It is true that he would have given up these same rooms without a pang13 for various other reasons;—had he been going to take possession of the house in Berkeley Square, which now, he supposed, would either be let or shut up;—had he been going abroad, or, indeed, for almost any other reasonable cause;—just as the people would do who break their hearts over the hall, or rectory, or deceased father’s house, which they would have abandoned joyfully14 a dozen times in as many years, had a pleasant chance come in their way. It was the wreck16 of circumstance surrounding this change which wounded Ben; the{v.1-52} breaking up of all his habits, and failure of everything he had been used to. When he had recovered himself a little, he took a disconsolate17 stroll through the rooms, and reckoned up what his things had cost him;—his pictures,—some of which were copies picked up abroad, and some chef-d’?uvres of young artists at home, which Laurie had persuaded him to give good prices for;—the cabinets he had attained18 after unexampled efforts at Lady Bertram’s sale,—his choice little collection of old Dresden,—even his pipes and his whips, and a hundred other trifles, which, when he counted them up, had cost heaps of money. Some of them, alas19! were not even paid for, which was the worst sting of all. Ben had been in debt before now, and cared little enough, perhaps too little for it. He had felt the weight of wealth behind him, and that he could pay his arrears20 without much difficulty when he chose to make the effort. But now everything was changed. It is only when debt becomes a necessity that it is a burden. He felt it now, dragging him down, as it were staring into his face, hemming21 him in. Debt for bits of china, and pretty follies22 of furniture! And now, for aught he could tell, he might not have enough for daily bread. To be sure, a man could not starve upon two hundred a-year; but there are such different ways of starving. And his whole first year’s income would not be nearly enough to pay off his rent, and his man, and the expenses of the break-up, not to speak of tradesmen.{v.1-53} Such reflections were so novel to him that he sat down again in despair, with his brain going round and round. He did not even know how to set about being ruined. There was nobody in town likely to buy his pretty things at this time of the year, or to take his rooms off his hands. He had come up fully15 resolved to be sufficient to himself, to manage everything himself, and to give no one the opportunity of pity or remark. But it was less easy than he supposed. As for his servant, he had been with him at the Manor, and had heard, or found out, or divined, as servants do, something of what had happened, and was not unprepared for dismissal. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, without hesitation23, when his master spoke24 to him. ‘I hope it’s not that I don’t give satisfaction, sir: I’ve always done my best.’
‘No, no,’ said Ben, with a young man’s unnecessary explanatoriness. ‘I can’t afford now to keep anybody but myself. I am very sorry. It is not that I have any objection to you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the man once more. ‘Of course it’s understood that there’s board-wages, sir, if I’m sent away in a hurry before the end of the month?’
‘Have what you like,’ said Ben, with a little indignation; ‘if that’s all; give me a note exactly of what’s owing to you, and you can take yourself off as soon as you like.’
‘Yes, sir; but it looks pecooliar being sent away so sudden,’ said the fellow standing25 his ground.{v.1-54} ‘Perhaps you would not mind just giving a bit of an explanation to any gentleman as may come about my character. I hope you consider I deserve a good character, sir. Gentlemen, and ‘specially ladies, is very apt to ask, “How was it as you was turned away?”’
‘You may go now,’ said Ben, coldly. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. I’ll give you your money as soon as you’re ready to go.’
‘But my character, sir?’ insisted the man. Ben, in his wrath26, seized his hat and went off, leaving Morris holding the door open with these words on his lips. He was unreasonably27 angry in spite of his better judgment28. The very first man he had spoken to after his downfall was so entirely29 indifferent to his concerns, so wrapped up in his own! What were Morris’s board-wages or miserable30 character in comparison to Ben’s overthrow31 and changed existence? He went out angry—in a passion, as Morris said not without reason. Naturally the man had his own theory of the whole matter, and held it for certain that his master had been going to the bad, or why should his father disinherit him?—to which question, indeed, it was difficult to make any answer. Ben’s next errand was to a fashionable auctioneer and house-agent, who was very civil, and yet very different from what he had been when the young man of fashion took his rooms. ‘Going abroad, sir?’ Mr. Robins32 said, with a certain scrutiny33 which{v.1-55} made the young fellow, for the first time in his life, feel himself a doubtful character, required to give an account of himself.
