The great merit of this subject is that it starts itself.
The Bachelor Bedroom is familiar to everybody who owns a country house, and to everybody who has stayed in a country house. It is the one especial sleeping apartment, in all civilised residences used for the reception of company, which preserves a character of its own. Married people and young ladies may be shifted about from bedroom to bedroom as their own caprice or the domestic convenience of the host may suggest. But the bachelor guest, when he has once had his room set apart for him, contrives1 to dedicate it to the perpetual occupation of single men from that moment. Who else is to have the room afterwards, when the very atmosphere of it is altered by tobacco-smoke? Who can venture to throw it open to nervous spinsters, or respectable married couples, when the footman is certain, from mere2 force of habit, to make his appearance at the 31 door, with contraband3 bottles and glasses, after the rest of the family have retired4 for the night? Where, even if these difficulties could be got over, is any second sleeping apartment to be found, in any house of ordinary construction, isolated5 enough to secure the soberly reposing6 portion of the guests from being disturbed by the regular midnight party which the bachelor persists in giving in his bedroom? Dining-rooms and breakfast-rooms may change places; double-bedded rooms and single-bedded rooms may shift their respective characters backwards7 and forwards amicably8 among each other—but the Bachelor Bedroom remains9 immovably in its own place; sticks immutably10 to its own bad character; stands out victoriously11 whether the house is full, or whether the house is empty, the one hospitable12 institution that no repentant13 after-thoughts of host or hostess can ever hope to suppress.
Such a social phenomenon as this, taken with its surrounding circumstances, deserves more notice than it has yet obtained. The bachelor has been profusely14 served up on all sorts of literary tables; but, the presentation of him has been hitherto remarkable15 for a singularly monotonous16 flavour of matrimonial sauce. We have heard of his loneliness, and its remedy; of his solitary17 position in illness, and its remedy; of the miserable18 neglect of his linen19, and its remedy. But what have we heard of him in 32 connexion with his remarkable bedroom, at those periods of his existence when he, like the rest of the world, is a visitor at his friend's country house? Who has presented him, in his relation to married society, under those peculiar20 circumstances of his life, when he is away from his solitary chambers21, and is thrown straight into the sacred centre of that home circle from which his ordinary habits are so universally supposed to exclude him? Here, surely, is a new aspect of the bachelor still left to be presented; and here is a new subject for worn-out readers of the nineteenth century, whose fountain of literary novelty has become exhausted22 at the source.
Let me sketch23 the history—in anticipation24 of a large and serious work which I intend to produce, one of these days, on the same subject—of the Bachelor Bedroom, in a certain comfortable country house, whose hospitable doors fly open to me with the beginning of summer, and close no more until the autumn is ended. I must beg permission to treat this interesting topic from the purely25 human point of view. In other words, I propose describing, not the Bedroom itself, but the succession of remarkable bachelors who have passed through it in my time.
The hospitable country-seat to which I refer is Coolcup House, the residence of that enterprising gentleman-farmer and respected chairman of Quarter 33 Sessions, Sir John Giles. Sir John's Bachelor Bedroom has been wisely fitted up on the ground-floor. It is the one solitary sleeping apartment in that part of the house. Fidgety bachelors can jump out on to the lawn, at night, through the bow-window, without troubling anybody to unlock the front door; and can communicate with the presiding genius of the cellar by merely crossing the hall. For the rest, the room is delightfully26 airy and spacious27, and fitted up with all possible luxury. It started in life, under Sir John's careful auspices28, the perfection of neatness and tidiness. But the bachelors have corrupted29 it long since. However carefully the servants may clean, and alter, and arrange it, the room loses its respectability again, and gets slovenly30 and unpresentable the moment their backs are turned. Sir John himself, the tidiest man in existence, has given up all hope of reforming it. He peeps in occasionally, and sighs and shakes his head, and puts a chair in its place, and straightens a print on the wall, and looks about him at the general litter and confusion, and gives it up and goes out again. He is a rigid31 man and a resolute32 in the matter of order, and has his way all over the rest of the house—but the Bachelor Bedroom is too much for him.
