"I will write one paper about something altogether new," I said tomyself; "something that nobody else has ever written or talked aboutbefore; and then I can have it all my own way." And I went about fordays, trying to think of something of this kind; and I couldn't. AndMrs. Cutting, our charwoman, came yesterday--I don't mind mentioningher name, because I know she will not see this book. She would notlook at such a frivolous1 publication. She never reads anything butthe Bible and _Lloyd's Weekly News_. All other literature sheconsiders unnecessary and sinful.
She said: "Lor', sir, you do look worried."I said: "Mrs. Cutting, I am trying to think of a subject thediscussion of which will come upon the world in the nature of astartler--some subject upon which no previous human being has eversaid a word--some subject that will attract by its novelty, invigorateby its surprising freshness."She laughed and said I was a funny gentleman.
That's my luck again. When I make serious observations peoplechuckle; when I attempt a joke nobody sees it. I had a beautiful onelast week. I thought it so good, and I worked it up and brought it inartfully at a dinner-party. I forget how exactly, but we had beentalking about the attitude of Shakespeare toward the Reformation, andI said something and immediately added, "Ah, that reminds me; such afunny thing happened the other day in Whitechapel." "Oh," said they,"what was that?" "Oh, 'twas awfully3 funny," I replied, beginning togiggle myself; "it will make you roar;" and I told it them.
There was dead silence when I finished--it was one of those longjokes, too--and then, at last, somebody said: "And that was thejoke?"I assured them that it was, and they were very polite and took my wordfor it. All but one old gentleman at the other end of the table, whowanted to know which was the joke--what he said to her or what shesaid to him; and we argued it out.
Some people are too much the other way. I knew a fellow once whosenatural tendency to laugh at everything was so strong that if youwanted to talk seriously to him, you had to explain beforehand thatwhat you were going to say would not be amusing. Unless you got himto clearly understand this, he would go off into fits of merrimentover every word you uttered. I have known him on being asked the timestop short in the middle of the road, slap his leg, and burst into aroar of laughter. One never dared say anything really funny to thatman. A good joke would have killed him on the spot.
In the present instance I vehemently4 repudiated5 the accusation6 offrivolity, and pressed Mrs. Cutting for practical ideas. She thenbecame thoughtful and hazarded "samplers;" saying that she never heardthem spoken much of now, but that they used to be all the rage whenshe was a girl.
I declined samplers and begged her to think again. She pondered along while, with a tea-tray in her hands, and at last suggested theweather, which she was sure had been most trying of late.
And ever since that idiotic7 suggestion I have been unable to get theweather out of my thoughts or anything else in.
It certainly is most wretched weather. At all events it is so now atthe time I am writing, and if it isn't particularly unpleasant when Icome to be read it soon will be.
It always is wretched weather according to us. The weather is likethe government--always in the wrong. In summer-time we say it isstifling; in winter that it is killing8; in spring and autumn we findfault with it for being neither one thing nor the other and wish itwould make up its mind. If it is fine we say the country is beingruined for want of rain; if it does rain we pray for fine weather. IfDecember passes without snow, we indignantly demand to know what hasbecome of our good old-fashioned winters, and talk as if we had beencheated out of something we had bought and paid for; and when it doessnow, our language is a disgrace to a Christian9 nation. We shallnever be content until each man makes his own weather and keeps it tohimself.
If that cannot be arranged, we would rather do without it altogether.
Yet I think it is only to us in cities that all weather is sounwelcome. In her own home, the country, Nature is sweet in all hermoods. What can be more beautiful than the snow, falling big withmystery in silent softness, decking the fields and trees with white asif for a fairy wedding! And how delightful10 is a walk when the frozenground rings beneath our swinging tread--when our blood tingles11 in therare keen air, and the sheep-dogs' distant bark and children'slaughter peals12 faintly clear like Alpine13 bells across the open hills!
And then skating! scudding14 with wings of steel across the swaying ice,making whirring music as we fly. And oh, how dainty is spring--Natureat sweet eighteen!
When the little hopeful leaves peep out so fresh and green, so pureand bright, like young lives pushing shyly out into the bustlingworld; when the fruit-tree blossoms, pink and white, like villagemaidens in their Sunday frocks, hide each whitewashed15 cottage in acloud of fragile splendor16; and the cuckoo's note upon the breeze iswafted through the woods! And summer, with its deep dark green anddrowsy hum--when the rain-drops whisper solemn secrets to thelistening leaves and the twilight17 lingers in the lanes! And autumn!
ah, how sadly fair, with its golden glow and the dying grandeur18 of itstinted woods--its blood-red sunsets and its ghostly evening mists,with its busy murmur19 of reapers20, and its laden21 orchards22, and thecalling of the gleaners, and the festivals of praise!
The very rain, and sleet23, and hail seem only Nature's useful servantswhen found doing their simple duties in the country; and the East Windhimself is nothing worse than a boisterous24 friend when we meet himbetween the hedge-rows.
But in the city where the painted stucco blisters25 under the smoky sun,and the sooty rain brings slush and mud, and the snow lies piled indirty heaps, and the chill blasts whistle down dingy26 streets andshriek round flaring27 gas lit corners, no face of Nature charms us.
