for future success in it. My fond medical parent insisted on introducing me to his whole connection. I went round visiting in the neat brougham—with a stethoscope and medical review in the front-pocket, with Doctor Softly by my side, keeping his face well in view at the window—to canvass47 for patients, in the character of my father’s hopeful successor. Never have I been so ill at ease in prison, as I was in that carriage. I have felt more at home in the dock (such is the natural depravity and perversity48 of my disposition) than ever I felt in the drawing-rooms of my father’s distinguished patrons and respectable friends. Nor did my miseries49 end with the morning calls. I was commanded to attend all dinner-parties, and to make myself agreeable at all balls. The dinners were the worst trial. Sometimes, indeed, we contrived50 to get ourselves asked to the houses of high and mighty51 entertainers, where we ate the finest French dishes and drank the oldest vintages, and fortified52 ourselves sensibly and snugly53 in that way against the frigidity54 of the company. Of these repasts I have no hard words to say; it is of the dinners we gave ourselves, and of the dinners which people in our rank of life gave to us, that I now bitterly complain.
Have you ever observed the remarkable55 adherence56 to set forms of speech which characterizes the talkers of arrant57 nonsense! Precisely58 the same sheepish following of one given example distinguishes the ordering of genteel dinners.
When we gave a dinner at home, we had gravy59 soup, turbot and lobster-sauce, haunch of mutton, boiled fowls60 and tongue, lukewarm oyster-patties and sticky curry61 for side-dishes; wild duck, cabinet-pudding, jelly, cream and tartlets. All excellent things, except when you have to eat them continually. We lived upon them entirely62 in the season. Every one of our hospitable63 friends gave us a return dinner, which was a perfect copy of ours—just as ours was a perfect copy of theirs, last year. They boiled what we boiled, and we roasted what they roasted. We none of us ever changed the succession of the courses—or made more or less of them—or altered the position of the fowls opposite the mistress and the haunch opposite the master. My stomach used to quail64 within me, in those times, when the tureen was taken off and the inevitable65 gravy-soup smell renewed its daily acquaintance with my nostrils66, and warned me of the persistent67 eatable formalities that were certain to follow. I suppose that honest people, who have known what it is to get no dinner (being a Rogue, I have myself never wanted for one), have gone through some very acute suffering under that privation. It may be some consolation68 to them to know that, next to absolute starvation, the same company-dinner, every day, is one of the hardest trials that assail69 human endurance. I date my first serious determination to throw over the medical profession at the earliest convenient opportunity, from the second season’s series of dinners at which my aspirations70, as a rising physician, unavoidably and regularly condemned71 me to be present.
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1
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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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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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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16
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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warts
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| n.疣( wart的名词复数 )；肉赘；树瘤；缺点 | |
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construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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22
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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26
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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27
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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28
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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ballrooms
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| n.舞厅( ballroom的名词复数 ) | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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42
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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diurnal
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| adj.白天的，每日的 | |
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47
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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50
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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51
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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52
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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53
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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54
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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55
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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56
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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58
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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59
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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60
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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61
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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64
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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66
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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67
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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68
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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69
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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70
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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71
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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