The first bachelor who inhabited the room when I began to be a guest at Coolcup House, was Mr. Bigg.
Mr. Bigg is, in the strictest sense of the word, 34 what you call a fine man. He stands over six feet, is rather more than stout33 enough for his height, holds his head up nobly, and dresses in a style of mingled34 gaiety and grandeur35 which impresses everybody. The morning shirts of Mr. Bigg are of so large a pattern that nobody but his haberdasher knows what that pattern really is. You see a bit of it on one side of his collar which looks square, and a bit of it on the other side which looks round. It goes up his arm on one of his wristbands, and down his arm on the other. Men who have seen his shirts off (if such a statement may be permitted), and scattered36 loosely, to Sir John's horror, over all the chairs in the Bedroom, have been questioned, and have not been found able to state that their eyes ever followed out the patterns of any one of them fairly to the end. In the matter of beautiful and expensive clothing for the neck, Mr. Bigg is simply inexhaustible. Every morning he appears at breakfast in a fresh scarf, and taps his egg magnificently with a daily blaze of new colour glowing on his capacious chest, to charm the eyes of the young ladies who sit opposite to him. All the other component37 parts of Mr. Bigg's costume are of an equally grand and attractive kind, and are set off by Mr. Bigg's enviable figure to equal advantage. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, he is altogether an irreproachable38 character in the article of dress. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, he is essentially39 35 a man of the world, who can be depended on to perform any part allotted40 to him in any society assembled at Coolcup House; who has lived among all ranks and sorts of people; who has filled a public situation with great breadth and dignity, and has sat at table with crowned heads, and played his part there with distinction; who can talk of these experiences, and of others akin41 to them, with curious fluency42 and ease, and can shift about to other subjects, and pass the bottle, and carve, and draw out modest people, and take all other social responsibilities on his own shoulders complacently43, at the largest and dreariest44 county dinner party that Sir John, to his own great discomfiture45, can be obliged to give. Such is Mr. Bigg in the society of the house, when the door of the Bachelor Bedroom has closed behind him.
But what is Mr. Bigg, when he has courteously46 wished the ladies good night, when he has secretly summoned the footman with the surreptitious tray, and when he has deluded47 the unprincipled married men of the party into having half an hour's cozy48 chat with him before they go up-stairs? Another being—a being unknown to the ladies, and unsuspected by the respectable guests. Inside the Bedroom, the outward aspect of Mr. Bigg changes as if by magic; and a kind of gorgeous slovenliness49 pervades50 him from top to toe. Buttons which have 36 rigidly51 restrained him within distinct physical boundaries, slip exhausted out of their buttonholes; and the figure of Mr. Bigg suddenly expands and asserts itself for the first time as a protuberant52 fact. His neckcloth flies on to the nearest chair, his rigid shirt-collar yawns open, his wiry under-whiskers ooze53 multitudinously into view, his coat, waistcoat, and braces54 drop off his shoulders. If the two young ladies who sleep in the room above, and who most unreasonably55 complain of the ceaseless nocturnal croaking56 and growling57 of voices in the Bachelor Bedroom, could look down through the ceiling now, they would not know Mr. Bigg again, and would suspect that a dissipated artisan had intruded58 himself into Sir John's house.
