I am wondering as I look through my book of “Characters” whether the number of queer people in the world has actually diminished in the last hundred years, or whether they are simply neglected, suffered to go about dressing1 oddly, behaving oddly, talking oddly, and dying oddly, without the tribute of more than a brief paragraph in the newspapers. On the whole, I am inclined to think this latter the true explanation of the case. For, as I remember, I once tried to draw a pale outline of a truly remarkable2 character who lived in our day; say some fourteen or fifteen years ago. In those days I was connected with a daily paper, and in the routine of the office I was sent down one fine day to Reigate, to make enquiries about a certain Mr. Campo Tosto, who had lived near that town, and had left his wealth — wealth of a curious kind — in a somewhat curious manner. At Reigate, I found that Mr. Campo Tosto’s house was about four miles away, and that it was situated3 in a hamlet called Burnt Green. I began to be entertained. Decidedly, there was to be something odd about this tale. Here was the late Campo Tosto living at Burnt Green; which was to all intents and purposes a translation of his name into English. Very good; elated, I hired a trap at Reigate, and we drove on our way. I asked the driver if he knew anything about Campo Tosto, deceased. Not much; he was a queer old gentleman; he didn’t like people about his grounds, and sometimes he would shoot at trespassers.
“Shoot!” said I. “Shoot at them with a gun!”
“Yes, with a gun now and then; but mostly with a bow and arrows!”
Now there were two oddities mentioned in the paragraph on which my enquiries were based. The wealth of Campo Tosto consisted almost wholly in antiquities4 and objects of art. The late fifteenth century had been the queer old gentleman’s favourite period; and his collection contained all sorts of pieces of that age: pictures, chests, spike5 candlesticks, statues; valued, I believe, at two thousand pounds or thereabouts. And all this property he had left to a man who, with his wife, had looked after him for some time. This man had been a farm labourer, and his name was Turk; an odd sort of name for an English labourer. We drew near the residence of the late Campo Tosto; a house removed a little way from the road on a slight hillside; a place rather pretentious6 in a small way without being in the least interesting; about fifty or sixty years old, I suppose. And just then we ran into Mr. Turk, the happy heir of medi?val art. He seemed worried. Men with cameras and long sticks buzzed about him. They wanted him to be photographed in the interests of the public, but he denied them, and did so with considerable irritation7. I jumped out of the trap, and put my business before him. He stood still for a moment; and that was enough. Four cameras clicked at once, as Mr. Turk firmly declined to have anything to do with me. Turk declared that he would tell me nothing, show me nothing. “This is the only thing I’ll do for you,” he said. “Give me that paper,” I gave him my paper, open at the “leader page.” He deliberately8 turned it upside down, and read out nine or ten lines of inverted9 type with the greatest ease, and with absolute correctness.
“You see,” said Turk, cunningly, “I used to be a farm labourer, but of late I’ve had a lot to do with fuller’s earth.”
He was evidently convinced that he had furnished me with a complete and lucid10 explanation of his singular feat11; a matter which is no feat at all to those engaged in the technical side of newspaper production, but not an accomplishment12 of the ordinary man.
I walked beside him on the path leading to his hall door. I was endeavouring to wheedle13 and persuade; without the faintest result. Now and again, he would stop to emphasise14 his denial with a blow of his fist on his open palm; and again the cameras went click, click. Finally, we got to the hall door, which was half glass. I had just caught a glimpse of a huddle15 of strange things within; Madonnas dim and rich, in curious frames of carven gold, great brass16 candlesticks that had stood before Flemish altars and had heard the holy mutter of the Mass, carved chests with linen-fold panels, saints in oak, grey with age — when Mrs. Turk appeared, terrible as an army with banners. Not even the men of the cameras could abide17 her onset18. We all fled, as sheep before the wolf.
And then I went home and set down everything, just as it had happened. But it never got into print. People in authority at the newspaper office sidled into my room and looked at me quietly, keenly. They took counsel together over the matter. I think it was lucky that my engagements for the next few weeks were of an entirely19 ordinary kind, for if I had lit on anything remotely resembling the wonder world that had been disclosed to me at Burnt Green, I feel sure that I should have had an interview with a specialist; a specialist in the affairs of the mind.