‘Perhaps. I can’t say,’ he answered; ‘but these rooms have become too expensive for me, anyhow, and I want to sell my things.’
‘The worst possible time to do it,’ said the auctioneer, shaking his head. ‘There is not a soul in town, sir, as you know as well as I do. Even in our humble12 way, we are going to the country ourselves. They would not fetch a third of their proper price now.’
‘But I want the money,’ said Ben; ‘and I can’t keep up the place. I must get rid of them now.’
‘I can take your orders, of course, sir,’ said Mr. Robins, deprecatingly; ‘but it will be at a frightful34 sacrifice. Nobody but dealers35 will look at them now,—and we all know what dealers are. Buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest,—a fine maxim36, sir, for trade; but ruinous for fancy articles, when you have to push them to a sale, and there’s nobody to buy.’
‘I can’t help myself,’ said Ben, abruptly37. He had almost said, ‘What would you advise me to do?’ But his mind was in such a restless state, that the pendulum38 had veered39 back again to its first throb40 of obstinacy41 ere he could say the other words. And the orders were taken accordingly. Then he went to his club with the listlessness of a man who does not{v.1-56} know what to do. What was he to do? Supposing he could make his club his home, with a bedroom somewhere to sleep in, and the Manor and his friends to fall back upon—would that do? Probably he could manage it, even on his small income, by dint42 of economy,—that unknown quality to which ignorance gave a certain appearance of facility. With no servant, no expensive habits, no entertainment of friends, he might be able to manage. This was what some one of his spiritual enemies whispered in Ben’s ear. The next moment he jumped up and began to walk about the long vacant room,—of which at the moment he was the sole occupant,—with sudden agitation43. His idle, pleasant life had come natural to him in the past; but already, though so little time had elapsed, it was no longer natural. To spend seven years of his existence planning how to save shillings and keep up appearances,—to live, he a young man at the height of his strength and powers, the life of a genteel old maid! That was impossible. A day-labourer would be better, he said to himself. But it is so easy to say that. He knew well enough that he could not be a day-labourer; and what could he be?
He had come thus far in his uncomfortable thoughts when somebody struck him familiarly on the shoulder, with an exclamation44 of surprise. ‘You here!’ said the new-comer. ‘You in London when there is nobody in it, Ben Renton! You are the last fellow I expected to see.{v.1-57}’
‘What, Hillyard!’ said Ben, though his cordiality was languid in comparison. ‘Back so soon? Have you made your fortune already?’ And as he spoke it occurred to him that going to Australia must be the thing to do.
‘Not much of that,’ said his friend, who was very brown and very hairy, and in clothes that would not bear examination. ‘That is easier said than done. I have spent all I had, which comes to about the same thing; and now I’ve come back to try my luck at home,—my ill-luck, I should say.’
‘Then it is no good going to Australia,’ was the thought that passed, rapid as the light, through Ben’s mind. ‘But I thought all sorts of people made fortunes at the diggings, or in the bush, or whatever you call it,’ was what he said.
‘Yes, that’s how one deceives one’s self,’ said the adventurer. ‘One throws everything together in a lump, and one thinks it’s all right; whereas it’s all wrong, you know. If I had been brought up to be a shepherd, I might have got on in the bush; and if I had been brought up a bricklayer’s labourer, I might have succeeded at the diggings; but I was not, you see. And even in these elevated branches of industry the requirements are quite different. Let us have some dinner, Renton. It’s great luck to find any one to hob-and-nob with, especially such a fellow as you.’
‘Dinner!’ said Ben amazed, looking at his watch. ‘Why, it’s only three o’clock.{v.1-58}’
Upon which Mr. Hillyard burst into a great laugh. ‘I forgot I was back in civilisation,’ he said; ‘but I must have something to eat, whatever you call it. Yes, here I am, no better than when I went away. I believe it’s all luck, after all. Some fellows get on like a house on fire. Some are thankful for bread and cheese all their lives. Some, if they work themselves sick, don’t get that. What’s the good of making one’s self miserable?—it’s all fate.’
