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Original
This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly2 and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion3. As Arthur came over the stile and down to the water’s edge, the lounger glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his way of spurning4 them out of their places with his heel, and getting them into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived5 a similar impression from a man’s manner of doing some very little thing: plucking a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient object.
The gentleman’s thoughts were preoccupied6, as his face showed, and he took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively7, and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the river on receiving his master’s sign. The ferry-boat came over, however, without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him by the collar and walked him into it.
‘Not this morning,’ he said to the dog. ‘You won’t do for ladies’ company, dripping wet. Lie down.’
Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat. The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing9, with his hands in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect10. Man and dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.
The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the bell a deep loud barking assailed12 him from within the wall.
‘I heard no dog last night,’ thought Clennam. The gate was opened by one of the rosy13 maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the man.
‘Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,’ said the blushing portress, as they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the dog, ‘Mr Clennam, sir,’ and tripped away.
‘Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,’ said the man. Upon which the dog became mute. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well this morning!’
The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought, that if he had not made that decided14 resolution to avoid falling in love with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.
‘Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.’
‘Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have seen it then.’
But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him in the crater16 of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.
‘I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during the last three years, and it’s—a Paradise.’
It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise resolution) like his dexterous17 impudence18 to call it a Paradise. He only called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him!
And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed19 the dog, and how the dog knew her! How expressive20 that heightened colour in her face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute21 happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like this; but still—when had he ever known her do it!
He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom22. She had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far, far, too much—that is to say, supposing there had been any third person looking on who loved her.
She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his and wished him good morning, and gracefully23 made as if she would take his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection. No, he knew he was too safe.
There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles’s good-humoured face when they all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was unobserved by Clennam.
‘Well, Gowan,’ said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; ‘how goes the world with you this morning?’
‘Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined24 not to waste anything of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my present headquarters, where I am making a sketch25 or two.’ Then he told how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.
‘My mother is quite well, thank you.’ (Clennam became inattentive.) ‘I have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient26 to you or to Mr Meagles. I couldn’t very well get out of it,’ he explained, turning to the latter. ‘The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.’
‘He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle’s son, Clarence Barnacle, who is in his father’s Department. I can at least guarantee that the river shall not suffer from his visit. He won’t set it on fire.’
‘Aye, aye?’ said Meagles. ‘A Barnacle is he? We know something of that family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who was the second daughter by the third marriage—no! There I am wrong! That was Lady Seraphina—Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the Honourable28 Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow’s father married a Stiltstalking and his father married his cousin who was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle, married a Joddleby.—I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.’
‘That’s easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.’
‘Nephew—to—Lord—Decimus,’ Mr Meagles luxuriously29 repeated with his eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full flavour of the genealogical tree. ‘By George, you are right, Gowan. So he is.’
‘Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.’
‘But stop a bit!’ said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh discovery. ‘Then on the mother’s side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great aunt.’
‘Of course she is.’
‘Aye, aye, aye?’ said Mr Meagles with much interest. ‘Indeed, indeed? We shall be glad to see him. We’ll entertain him as well as we can, in our humble30 way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.’
In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst out of the Circumlocution31 Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long subdue32 in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.
‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Gowan, to conclude the subject. ‘Clarence is a great ass11, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows that ever lived!’
It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a knave33; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging, the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived. The process by which this unvarying result was attained34, whatever the premises35, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: ‘I claim to be always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man’s case, and posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do this so conscientiously36, that I am happy to tell you I find the most worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.’ The effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed to be scrupulously37 finding good in most men, he did in reality lower it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only disagreeable or dangerous feature.
It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction as the Barnacle genealogy38 had done. The cloud that Clennam had never seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast39 it again; and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely40 face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog, it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it; and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of the dog, and bent41 his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw tears rise to Mr Meagles’s eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in her father’s room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest tenderness, and weeping on her father’s shoulder.
The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the house, look over Mr Meagles’s collection, and beguile42 the time with conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight, careless, amateur way with him—a perceptible limp, both in his devotion to art and his attainments—which Clennam could scarcely understand.
‘You know Mr Gowan?’ he said in a low voice.
‘I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.’
‘An artist, I infer from what he says?’
‘A sort of a one,’ said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.
‘What sort of a one?’ asked Clennam, with a smile.
‘Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely44 Pall-Mall pace,’ said Doyce, ‘and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.’
Pursuing his inquiries45, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very distant ramification46 of the Barnacles; and that the paternal47 Gowan, originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a Commissioner48 of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at his post with his drawn49 salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the last extremity50. In consideration of this eminent51 public service, the Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow52 a pension of two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in power had added certain shady and sedate53 apartments in the Palaces at Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring54 the degeneracy of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that very questionable55 help in life, a very small independence, had been difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the cultivation56 of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack57 that way, and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that several distinguished58 ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that portfolios59 of his performances had been handed about o’ nights, and declared with ecstasy60 to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with his own magnificent gravity, ‘Do you know, there appears to me to be really immense merit in that work?’ and, in short, that people of condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But, somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against it obstinately61. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus’s picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that worn-out old coffin62 which never was Mahomet’s nor anybody else’s, hung midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn’t reach.
Such was the substance of Clennam’s discoveries concerning him, made that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.
About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty in their stead two dingy63 men. Young Barnacle was in the last degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured involuntarily, ‘Look here! upon my soul, you know!’ before his presence of mind returned.
Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of his general debility:
‘I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?’
‘A friend of our host’s. None of mine.’
‘Is he? How do you know?’
‘Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a fellow.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Ecod, sir,’ returned Young Barnacle, ‘he said he wanted to know, you know! Pervaded66 our Department—without an appointment—and said he wanted to know!’
The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for the opportune67 relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely solicitous68 to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles’s right hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.
All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid69, overdone—and all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion, and solely70 referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles’s plate, to hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes, forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke71, this ill-starred young man was clearly seized with a dread72 that he was coming, by some artful device, round to that point of wanting to know, you know.
It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much enjoyment73 of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly74 enjoyed Young Barnacle. As a mere75 flask76 of the golden water in the tale became a full fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange peculiarity77 on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another such case!
At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken the most amiable78 pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam had been a little reserved since breakfast—that is to say, would have been, if he had loved her.
When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan—who would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.
‘No,’ returned Doyce.
Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet perception in his face that they were going to say something more.
‘I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after he came this morning?’ said Clennam.
‘Yes,’ returned Doyce.
‘But not his daughter?’ said Clennam.
‘No,’ said Doyce.
There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of his candle, slowly resumed:
‘The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.’
‘There—’ Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped.
‘Yes, you have taken cold,’ said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at him.
‘—There is an engagement between them, of course?’ said Clennam airily.
‘No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited80 on the gentleman’s part, but none has been made. Since their recent return, our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them, and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr Gowan, I have no doubt we see.’
‘Ah! We see enough!’ cried Arthur.
Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation81, and who sought to infuse some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind, without Clennam’s hearing it too?
The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and dripped among the evergreens82 and the leafless branches of the trees. The rain fell heavily, drearily83. It was a night of tears.
If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been, that night, unutterably miserable84. As it was—
As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily.
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1
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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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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circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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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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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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45
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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ramification
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| n.分枝，分派，衍生物 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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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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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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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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