In the same way, the company who have sat in Mr. Bigg's neighbourhood at the dinner-table at seven o'clock, would find it impossible to recognise his conversation at midnight. Outside the Bachelor Bedroom, if his talk has shown him to be anything at all, it has shown him to be the exact reverse of an enthusiast59. Inside the Bachelor Bedroom, after all due attention has been paid to the cigar-box and the footman's tray, it becomes unaccountably manifest to everybody that Mr. Bigg is, after all, a fanatical character, a man possessed60 of one fixed61 idea. Then, and then only, does he mysteriously confide62 to his fellow revellers that he is the one remarkable man 37 in Great Britain who has discovered the real authorship of Junius's Letters. In the general society of the house, nobody ever hears him refer to the subject; nobody ever suspects that he takes more than the most ordinary interest in literary matters. In the select society of the Bedroom, inspired by the surreptitious tray and the midnight secrecy63, wrapped in clouds of tobacco smoke, and freed from the restraint of his own magnificent garments, the truth flies out of Mr. Bigg, and the authorship of Junius's Letters becomes the one dreary64 subject which this otherwise variously gifted man persists in dilating65 on for hours together. But for the Bachelor Bedroom, nobody alive would ever have discovered that the true key to unlock Mr. Bigg's character is Junius. If the subject is referred to the next day by his companions of the night, he declines to notice it; but, once in the Bedroom again, he takes it up briskly, as if the attempted reference to it had been made but the moment before. The last time I saw him was in the Bachelor Bedroom. It was three o'clock in the morning; two tumblers were broken; half a lemon was in the soap-dish, and the soap itself was on the chimney-piece; restless married rakes, who were desperately67 afraid of waking up their wives when they left us, were walking to and fro absently, and crunching68 knobs of loaf-sugar under foot at every step; Mr. Bigg was standing69, with his fourth cigar 38 in his mouth, before the fire; one of his hands was in the tumbled bosom70 of his shirt, the other was grasping mine, while he pathetically appointed me his literary executor, and generously bequeathed to me his great discovery of the authorship of Junius's Letters. Upon the whole, Mr. Bigg is the most incorrigible71 bachelor on record in the annals of the Bedroom; he has consumed more candles, ordered more footmen's trays, seen more early daylight, and produced more pale faces among the gentlemen at breakfast time, than any other single visitor at Coolcup House.
The next bachelor in the order of succession, and the completest contrast conceivable to Mr. Bigg, is Mr. Jeremy.
Mr. Jeremy is, perhaps, the most miserable-looking little man that ever tottered72 under the form of humanity. Wear what clothes he may, he invariably looks shabby in them. He is the victim of perpetual accidents and perpetual ill-health; and the Bachelor Bedroom, when he inhabits it, is turned into a doctor's shop, and bristles73 all over with bottles and pills. Mr. Jeremy's personal tribute to the hospitalities of Coolcup House is always paid in the same singularly unsatisfactory manner to his host. On one day in the week, he gorges74 himself gaily75 with food and drink, and soars into the seventh heaven of 39 convivial76 beatitude. On the other six, he is invariably ill in consequence, is reduced to the utmost rigours of starvation and physic, sinks into the lowest depths of depression, and takes the bitterest imaginable views of human life. Hardly a single accident has happened at Coolcup House in which he has not been personally and chiefly concerned; hardly a single malady77 can occur to the human frame the ravages78 of which he has not practically exemplified in his own person under Sir John's roof. If any one guest, in the fruit season, terrifies the rest by writhing79 under the internal penalties in such cases made and provided by the laws of nature, it is Mr. Jeremy. If any one tumbles up-stairs, or down-stairs, or off a horse, or out of a dog-cart, it is Mr. Jeremy. If you want a case of sprained80 ankle, a case of suppressed gout, a case of complicated earache81, toothache, headache, and sore-throat, all in one, a case of liver, a case of chest, a case of nerves, or a case of low fever, go to Coolcup House while Mr. Jeremy is staying there, and he will supply you, on demand, at the shortest notice and to any extent. It is conjectured82 by the intimate friends of this extremely wretched bachelor, that he has but two sources of consolation83 to draw on, as a set-off against his innumerable troubles. The first is the luxury of twisting his nose on one side, and stopping up his air-passages and Eustachian tubes with inconceivably 40 large quantities of strong snuff. The second is the oleaginous gratification of incessantly84 anointing his miserable little beard and mustachios with cheap bear's-grease, which always turns rancid on the premises85 before he has half done with it. When Mr. Jeremy gives a party in the Bachelor Bedroom, his guests have the unexpected pleasure of seeing him take his physic, and hearing him describe his maladies and recount his accidents. In other respects, the moral influence of the Bedroom over the characters of those who occupy it, which exhibits Mr. Bigg in the unexpected literary aspect of a commentator86 on Junius, is found to tempt66 Mr. Jeremy into betraying a horrible triumph and interest in the maladies of others, of which nobody would suspect him in the general society of the house.
