This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, though of the purest originality13, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think, which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind. We know, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly14, yet feel as if some other might. To my own contemplations, at least, it has often recurred15, always exciting wonder, but with a sense that the story must be true and a conception of its hero’s character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the reader choose, let him do his own meditation16; or if he prefer to ramble17 with me through the twenty years of Wakefield’s vagary18, I bid him welcome, trusting that there will be a pervading19 spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, done up neatly20 and condensed into the final sentence. Thought has always its efficacy and every striking incident its moral.
What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free to shape out our own idea and call it by his name. He was now in the meridian21 of life; his matrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual22 sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a certain sluggishness24 would keep his heart at rest wherever it might be placed. He was intellectual, but not actively25 so; his mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings that tended to no purpose or had not vigor26 to attain27 it; his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the term, made no part of Wakefield’s gifts. With a cold but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish28 with riotous29 thoughts nor perplexed30 with originality, who could have anticipated that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances been asked who was the man in London the surest to perform nothing today which should be remembered on the morrow, they would have thought of Wakefield. Only the wife of his bosom31 might have hesitated. She, without having analyzed32 his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfishness that had rusted33 into his inactive mind; of a peculiar34 sort of vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition35 to craft which had seldom produced more positive effects than the keeping of petty secrets hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what she called a little strangeness sometimes in the good man. This latter quality is indefinable, and perhaps non-existent.
Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an oil-cloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and a small portmanteau in the other. He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into the country. She would fain inquire the length of his journey, its object and the probable time of his return, but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates36 him only by a look. He tells her not to expect him positively37 by the return-coach nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four days, but, at all events, to look for him at supper on Friday evening. Wakefield, himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before him. He holds out his hand; she gives her own and meets his parting kiss in the matter-of-course way of a ten years’ matrimony, and forth38 goes the middle-aged39 Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex his good lady by a whole week’s absence. After the door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust partly open and a vision of her husband’s face through the aperture40, smiling on her and gone in a moment. For the time this little incident is dismissed without a thought, but long afterward41, when she has been more years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs42 and flickers43 across all her reminiscences of Wakefield’s visage. In her many musings she surrounds the original smile with a multitude of fantasies which make it strange and awful; as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin44, that parting look is frozen on his pale features; or if she dreams of him in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty45 smile. Yet for its sake, when all others have given him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow.
But our business is with the husband. We must hurry after him along the street ere he lose his individuality and melt into the great mass of London life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous46 turns and doublings, we find him comfortably established by the fireside of a small apartment previously47 bespoken48. He is in the next street to his own and at his journey’s end. He can scarcely trust his good-fortune in having got thither49 unperceived, recollecting50 that at one time he was delayed by the throng51 in the very focus of a lighted lantern, and again there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him, and anon he heard a voice shouting afar and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless a dozen busybodies had been watching him and told his wife the whole affair.
Poor Wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance52 in this great world. No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt53 be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself even for a little week from thy place in her chaste54 bosom. Were she for a single moment to deem thee dead or lost or lastingly55 divided from her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious of a change in thy true wife for ever after. It is perilous56 to make a chasm57 in human affections — not that they gape58 so long and wide, but so quickly close again.
Almost repenting59 of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and, starting from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide and solitary60 waste of the unaccustomed bed, “No,” thinks he, gathering61 the bedclothes about him; “I will not sleep alone another night.” In the morning he rises earlier than usual and sets himself to consider what he really means to do. Such are his loose and rambling62 modes of thought that he has taken this very singular step with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to define it sufficiently63 for his own contemplation. The vagueness of the project and the convulsive effort with which he plunges64 into the execution of it are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts65 his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at home — how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week, and, briefly66, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances in which he was a central object will be affected67 by his removal. A morbid68 vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. But how is he to attain his ends? Not, certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging10, where, though he slept and awoke in the next street to his home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach had been whirling him away all night. Yet should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in the head. His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma69, he at length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the head of the street and send one hasty glance toward his forsaken70 domicile. Habit — for he is a man of habits — takes him by the hand and guides him, wholly unaware71, to his own door, where, just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of his foot upon the step. — Wakefield, whither are you going?
At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot72. Little dreaming of the doom73 to which his first backward step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless with agitation74 hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his head at the distant corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight of him? Will not the whole household — the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid-servant and the dirty little footboy — raise a hue-and-cry through London streets in pursuit of their fugitive75 lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar edifice76 such as affects us all when, after a separation of months or years, we again see some hill or lake or work of art with which we were friends of old. In ordinary cases this indescribable impression is caused by the comparison and contrast between our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. In Wakefield the magic of a single night has wrought77 a similar transformation78, because in that brief period a great moral change has been effected. But this is a secret from himself. Before leaving the spot he catches a far and momentary79 glimpse of his wife passing athwart the front window with her face turned toward the head of the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea that among a thousand such atoms of mortality her eye must have detected him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain be somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal-fire of his lodgings.
