Christian1 Vellacott soon descended2 the dingy4 stairs and joined the westward-wending throng5 in the Strand6. In the midst of the crowd he was alone, as townsmen soon learn to be. The passing faces, the roar of traffic, and the thousand human possibilities of interest around him in no way disturbed his thoughts. In his busy brain the traffic of thought, passing and repassing, crossing and recrossing, went on unaffected by outward things. A modern poet has confessed that his muse7 loves the pavement—a bold confession8, but most certainly true. Why does talent gravitate to cities? Because there it works its best—because friction9 necessarily produces brilliancy. Nature is a great deceiver; she draws us on to admire her insinuating10 charms, and in the contemplation of them we lose our energy.
Christian had been born and bred in cities. The din3 and roar of life was to him what the voice of the sea is to the sailor. In the midst of crowded humanity he was in his element, and as he walked rapidly along he made his way dexterously11 through the narrow places without thinking of it. While meditating12 deeply he was by no means absorbed. In his active life there had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, no leisure for dreaming. He could not afford to be absent-minded. Numbers of men are so situated13. Their minds are required at all moments, in full working order, clear and rapid—ready, shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go whithersoever they may be called.
Although he was going to the saddest home that ever hung like a mill-stone round a young neck, Christian wasted no time. The glory of the western sky lay ruddily over the river as he emerged from the small streets behind Chelsea and faced the broad placid14 stream. Presently he stopped opposite the door of a small red-brick house, which formed the corner of a little terrace facing the river and a quiet street running inland from it.
With a latch-key he admitted himself noiselessly—almost surreptitiously. Once inside he closed the door without unnecessary sound and stood for some moments in the dark little entrance-hall, apparently15 listening.
Presently a voice broke the silence of the house. A querulous, high-pitched voice, quavering with the palsy of extreme age. The sound of it was no new thing for Christian Vellacott. To-night his lips gave a little twist of pain as he heard it. The door of the room on the ground floor was open, and he could hear the words distinctly enough.
“You know, Mrs. Strawd, we have a nephew, but he is always gadding16 about, I am sure; he has been a terrible affliction to us. A frothy, good-for-nothing boy—that is what he is. We have not set eyes on him for a month or more. Why, I almost forget his name!”
“Christian, that is his name—a most inappropriate one, I am sure,” chimed in another voice, almost identical in tone. “Why Walter should have given him such a name I cannot tell. Ah! sister Judith, things are different from what they used to be when we were younger!”
The frothy one outside the door seemed in no great degree impressed by these impartial17 views upon himself, though the pained look was still upon his lips as he turned to hang up his hat.
“He's coming home to-night, though, Miss Judith,” said another voice, in a coaxing18, wheedling19 tone, such as one uses towards petulant20 children. “He's coming home to-night, sure enough!” It was a pleasant voice, with a strong, capable ring about it. One instinctively21 felt that the possessor of it was a woman to be relied upon at a crisis.
“Is he now—is he now?” said the first speaker reflectively. “Well, I am sure it is time he did. We will just give him a lesson, eh, sister Hester?—we will give him a lesson, shall we not?”
At this moment the door opened, and a little woman, quiet though somewhat anxious looking, came out. She evinced no surprise at the sight of the good-for-nothing nephew in the dimly-lighted passage, greeting him in a low voice.
“How have they been to-day, nurse?” he asked.
“Oh, they have been well enough, Master Christian,” was the reply, in a cheerful undertone.
“Aunt Judith has 'most got rid of her cold. But they've been very trying, sir—just like children, as wilful22 as could be—the same question over and over again till I was fit to cry. They are quieter now, but—but it's you they're abusing now, Master Chris!”
The young fellow looked down into the little woman's face. His eyes were sympathetic enough, but he said nothing. With a little nod and a suppressed sigh he turned away from her. He laid his hand upon the door and then stopped.
“As soon as you have brought up tea,” he said, looking back, “I will take them for the evening, and you can have your rest as usual.”
From the room came, at intervals23, the ring of silver, as if some one were moving the spoons and forks from the table. Christian waited until these sounds had ceased before he entered.
