At the next inn three labourers and the landlord are heated in conversation about some one not present.
“Quite right,” says one, a sober carter whose whip leans against the counter, “’tis the third time this week that a tramp has been to his door, and by the looks of them they didn’t call for naught17.”
“One of them didn’t, I know,” says the landlord. “He came in here once and asked for a job and left without a drink, but after he’d been to Stegbert’s Cottage he came straight here and ordered a pint18 of mild. And I heard as he let a chap and a woman sleep two nights running in that rough patch behind the house. Don’t you think the parson ought to hear of that? And what does he do for a living? He looks poor enough himself.”
“I don’t know. Mr. Jones is a kind-hearted fellow. He stopped my youngest in the street the other day and gave her a penny and measured her hair, and told her she’d have a yard of it some day. They tell me he hasn’t a carpet on the floor anywhere, and no parlour, and not even a chest of drawers; and the postman says he hasn’t a watch or a clock. What does he do with himself?”
“I reckon he’s mad,” says the third, chuckling19, “and I don’t mind if he is. My old dog doesn’t need feeding at home since he’s been here. He doesn’t eat no meat himself neither. The widow Nash was reckoning it up, and she says he spends four shillings a week——”
“And a shilling here regular,” interjects the landlord.
[247]
“On groceries, including one-and-six for tobacco. He has four loaves, and I know ‘Kruger’ must have more than half of them.”
“Pint of mild, mister,” says a tall blear-eyed man who comes in, meekly21 followed by a small woman, dusty and in rags but neat, to whom he offers the tankard after nearly draining it himself.
“Yes,” says the landlord discouragingly, and the carter leaves.
“Everybody seems to be gone to the flower show,” continues the intruder, “and that’s where I’m going” (here he looks at his boots), “but the best way for sore feet is three days in a tap-room in some good sawdust.”
The wife sighs.
“The fat woman that weighs twenty-three stone,” says her husband to the company, “is a cousin of mine twice removed, and I have done a bit in the show line myself. It’s a rum business. Better than working in a brewery23 stables, though. Me and my mate had to go because we got up so early that we burnt too many candles.”
The mention of the fat woman rouses the labourers, and one says—
“They say them fat women eats hardly anything at all.”
“Very small eater is Daisy. But you see her food does her good. None of it’s wasted.”
“That’s it. Her food agrees with her.”
The wife sighs.
“Now there’s my missus here,” says the husband.[248] “She was one of these pretty gallus dancing-girls who get their fifteen shillings a week. Her food don’t nourish her. Now my brother used to laugh in publics for a pint and he would laugh till they gave him a pint to stop.”
“Oh, I can laugh after a pint,” says the wife, “but then I could just as easy cry, I worries so. There’s many a aching heart goes up and down that Great Western Railway in the express trains.”
“I never worries, missus,” says a labourer with pursy mouth, short pipe, and head straight up behind from his neck.
“Quite right,” says the husband. “My old girl here lives on the fat of the land and is always thin. Her food don’t nourish her. There’s more harm done in the world by a discontented gut24 than anything else. I think of asking her to try living on her pipe by itself.”
“Like Mr. Jones over there,” says one of the labourers.
“Mr. Jones? What, my friend Mr. William Jones?” asks the tall man.
“Is he a friend of yours?” asks the landlord, curiosity overpowering his natural caution with a man who is selling spectacles at a shilling a pair.
“He is, and I don’t mind letting any one know it. I’m very glad to see him settled down. He’s the only one along the road who hasn’t gone to the flower show to-day.” Here the tall man calls for another tankard, which, as he is doing all the talking, he does not pass to the small neat woman behind him. Pleased to be civilly used, and warmed by the liquor, he tells the story of his friend, the little woman helping25 him out, and landlord and labourers adding some touches; and Mr. Jones him[249]self completed the picture during my few days in the village.
