For two months my sole occupation was avoiding acquaintances; for during that time I did not earn a penny, or buy an article of any kind, or pay my board. I became a very adept5 at “slinking.” I slunk from back street to back street, I slunk away from approaching faces that looked familiar, I slunk to my meals, ate them humbly6 and with a mute apology for every mouthful I robbed my generous landlady7 of, and at midnight, after wanderings that were but slinkings away from cheerfulness and light, I slunk to my bed. I felt meaner, and lowlier and more despicable than the worms. During all this time I had but one piece of money—a silver ten cent piece—and I held to it and would not spend it on any account, lest the consciousness coming strong upon me that I was entirely8 penniless, might suggest suicide. I had pawned9 every thing but the clothes I had on; so I clung to my dime10 desperately11, till it was smooth with handling.
However, I am forgetting. I did have one other occupation beside that of “slinking.” It was the entertaining of a collector (and being entertained by him,) who had in his hands the Virginia banker’s bill for forty-six dollars which I had loaned my schoolmate, the “Prodigal.” This man used to call regularly once a week and dun me, and sometimes oftener. He did it from sheer force of habit, for he knew he could get nothing. He would get out his bill, calculate the interest for me, at five per cent a month, and show me clearly that there was no attempt at fraud in it and no mistakes; and then plead, and argue and dun with all his might for any sum—any little trifle—even a dollar—even half a dollar, on account. Then his duty was accomplished12 and his conscience free. He immediately dropped the subject there always; got out a couple of cigars and divided, put his feet in the window, and then we would have a long, luxurious13 talk about everything and everybody, and he would furnish me a world of curious dunning adventures out of the ample store in his memory. By and by he would clap his hat on his head, shake hands and say briskly:
“Well, business is business—can’t stay with you always!”—and was off in a second.
The idea of pining for a dun! And yet I used to long for him to come, and would get as uneasy as any mother if the day went by without his visit, when I was expecting him. But he never collected that bill, at last nor any part of it. I lived to pay it to the banker myself.
Misery14 loves company. Now and then at night, in out-of-the way, dimly lighted places, I found myself happening on another child of misfortune. He looked so seedy and forlorn, so homeless and friendless and forsaken16, that I yearned17 toward him as a brother. I wanted to claim kinship with him and go about and enjoy our wretchedness together. The drawing toward each other must have been mutual18; at any rate we got to falling together oftener, though still seemingly by accident; and although we did not speak or evince any recognition, I think the dull anxiety passed out of both of us when we saw each other, and then for several hours we would idle along contentedly19, wide apart, and glancing furtively20 in at home lights and fireside gatherings21, out of the night shadows, and very much enjoying our dumb companionship.
Finally we spoke22, and were inseparable after that. For our woes23 were identical, almost. He had been a reporter too, and lost his berth24, and this was his experience, as nearly as I can recollect25 it. After losing his berth he had gone down, down, down, with never a halt: from a boarding house on Russian Hill to a boarding house in Kearney street; from thence to Dupont; from thence to a low sailor den1; and from thence to lodgings26 in goods boxes and empty hogsheads near the wharves27. Then; for a while, he had gained a meagre living by sewing up bursted sacks of grain on the piers28; when that failed he had found food here and there as chance threw it in his way. He had ceased to show his face in daylight, now, for a reporter knows everybody, rich and poor, high and low, and cannot well avoid familiar faces in the broad light of day.
This mendicant29 Blucher—I call him that for convenience—was a splendid creature. He was full of hope, pluck and philosophy; he was well read and a man of cultivated taste; he had a bright wit and was a master of satire30; his kindliness31 and his generous spirit made him royal in my eyes and changed his curb-stone seat to a throne and his damaged hat to a crown.
He had an adventure, once, which sticks fast in my memory as the most pleasantly grotesque32 that ever touched my sympathies. He had been without a penny for two months. He had shirked about obscure streets, among friendly dim lights, till the thing had become second nature to him. But at last he was driven abroad in daylight. The cause was sufficient; he had not tasted food for forty-eight hours, and he could not endure the misery of his hunger in idle hiding. He came along a back street, glowering33 at the loaves in bake-shop windows, and feeling that he could trade his life away for a morsel34 to eat. The sight of the bread doubled his hunger; but it was good to look at it, any how, and imagine what one might do if one only had it.
Presently, in the middle of the street he saw a shining spot—looked again—did not, and could not, believe his eyes—turned away, to try them, then looked again. It was a verity—no vain, hunger-inspired delusion—it was a silver dime!