“Good evening, Aunt Judith. Good evening, Aunt Hester,” he said cheerily.
They were exactly alike, these two old ladies; the same marvellously wrinkled features and silver hair; voluminous caps and white woollen shawls identical. With exaggerated marks of respect he kissed each by turn on her withered24 cheek.
“May I sit down, Aunt Judith?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer drew a chair towards the fireplace, where a small fire burnt though it was the month of August.
“Yes, Nephew Vellacott, you may take a seat,” replied Aunt Judith with chill severity, “and you may also tell us where you have been during the last four weeks.”
Poor old human wreck25! Only ten hours earlier her nephew had bid her farewell for the day. Christian began an explanation in a weary, mechanical way, like an actor tired of the part assigned to him, but the old ladies would not listen. Aunt Hester interrupted him promptly26.
“Your shallow excuses are wasted on us, Nephew Vellacott. You have doubtless been away, enjoying yourself and leaving us—us who support you and deprive ourselves in order to keep a decent coat upon your back—leaving us to the mercy of all the thieves in London. And tell us, pray—what are we to do for spoons and forks to-night?”
“What?” exclaimed Christian with perfunctory interest, “have the spoons gone—?” he almost said “again,” but checked himself in time. He turned to look at the table, which had been carefully denuded27 of every piece of silver.
“There, you see!” quavered Aunt Judith triumphantly28; and the two old ladies rubbed their hands, nodded their palsied old heads at each other, and chuckled29 in utter delight at their nephew's discomfiture30, until Aunt Judith was attacked by a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to be tearing her to pieces. Christian watched her with the ready keenness of a sick-nurse.
“How did it occur?” he asked, when the old lady had recovered.
“I am sure!” panted Aunt Judith triumphantly.
“I am sure!” echoed Aunt Hester.
They allowed their nephew's remorse33 full scope, and then proceeded laboriously34 to extract the missing articles from the side of Aunt Judith's arm-chair. This farce35 was rehearsed every night, nearly word for word. A pleasant recreation for an intellectual man, assuredly. The only relief to the monotony was the occasional loss of a spoon in the crevice36 between the arm and the seat of Aunt Judith's chair. Then followed such a fumbling37 and a “dear me-ing” until the worthless nephew was perforce called to the rescue, to fish and probe with a paper-knife till the lost treasure was recovered.
“We only wished, Nephew Vellacott, to show you what might have happened during your unconscionable absence. Servants are only too ready to talk to the first comer of their mistresses' wealth and position. They have no discrimination.” said Aunt Judith in a reproving tone. The old ladies were very fond of boasting of their wealth and position, whereas, in reality, their nephew was the only barrier between them and the workhouse.
“Well, Aunt Judith,” replied Christian patiently, “I will try and stay at home more in future. But you know it is time I was doing something to earn my own livelihood38 now. I cannot exist on your kindness all my life!”
He had learnt to humour these two silly old women. During the two years which had just passed he had gradually recognised the utter futility39 of endeavouring to make them realise the true state of their affairs. They spoke40 grandiloquently41 of the family solicitor42: a man who had been in his grave for nearly a quarter of a century. It was simply impossible to instil43 into their minds any fact whatever, and such facts as had established themselves there were permanent. They belonged to another generation, and their mode of thought was a remnant of a forgotten and unsatisfactory period. To them Napoleon the First was a living man, Queen Victoria unheard of. The decay of their minds had been slow, and it had been Christian Vellacott's painful task to watch its steady progress. Day by day he had followed the gradual failing of each sense and power.
There is something pathetic about the decay of a mind which has been driven to death by constant work, but there is a compensating44 thought to alleviate45 the sadness. It may rattle46 and grow loose, like some worn-out engine, where the friction presses; but it will work till it collapses47 totally, and some of the work achieved is good and permanent. It is bound to be so. Infinitely48 sadder is the sight of a mind which is falling to pieces by reason of the rust49 that has eaten into its very core. For rust must needs mean idleness—and no human intellect need be idle. So it had been with these two old ladies. Born in a wofully unintellectual age, they had never left a certain groove50 in life. When their brother married Christian Vellacott's grandmother, they had left his house in Honiton to go and live in Bodmin upon a limited but sufficient income. These “sufficient incomes” are a curse; they do not allow of charity and make no call for labour.