The man who fed his neighbour’s dog, and sent the beggar satisfied away, and made presents to the children, and lived on six ounces of tobacco a week, is a native of Zennor in Cornwall. “Wonderful place for pedlars is Cornwall. The towns are so few and far between that the people along the road aren’t used to pedlars, and when you do call you are sure of the best of treatment.” He was apprenticed26 to a shoemaker in a town in South Devon, and for a time practised his trade there as an assistant. He was very clever at boxing and wrestling, and a hard fighter, too, though unwilling27 to make a quarrel. But he was a queer youth and took violent likes and dislikes to men, and one day he dropped a boot and went out into the street and took a young gentleman by the arm and said to him: “Excuse me, sir, you have passed this shop for five years nearly every day and I can’t stand it any longer.” Whereupon he gave that young gentleman a beating. He was sent to prison; he lost his employment and went to sea. And at sea or else in foreign countries he stayed six years. He left the sea only because he broke an arm which had at length to be amputated above the elbow. He was a changed man and many thought then that he was mad. When he left the hospital it was December and bitter weather: he had only five shillings and it was notorious how he spent it. Every day for a week he bought three loaves of bread and went out and fed the birds with them. When that week was over he had to go into the workhouse, and there he stayed until the spring. It was there that he fell in with the tall man who helped to tell his tale.[250] They left together and for some time he almost kept the two by begging, his lack of an arm ensuring his success. But he was not altogether to his companion’s taste, nevertheless. He would stop and smoke a pipe and admire the view when he was miles from anywhere and their object was to reach a town and find enough money to pay for lodgings28. He would stand by a hedge, content for an hour to disentangle the bryony strands29 that were in danger of straying to the road, and to restore them to the hazel and thorn where their fellows ramped30. He was willing to be foster-father to half the helpless fledglings that he found on the roadside. Sleeping one night in a barn he could not be persuaded to leave until he had decided31 whether it was better to kill a spider who had a great appetite for flies or to leave it to Fate. Several he rescued from the web and then out of pity for the spider brought it flies already dead; but finding that these were not to its taste he left the difficulty unsolved and went sadly on his way. Almost equal to his pitifulness was his dislike of work and his moral cowardice32. Nothing could persuade him to do any work, and such a coward was he that if he failed at the first house where he offered his laces for sale he would not try again in that village or town. Yet he did not scruple33 to steal—even with a hint of physical violence—if he needed anything which chance presented to him in another man’s possession: but he stole only necessaries, having none of the acquisitiveness which is more common in their victims than in thieves. Few men use leisure as well as he; perhaps no man was ever idle with less harm to his fellows. The rich could have learned many lessons at his feet: they must always be shooting or driving furiously or meddling34 with politics[251] or stopping footpaths35; they cannot be kept out of harm, however rich. How well this man would have employed money: he would have given it away!
By and by his pity for goaded36 cattle and his frequent gazings into their brown eyes as they stared at him by a stile still further reduced his necessities—he would touch no meat; so that his companion, finding him no longer of much use in spite of his possession of but one arm, left him and only crossed his path at increasing intervals37 of time. It was now that Jones remembered with horror a scene which had slumbered38 in his mind with the fear which it originally roused in youth. He and other boys were in the habit of peeping through a hole in the wall of a slaughter39-house and watching the slaughter, the skinning and the cutting up, until their ears became familiar with the groans40, the screams, the gurglings, the squelchings in the half-darkness of candle-light, the blood and white faces and the knife. But one day there was led into the slaughter-house a white heifer fresh from the May pasture, clean and bright from her gleaming rosy41 hoofs42 to the tips of the horns that swayed as she walked. Her breath made, as it were, a sacred space about her as the light of a human face will do. She stood quiet but uncertain and musingly44 in the dark, soaked, half-ruinous place, into which light only came in bars through a cobwebbed lattice and fell that day upon her white face, leaving in darkness the tall butcher and the imbecile assistant who held the rope by which the animal’s head was drawn45 down to the right level for a blow. The men were in no hurry and as the heifer was not restive46 they finished their talk about Home Rule. Then the idiot tried to put her into the right position, but for a time could[252] not get her to see that her head must be drawn tight and somewhat askew47 against the oaken pillar. He only succeeded by patting her flanks and saying gently as if to a girl: “Come along, Daisy!” She lowed soft and bowed her head; the blow fell; she rolled to the ground and the butcher once more let loose the heavy scent48 of blood. The wholesome49 pretty beast, the familiar “Come along, Daisy!” and the blow and the scent came often into Jones’ mind. He ate no meat, but made no attempt to proselytize50; he simply retreated deeper and deeper into his childlike love of Nature. The birds and the flowers and the creeping and running things he seemed to regard as little happy, charming, undeveloped human beings, looking down on them with infinite tenderness and a little amusement; with them alone was he quite at home. Nature, as she presented herself to his simple senses, was but a fragrant51, many-coloured, exuberant52, chiefly joyous53 community, with which most men were not in harmony. Silent for days and thinking only “green thoughts” under the branches of the wood, he came to demand, unconsciously, that there should be such a harmony. But he loved Nature also because she had no ambiguity54, told no lies, uttered no irony55. Sitting among flowers by running water he wore an expression of blessed satisfaction with his company which is not often seen at the friendliest table. He drew no philosophy from Nature, no opinions, ideas, proposals for reform, but only the wisdom to live, happily and healthily and simply, himself.
I dare say modernity was in his blood, but no man seemed to belong less to our time. Of history and science he knew nothing, of literature nothing; he had to make out the earth with his own eyes and heart. He had not[253] words for it, but he felt that whatever he touched was God. No myth or religion had any value to him. There were no symbols for him to use. The deities56 he surmised57 or smelt58 or tasted in the air or upon the earth had neither name nor shape. Had he been able to think, he was the man to put our generation on the way to a new mythology59. For all I know, he had the vision, the power of the seer, without the power of the prophet. A little more and perhaps he would have invaded Christendom as St. Paul invaded Heathendom. Yet I think he was not wholly the loser by being unable to think. The eye untroubled by thought sees things like a mirror newly burnished60; at night, for example, the musing43 man can see nothing before him but a mist, but if he stops thinking quickly the roads, the walls, the trees become visible. So this man saw with a clearness as of Angelico, and in his memory violets and roses, trees and faces were as clear as if within his brain were another sun to light them. He had but to close his eyes to see these things, an innumerable procession of days and their flowers and their birds in the sky or on the bough3. And this he had at no cost. He employed only such labour as was needed to make his bread and occasionally clothes and a pipe. Nor did he merely ask alms of Nature and Civilization. He paid back countless61 charities to flower and bird and child and poorer men, and there was nothing against him of pain or sorrow or death inflicted62. And as he was without religion so he was without patriotism63. He had no country, knew nothing of men and events. Asked by a person who saw him idle and did not observe his defect, whether he would not like to do something for his country, he replied: “I have no country like you, sir. I own[254] nothing; my people never did, that I know. I admire those that do, for I have been in many a country when I was a sailor, but never a one to beat England, let alone the West Country when it’s haymaking time.”
He continued to beg with a free conscience, and was always willing to give away all that he had to one in more need. And now chance found him out and gave him ten shillings a week. He rented a cottage in this village, weeded his flower-borders, but let his vegetable-plots turn into poppy-beds. Sometimes he wearied of his monotonous64 meals; he would then fast for a day or two, giving his food to the birds and mice, until his hearty65 appetite returned....
He did not stay long in the village. He was shy and suspicious of men, and except by the younger children he was not liked. He set out on his travels again, and is still on the road or—unlike most tramps—on the paths and green lanes, the simplest, kindest, and perhaps the wisest of men, indifferent to mobs, to laws, to all of us who are led aside, scattered66 and confused by hollow goods, one whom the last day of his full life will not find in a whirlpool of affairs, but ready to go—an outcast.
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1
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ramped
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| 土堤斜坡( ramp的过去式和过去分词 )； 斜道； 斜路； （装车或上下飞机的）活动梯 | |
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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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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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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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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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45
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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49
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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50
proselytize
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| v.改变宗教 | |
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51
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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52
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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