The moral is obvious. We do not hear of “Characters” now, because men are not suffered to write about them. They have become incredible, owing, as I believe, to a certain grossness and thickening of the power of apprehension20. I have known many characters myself: there was the case of the lady, a member of a wandering company of entertainers, whose sentimental21 and pathetic ballad22 usually touched all hearts at the seaside. One afternoon she perceived to her amazement23 and indignation that the ballad was not going at all well. She heard some gasps24 of horrified25 wonder, then chuckles26, then open mirth. Furious, and rightly so, for she was a most delightful27 and accomplished28 singer, she turned to leave the stage, and, turning, she saw the cause of this altered reception. On the floor, against the backcloth depicting29 a happy valley, bowered30 in roses, there crawled on his stomach another member of the company. One eye was upturned, and it was bloodshot. Between his teeth he held a gigantic carving31 knife. Years afterwards, this same gentleman caused some little commotion32 in Holborn, between two and three in the morning. He was reposing33 on his back in a horse-trough, calling loudly for his solicitor34, declining to move till his legal adviser35 should attend. And the resident in a southern suburb who demanded in a formal and serious letter that his next door neighbour should chain up the bees in his hive, “because your bee has stung my baby’s bottom”— he deserved fame, but the age denies it him.
It was otherwise of old. “Characters” were once a literary genre36; and I have often wondered as to those who compiled these chronicles of odd and whimsical lives. There is a certain style which was evidently considered appropriate to the matter; for the manner of these biographies never varies. The stranger the tale, the more stolid37, flat and insipid38 does the chronicler become. I feel sure that every word is true; no liar39 could write with such dulness. Take the case of Betty Bolaine, born at Canterbury, in the year 1723. She was of “a covetous40 turn.” She smiled on many suitors for the sake of the presents they gave her.
“At an assembly at Canterbury, when large hoop41-petticoats were universally worn, the ladies, complaining of the inconvenience of the fashion, agreed to lay aside their hoops42 for awhile. Miss Bolaine objected to this proposal, fearing her saving contrivances would make her laughed at. However, her objections were overcome by her companions, and instead of a cane43 hoop she exhibited a straw one stitched with pack-thread and red tape and covered by an old dirty apron44 of her father’s.”
Miss Bolaine found a man after her own heart, a Mr. Box, with whom she set up house-keeping on the most economical principles.
“With this man she could eat a mouldy crust, with frowsy or stinking45 meat, sometimes picked up in the road, and cooked on cabbage stalks, burnt with turf, which was constantly stolen from the commons by night. These, with dried furze bushes, and dead stalks from their garden, constantly supplied fuel all the year round. . . . At this time, she was sometimes seen in a jacket crimped round her waist, and made of bed furniture, having monkeys, macaws and frogs depicted46 in needlework. . . . Her upper bonnet47 (for she wore two) consisted of thirty-six pieces of black stuff, curiously48 joined together; the under one was an old chip hat she once found on a dunghill in a garden, and which she was remembered to have worn nineteen years at least. Over this covering sometimes she would throw pieces of gauze, silk brocade, and tiffany, to make herself fine, as she thought . . . in this manner did she call every Sunday evening on the Dean of Canterbury, stumping49 through the hall and up the great staircase into the drawing-room.”
There is something stupendous about this bundle of unsavoury rags calling on the Dean of Canterbury; and Miss Bolaine’s will was also picturesque50. A dozen or so of people had endured her and bribed51 her for long years; and she left the whole of her fortune of ￡20,000 to a Prebendary of Canterbury, whose acquaintance she had just made.
The miser52 was a great favourite with the depicter53 of “Characters,” as the friends of Mr. Boffin and of Silas Wegg will remember, but he had other strings54 to his bow. There was the Reverend George Harvest, “a lover of good eating almost to gluttony, extremely negligent55 in his dress, and a believer in ghosts, goblins, and fairies”: there was the great painter, George Morland, who went through the ways of Marylebone, carrying a pig which he matched against every dog he met; there was Thomas Topham who could roll up a large pewter dish with his fingers; the Cock Lane Ghost; and the Fasting Woman of Tutbury — for Mrs. Nickleby, it seems, was wrong in alluding56 to this Character as the Thirsty Woman.
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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bowered
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| adj.凉亭的，有树荫的 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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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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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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42
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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43
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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45
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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46
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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48
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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49
stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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50
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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51
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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52
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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53
depicter
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| 描绘者，描写者 | |
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54
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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55
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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