Weather in towns is like a skylark in a counting-house--out of placeand in the way. Towns ought to be covered in, warmed by hot-waterpipes, and lighted by electricity. The weather is a country lass anddoes not appear to advantage in town. We liked well enough to flirtwith her in the hay-field, but she does not seem so fascinating whenwe meet her in Pall28 Mall. There is too much of her there. The frank,free laugh and hearty29 voice that sounded so pleasant in the dairy jarsagainst the artificiality of town-bred life, and her ways becomeexceedingly trying.
Just lately she has been favoring us with almost incessant30 rain forabout three weeks; and I am a demned damp, moist, unpleasant body, asMr. Mantalini puts it.
Our next-door neighbor comes out in the back garden every now and thenand says it's doing the country a world of good--not his coming outinto the back garden, but the weather. He doesn't understand anythingabout it, but ever since he started a cucumber-frame last summer hehas regarded himself in the light of an agriculturist, and talks inthis absurd way with the idea of impressing the rest of the terracewith the notion that he is a retired31 farmer. I can only hope that forthis once he is correct, and that the weather really is doing good tosomething, because it is doing me a considerable amount of damage. Itis spoiling both my clothes and my temper. The latter I can afford,as I have a good supply of it, but it wounds me to the quick to see mydear old hats and trousers sinking, prematurely32 worn and aged33, beneaththe cold world's blasts and snows.
There is my new spring suit, too. A beautiful suit it was, and now itis hanging up so bespattered with mud I can't bear to look at it.
That was Jim's fault, that was. I should never have gone out in itthat night if it had not been for him. I was just trying it on whenhe came in. He threw up his arms with a wild yell the moment becaught sight of it, and exclaimed that he had "got 'em again!"I said: "Does it fit all right behind?""Spiffin, old man," he replied. And then he wanted to know if I wascoming out.
I said "no" at first, but he overruled me. He said that a man with asuit like that bad no right to stop indoors. "Every citizen," saidhe, "owes a duty to the public. Each one should contribute to thegeneral happiness as far as lies in his power. Come out and give thegirls a treat."Jim is slangy. I don't know where he picks it up. It certainly isnot from meI said: "Do you think it will really please 'em?" He said it wouldbe like a day in the country to them.
That decided34 me. It was a lovely evening and I went.
When I got home I undressed and rubbed myself down with whisky, put myfeet in hot water and a mustard-plaster on my chest, had a basin ofgruel and a glass of hot brandy-and-water, tallowed my nose, and wentto bed.
These prompt and vigorous measures, aided by a naturally strongconstitution, were the means of preserving my life; but as for thesuit! Well, there, it isn't a suit; it's a splash-board.
And I did fancy that suit, too. But that's just the way. I never doget particular{y fond of anything in this world but what somethingdreadful happens to it. I had a tame rat when I was a boy, and Iloved that animal as only a boy would love an old water-rat; and oneday it fell into a large dish of gooseberry-fool that was standing35 tocool in the kitchen, and nobody knew what had become of the poorcreature until the second helping36.
I do hate wet weather in town. At least, it is not so much the wet asthe mud that I object to. Somehow or other I seem to possess anirresistible alluring37 power over mud. I have only to show myself inthe street on a muddy day to be half-smothered by it. It all comes ofbeing so attractive, as the old lady said when she was struck bylightning. Other people can go out on dirty days and walk about forhours without getting a speck38 upon themselves; while if I go acrossthe road I come back a perfect disgrace to be seen (as in my boyishdays my poor dear mother tried often to tell me). If there were onlyone dab39 of mud to be found in the whole of London, I am convinced Ishould carry it off from all competitors.
I wish I could return the affection, but I fear I never shall be ableto. I have a horror of what they call the "London particular." Ifeel miserable40 and muggy41 all through a dirty day, and it is quite arelief to pull one's clothes off and get into bed, out of the way ofit all. Everything goes wrong in wet weather. I don't know how itis, but there always seem to me to be more people, and dogs, andperambulators, and cabs, and carts about in wet weather than at anyother time, and they all get in your way more, and everybody is sodisagreeable--except myself--and it does make me so wild. And then,too, somehow I always find myself carrying more things in wet weatherthan in dry; and when you have a bag, and three parcels, and anewspaper, and it suddenly comes on to rain, you can't open yourumbrella.
Which reminds me of another phase of the weather that I can't bear,and that is April weather (so called because it always comes in May).
