left me all his money.”
“Every penny,” said the man with the glass eye, and I caught the active pupil looking at me with a touch of offence.
“Even a legacy5 isn’t always a blessing,” he remarked with a sigh, and with an air of philosophical6 resignation he put the red nose and the wiry moustache into his
tankard for a space.
“Perhaps not,” I said.
“He was an author, you see, and he wrote a lot of books.”
“Indeed!”
“That was the trouble of it all.” He stared at me with the available eye, to see if I grasped his statement, then averted7 his face a little and produced a toothpick.
406“You see,” he said, smacking9 his lips after a pause, “it was like this. He was my uncle—my maternal10 uncle. And he had—what shall I call it?—a weakness for
writing edifying11 literature. Weakness is hardly the word—downright mania12 is nearer the mark. He’d been librarian in a Polytechnic13, and as soon as the money came to
him he began to indulge his ambition. It’s a simply extraordinary and incomprehensible thing to me. Here was a man of thirty-seven suddenly dropped into a perfect
pile of gold, and he didn’t go—not a day’s bust14 on it. One would think a chap would go and get himself dressed a bit decent—say a couple of dozen pairs of trousers
at a West End tailor’s; but he never did. You’d hardly believe it, but when he died he hadn’t even a gold watch. It seems wrong for people like that to have money.
All he did was just to take a house, and order in pretty nearly five tons of books and ink and paper, and set to writing edifying literature as hard as ever he could
write. I can’t understand it! But he did. The money came to him, curiously15 enough, through a maternal uncle of his, unexpected like, when he was seven-and-thirty. My
mother, it happened, was his only relation in the wide, wide world, except some second cousins of his. And I was her only son. You follow all that? The second cousins
had one only son, too; but they brought him to see the old man too soon. He was rather a spoilt youngster, 407was this son of theirs, and directly he set eyes on my
uncle, he began bawling16 out as hard as he could. ‘Take ’im away—er,’ he says, ‘take ’im away,’ and so did for himself entirely17. It was pretty straight sailing,
you’d think, for me, eh? And my mother, being a sensible, careful woman, settled the business in her own mind long before he did.
“He was a curious little chap, was my uncle, as I remember him. I don’t wonder at the kid being scared. Hair, just like these Japanese dolls they sell, black and
straight and stiff all round the brim and none in the middle, and below, a whitish kind of face and rather large dark grey eyes moving about behind his spectacles. He
used to attach a great deal of importance to dress, and always wore a flapping overcoat and a big-rimmed felt hat of a most extraordinary size. He looked a rummy
little beggar, I can tell you. Indoors it was, as a rule, a dirty red flannel18 dressing-gown and a black skull-cap he had. That black skull-cap made him look like the
portraits of all kinds of celebrated19 people. He was always moving about from house to house, was my uncle, with his chair which had belonged to Savage20 Landor, and his
two writing-tables, one of Carlyle’s and the other of Shelley’s, so the dealer21 told him, and the completest portable reference library in England, he said he had,—
and he lugged22 the whole caravan23, now to a house at Down, near Darwin’s old place, then to Reigate, 408near Meredith, then off to Haslemere, then back to Chelsea for a
bit, and then up to Hampstead. He knew there was something wrong with his stuff, but he never knew there was anything wrong with his brains. It was always the air, or
the water, or the altitude, or some tommy-rot like that. ‘So much depends on environment,’ he used to say, and stare at you hard, as if he half-suspected you were
hiding a grin at him somewhere under your face. ‘So much depends on environment to a sensitive mind like mine.’
“What was his name? You wouldn’t know it if I told you. He wrote nothing that any one has ever read—nothing. No one could read it. He wanted to be a great teacher,
he said, and he didn’t know what he wanted to teach any more than a child. So he just blethered at large about Truth and Righteousness, and the Spirit of History, and
all that. Book after book he wrote and published at his own expense. He wasn’t quite right in his head, you know, really; and to hear him go on at the critics—not
because they slated24 him, mind you—he liked that—but because they didn’t take any notice of him at all. ‘What do the nations want?’ he would ask, holding out his
brown old claw. ‘Why, teaching—guidance! They are scattered25 upon the hills like sheep without a shepherd. There is War, and Rumours26 of War, the unlaid Spirit of
Discord27 abroad in the land, Nihilism, Vivisection, Vaccination28, 409Drunkenness, Penury29, Want, Socialistic Error, Selfish Capital! Do you see the clouds, Ted8?’—my
name, you know—‘Do you see the clouds lowering over the land? and behind it all—the Mongol waits!’ He was always very great on Mongols, and the Spectre of
Socialism, and such-like things.