‘I suppose one must live, however, in spite of fate,’ said Ben, not caring much what were the first words that came to his lips, nor with any positive meaning in what he said.
‘Oh, I never was one of your tragical45 heroes,’ said Hillyard; ‘better luck next time is always my motto; though, mind you, I’m not so sure that one is bound to live in spite of everything. I don’t see the necessity. If there’s anything better to go to, why shouldn’t one have a try for it? And if there isn’t, what does it matter? It’s a man’s own responsibility. If he likes to face it, let him, and don’t abuse the poor devil as if he were a pickpocket46. Why, there was a fellow the other day,—and, by the way, I am taking his things home to his mother, which is a nice commission,—who squared off his fate with a bullet, by my side. I must say, I can’t blame him for one. Things could not well be worse up there,’ said this savage47 philosopher, waving his hand vaguely48 towards the roof, ‘than they were down below. But{v.1-59} this is a queer sort of talk when one has just come home, and to a favourite of fortune like you.’
‘I am not much of a favourite of fortune just now,’ said Ben, with a certain longing49 for human sympathy. ‘But I’ll tell you about that afterwards. Now you have come home, are you going to stay in town, or what do you mean to do?’
The question was asked not quite in good faith, for it glided50 vaguely across Ben’s mind that the plans of a man who had long lived on his wits might suggest something for his own aid; and the answer was not more ingenuous51, for it naturally occurred to Hillyard that his friend, who had the liberal hospitality of a great country-house to fall back on, and the probability of a shooting-box somewhere of his own, might intend to offer him an invitation, and so bridge over some portion of those autumn months, which were of so little use to a man who is looking for something to do.
‘I shall get along, I suppose, in the old way,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I’ll serve up my Australian experiences for the papers, perhaps; or do them philosophically52, with all their chances and dangers for intending emigrants53, for the “Monthly,” if I can get hold of Rathbone; or go in as a coach. I flatter myself I could give the Colonial Secretary a hint or two if I could get at him. A little tall talk hurts no one. The fact is, I don’t know what I am going to be about,’ he added with a sigh. ‘Living on{v.1-60} one’s wits is hard work enough. I have kept up nothing of old days except the club, which is always a kind of haven54; though, I daresay, that sounds strange to you.’
‘Not now,’ said Ben, with a contraction in his throat. ‘I am as poor as you, and more helpless. I rather think I am good for nothing. I suppose I shall get used to it in time, but it’s not a pleasant feeling as yet.’ And then he told his companion all with a curious effusion, which did not surprise Hillyard more than it did himself. He had resolved to say nothing to anyone,—to lock up his troubles in his own breast, and seek no advice even from his oldest friends; and here he was unbosoming himself to the first-comer,—a man whom he had not seen for two years, and who was by no means one of his close friends. He was not aware, poor fellow, what necessity of nature it was that moved him. He justified55 himself afterwards by the reflection that Hillyard was, so to speak, a stranger and safe confidant,—that there was nobody in town to whom he could repeat it,—that he was a brother in misfortune, shifty and full of expedients56, and might help him. But all these were after-thoughts. His real impulse was the mere57 instinct of nature to relieve himself from the secret pressure of a burden which was more than his unaccustomed shoulders could bear.
Hillyard was much amazed and mystified by the{v.1-61} strange tale, and could with difficulty be brought to believe it. But he was very sympathetic and consolatory58 when his first incredulity was got over. ‘After all, it’s only for seven years,’ he said; ‘that is not so very much in a life. If I knew I should come into a good estate at forty,—ay, or at fifty,—I shouldn’t mind the struggle now; and you will be only a little over thirty. It’s nothing,—it’s absolutely nothing. You’re down just now, and taken by surprise, and out of spirits with what’s happened, and all that. But things will look better presently. You think it’s hard to struggle and work, and never know where you’re to get to-morrow’s dinner,’ said the adventurer, with a certain light kindling59 in his eyes; ‘but sometimes it gives a wonderful relish60 to life. You enjoy the dinner all the better. It’s more exciting than fox-hunting, or even elephant-hunting; and what does a fellow want in life but lots of excitement and movement and stir? As long,’ he added, after a pause, ‘as your strength lasts, and your mind, and your spirit, it is all very well. I don’t care for tame well-being61, with no risks in it. It will be nothing but fun for you.’
