I know a man who carries in his left-leg trouser pocket a large heavy key ring, on which there are a dozen or more keys of all shapes and sizes. There is a latchkey, and the key of his private office, and the key of his roll-top desk, and the key of his safe deposit box, and a key to the little mail box at the front door of his flat (he lives in what is known as a pushbutton apartment house), and a key that does something to his motor car (not being an automobilist, I don't know just what), and a key to his locker1 at the golf club, and keys of various traveling bags and trunks and filing cases, and all the other keys with which a busy man burdens himself. They make a noble clanking against his thigh2 when he walks (he is usually in a hurry), and he draws them out of his pocket with something of an imposing3 gesture when he approaches the ground glass door of his office at ten past nine every morning. Yet sometimes he takes them out and looks at them sadly. They are a mark and symbol of servitude, just as surely as if they had been heated red-hot and branded on his skin.
Not necessarily an unhappy servitude, I hasten to remark, for servitude is not always an unhappy condition. It may be the happiest of conditions, and each of those little metal strips may be regarded as a medal of honor. In fact, my friend does so regard them. He does not think of the key of his roll-top desk as a reminder4 of hateful tasks that must be done willy-nilly, but rather as an emblem5 of hard work that he enjoys and that is worth doing. He does not think of the latchkey as a mandate6 that he must be home by seven o'clock, rain or shine; nor does he think of it as a souvenir of the landlord who must be infallibly paid on the first of the month next ensuing. No, he thinks of the latchkey as a magic wand that admits him to a realm of kindness "whose service is perfect freedom," as say the fine old words in the prayer book. And he does not think of his safe deposit box as a hateful little casket of leases and life insurance policies and contracts and wills, but rather as the place where he has put some of his own past life into voluntary bondage—into Liberty Bondage—at four and a quarter per cent. Yet, however blithely7 he may psychologize these matters, he is wise enough to know that he is not a free man. However content in servitude, he does not blink the fact that it is servitude.
"Upon his will he binds8 a radiant chain," said Joyce Kilmer in a fine sonnet9. However radiant, it is still a chain.
So it is that sometimes, in the lulls10 of telephoning and signing contracts and talking to salesmen and preparing estimates and dictating11 letters "that must get off to-night" and trying to wriggle12 out of serving on the golf club's house committee, my friend flings away his cigar, gets a corncob pipe out of his desk drawer, and contemplates13 his key ring a trifle wistfully. This nubby little tyrant14 that he carries about with him always makes him think of a river in the far Canadian north, a river that he visited once, long ago, before he had built up all the barbed wire of life about his spirit. It was a green lucid15 river that ran in a purposeful way between long fringes of pine trees. There were sandy shelves where he and a fellow canoeist with the good gift of silence built campfires and fried bacon, or fish of their own wooing. The name of that little river (his voice is grave as he recalls it), was the Peace; and it was not necessary to paddle if you didn't feel like it. "The current ran" (it is pathetic to hear him say it) "from four to seven miles an hour."
The tobacco smoke sifts16 and eddies17 into the carefully labeled pigeonholes18 of his desk, and his stenographer19 wonders whether she dare interrupt him to ask whether that word was "priority" or "minority" in the second paragraph of the memo20 to Mr. Ebbsmith. He smells that bacon again; he remembers stretching out on the cool sand to watch the dusk seep21 up from the valley and flood the great clear arch of green-blue sky. He remembers that there were no key rings in his pocket then, no papers, no letters, no engagements to meet Mr. Fonseca at a luncheon22 of the Rotary23 Club to discuss demurrage24. He remembers the clear sparkle of the Peace water in the sunshine, its downward swell25 and slant26 over many a boulder27, its milky28 vexation where it slid among stones. He remembers what he had said to himself then, but had since forgotten, that no matter what wounds and perplexities the world offers, it also offers a cure for each one if we know where to seek it. Suddenly he gets a vision of the whole race of men, campers out on a swinging ball, brothers in the common motherhood of earth. Born out of the same inexplicable29 soil bred to the same problems of star and wind and sun, what absurdity30 of civilization is it that has robbed men of this sense of kinship? Why he himself, he feels, could enter a Bedouin tent or an Eskimo snow-hut and find some bond of union with the inmates31. The other night, he reflects, he saw moving pictures of some Fiji natives, and could read in their genial32 grinning faces the same human impulses he knew in himself. What have men done to cheat themselves of the enjoyment33 of this amazing world? "We've been cheated!" he cries, to the stenographer's horror.
He thinks of his friends, his partners, his employees, of conductors on trains and waiters in lunchrooms and drivers of taxicabs. He thinks, in one amazing flash of realization34, of all the men and women he has ever seen or heard of—how each one nourishes secretly some little rebellion, some dream of a wider, freer life, a life less hampered35, less mean, less material. He thinks how all men yearn36 to cross salt water, to scale peaks, to tramp until weary under a hot sun. He hears the Peace, in its far northern valley, brawling37 among stones, and his heart is very low.
"Mr. Edwards to see you," says the stenographer.
"I'm sorry, sir," says Edwards, "but I've had the offer of another job and I think I shall accept it. It's a good thing for a chap to get a chance--"
My friend slips the key ring back in his pocket.
"What's this?" he says. "Nonsense! When you've got a good job, the thing to do is to keep it. Stick to it, my boy. There's a great future for you here. Don't get any of those fool ideas about changing around from one thing to another."
点击收听单词发音
1 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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2 thigh | |
n.大腿;股骨 | |
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3 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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4 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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5 emblem | |
n.象征,标志;徽章 | |
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6 mandate | |
n.托管地;命令,指示 | |
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7 blithely | |
adv.欢乐地,快活地,无挂虑地 | |
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8 binds | |
v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 );装订;捆绑;(用长布条)缠绕 | |
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9 sonnet | |
n.十四行诗 | |
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10 lulls | |
n.间歇期(lull的复数形式)vt.使镇静,使安静(lull的第三人称单数形式) | |
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11 dictating | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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12 wriggle | |
v./n.蠕动,扭动;蜿蜒 | |
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13 contemplates | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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14 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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15 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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16 sifts | |
v.筛( sift的第三人称单数 );筛滤;细查;详审 | |
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17 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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18 pigeonholes | |
n.鸽舍出入口( pigeonhole的名词复数 );小房间;文件架上的小间隔v.把…搁在分类架上( pigeonhole的第三人称单数 );把…留在记忆中;缓办;把…隔成小格 | |
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19 stenographer | |
n.速记员 | |
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20 memo | |
n.照会,备忘录;便笺;通知书;规章 | |
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21 seep | |
v.渗出,渗漏;n.渗漏,小泉,水(油)坑 | |
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22 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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23 rotary | |
adj.(运动等)旋转的;轮转的;转动的 | |
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24 demurrage | |
n.滞期费,逾期费 | |
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25 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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26 slant | |
v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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27 boulder | |
n.巨砾;卵石,圆石 | |
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28 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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29 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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30 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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31 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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32 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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33 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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34 realization | |
n.实现;认识到,深刻了解 | |
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35 hampered | |
妨碍,束缚,限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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37 brawling | |
n.争吵,喧嚷 | |
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