"I noticed you, after dinner to-day," says this invalid87 bachelor, on such occasions, to any one of the Bedroom guests who may be rash enough to complain of the slightest uneasiness in his presence; "I saw the corners of your mouth get green, and the whites of your eyes look yellow. You have got a pain here," says Mr. Jeremy, gaily indicating the place to which he refers on his own shattered frame, with an appearance of extreme relish88—"a pain here, and a sensation like having a cannon-ball inside you, there. You will be parched89 with thirst and racked with fidgets all to-night; and to-morrow 41 morning you will get up with a splitting headache, and a dark-brown tongue, and another cannon-ball in your inside. My dear fellow, I'm a veteran at this sort of thing; and I know exactly the state you will be in next week, and the week after, and when you will have to try the sea-side, and how many pounds' weight you will lose to a dead certainty, before you can expect to get over this attack. Suppose we look under his ribs90, on the right side of him?" continues Mr. Jeremy, addressing himself confidentially91 to the company in general. "I'll lay anybody five to one we find an alarming lump under the skin. And that lump will be his liver!"
Thus, while Mr. Bigg always astonishes the Bedroom guests on the subject of Junius, Mr. Jeremy always alarms them on the subject of themselves. Mr. Smart, the next, and third bachelor, placed in a similar situation, displays himself under a more agreeable aspect, and makes the society that surrounds him, for the night at least, supremely92 happy.
On the first day of his arrival at Coolcup House, Mr. Smart deceived us all. When he was first presented to us, we were deeply impressed by the serene93 solemnity of this gentleman's voice, look, manner, and costume. He was as carefully dressed as Mr. Bigg himself, but on totally different principles. 42 Mr. Smart was fearfully and wonderfully gentlemanly in his avoidance of anything approaching to bright colour on any part of his body. Quakerish drabs and greys clothed him in the morning. Dismal94 black, unrelieved by an atom of jewellery, undisturbed even by so much as a flower in his button-hole, encased him grimly in the evening. He moved about the room and the garden with a ghostly and solemn stalk. When the ladies got brilliant in their conversation, he smiled upon them with a deferential95 modesty96 and polite Grandisonian admiration97 that froze the blood of "us youth" in our veins98. When he spoke99, it was like reading a passage from an elegant moral writer—the words were so beautifully arranged, the sentences were turned so musically, the sentiment conveyed was so delightfully well regulated, so virtuously100 appropriate to nothing in particular. At such times he always spoke in a slow, deep, and gentle drawl, with a thrillingly clear emphasis on every individual syllable101. His speech sounded occasionally like a kind of highly-bred foreign English, spoken by a distinguished102 stranger who had mastered the language to such an extent that he had got beyond the natives altogether. We watched enviously103 all day for any signs of human infirmity in this surprising individual. The men detected him in nothing. Even the sharper eyes of the women only discovered that he was addicted105 to 43 looking at himself affectionately in every glass in the house, when he thought that nobody was noticing him. At dinner-time we all pinned our faith on Sir John's excellent wine, and waited anxiously for its legitimate106 effect on the superb and icy stranger. Nothing came of it; Mr. Smart was as carefully guarded with the bottle as he was with the English language. All through the evening he behaved himself so dreadfully well that we quite began to hate him. When the company parted for the night, and when Mr. Smart (who was just mortal enough to be a bachelor) invited us to a cigar in the Bedroom, his highly-bred foreign English was still in full perfection; his drawl had reached its elocutionary climax107 of rich and gentle slowness; and his Grandisonian smile was more exasperatingly108 settled and composed than ever.