“Then out would come his finger at me, and, with his eyes all afire and his skull-cap askew30, he would whisper: ‘And here am I. What do I want? Nations to teach.
Nations! I say it with all modesty31, Ted, I could. I would guide them; nay32! but I will guide them to a safe haven33, to the land of Righteousness, flowing with milk and
honey.’
“That’s how he used to go on. Ramble34, rave1 about the nations, and righteousness, and that kind of thing. Kind of mincemeat of Bible and blethers. From fourteen up to
three-and-twenty, when I might have been improving my mind, my mother used to wash me and brush my hair (at least in the earlier years of it), with a nice parting down
the middle, and take me, once or twice a week, to hear this old lunatic jabber35 about things he had read of in the morning papers, trying to do it as much like Carlyle
as he could; and I used to sit according to instructions, and look intelligent and nice, and pretend to be taking it all in. Afterwards, I used to go of my own free
will, out of a regard for the legacy. I was the only person 410that used to go and see him. He wrote, I believe, to every man who made the slightest stir in the world,
sending him a copy or so of his books, and inviting36 him to come and talk about the nations to him; but half of them didn’t answer, and none ever came. And when the
girl let you in—she was an artful bit of goods, that girl—there were heaps of letters on the hall-seat waiting to go off, addressed to Prince Bismark, the President
of the United States, and such-like people. And one went up the staircase and along the cobwebby passage,—the housekeeper37 drank like fury, and his passages were
always cobwebby,—and found him at last, with books turned down all over the room, and heaps of torn paper on the floor, and telegrams and newspapers littered about,
and empty coffee-cups and half-eaten bits of toast on the desk and the mantel. You’d see his back humped up, and his hair would be sticking out quite straight between
the collar of that dressing-gown thing and the edge of the skull-cap.
“‘A moment!’ he would say. ‘A moment!’ over his shoulder. ‘The mot juste, you know, Ted, le mot juste. Righteous thought righteously expressed—Aah!—
concatenation. And now, Ted,’ he’d say, spinning round in his study chair, ‘how’s Young England?’ That was his silly name for me.
“Well, that was my uncle, and that was how he talked—to me, at any rate. With others about 411he seemed a bit shy. And he not only talked to me, but he gave me his
books, books of six hundred pages or so, with cock-eyed headings, ‘The Shrieking38 Sisterhood,’ ‘The Behemoth of Bigotry,’ ‘Crucibles and Cullenders,’ and so on.
All very strong, and none of them original. The very last time but one that I saw him he gave me a book. He was feeling ill even then, and his hand shook and he was
despondent39. I noticed it because I was naturally on the look-out for those little symptoms. ‘My last book, Ted,’ he said. ‘My last book, my boy; my last word to the
deaf and hardened nations;’ and I’m hanged if a tear didn’t go rolling down his yellow old cheek. He was regular crying because it was so nearly over, and he hadn’
t only written about fifty-three books of rubbish. ‘I’ve sometimes thought, Ted—’ he said, and stopped.
“‘Perhaps I’ve been a bit hasty and angry with this stiff-necked generation. A little more sweetness, perhaps, and a little less blinding light. I’ve sometimes
thought—I might have swayed them. But I’ve done my best, Ted.’
“And then, with a burst, for the first and last time in his life he owned himself a failure. It showed he was really ill. He seemed to think for a minute, and then he
spoke40 quietly and low, as sane41 and sober as I am now. ‘I’ve been a fool, Ted,’ he said. ‘I’ve been flapping nonsense all my life. Only He who readeth the 412heart
knows whether this is anything more than vanity. Ted, I don’t. But He knows, He knows, and if I have done foolishly and vainly, in my heart—in my heart—’
“Just like that he spoke, repeating himself, and he stopped quite short and handed the book to me, trembling. Then the old shine came back into his eye. I remember it
all fairly well, because I repeated it and acted it to my old mother when I got home, to cheer her up a bit. ‘Take this book and read it,’ he said. ‘It’s my last
word, my very last word. I’ve left all my property to you, Ted, and may you use it better than I have done.’ And then he fell a-coughing.