When Christian Vellacott arrived in England, an orphan51 with no great wealth, he made it his first duty to visit the only living relations he possessed52. He was just in time to save them, literally53, from starvation. It was obvious that he could not make a literary livelihood in Bodmin, so he made a home for the two old wrecks54 of humanity in London. Their means, like their minds, were simply exhausted55. Aunt Judith was ninety-three; Aunt Hester ninety-one. During that vast blank (for blank it was, so far as their lives were concerned) stretching away back into a perspective of time which few around them could gauge—they had never been separated for one day. Like two apples they had grown side by side, until their very contact had engendered56 disease—a slow, deadly, creeping rot, finding its source at the point of contact, reaching its goal at the heart of each. They had existed thus with terrible longevity—lived a mere57 animal life of sleeping and eating, such as hundreds of women are living around us now.
“Of course, you must learn to make your daily bread, Nephew Vellacott!” answered Aunt Hester. “The desire does you credit; but you should be careful into what society you go without us. Girls are very designing, and many a one would like to marry a nephew of mine—eh, Judith?”
“Yes, that they would,” replied the old lady. “The minxes know that they might do worse than catch the nephew of Judith and Hester Vellacott!”
“Look at us,” continued Aunt Hester, drawing up her shrunken old form with a touch of pride. “Look at us? We have always avoided marriage, and we are very nice and happy, I am sure!”
She waited for a confirmation58 of this bold statement, but Christian was not listening. He was leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees, gazing into the fire. He was recalling the conversation which had passed in the little room in the Strand. Could he leave these two helpless old creatures. Could he get away from it all for a little time—away from the maddening prattle59 of unguided tongues, from the dread60 monotony of hopeless watching? He knew that he was wasting his manhood, neglecting his intellectual opportunities, and endangering his career; but his course of duty was marked out with terrible distinctness. He never saw the pathos61 of it, as a woman would have seen it, gathering62 perhaps some slight alleviation63 from the sight. It never entered his thoughts to complain, and he never conceived the idea of drawing comparisons between his position and that of other young men who, instead of being slaves to their relatives, made very good use of them. He merely went on doing his obvious duty and striving not to look forward too eagerly to a release at some future period.
Fortunately, Mrs. Strawd was not long in bringing in the simple evening meal; and the attention of the old ladies was at once turned to the mystery hidden beneath the dish-cover. What was it, and would there be enough for Nephew Vellacott?
Deftly64, Christian poured out the tea. Two cups very weak and one stronger. Then two thin slices of crustless bread had to be buttered. This operation required great judgment65 and impartiality66.
“Excuse me, Nephew Vellacott!” said Aunt Judith, with dangerous severity. “Is that first slice intended for Aunt Hester? It appears to me that the butter is very thick—much thicker than on the second, which is doubtless intended for me!”
“Do you think so, Aunt Judith?” asked Christian in a voice purposely loud in order to drown Aunt Hester's remonstrance67. “Then I will take a little off!” He passed the knife harmlessly over the faulty slice, and laid the two side by side upon a plate. Then the old ladies promptly held a survey on them—that declared to be more heavily buttered being awarded to Aunt Judith in recognition of her seniority.
With similar fruitful topics of conversation the meal was pleasantly despatched. The turn of Dick and Mick followed thereon. Dick, the property of Aunt Judith, was a canary of thoughtful temperament68. The part he played in the domestic economy of the small household was a contemplative rather than an active one. Mick, Aunt Hester's bird, was of a more lively nature. He had, as a rule, something to say upon all subjects—and said it.
Now Aunt Hester, in her inmost heart, loved a silent bird, and secretly coveted69 Dick, but as Mick was her property, and Dick the silent was owned by Aunt Judith, she never lost an opportunity of enlarging upon the stupidity and uselessness of silent birds. Aunt Judith, on the other hand, admired a lively and talkative canary; consequently she was weighed down with the conviction that her sister's bird was the superior article. Altogether, birds as a topic of conversation were best avoided. Dick and Mick were housed in cages of similar build—indeed, most things were strictly70 in duplicate in the whole household. Every evening Christian brought the cages, and Aunt Judith and Aunt Hester carefully placed within the wires a small piece of bread-and-butter, which Nurse Strawd as carefully removed, untouched, the next morning.
