I am afraid I have somewhat belied2 half the dear old lady's prophecy.
Heaven help me! I have done a good many things that I ought not tohave done, in spite of my laziness. But I have fully3 confirmed theaccuracy of her judgment4 so far as neglecting much that I ought not tohave neglected is concerned. Idling always has been my strong point.
I take no credit to myself in the matter--it is a gift. Few possessit. There are plenty of lazy people and plenty of slow-coaches, but agenuine idler is a rarity. He is not a man who slouches about withhis hands in his pockets. On the contrary, his most startlingcharacteristic is that he is always intensely busy.
It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly5 unless one has plenty ofwork to do. There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing todo. Wasting time is merely an occupation then, and a most exhaustingone. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen.
Many years ago, when I was a young man, I was taken very ill--I nevercould see myself that much was the matter with me, except that I had abeastly cold. But I suppose it was something very serious, for thedoctor said that I ought to have come to him a month before, and thatif it (whatever it was) had gone on for another week he would not haveanswered for the consequences. It is an extraordinary thing, but Inever knew a doctor called into any case yet but what it transpiredthat another day's delay would have rendered cure hopeless. Ourmedical guide, philosopher, and friend is like the hero in amelodrama--he always comes upon the scene just, and only just, in thenick of time. It is Providence7, that is what it is.
Well, as I was saying, I was very ill and was ordered to Buxton for amonth, with strict injunctions to do nothing whatever all the whilethat I was there. "Rest is what you require," said the doctor,"perfect rest."It seemed a delightful8 prospect9. "This man evidently understands mycomplaint," said I, and I pictured to myself a glorious time--a fourweeks' _dolce far niente_ with a dash of illness in it. Not too muchillness, but just illness enough--just sufficient to give it theflavor of suffering and make it poetical10. I should get up late, sipchocolate, and have my breakfast in slippers11 and a dressing12-gown. Ishould lie out in the garden in a hammock and read sentimental13 novelswith a melancholy14 ending, until the books should fall from my listlesshand, and I should recline there, dreamily gazing into the deep blueof the firmament15, watching the fleecy clouds floating likewhite-sailed ships across its depths, and listening to the joyous16 songof the birds and the low rustling17 of the trees. Or, on becoming tooweak to go out of doors, I should sit propped18 up with pillows at theopen window of the ground-floor front, and look wasted andinteresting, so that all the pretty girls would sigh as they passedby.
And twice a day I should go down in a Bath chair to the Colonnade19 todrink the waters. Oh, those waters! I knew nothing about them then,and was rather taken with the idea. "Drinking the waters" soundedfashionable and Queen Anne-fied, and I thought I should like them.
But, ugh! after the first three or four mornings! Sam Weller'sdescription of them as "having a taste of warm flat-irons" conveysonly a faint idea of their hideous20 nauseousness. If anything couldmake a sick man get well quickly, it would be the knowledge that hemust drink a glassful of them every day until he was recovered. Idrank them neat for six consecutive21 days, and they nearly killed me;but after then I adopted the plan of taking a stiff glass ofbrandy-and-water immediately on the top of them, and found much reliefthereby. I have been informed since, by various eminent22 medicalgentlemen, that the alcohol must have entirely23 counteracted24 theeffects of the chalybeate properties contained in the water. I amglad I was lucky enough to hit upon the right thing.
But "drinking the waters" was only a small portion of the torture Iexperienced during that memorable25 month--a month which was, withoutexception, the most miserable26 I have ever spent. During the best partof it I religiously followed the doctor's mandate27 and did nothingwhatever, except moon about the house and garden and go out for twohours a day in a Bath chair. That did break the monotony to a certainextent. There is more excitement about Bath-chairing--especially ifyou are not used to the exhilarating exercise--than might appear tothe casual observer. A sense of danger, such as a mere6 outsider mightnot understand, is ever present to the mind of the occupant. He feelsconvinced every minute that the whole concern is going over, aconviction which becomes especially lively whenever a ditch or astretch of newly macadamized road comes in sight. Every vehicle thatpasses he expects is going to run into him; and he never finds himselfascending or descending28 a hill without immediately beginning tospeculate upon his chances, supposing--as seems extremelyprobable--that the weak-kneed controller of his destiny should let go.
But even this diversion failed to enliven after awhile, and the_ennui_ became perfectly29 unbearable30. I felt my mind giving way underit. It is not a strong mind, and I thought it would be unwise to taxit too far. So somewhere about the twentieth morning I got up early,had a good breakfast, and walked straight off to Hayfield, at the footof the Kinder Scout--a pleasant, busy little town, reached through alovely valley, and with two sweetly pretty women in it. At least theywere sweetly pretty then; one passed me on the bridge and, I think,smiled; and the other was standing31 at an open door, making anunremunerative investment of kisses upon a red-faced baby. But it isyears ago, and I dare say they have both grown stout32 and snappishsince that time. Coming back, I saw an old man breaking stones, andit roused such strong longing33 in me to use my arms that I offered hima drink to let me take his place. He was a kindly34 old man and hehumored me. I went for those stones with the accumulated energy ofthree weeks, and did more work in half an hour than he had done allday. But it did not make him jealous.