‘I don’t see the fun,’ said Ben; but certainly the dark clouds over him were moved by the suggestion. ‘And I have not your knowledge or resources. Absolutely, if you’ll believe me, I have not an idea what to do.{v.1-62}’
‘So I should think,’ said Hillyard. ‘It would be odd if you had, plunged62 into it like this, without a moment’s notice. Lie on your oars63, my dear fellow, for a day or two, and come about with me. We may hit on something, you know; and, at all events, a few days’ waiting can do you no harm.’
By this time his meal had been served to him, and its arrival interrupted the talk. Ben rose and walked away to a distant window, already feeling some qualms64 of self-disgust at what he had done. As he stood looking out upon the flood of human beings, each absorbed in his own interests, he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, how utterly65 unimportant to the world was his individual comfort, or that of any one mortal creature. He was no more to the crowd, not so much, as one drop of perfume or of bitterness would be to the pleasant Thames as it floated past his father’s house,—not near so much. The sea would be a juster emblem,—that sea which swallowed up rivers and showed no increase, which threw forth66 its lavish67 atoms to the air and knew no diminution68. He had been an important personage up to this moment, even in his own opinion, though he had always known theoretically the insignificance69 of the individual. But he knew it now with a certainty beyond theory. When Hillyard and he were driven against the rocks, who would know the difference or be any the wiser? He who a month ago would have compassionately{v.1-63} taken Hillyard home with him, to give him a little time to consider, was now, under the adventurer’s guidance, a more hopeless adventurer than Hillyard. Ben’s thoughts were not pleasant as he stood and looked out, watching the stream,—deep, no doubt, with human passion, sorrow, and perplexity, but so inexpressive on the surface,—which kept flowing on like water, as perennial70 and unbroken. His own life flitted before him like a dream as he stood looking out,—so useless, and luxurious71, and free; so care-laden and overwhelmed by storms; so vague and doubtful in the future. Had he even known what would await him in the end his fate would have been less hard. Perhaps his very efforts to work out the time of his probation72 might secure the loss of his birthright. He might find that he worked the wrong way, that he had missed the end, even after his best exertions73. A funeral procession was making its way at the moment up the busy street, to which it gave so strange a moral. And Ben turned away his head and sat down, sickened by the sight of the slow hearse with its waving plumes74. To think he should have been defrauded75 even of his natural grief, even of the softening76 of his heart, which should have come over his father’s grave! Was the inmate77 of that other coffin78 leaving a wrong behind him, casting a stone with his dead hands to crush his children? This, no doubt, was a harsh way of taking his trouble; but{v.1-64} there are men to whom all crosses come harshly, and Ben Renton was one of them. Hillyard, satisfied and comfortable, with a slight flush of bodily well-being on his face, came up to him as he mused79, with a glass of sherry in his hand.
‘Not bad wine,’ he said, with a sigh of comfort, ‘and not a bad dinner, I can tell you, to a man fresh from the backwoods. Ben, I’ve got a wretched thing to do, and I want you to go with me. You’re out of spirits, at any rate, and it will do you no harm.’
‘What is it?’ said Ben.
‘I am going to see the mother of the poor fellow I told you of. She’s a widow living somewhere about Manchester Square. I rather think he was the only son. He made a mull of it at some of those confounded examinations, and rushed out to Australia in despair; and all went wrong with him there, and he squared it off, as I told you. I have to take her some of his things. You look more like the kind of thing, with your black clothes and your grave face, than I do. Stand by me, Ben, and I’ll stand by you.’
‘As you please,’ said Ben, languidly. Already the familiarity of his new-old friend jarred on him a little. But he did not care what he did at that moment; he did not much care even what became of him. He had nothing to do and nobody to see. It was as easy to go to Manchester Square as anywhere else, though the locality was not delectable80. He suf{v.1-65}fered Hillyard to take his arm and draw him along, without much interest one way or another, not seeing how his compliance81 with such a trifling82 request could particularly affect even the hour of time which it occupied, much less his character or his life.
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1
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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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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contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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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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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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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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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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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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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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43
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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44
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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45
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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46
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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47
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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48
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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49
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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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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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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