He snatched it—gloated over it; doubted it—bit it—found it genuine—choked his heart down, and smothered35 a halleluiah. Then he looked around—saw that nobody was looking at him—threw the dime down where it was before—walked away a few steps, and approached again, pretending he did not know it was there, so that he could re-enjoy the luxury of finding it. He walked around it, viewing it from different points; then sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the signs and now and then glancing at it and feeling the old thrill again. Finally he took it up, and went away, fondling it in his pocket. He idled through unfrequented streets, stopping in doorways36 and corners to take it out and look at it. By and by he went home to his lodgings—an empty queens-ware hogshead,—and employed himself till night trying to make up his mind what to buy with it. But it was hard to do. To get the most for it was the idea. He knew that at the Miner’s Restaurant he could get a plate of beans and a piece of bread for ten cents; or a fish- ball and some few trifles, but they gave “no bread with one fish-ball” there. At French Pete’s he could get a veal37 cutlet, plain, and some radishes and bread, for ten cents; or a cup of coffee—a pint38 at least—and a slice of bread; but the slice was not thick enough by the eighth of an inch, and sometimes they were still more criminal than that in the cutting of it. At seven o’clock his hunger was wolfish; and still his mind was not made up. He turned out and went up Merchant street, still ciphering; and chewing a bit of stick, as is the way of starving men.
He passed before the lights of Martin’s restaurant, the most aristocratic in the city, and stopped. It was a place where he had often dined, in better days, and Martin knew him well. Standing39 aside, just out of the range of the light, he worshiped the quails40 and steaks in the show window, and imagined that may be the fairy times were not gone yet and some prince in disguise would come along presently and tell him to go in there and take whatever he wanted. He chewed his stick with a hungry interest as he warmed to his subject. Just at this juncture41 he was conscious of some one at his side, sure enough; and then a finger touched his arm. He looked up, over his shoulder, and saw an apparition—a very allegory of Hunger! It was a man six feet high, gaunt, unshaven, hung with rags; with a haggard face and sunken cheeks, and eyes that pleaded piteously. This phantom42 said:
“Come with me—please.”
He locked his arm in Blucher’s and walked up the street to where the passengers were few and the light not strong, and then facing about, put out his hands in a beseeching43 way, and said:
“Friend—stranger—look at me! Life is easy to you—you go about, placid44 and content, as I did once, in my day—you have been in there, and eaten your sumptuous45 supper, and picked your teeth, and hummed your tune15, and thought your pleasant thoughts, and said to yourself it is a good world—but you’ve never suffered! You don’t know what trouble is—you don’t know what misery is—nor hunger! Look at me! Stranger have pity on a poor friendless, homeless dog! As God is my judge, I have not tasted food for eight and forty hours!—look in my eyes and see if I lie! Give me the least trifle in the world to keep me from starving—anything—twenty-five cents! Do it, stranger—do it, please. It will be nothing to you, but life to me. Do it, and I will go down on my knees and lick the dust before you! I will kiss your footprints—I will worship the very ground you walk on! Only twenty-five cents! I am famishing—perishing—starving by inches! For God’s sake don’t desert me!”
Blucher was bewildered—and touched, too—stirred to the depths. He reflected. Thought again. Then an idea struck him, and he said:
“Come with me.”
He took the outcast’s arm, walked him down to Martin’s restaurant, seated him at a marble table, placed the bill of fare before him, and said:
“Order what you want, friend. Charge it to me, Mr. Martin.”
“All right, Mr. Blucher,” said Martin.
Then Blucher stepped back and leaned against the counter and watched the man stow away cargo46 after cargo of buckwheat cakes at seventy-five cents a plate; cup after cup of coffee, and porter house steaks worth two dollars apiece; and when six dollars and a half’s worth of destruction had been accomplished, and the stranger’s hunger appeased47, Blucher went down to French Pete’s, bought a veal cutlet plain, a slice of bread, and three radishes, with his dime, and set to and feasted like a king!
Take the episode all around, it was as odd as any that can be culled48 from the myriad49 curiosities of Californian life, perhaps.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
languished
|
|
| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
illustrate
|
|
| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
vicissitudes
|
|
| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
adept
|
|
| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
humbly
|
|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
landlady
|
|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pawned
|
|
| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
dime
|
|
| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
luxurious
|
|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
yearned
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
contentedly
|
|
| adv.心满意足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
furtively
|
|
| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
gatherings
|
|
| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
woes
|
|
| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
berth
|
|
| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
lodgings
|
|
| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
wharves
|
|
| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
piers
|
|
| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
mendicant
|
|
| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
satire
|
|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
kindliness
|
|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
grotesque
|
|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
glowering
|
|
| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
morsel
|
|
| n.一口，一点点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
smothered
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
doorways
|
|
| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
veal
|
|
| n.小牛肉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
pint
|
|
| n.品脱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
quails
|
|
| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
juncture
|
|
| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
beseeching
|
|
| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
placid
|
|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
sumptuous
|
|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
cargo
|
|
| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
appeased
|
|
| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
culled
|
|
| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
myriad
|
|
| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |