“This cottage is no good,” he mumbles4, “and I’m no good. Literature is no good when you live too much on porridge. Your writing’s no good, sir, you can’t get any glow out of oatmeal. Why did you ever come here? It’s a hopeless job and you know it!” Stropping his razor petulantly5 as if the soul of that frustrating6 oatmeal lay there between the leather and the blade, he continues: “But it isn’t the cottage, it isn’t me, it isn’t the writing—it’s the privation. I must give it up and get a job as a railway porter.”
And indeed he was very impoverished7, the living he derived8 from his writings was meagre; the cottage had many imperfections, both its rooms were gloomy, and to obviate9 the inconvenience arising from its defective10 roof he always slept downstairs.
Two years ago he had been working for a wall-paper manufacturer in Bethnal Green. He was not287 poor then, not so very poor, he had the clothes he stood up in (they were good clothes) and fifty pounds in the bank besides. But although he had served the wall-paper man for fifteen years that fifty pounds had not been derived from clerking, he had earned it by means of his hobby, a little knack12 of writing things for provincial13 newspapers. On his thirty-first birthday Finkle argued—for he had a habit of conducting long and not unsatisfactory discussions between himself and a self that apparently14 wasn’t him—that what he could do reasonably well in his scanty15 leisure could be multiplied exceedingly if he had time and opportunity, lived in the country, somewhere where he could go into a garden to smell the roses or whatever was blooming and draw deep draughts16 of happiness, think his profound thoughts and realize the goodness of God, and then sit and read right through some long and difficult book about Napoleon or Mahomet. Bursting with literary ambition Finkle had hesitated no longer: he could live on nothing in the country—for a time. He had the fifty pounds, he had saved it, it had taken him seven years, but he had made it and saved it. He handed in his notice. That was very astonishing to his master, who esteemed17 him, but more astonishing to Finkle was the parting gift of ten pounds which the master had given him. The workmen, too, had collected more money for him, and bought for him a clock, a monster, it weighed twelve pounds and had a brass18 figure of Lohengrin on the top, while the serene19 old messenger man who cleaned the windows and bought surreptitious beer for the clerks gave him a prescription20 for the288 instantaneous relief of a painful stomach ailment21. “It might come in handy,” he had said. That was two years ago, and now just think! He had bought himself an inkpot of crystalline glass—a large one, it held nearly half a pint—and two pens, one for red ink and one for black, besides a quill22 for signing his name with. Here he was at “Pretty Peter” and the devil himself was in it! Nothing had ever been right, the hamlet itself was poor. Like all places near the chalk hills its roads were of flint, the church was of flint, the farms and cots of flint with brick corners. There was an old milestone23 outside his cot, he was pleased with that, it gave the miles to London and the miles to Winchester, it was nice to have a milestone there like that—your very own.
He finished shaving and threw open the cottage door; the scent24 of wallflowers and lilac came to him as sweet almost as a wedge of newly cut cake. The may bloom on his hedge drooped25 over the branches like crudded cream, and the dew in the gritty road smelled of harsh dust in a way that was pleasant. Well, if the cottage wasn’t much good, the bit of a garden was all right.
There was a rosebush too, a little vagrant26 in its growth. He leaned over his garden gate; there was no one in sight. He took out the fire shovel27 and scooped28 up a clot11 of manure29 that lay in the road adjacent to his cottage and trotted30 back to place it in a little heap at the root of those scatter-brained roses, pink and bulging31, that never seemed to do very well and yet were so satisfactory.
“Nicish day,” remarked Finkle, lolling against his289 doorpost, “but it’s always nice if you are doing a good day’s work. The garden is all right, and literature is all right, and life’s all right—only I live too much on porridge. It isn’t the privation itself, it’s the things privation makes a man do. It makes a man do things he ought not want to do, it makes him mean, it makes him feel mean, I tell you, and if he feels mean and thinks mean he writes meanly, that’s how it is.”
He had written topical notes and articles, stories of gay life (of which he knew nothing), of sport (of which he knew less), a poem about “hope,” and some cheerful pieces for a girls’ weekly paper. And yet his outgoings still exceeded his income, painfully and perversely32 after two years. It was terrifying. He wanted success, he had come to conquer—not to find what he had found. But he would be content with encouragement now even if he did not win success; it was absolutely necessary, he had not sold a thing for six months, his public would forget him, his connection would be gone.
“There’s no use though,” mused33 Finkle, as he scrutinized34 his worn boots, “in looking at things in detail, that’s mean; a large view is the thing. Whatever is isolated35 is bound to look alarming.”
But he continued to lean against the doorpost in the full blaze of the stark36, almost gritty sunlight, thinking mournfully until he heard the porridge in the saucepan begin to bubble. Turning into the room he felt giddy, and scarlet37 spots and other phantasmagoria waved in the air before him.
Without an appetite he swallowed the porridge and290 ate some bread and cheese and watercress. Watercress, at least, was plentiful38 there, for the little runnels that came down from the big hills expanded in the Predy Peter fields and in their shallow bottoms the cress flourished.
He finished his breakfast, cleared the things away, and sat down to see if he could write, but it was in vain—he could not write. He could think, but his mind would embrace no subject, it just teetered about with the objects within sight, the empty, disconsolate39 grate, the pattern of the rug, and the black butterfly that had hung dead upon the wall for so many months. Then he thought of the books he intended to read but could never procure40, the books he had procured41 but did not like, the books he had liked but was already, so soon, forgetting. Smoking would have helped and he wanted to smoke, but he could not afford it now. If ever he had a real good windfall he intended to buy a tub, a little tub it would have to be of course, and he would fill it to the bung with cigarettes, full to the bung, if it cost him pounds. And he would help himself to one whenever he had a mind to do so.