The Bedroom door closed on us. We took off our coats, tore open our waistcoats, rushed in a body on the new bachelor's cigar-box, and summoned the evil genius of the footman's tray.
At the first round of the tumblers, the false Mr. Smart began to disappear, and the true Mr. Smart approached, as it were, from a visionary distance, and took his place among us. He chuckled—Grandison chuckled—within the hearing of every man in the room! We were surprised at that; but what were our sensations when, in less than ten minutes 44 afterwards, the highly-bred English and the gentle drawl mysteriously disappeared, and there came bursting out upon us, from the ambush109 of Mr. Smart's previous elocution, the jolliest, broadest, and richest Irish brogue we had ever heard in our lives! The mystery was explained now. Mr. Smart had a coat of the smoothest English varnish110 laid over him, for highly-bred county society, which nothing mortal could peel off but bachelor company and whiskey-and-water. He slipped out of his close-fitting English envelope, in the loose atmosphere of the Bachelor Bedroom, as glibly111 as a tightly-laced young lady slips out of her stays when the admiring eyes of the world are off her waist for the night. Never was man so changed as Mr. Smart was now. His moral sentiments melted like the sugar in his grog; his grammar disappeared with his white cravat112. Wild and lavish113 generosity114 suddenly became the leading characteristic of this once reticent115 man. We tried all sorts of subjects, and were obliged to drop every one of them, because Mr. Smart would promise to make us a present of whatever we talked about. The family mansion116 in Ireland contained everything that this world can supply; and Mr. Smart was resolved to dissipate that priceless store in gifts distributed to the much-esteemed company. He promised me a schooner117 yacht, and made a memorandum118 of the exact tonnage in his pocket-book. He promised 45 my neighbour, on one side, a horse, and, on the other, a unique autograph letter of Shakespeare's. We had all three been talking respectively of sailing, hunting, and the British Drama; and we now held our tongues for fear of getting new presents if we tried new subjects. Other members of the festive119 assembly took up the ball of conversation, and were prostrated120 forthwith by showers of presents for their pains. When we all parted in the dewy morning, we left Mr. Smart with dishevelled hair, checking off his voluminous memoranda121 of gifts with an unsteady pencil, and piteously entreating122 us, in the richest Irish-English, to correct him instantly if we detected the slightest omission123 anywhere.
The next morning, at breakfast, we rather wondered which nation our friend would turn out to belong to. He set all doubts at rest the moment he opened the door, by entering the room with the old majestic124 stalk; saluting125 the ladies with the serene Grandison smile; trusting we had all rested well during the night, in a succession of elegantly-turned sentences; and enunciating the highly-bred English with the imperturbably-gentle drawl which we all imagined, the night before, that we had lost for ever. He stayed more than a fortnight at Coolcup House; and, in all that time, nobody ever knew the true Mr. Smart except the guests in the Bachelor Bedroom. 46
The fourth Bachelor on the list deserves especial consideration and attention. In the first place, because he presents himself to the reader, in the character of a distinguished foreigner. In the second place, because he contrived126, in the most amiable127 manner imaginable, to upset all the established arrangements of Coolcup House—inside the Bachelor Bedroom, as well as outside it—from the moment when he entered its doors, to the moment when he left them behind him on his auspicious128 return to his native country. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a rare, probably a unique, species of bachelor; and Mr. Bigg, Mr. Jeremy, and Mr. Smart have no claim whatever to stand in the faintest light of comparison with him.
When I mention that the distinguished guest now introduced to notice is Herr von Müffe, it will be unnecessary for me to add that I refer to the distinguished German poet, whose far-famed Songs Without Sense have aided so immeasurably in thickening the lyric129 obscurities of his country's Harp104. On his arrival in London, Herr von Müffe forwarded his letter of introduction to Sir John by post, and immediately received, in return, the usual hospitable invitation to Coolcup House.