So much for the commencement of this long whim-wham. After the initial conception and the stirring up of the man’s sluggish23 temperament80 to put it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. We may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig81 of reddish hair and selecting sundry82 garments, in a fashion unlike his customary suit of brown, from a Jew’s old-clothes bag. It is accomplished83: Wakefield is another man. The new system being now established, a retrograde movement to the old would be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position. Furthermore, he is rendered obstinate84 by a sulkiness occasionally incident to his temper and brought on at present by the inadequate85 sensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. He will not go back until she be frightened half to death. Well, twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek and more anxious brow, and in the third week of his non-appearance he detects a portent86 of evil entering the house in the guise87 of an apothecary88. Next day the knocker is muffled89. Toward nightfall comes the chariot of a physician and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burden at Wakefield’s door, whence after a quarter of an hour’s visit he emerges, perchance the herald90 of a funeral. Dear woman! will she die?
By this time Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling, but still lingers away from his wife’s bedside, pleading with his conscience that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture91. If aught else restrains him, he does not know it. In the course of a few weeks she gradually recovers. The crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet, and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again. Such ideas glimmer92 through the mist of Wakefield’s mind and render him indistinctly conscious that an almost impassable gulf93 divides his hired apartment from his former home. “It is but in the next street,” he sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hitherto he has put off’ his return from one particular day to another; henceforward he leaves the precise time undetermined — not tomorrow; probably next week; pretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the self-banished Wakefield.
Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozen pages! Then might I exemplify how an influence beyond our control lays its strong hand on every deed which we do and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of necessity.
Wakefield is spellbound. We must leave him for ten years or so to haunt around his house without once crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife with all the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be remarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in his conduct.
Now for a scene. Amid the throng of a London street we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet bearing in his whole aspect the handwriting of no common fate for such as have the skill to read it. He is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless94, sometimes wander apprehensively95 about him, but oftener seem to look inward. He bends his head and moves with an indescribable obliquity96 of gait, as if unwilling97 to display his full front to the world. Watch him long enough to see what we have described, and you will allow that circumstances — which often produce remarkable men from Nature’s ordinary handiwork — have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in the opposite direction, where a portly female considerably98 in the wane99 of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding100 to yonder church. She has the placid101 mien102 of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away or have become so essential to her heart that they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing a slight obstruction103 occurs and brings these two figures directly in contact. Their hands touch; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they stand face to face, staring into each other’s eyes. After a ten years’ separation thus Wakefield meets his wife. The throng eddies104 away and carries them asunder105. The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to church, but pauses in the portal and throws a perplexed glance along the street. She passes in, however, opening her prayer-book as she goes.
And the man? With so wild a face that busy and selfish London stands to gaze after him he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door and throws himself upon the bed. The latent feelings of years break out; his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength; all the miserable106 strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance, and he cries out passionately107, “Wakefield, Wakefield! You are mad!” Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation must have so moulded him to itself that, considered in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of life, he could not be said to possess his right mind. He had contrived108 — or, rather, he had happened — to dissever himself from the world, to vanish, to give up his place and privileges with living men without being admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit109 is nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle110 of the city as of old, but the crowd swept by and saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his wife and at his hearth111, yet must never feel the warmth of the one nor the affection of the other. It was Wakefield’s unprecedented112 fate to retain his original share of human sympathies and to be still involved in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. It would be a most curious speculation113 to trace out the effect of such circumstances on his heart and intellect separately and in unison114. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed, would come, but only for the moment, and still he would keep saying, “I shall soon go back,” nor reflect that he had been saying so for twenty years.
I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear in the retrospect115 scarcely longer than the week to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence. He would look on the affair as no more than an interlude in the main business of his life. When, after a little while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his parlor116, his wife would clap her hands for joy on beholding117 the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas118, what a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our favorite follies119, we should be young men — all of us — and till Doomsday.
One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, Wakefield is taking his customary walk toward the dwelling120 which he still calls his own. It is a gusty122 night of autumn, with frequent showers that patter down upon the pavement and are gone before a man can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house, Wakefield discerns through the parlor-windows of the second floor the red glow and the glimmer and fitful flash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a grotesque123 shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, the nose and chin and the broad waist form an admirable caricature, which dances, moreover, with the up-flickering and down-sinking blaze almost too merrily for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant a shower chances to fall, and is driven by the unmannerly gust121 full into Wakefield’s face and bosom. He is quite penetrated124 with its autumnal chill. Shall he stand wet and shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warm him and his own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes which doubtless she has kept carefully in the closet of their bedchamber? No; Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends125 the steps — heavily, for twenty years have stiffened126 his legs since he came down, but he knows it not. — Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole home that is left you? Then step into your grave. — The door opens. As he passes in we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty smile which was the precursor127 of the little joke that he has ever since been playing off at his wife’s expense. How unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well, a good night’s rest to Wakefield!
This happy event — supposing it to be such — could only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We will not follow our friend across the threshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of which shall lend its wisdom to a moral and be shaped into a figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that by stepping aside for a moment a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever. Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the outcast of the universe.
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1
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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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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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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interrogates
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| n.询问( interrogate的名词复数 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询v.询问( interrogate的第三人称单数 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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recurs
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| 再发生，复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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bespoken
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| v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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51
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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52
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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53
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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54
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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59
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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sifts
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| v.筛( sift的第三人称单数 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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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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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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102
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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103
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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104
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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114
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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115
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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116
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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118
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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120
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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121
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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122
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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123
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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124
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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125
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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127
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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