The first bustle6 of installation over, time hung heavy on his hands. July loomed7 distant, as in some future century; Antonia's eyes beckoned8 him faintly, hopelessly. She would not even be coming back to England for another month.
. . . I met a young foreigner in the train from Dover [he wrote to her]—a curious sort of person altogether, who seems to have infected me. Everything here has gone flat and unprofitable; the only good things in life are your letters.... John Noble dined with me yesterday; the poor fellow tried to persuade me to stand for Parliament. Why should I think myself fit to legislate9 for the unhappy wretches10 one sees about in the streets? If people's faces are a fair test of their happiness, I' d rather not feel in any way responsible....
The streets, in fact, after his long absence in the East, afforded him much food for thought: the curious smugness of the passers-by; the utterly11 unending bustle; the fearful medley12 of miserable13, over-driven women, and full-fed men, with leering, bull-beef eyes, whom he saw everywhere—in club windows, on their beats, on box seats, on the steps of hotels, discharging dilatory14 duties; the appalling15 chaos16 of hard-eyed, capable dames17 with defiant18 clothes, and white-cheeked hunted-looking men; of splendid creatures in their cabs, and cadging19 creatures in their broken hats—the callousness20 and the monotony!
One afternoon in May he received this letter couched in French:
3, BLANK ROW WESTMINSTER. MY DEAR SIR,
Excuse me for recalling to your memory the offer of assistance you so kindly21 made me during the journey from Dover to London, in which I was so fortunate as to travel with a man like you. Having beaten the whole town, ignorant of what wood to make arrows, nearly at the end of my resources, my spirit profoundly discouraged, I venture to avail myself of your permission, knowing your good heart. Since I saw you I have run through all the misfortunes of the calendar, and cannot tell what door is left at which I have not knocked. I presented myself at the business firm with whose name you supplied me, but being unfortunately in rags, they refused to give me your address. Is this not very much in the English character? They told me to write, and said they would forward the letter. I put all my hopes in you.
Believe me, my dear sir,
(whatever you may decide)
LOUIS FERRAND.
Shelton looked at the envelope, and saw, that it, bore date a week ago. The face of the young vagrant rose before him, vital, mocking, sensitive; the sound of his quick French buzzed in his ears, and, oddly, the whole whiff of him had a power of raising more vividly24 than ever his memories of Antonia. It had been at the end of the journey from Hyeres to London that he had met him; that seemed to give the youth a claim.
He took his hat and hurried, to Blank Row. Dismissing his cab at the corner of Victoria Street he with difficulty found the house in question. It was a doorless place, with stone-flagged corridor—in other words, a “doss-house.” By tapping on a sort of ticket-office with a sliding window, he attracted the attention of a blowsy woman with soap-suds on her arms, who informed him that the person he was looking for had gone without leaving his address.
“Yes; there's a Frenchman.” And opening an inner door she bellowed26: “Frenchy! Wanted!” and disappeared.
A dried-up, yellow little man, cynical27 and weary in the face, as if a moral steam-roller had passed over it, answered this call, and stood, sniffing28, as it were, at Shelton, on whom he made the singular impression of some little creature in a cage.
“He left here ten days ago, in the company of a mulatto. What do you want with him, if I may ask?” The little man's yellow cheeks were wrinkled with suspicion.
Shelton produced the letter.
“Ah! now I know you”—a pale smile broke through the Frenchman's crow's-feet—“he spoke29 of you. 'If I can only find him,' he used to say, 'I 'm saved.' I liked that young man; he had ideas.”
The Frenchman shook his head.
“Might as well look for diamonds at the bottom of the sea.”
“Do you think he will come back here? But by that time I suppose, you'll hardly be here yourself?”
A gleam of amusement played about the Frenchman's teeth:
“I? Oh, yes, sir! Once upon a time I cherished the hope of emerging; I no longer have illusions. I shave these specimens31 for a living, and shall shave them till the day of judgment33. But leave a letter with me by all means; he will come back. There's an overcoat of his here on which he borrowed money—it's worth more. Oh, yes; he will come back—a youth of principle. Leave a letter with me; I'm always here.”
Shelton hesitated, but those last three words, “I'm always here,” touched him in their simplicity34. Nothing more dreadful could be said.
“Can you find me a sheet of paper, then?” he asked; “please keep the change for the trouble I am giving you.”
“Thank you,” said the Frenchman simply; “he told me that your heart was good. If you don't mind the kitchen, you could write there at your ease.”
Shelton wrote his letter at the table of this stone-flagged kitchen in company with an aged22, dried-up gentleman; who was muttering to himself; and Shelton tried to avoid attracting his attention, suspecting that he was not sober. Just as he was about to take his leave, however, the old fellow thus accosted35 him:
“Did you ever go to the dentist, mister?” he said, working at a loose tooth with his shrivelled fingers. “I went to a dentist once, who professed36 to stop teeth without giving pain, and the beggar did stop my teeth without pain; but did they stay in, those stoppings? No, my bhoy; they came out before you could say Jack37 Robinson. Now, I shimply ask you, d'you call that dentistry?” Fixing his eyes on Shelton's collar, which had the misfortune to be high and clean, he resumed with drunken scorn: “Ut's the same all over this pharisaical counthry. Talk of high morality and Anglo-Shaxon civilisation38! The world was never at such low ebb39! Phwhat's all this morality? Ut stinks40 of the shop. Look at the condition of Art in this counthry! look at the fools you see upon th' stage! look at the pictures and books that sell! I know what I'm talking about, though I am a sandwich man. Phwhat's the secret of ut all? Shop, my bhoy! Ut don't pay to go below a certain depth! Scratch the skin, but pierce ut—Oh! dear, no! We hate to see the blood fly, eh?”