The eminent131 poet arrived barely in time to dress for dinner; and made his first appearance in our circle while we were waiting in the drawing-room for 47 the welcome signal of the bell. He waddled132 in among us softly and suddenly, in the form of a very short, puffy, florid, roundabout old gentleman, with flowing grey hair and a pair of huge circular spectacles. The extreme shabbiness and dinginess133 of his costume was so singularly set off by the quantity of foreign orders of merit which he wore all over the upper part of it, that a sarcastic134 literary gentleman among the guests defined him to me, in a whisper, as a compound of "decorations and dirt." Sir John advanced to greet his distinguished guest, with friendly right hand extended as usual. Herr von Müffe, without saying a word, took the hand carefully in both his own, and expressed affectionate recognition of English hospitality, by transferring it forthwith to that vacant space between his shirt and his waistcoat which extended over the region of the heart. Sir John turned scarlet135, and tried vainly to extricate136 his hand from the poet's too affectionate bosom. The dinner-bell rang, but Herr von Müffe still held fast. The principal lady in the company half rose, and looked perplexedly at her host—Sir John made another and a desperate effort to escape—failed again—and was marched into the dining-room, in full view of his servants and his guests, with his hand sentimentally137 imprisoned139 in his foreign visitor's waistcoat.
After this romantic beginning, Herr von Müffe 48 rather surprised us by showing that he was decidedly the reverse of a sentimentalist in the matter of eating and drinking.
Neither dish nor bottle passed the poet, without paying heavy tribute, all through the repast. He mixed his liquors, especially, with the most sovereign contempt for all sanitary140 considerations; drinking champagne141 and beer, the sweetest Constantia and the tawniest port, all together, with every appearance of the extremest relish. Conversation with Herr von Müffe, both at dinner, and all through the evening, was found to be next to impossible, in consequence of his knowing all languages (his own included) equally incorrectly. His German was pronounced to be a dialect never heard before; his French was inscrutable; his English was a philological142 riddle143 which all of us guessed at and none of us found out. He talked, in spite of these difficulties, incessantly; and, seeing that he shed tears several times in the course of the evening, the ladies assumed that his topics were mostly of a pathetic nature, while the coarser men compared notes with each other, and all agreed that the distinguished guest was drunk. When the time came for retiring, we had to invite ourselves into the Bachelor Bedroom; Herr von Müffe having no suspicion of our customary midnight orgies, and apparently144 feeling no desire to entertain us, until we informed him of 49 the institution of the footman's tray—when he became hospitable on a sudden, and unreasonably fond of his gay young English friends.
While we were settling ourselves in our places round the bed, a member of the company kicked over one of the poet's capacious Wellington boots. To the astonishment145 of every one, there instantly ensued a tinkling146 of coin, and some sovereigns and shillings rolled surprisingly out on the floor from the innermost recesses147 of the boot. On receiving his money back, Herr von Müffe informed us, without the slightest appearance of embarrassment148, that he had not had time, before dinner, to take more than his watch, rings, and decorations, out of his boots. Seeing us all stare at this incomprehensible explanation, our distinguished friend kindly149 endeavoured to enlighten us further by a long personal statement in his own polyglot150 language. From what we could understand of this narrative151 (which was not much), we gathered that Herr von Müffe had started at noon, that day, as a total stranger in our metropolis152, to reach the London-bridge station in a cab; and that the driver had taken him, as usual, across Waterloo-bridge. On going through the Borough153, the narrow streets, miserable houses, and squalid population, had struck the lively imagination of Herr von Müffe, and had started in his mind a horrible suspicion that the cabman was driving him into a 50 low neighbourhood, with the object of murdering a helpless foreign fare, in perfect security, for the sake of the valuables he carried on his person. Chilled to the very marrow154 of his bones by this idea, the poet raised the ends of his trousers stealthily in the cab, slipped his watch, rings, orders, and money into the legs of his Wellington boots, arrived at the station quaking with mortal terror, and screamed "Help!" at the top of his voice, when the railway policeman opened the cab door. The immediate130 starting of the train had left him no time to alter the singular travelling arrangements he had made in the Borough; and he arrived at Coolcup House, the only individual who had ever yet entered that mansion with his property in his boots.