When the birds' wants had been attended to, it was Christian's duty to settle the old ladies comfortably in their respective arm-chairs. This he did tenderly and cleverly as a woman, but it was not a pleasant sight to look upon. The man, with his lean, strong face, long jaw71, and prominent chin, was so obviously out of place. These peaceful duties were never meant for such as he. His somewhat closely-set eyes were not such as wax tender over drowning flies, for even in repose72 they were somewhat direct and stern in their gaze. In fact, Christian Vellacott was so visibly created for strife73 and the forefront of life's battle, that it was almost painful to see him fulfilling a more peaceful avocation74.
As a rule he devoted75 himself to the amusement of his aged76 relatives for an hour or so; but this evening he sat down to the piano at once, with the deliberate intention of playing them off to sleep. Ten o'clock was their hour for retiring, and before that they would not move, although they dozed77 in their chairs.
He was no mean musician, this big West-countryman, with a true ear and a touch peculiarly light and tender for a man. He played gently and drowsily78 for some time, half forgetting that he was not alone in the room. Presently he turned round, letting his fingers rest on the keys. Aunt Judith was asleep, and Aunt Hester made a sign for him to go on playing. Five minutes more, gradually toned down till the very sounds seemed to fall asleep, and Aunt Hester was peacefully slumbering79. Silently the player rose, and crossing the room, he resumed his seat at the table from which the white cloth had not yet been removed. Pen, ink, and paper were within reach, and in a few minutes he had written the following note:—
“DEAR SIDNEY,—May I retract80 the letter I wrote yesterday and accept your invitation? I have been requested to take a holiday, and, rather than offend the powers that be, have given in. I can think of no happier way of spending it than in seeing you all again and recalling the jolly old Prague days. With kind regards, yours ever,
“CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT.”
He folded the note and slipped it into an envelope, which he addressed to “Sidney Carew, Esq., St. Mary Western, Dorset.” Then he slipped noiselessly out of the room and upstairs to where Mrs. Strawd had a small sitting-room81 of her own. The little woman heard his footstep on the old creaking stairs, and opened the door of her room before he reached it.
“If I went away for three weeks,” he said, “could you do without me?”
“Of course I could,” replied the little woman readily. “Just you go away and take a holiday, Master Christian. You need it sorely, that I know. You do indeed. We shall get on splendidly without you. I'll just have my sister to come and stay, same as I did when you had to go to the Paris House of Parliament.”
“I have not had much of a holiday, you see, for two years now!”
“Of course you haven't, and you want it. It's only human nature—and you a young man that ought to be in the open air all day. For an old woman like me it's different. We're made differently by the good God on purpose, I think.”
“Well, then, if your sister comes it must be understood, nurse, that I make the same arrangement with her as exists with you. She must simply be a duplicate of you—you understand?”
The little woman laughed, lightly enough.
“Oh, yes, Master Christian, that is all right. But you need not have troubled about that. She never would have thought of such a thing as wages, I'm sure!”
“No,” replied he gravely, “I know she would not, but it will be better, I think, to have it understood beforehand. Gratitude82 is a very nice thing to work for, but some work is worth more than gratitude. If you are going out for your walk, perhaps you will post this letter.”
Before Christian went to bed that night he held a candle close to the mirror and looked long and hard at his own reflection. There were dark streaks83 under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn84 and dry, his lips colourless. At each temple the bone stood out rather prominently, and the skin was brilliant in its whiteness and reflected the light of the candle. He felt his own pulse. It was beating, at one moment fast and irregular, at the next it was hardly perceptible.
“Yes!” he muttered, with a professional nod—in his training as a journalist he had learnt a little of many sciences—“yes, old Bodery was right.”
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1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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10
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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13
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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15
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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16
gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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17
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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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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grandiloquently
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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47
collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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51
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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54
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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55
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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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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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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83
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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