“I remember that quite well even now, and how I went home cock-a-hoop, and how he was in bed the next time I called. The housekeeper was downstairs drunk, and I
fooled about—as a young man will—with the girl in the passage before I went to him. He was sinking fast. But even then his vanity clung to him.
“‘Have you read it?’ he whispered.
“‘Sat up all night reading it,’ I said in his ear to cheer him. ‘It’s the last,’ said I, and then, with a memory of some poetry or other in my head, ‘but it’s
the bravest and best.’
“He smiled a little and tried to squeeze my hand as a woman might do, and left off squeezing in the middle, and lay still. ‘The bravest and the best,’ said I again,
seeing it pleased him. But he didn’t 413answer. I heard the girl giggle42 outside the door, for occasionally we’d had just a bit of innocent laughter, you know, at his
ways. I looked at his face, and his eyes were closed, and it was just as if somebody had punched in his nose on either side. But he was still smiling. It’s queer to
think of—he lay dead, lay dead there, an utter failure, with the smile of success on his face.
“That was the end of my uncle. You can imagine me and my mother saw that he had a decent funeral. Then, of course, came the hunt for the will. We began decent and
respectful at first, and before the day was out we were ripping chairs, and smashing bureau panels, and sounding walls. Every hour we expected those others to come in.
We asked the housekeeper, and found she’d actually witnessed a will—on an ordinary half-sheet of notepaper it was written, and very short, she said—not a month ago.
The other witness was the gardener, and he bore her out word for word. But I’m hanged if there was that or any other will to be found. The way my mother talked must
have made him turn in his grave. At last a lawyer at Reigate sprang one on us that had been made years ago during some temporary quarrel with my mother. I’m blest if
that wasn’t the only will to be discovered anywhere, and it left every penny he possessed43 to that ‘Take ’im away’ youngster of his second cousin’s—a chap 414who
’d never had to stand his talking not for one afternoon of his life.”
The man with the glass eye stopped.
“I thought you said—” I began.
“Half a minute,” said the man with the glass eye. “I had to wait for the end of the story till this very morning, and I was a blessed sight more interested than you
are. You just wait a bit, too. They executed the will, and the other chap inherited, and directly he was one-and-twenty he began to blew it. How he did blew it, to be
sure! He bet, he drank, he got in the papers for this and that. I tell you, it makes me wriggle44 to think of the times he had. He blewed every ha’penny of it before he
was thirty, and the last I heard of him was—Holloway! Three years ago.
“Well, I naturally fell on hard times, because, as you see, the only trade I knew was legacy-cadging. All my plans were waiting over to begin, so to speak, when the
old chap died. I’ve had my ups and downs since then. Just now it’s a period of depression. I tell you frankly45, I’m on the look-out for help. I was hunting round my
room to find something to raise a bit on for immediate46 necessities, and the sight of all those presentation volumes—no one will buy them, not to wrap butter in, even
—well, they annoyed me. I’d promised him not to part with them, and I never kept a promise easier. I let out at them with my boot, and sent them shooting across the
“It was the will. He’d given it me himself in that very last volume of all.”
He folded his arms on the table, and looked sadly with the active eye at his empty tankard. He shook his head slowly, and said softly, “I’d never opened the book,
much more cut a page!” Then he looked up, with a bitter laugh, for my sympathy. “Fancy hiding it there! Eigh? Of all places.”
He began to fish absently for a dead fly with his finger. “It just shows you the vanity of authors,” he said, looking up at me. “It wasn’t no trick of his. He’d
meant perfectly48 fair. He’d really thought I was really going home to read that blessed book of his through. But it shows you, don’t it?”—his eye went down to the
tankard again,—“it shows you, too, how we poor human beings fail to understand one another.”
But there was no misunderstanding the eloquent49 thirst of his eye. He accepted with ill-feigned surprise. He said, in the usual subtle formula, that he didn’t mind if
he did.
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收听单词发音
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1
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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2
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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4
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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5
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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6
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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7
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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8
ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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9
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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10
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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11
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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12
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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13
polytechnic
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| adj.各种工艺的，综合技术的；n.工艺(专科)学校；理工(专科)学校 | |
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14
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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15
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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16
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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17
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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18
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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19
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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20
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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21
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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22
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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23
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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24
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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26
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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27
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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28
vaccination
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| n.接种疫苗，种痘 | |
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29
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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30
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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31
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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32
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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33
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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34
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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35
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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36
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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37
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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38
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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39
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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40
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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41
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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42
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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43
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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44
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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45
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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46
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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47
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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