Amusing as it was in itself, this anecdote155 failed a little in its effect on us at the time, in consequence of the stifling156 atmosphere in which we were condemned157 to hear it.
Although it was then the sultry middle of summer, and we were all smoking, Herr von Müffe insisted on keeping the windows of the Bachelor Bedroom fast closed, because it was one of his peculiarities158 to distrust the cooling effect of the night air. We were more than half inclined to go, under these circumstances; and we were altogether determined159 to remove, when the tray came in, and when we found our German friend madly mixing his liquors 51 again by pouring gin and sherry together into the same tumbler. We warned him, with a shuddering160 prevision of consequences, that he was mistaking gin for water; and he blandly161 assured us in return that he was doing nothing of the kind. "It is good for My ——" said Herr von Müffe, supplying his ignorance of the word stomach by laying his chubby162 forefinger163 on the organ in question, with a sentimental138 smile. "It is bad for Our ——" retorted the wag of the party, imitating the poet's action, and turning quickly to the door. We all followed him—and, for the first time in the annals of Coolcup House, the Bachelor Bedroom was emptied of company before midnight.
Early the next morning, one of Sir John's younger sons burst into my room in a state of violent excitement.
"I say, what's to be done with Müffe?" inquired the young gentleman, with wildly staring eyes.
"Open his windows, and fetch the doctor," I answered, inspired by the recollections of the past night.
"Doctor!" cried the boy; "the doctor won't do—it's the barber."
"Barber?" I repeated.
"He's been asking me to shave him!" roared my young friend, with vehement164 comic indignation. "He rang his bell, and asked for 'the Son of the 52 House'—and they made me go; and there he was, grinning in the big arm-chair, with his mangy little shaving-brush in his hand, and a towel over his shoulder. 'Good morning, my dear. Can you shave My ——' says he, and taps his quivering old double chin with his infernal shaving-brush. Curse his impudence165! What's to be done with him?"
I arranged to explain to Herr von Müffe, at the first convenient opportunity, that it was not the custom in England, whatever it might be in Germany, for "the Son of the House" to shave his father's guests; and undertook, at the same time, to direct the poet to the residence of the village barber. When the German guest joined us at breakfast, his unshaven chin, and the external results of his mixed potations and his seclusion166 from fresh air, by no means tended to improve his personal appearance. In plain words, he looked the picture of dyspeptic wretchedness.
"I am afraid, sir, you are hardly so well this morning as we could all wish?" said Sir John, kindly.
Herr von Müffe looked at his host affectionately, surveyed the company all round the table, smiled faintly, laid the chubby forefinger once more on the organ whose name he did not know, and answered with the most enchanting167 innocence168 and simplicity169:
"I am so sick!" 53
There was no harm—upon my word, there was no harm in Herr Von Müffe. On the contrary, there was a great deal of good-nature and genuine simplicity in his composition. But he was a man naturally destitute170 of all power of adapting himself to new persons and new circumstances; and he became amiably171 insupportable, in consequence, to everybody in the house, throughout the whole term of his visit. He could not join one of us in any country diversions. He hung about the house and garden in a weak, pottering, aimless manner, always turning up at the wrong moment, and always attaching himself to the wrong person. He was dexterous172 in a perfectly173 childish way at cutting out little figures of shepherds and shepherdesses in paper; and he was perpetually presenting these frail174 tributes of admiration to the ladies, who always tore them up and threw them away in secret the moment his back was turned. When he was not occupied with his paper figures, he was out in the garden, gathering175 countless176 little nosegays, and sentimentally presenting them to everybody; not to the ladies only, but to lusty agricultural gentlemen as well, who accepted them with blank amazement177; and to schoolboys, home for the holidays, who took them, bursting with internal laughter at the "molly-coddle" gentleman from foreign parts. As for poor Sir John, he suffered more than any of us; for Herr von Müffe was always trying to kiss 54 him. In short, with the best intentions in the world, this unhappy foreign bachelor wearied out the patience of everybody in the house; and, to our shame be it said, we celebrated178 his departure, when he left us at last, by a festival-meeting in the Bachelor Bedroom, in honour of the welcome absence of Herr von Müffe.