Poets think it very nice. As it does not know its own mind fiveminutes together, they liken it to a woman; and it is supposed to bevery charming on that account. I don't appreciate it, myself. Suchlightning-change business may be all very agreeable in a girl. It isno doubt highly delightful to have to do with a person who grins onemoment about nothing at all, and snivels the next for precisely42 thesame cause, and who then giggles43, and then sulks, and who is rude, andaffectionate, and bad-tempered44, and jolly, and boisterous, and silent,and passionate45, and cold, and stand-offish, and flopping46, all in oneminute (mind, I don't say this. It is those poets. And they aresupposed to be connoisseurs47 of this sort of thing); but in the weatherthe disadvantages of the system are more apparent. A woman's tears donot make one wet, but the rain does; and her coldness does not lay thefoundations of asthma48 and rheumatism49, as the east wind is apt to. Ican prepare for and put up with a regularly bad day, but theseha'porth-of-all-sorts kind of days do not suit me. It aggravates50 meto see a bright blue sky above me when I am walking along wet through,and there is something so exasperating51 about the way the sun comes outsmiling after a drenching52 shower, and seems to say: "Lord love you,you don't mean to say you're wet? Well, I am surprised. Why, it wasonly my fun."They don't give you time to open or shut your umbrella in an EnglishApril, especially if it is an "automaton53" one--the umbrella, I mean,not the April.
I bought an "automaton" once in April, and I did have a time with it!
I wanted an umbrella, and I went into a shop in the Strand54 and toldthem so, and they said:
"Yes, sir. What sort of an umbrella would you like?"I said I should like one that would keep the rain off, and that wouldnot allow itself to be left behind in a railway carriage.
"Try an 'automaton,'" said the shopman.
"What's an 'automaton'?" said I.
"Oh, it's a beautiful arrangement," replied the man, with a touch ofenthusiasm. "It opens and shuts itself."I bought one and found that he was quite correct. It did open andshut itself. I had no control over it whatever. When it began torain, which it did that season every alternate five minutes, I used totry and get the machine to open, but it would not budge55; and then Iused to stand and struggle with the wretched thing, and shake it, andswear at it, while the rain poured down in torrents56. Then the momentthe rain ceased the absurd thing would go up suddenly with a jerk andwould not come down again; and I had to walk about under a bright bluesky, with an umbrella over my head, wishing that it would come on torain again, so that it might not seem that I was insane.
When it did shut it did so unexpectedly and knocked one's hat off.
I don't know why it should be so, but it is an undeniable fact thatthere is nothing makes a man look so supremely57 ridiculous as losinghis hat. The feeling of helpless misery58 that shoots down one's backon suddenly becoming aware that one's head is bare is among the mostbitter ills that flesh is heir to. And then there is the wild chaseafter it, accompanied by an excitable small dog, who thinks it is agame, and in the course of which you are certain to upset three orfour innocent children--to say nothing of their mothers--butt a fatold gentleman on to the top of a perambulator, and carom off a ladies'
seminary into the arms of a wet sweep.
After this, the idiotic hilarity59 of the spectators and thedisreputable appearance of the hat when recovered appear but of minorimportance.
Altogether, what between March winds, April showers, and the entireabsence of May flowers, spring is not a success in cities. It is allvery well in the country, as I have said, but in towns whosepopulation is anything over ten thousand it most certainly ought to beabolished. In the world's grim workshops it is like the children--outof place. Neither shows to advantage amid the dust and din2. It seemsso sad to see the little dirt-grimed brats60 try to play in the noisycourts and muddy streets. Poor little uncared-for, unwanted humanatoms, they are not children. Children are bright-eyed, chubby61, andshy. These are dingy, screeching62 elves, their tiny faces seared andwithered, their baby laughter cracked and hoarse63.
The spring of life and the spring of the year were alike meant to becradled in the green lap of nature. To us in the town spring bringsbut its cold winds and drizzling64 rains. We must seek it among theleafless woods and the brambly lanes, on the heathy moors65 and thegreat still hills, if we want to feel its joyous66 breath and hear itssilent voices. There is a glorious freshness in the spring there.
The scurrying67 clouds, the open bleakness68, the rushing wind, and theclear bright air thrill one with vague energies and hopes. Life, likethe landscape around us, seems bigger, and wider, and freer--a rainbowroad leading to unknown ends. Through the silvery rents that bar thesky we seem to catch a glimpse of the great hope and grandeur thatlies around this little throbbing69 world, and a breath of its scent70 iswafted us on the wings of the wild March wind.
Strange thoughts we do not understand are stirring in our hearts.
Voices are calling us to some great effort, to some mighty71 work. Butwe do not comprehend their meaning yet, and the hidden echoes withinus that would reply are struggling, inarticulate and dumb.
We stretch our hands like children to the light, seeking to grasp weknow not what. Our thoughts, like the boys' thoughts in the Danishsong, are very long, long thoughts, and very vague; we cannot seetheir end.
It must be so. All thoughts that peer outside this narrow worldcannot be else than dim and shapeless. The thoughts that we canclearly grasp are very little thoughts--that two and two makefour-that when we are hungry it is pleasant to eat--that honesty isthe best policy; all greater thoughts are undefined and vast to ourpoor childish brains. We see but dimly through the mists that rollaround our time-girt isle72 of life, and only hear the distant surgingof the great sea beyond.
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1
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tingles
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| n.刺痛感( tingle的名词复数 )v.有刺痛感( tingle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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laden
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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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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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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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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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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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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muggy
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| adj.闷热的；adv.（天气）闷热而潮湿地；n.（天气）闷热而潮湿 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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aggravates
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| 使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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59
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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60
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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61
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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62
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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63
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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64
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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65
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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67
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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68
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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69
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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70
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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72
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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