Shelton stood disconcerted, not knowing if he were expected to reply; but the old gentleman, pursing up his lips, went on:
“Sir, there are no extremes in this fog-smitten land. Do ye think blanks loike me ought to exist? Whoy don't they kill us off? Palliatives—palliatives—and whoy? Because they object to th' extreme course. Look at women: the streets here are a scandal to the world. They won't recognise that they exist—their noses are so dam high! They blink the truth in this middle-class counthry. My bhoy”—and he whispered confidentially—“ut pays 'em. Eh? you say, why shouldn't they, then?” (But Shelton had not spoken.) “Well, let'em! let 'em! But don't tell me that'sh morality, don't tell me that'sh civilisation! What can you expect in a counthry where the crimson41, emotions are never allowed to smell the air? And what'sh the result? My bhoy, the result is sentiment, a yellow thing with blue spots, like a fungus42 or a Stilton cheese. Go to the theatre, and see one of these things they call plays. Tell me, are they food for men and women? Why, they're pap for babes and shop-boys! I was a blanky actor moyself!”
Shelton listened with mingled43 feelings of amusement and dismay, till the old actor, having finished, resumed his crouching44 posture45 at the table.
“You don't get dhrunk, I suppose?” he said suddenly—“too much of 'n Englishman, no doubt.”
“Very seldom,” said Shelton.
“Pity! Think of the pleasures of oblivion! Oi 'm dhrunk every night.”
“How long will you last at that rate?”
“There speaks the Englishman! Why should Oi give up me only pleasure to keep me wretched life in? If you've anything left worth the keeping shober for, keep shober by all means; if not, the sooner you are dhrunk the better—that stands to reason.”
In the corridor Shelton asked the Frenchman where the old man came from.
“Oh, and Englishman! Yes, yes, from Belfast very drunken old man. You are a drunken nation”—he made a motion with his hands “he no longer eats—no inside left. It is unfortunate-a man of spirit. If you have never seen one of these palaces, monsieur, I shall be happy to show you over it.”
Shelton took out his cigarette case.
“Yes, yes,” said the Frenchman, making a wry46 nose and taking a cigarette; “I'm accustomed to it. But you're wise to fumigate47 the air; one is n't in a harem.”
And Shelton felt ashamed of his fastidiousness.
“This,” said the guide, leading him up-stairs and opening a door, “is a specimen32 of the apartments reserved for these princes of the blood.” There were four empty beds on iron legs, and, with the air of a showman, the Frenchman twitched48 away a dingy49 quilt. “They go out in the mornings, earn enough to make them drunk, sleep it off, and then begin again. That's their life. There are people who think they ought to be reformed. 'Mon cher monsieur', one must face reality a little, even in this country. It would be a hundred times better for these people to spend their time reforming high Society. Your high Society makes all these creatures; there's no harvest without cutting stalks. 'Selon moi',” he continued, putting back the quilt, and dribbling50 cigarette smoke through his nose, “there's no grand difference between your high Society and these individuals here; both want pleasure, both think only of themselves, which is very natural. One lot have had the luck, the other—well, you see.” He shrugged51. “A common set! I've been robbed here half a dozen times. If you have new shoes, a good waistcoat, an overcoat, you want eyes in the back of your head. And they are populated! Change your bed, and you'll run all the dangers of not sleeping alone. 'V'la ma clientele'. The half of them don't pay me!” He, snapped his yellow sticks of fingers. “A penny for a shave, twopence a cut! 'Quelle vie'. Here,” he continued, standing52 by a bed, “is a gentleman who owes me fivepence. Here's one who was a soldier; he's done for! All brutalised; not one with any courage left! But, believe me, monsieur,” he went on, opening another door, “when you come down to houses of this sort you must have a vice53; it's as necessary as breath is to the lungs. No matter what, you must have a vice to give you a little solace—'un peu de soulagement'. Ah, yes! before you judge these swine, reflect on life! I've been through it. Monsieur, it is not nice never to know where to get your next meal. Gentlemen who have food in their stomachs, money in their pockets, and know where to get more, they never think. Why should they—'pas de danger'. All these cages are the same. Come down, and you shall see the pantry.” He took Shelton through the kitchen, which seemed the only sitting-room54 of the establishment, to an inner room furnished with dirty cups and saucers, plates, and knives. Another fire was burning there. “We always have hot water,” said the Frenchman, “and three times a week they make a fire down there”—he pointed55 to a cellar—“for our clients to boil their vermin. Oh, yes, we have all the luxuries.”
Shelton returned to the kitchen, and directly after took leave of the little Frenchman, who said, with a kind of moral button-holing, as if trying to adopt him as a patron:
“Trust me, monsieur; if he comes back—that young man—he shall have your letter without fail. My name is Carolan Jules Carolan; and I am always at your service.”
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1
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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2
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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4
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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5
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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6
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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7
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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8
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
legislate
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| vt.制定法律；n.法规，律例；立法 | |
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10
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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11
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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12
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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13
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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14
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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15
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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16
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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17
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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18
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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19
cadging
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| v.乞讨，乞得，索取( cadge的现在分词 ) | |
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20
callousness
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21
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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22
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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23
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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25
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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26
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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27
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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28
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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29
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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30
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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31
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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32
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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33
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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34
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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35
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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36
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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37
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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38
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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39
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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40
stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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41
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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42
fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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43
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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44
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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45
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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46
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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47
fumigate
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| v.烟熏；用香薰 | |
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48
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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49
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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50
dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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51
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
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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53
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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54
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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55
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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