Having taken the plunge35, I went further and further into dissipation,going out for a long walk every morning and listening to the band inthe pavilion every evening. But the days still passed slowlynotwithstanding, and I was heartily36 glad when the last one came and Iwas being whirled away from gouty, consumptive Buxton to London withits stern work and life. I looked out of the carriage as we rushedthrough Hendon in the evening. The lurid37 glare overhanging the mightycity seemed to warm my heart, and when, later on, my cab rattled38 outof St. Pancras' station, the old familiar roar that came swelling39 uparound me sounded the sweetest music I had heard for many a long day.
I certainly did not enjoy that month's idling. I like idling when Iought not to be idling; not when it is the only thing I have to do.
That is my pig-headed nature. The time when I like best to stand withmy back to the fire, calculating how much I owe, is when my desk isheaped highest with letters that must be answered by the next post.
When I like to dawdle40 longest over my dinner is when I have a heavyevening's work before me. And if, for some urgent reason, I ought tobe up particularly early in the morning, it is then, more than at anyother time, that I love to lie an extra half-hour in bed.
Ah! how delicious it is to turn over and go to sleep again: "just forfive minutes." Is there any human being, I wonder, besides the heroof a Sunday-school "tale for boys," who ever gets up willingly? Thereare some men to whom getting up at the proper time is an utterimpossibility. If eight o'clock happens to be the time that theyshould turn out, then they lie till half-past. If circumstanceschange and half-past eight becomes early enough for them, then it isnine before they can rise. They are like the statesman of whom it wassaid that he was always punctually half an hour late. They try allmanner of schemes. They buy alarm-clocks (artful contrivances that gooff at the wrong time and alarm the wrong people). They tell SarahJane to knock at the door and call them, and Sarah Jane does knock atthe door and does call them, and they grunt41 back "awri" and then gocomfortably to sleep again. I knew one man who would actually get outand have a cold bath; and even that was of no use, for afterward42 hewould jump into bed again to warm himself.
I think myself that I could keep out of bed all right if I once gotout. It is the wrenching43 away of the head from the pillow that I findso hard, and no amount of over-night determination makes it easier. Isay to myself, after having wasted the whole evening, "Well, I won'tdo any more work to-night; I'll get up early to-morrow morning;" and Iam thoroughly resolved to do so--then. In the morning, however, Ifeel less enthusiastic about the idea, and reflect that it would havebeen much better if I had stopped up last night. And then there isthe trouble of dressing, and the more one thinks about that the moreone wants to put it off.
It is a strange thing this bed, this mimic44 grave, where we stretch ourtired limbs and sink away so quietly into the silence and rest. "0bed, 0 bed, delicious bed, that heaven on earth to the weary head," assang poor Hood45, you are a kind old nurse to us fretful boys and girls.
Clever and foolish, naughty and good, you take us all in your motherlylap and hush46 our wayward crying. The strong man full of care--thesick man full of pain--the little maiden47 sobbing48 for her faithlesslover--like children we lay our aching heads on your white bosom49, andyou gently soothe50 us off to by-by.
Our trouble is sore indeed when you turn away and will not comfort us.
How long the dawn seems coming when we cannot sleep! Oh! thosehideous nights when we toss and turn in fever and pain, when we lie,like living men among the dead, staring out into the dark hours thatdrift so slowly between us and the light. And oh! those still morehideous nights when we sit by another in pain, when the low firestartles us every now and then with a falling cinder51, and the tick ofthe clock seems a hammer beating out the life that we are watching.
But enough of beds and bedrooms. I have kept to them too long, evenfor an idle fellow. Let us come out and have a smoke. That wastestime just as well and does not look so bad. Tobacco has been ablessing to us idlers. What the civil-service clerk before SirWalter's time found to occupy their minds with it is hard to imagine.
I attribute the quarrelsome nature of the Middle Ages young menentirely to the want of the soothing52 weed. They had no work to do andcould not smoke, and the consequence was they were forever fightingand rowing. If, by any extraordinary chance, there was no war going,then they got up a deadly family feud53 with the next-door neighbor, andif, in spite of this, they still had a few spare moments on theirhands, they occupied them with discussions as to whose sweetheart wasthe best looking, the arguments employed on both sides beingbattle-axes, clubs, etc. Questions of taste were soon decided54 inthose days. When a twelfth-century youth fell in love he did not takethree paces backward, gaze into her eyes, and tell her she was toobeautiful to live. He said he would step outside and see about it.
And if, when he got out, he met a man and broke his head--the otherman's head, I mean--then that proved that his--the firstfellow's--girl was a pretty girl. But if the other fellow broke _his_head--not his own, you know, but the other fellow's--the other fellowto the second fellow, that is, because of course the other fellowwould only be the other fellow to him, not the first fellow who--well,if he broke his head, then _his_ girl--not the other fellow's, but thefellow who _was_ the-- Look here, if A broke B's head, then A's girlwas a pretty girl; but if B broke A's head, then A's girl wasn't apretty girl, but B's girl was. That was their method of conductingart criticism.
Nowadays we light a pipe and let the girls fight it out amongthemselves.
They do it very well. They are getting to do all our work. They aredoctors, and barristers, and artists. They manage theaters, andpromote swindles, and edit newspapers. I am looking forward to thetime when we men shall have nothing to do but lie in bed till twelve,read two novels a day, have nice little five-o'clock teas all toourselves, and tax our brains with nothing more trying thandiscussions upon the latest patterns in trousers and arguments as towhat Mr. Jones' coat was made of and whether it fitted him. It is aglorious prospect--for idle fellows.
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1
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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7
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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8
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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10
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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11
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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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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13
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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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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mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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dawdle
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| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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43
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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48
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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49
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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50
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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51
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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52
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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53
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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