I cannot say in what spirit my fellow-revellers have reflected on our behaviour since that time; but I know, for my own part, that I now look back at my personal share in our proceedings179 with rather an uneasy conscience. I am afraid we were all of us a little hard on Herr von Müffe; and I hereby desire to offer him my own individual tribute of tardy180 atonement, by leaving him to figure as the last and crowning type of the Bachelor species presented in these pages. If he has produced anything approaching to a pleasing effect on the reader's mind, that effect shall not be weakened by the appearance of any more single men, native or foreign. Let the door of the Bachelor Bedroom close with our final glimpse of the German guest; and permit the present chronicler to lay down the pen when it has traced penitently181, for the last time, the name of Herr von Müffe.
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contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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8
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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9
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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10
immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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11
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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12
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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13
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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14
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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15
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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16
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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17
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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18
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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19
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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20
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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21
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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22
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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23
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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24
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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25
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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26
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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27
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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28
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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29
corrupted
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|
| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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30
slovenly
|
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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31
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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32
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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34
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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35
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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36
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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37
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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38
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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39
essentially
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|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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40
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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42
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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43
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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44
dreariest
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|
| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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45
discomfiture
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|
| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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46
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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47
deluded
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|
| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
cozy
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|
| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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49
slovenliness
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50
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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52
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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53
ooze
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|
| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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54
braces
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|
| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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55
unreasonably
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|
| adv. 不合理地 | |
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56
croaking
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|
| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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57
growling
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|
| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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58
intruded
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|
| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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59
enthusiast
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|
| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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60
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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61
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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62
confide
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|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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63
secrecy
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|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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64
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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65
dilating
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|
| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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66
tempt
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|
| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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67
desperately
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|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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68
crunching
|
|
| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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69
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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70
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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71
incorrigible
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|
| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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72
tottered
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|
| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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73
bristles
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|
| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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74
gorges
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|
| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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75
gaily
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|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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76
convivial
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|
| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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77
malady
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|
| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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78
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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79
writhing
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|
| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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80
sprained
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|
| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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81
earache
|
|
| n.耳朵痛 | |
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82
conjectured
|
|
| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
consolation
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|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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84
incessantly
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|
| ad.不停地 | |
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85
premises
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|
| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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86
commentator
|
|
| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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87
invalid
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|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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88
relish
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|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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89
parched
|
|
| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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90
ribs
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|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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91
confidentially
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|
| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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92
supremely
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|
| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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93
serene
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|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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94
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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95
deferential
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|
| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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96
modesty
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|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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97
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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98
veins
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|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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99
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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100
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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101
syllable
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|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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102
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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103
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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104
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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105
addicted
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|
| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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106
legitimate
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|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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107
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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108
exasperatingly
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109
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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110
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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111
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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112
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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113
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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114
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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115
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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116
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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117
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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118
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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119
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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120
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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121
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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122
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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123
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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124
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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125
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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126
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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127
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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128
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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129
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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130
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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131
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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132
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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134
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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135
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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136
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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137
sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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138
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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139
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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141
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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142
philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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143
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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144
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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146
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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147
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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148
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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150
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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151
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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152
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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153
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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154
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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155
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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156
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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157
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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158
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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159
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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160
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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161
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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162
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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163
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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164
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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165
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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166
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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167
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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168
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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169
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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170
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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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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174
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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175
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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176
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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177
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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178
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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179
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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180
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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181
penitently
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