“Bah, you fool!” he murmured, “you think you have the whole world against you, that you are fighting it, keeping up your end with heroism42! Idiot! What does it all amount to? You’ve withdrawn43 yourself from the world, run away from it, and here you sit making futile44 dabs45 at it, like a child sticking pins into a pudding and wondering why nothing happens. What could happen? What? The world doesn’t know about you, or care, you are useless.291 It isn’t aware of you any more than a chain of mountains is aware of a gnat46. And whose fault is that—is it the mountains’ fault? Idiot! But I can’t starve and I must go and get a job as a railway porter, it’s all I’m fit for.”
Two farmers paused outside Finkle’s garden and began a solid conversation upon a topic that made him feel hungry indeed. He listened, fascinated, though he was scarcely aware of it.
“Six-stone lambs,” said one, “are fetching three pounds apiece.”
“Ah!”
“I shall fat some.”
“Myself I don’t care for lamb, never did care.”
“It’s good eating.”
“Ah, but I don’t care for it. Now we had a bit of spare rib47 last night off an old pig. ’Twas cold, you know, but beautiful. I said to my dame48: ‘What can mortal man want better than spare rib off an old pig? Tender and white, ate like lard.’”
“Yes, it’s good eating.”
“Veal’s good eating.”
“Don’t care for it, never did, it eats short to my mind.”
Then the school bell began to ring so loudly that Finkle could hear no more, but his mind continued to hover50 over the choice of lamb or veal or old pork until he was angry. Why had he done this foolish thing, thrown away his comfortable job, reasonable food, ease of mind, friendship, pocket money, tobacco? Even his girl had forgotten him. Why292 had he done this impudent51 thing, it was insanity52 surely? But he knew that man has instinctive53 reasons that transcend54 logic55, what a parson would call the superior reason of the heart.
“I wanted a change, and I got it. Now I want another change, but what shall I get? Chance and change, they are the sweet features of existence. Chance and change, and not too much prosperity. If I were an idealist I could live from my hair upwards56.”
The two farmers separated. Finkle staring haplessly from his window saw them go. Some schoolboys were playing a game of marbles in the road there. Another boy sat on the green bank quietly singing, while one in spectacles knelt slyly behind him trying to burn a hole in the singer’s breeches with a magnifying glass. Finkle’s thoughts still hovered57 over the flavours and satisfactions of veal and lamb and pig until, like mother Hubbard, he turned and opened his larder58.
There, to his surprise, he saw four bananas lying on a saucer. Bought from a travelling hawker a couple of days ago they had cost him threepence halfpenny. And he had forgotten them! He could not afford another luxury like that for a week at least, and he stood looking at them, full of doubt. He debated whether he should take one now, he would still have one left for Wednesday, one for Thursday, and one for Friday. But he thought he would not, he had had his breakfast and he had not remembered them. He grew suddenly and absurdly angry again. That was the worst of poverty, not what it made you endure, but what it made you want to endure. Why293 shouldn’t he eat a banana—why shouldn’t he eat all of them? And yet bananas always seemed to him such luxuriant, expensive things, so much peel, and then two, or not more than three, delicious bites. But if he fancied a banana—there it was. No, he did not want to destroy the blasted thing! No reason at all why he should not, but that was what continuous hardship did for you, nothing could stop this miserable59 feeling for economy now. If he had a thousand pounds at this moment he knew he would be careful about bananas and about butter and about sugar and things like that; but he would never have a thousand pounds, nobody had ever had it, it was impossible to believe that anyone had ever had wholly and entirely60 to themselves a thousand pounds. It could not be believed. He was like a man dreaming that he had the hangman’s noose61 around his neck; yet the drop did not take place, it did not take place, and it would not take place. But the noose was still there. He picked up the bananas one by one, the four bananas, the whole four. No other man in the world, surely, had ever had four such fine bananas as that and not wanted to eat them? O, why had such stupid, mean scruples62 seized him again? It was disgusting and ungenerous to himself, it made him feel mean, it was mean! Rushing to his cottage door he cried: “Here y’are!” to the playing schoolboys and flung two of the bananas into the midst of them. Then he flung another. He hesitated at the fourth, and tearing the peel from it he crammed63 the fruit into his own mouth, wolfing it down and gasping:294 “So perish all such traitors64.”
When he had completely absorbed its savour, he stared like a fool at the empty saucer. It was empty, the bananas were gone, all four irrecoverably gone.
“Damned pig!” cried Finkle.
But then he sat down and wrote all this, just as it appears.
The End
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1
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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mumbles
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| 含糊的话或声音，咕哝( mumble的名词复数 ) | |
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petulantly
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frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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7
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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8
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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9
obviate
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| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
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10
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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11
clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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12
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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13
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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14
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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15
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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16
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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17
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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18
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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19
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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21
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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22
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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23
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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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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25
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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27
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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28
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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29
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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30
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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31
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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32
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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33
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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34
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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38
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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39
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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40
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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42
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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43
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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44
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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45
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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46
gnat
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| v.对小事斤斤计较，琐事 | |
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47
rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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48
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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49
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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50
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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51
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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52
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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53
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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54
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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55
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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56
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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57
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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58
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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59
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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61
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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62
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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64
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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