Almost certainly she would hear of Mr. Tollady’s death from her guardian3; but, even if she did not, a still small voice whispered flatteringly in the young man’s ear that his prolonged absence from the studio would cause her to try and see him, for she had always manifested a frank interest in him, which, he felt, could not all at once give way to indifference5.
If she should interrogate6 him on the subject, how would Mr. Gresham explain his pupil’s sudden desertion?
Arthur trembled as he asked himself the question. So indignant had he become with Mr. Gresham that he could believe him guilty of almost any disingenuousness7, even to an entire misrepresentation of what had taken place between them. When a week had passed, and still he had not seen Helen, the belief that the latter event must have occurred began to take firm possession of him. Doubtless the artist had so far defamed him in conversation with Helen that the latter could no longer experience any solicitude8 on his account. Who could tell what Mr. Gresham might not have accused him of? For it was plain to Arthur that, for some inscrutable reason, the artist had suddenly conceived a dislike to him. It was pain unspeakable to think of Helen viewing him in the light of false accusations9, and losing all that interest in him which his talent — was it his talent alone? — had excited.
When the week had passed, and still he was disappointed, his mind entered upon another mood. What was Helen Norman to him, or he to Helen Norman? There was slight enough connection between them under the most favourable10 circumstances, and if Helen had so poor an opinion of him as to credit the first calumny11 she heard, then, indeed, she was of less than no account in his life.
Could he persuade himself that he had ever had especial interest in her? Impossible. That he had ever been on the point of loving her? Monstrous12! Ignorant as he was of Helen’s daily life, her schemes and her aspirations13, he had little difficulty in so representing her character to himself as to persuade himself that there was nothing to regret in losing her from sight. What if she had given a few pounds to Mr. Tollady to distribute among the poor? There was no great credit in that, seeing that she had most likely thousands at her disposal. Very likely this had been a solitary14 instance of charity, induced by some momentary15 curiosity, some lack of occupation.
She was beautiful; that he could not endeavour to deny; but what was physical beauty to him, a man with a serious life before him and no ignoble16 aims?
Thus he argued with himself sophistically, and thought he was convinced. But the very currents of his life-blood, had he been calm enough to listen to them, as they throbbed17 along his veins18, gave the lie to every one of his arguments.
In an evil moment he took her picture out of the portfolio19, with the intention of destroying it; but at the first glimpse of that pure and noble countenance20, he fell on his knees before it with a sob21 of pain. After all, she was his idol22, the embodiment, to his heart and mind, of all that is loftiest and most worthy23 of pursuit in life. With an irresistible24 rush all the poetry of his nature seized upon and swelled25 his anguished26 heart; he wept violently. No, no, he would never destroy her picture! To the end of his days it would remind him of a time of real, though foolish, happiness, and would be capable of awakening27 the purest emotions of his breast.
He was now anxious to leave the old house as soon as possible. Since Mr. Tollady’s death the shop had not been opened, and notice of the cessation of business had been forwarded to the few regular employers of the old man’s printing-press. It remained to dispose of all the moveables, with the exception of Mr. Tollady’s books, and the few articles of furniture which Arthur resolved to retain for his own use. The books he would not have allowed himself on any consideration to part with, so intimately were they connected with the happiest memories of his life; and with the furniture he proposed fitting up a little empty room somewhere in the neighbourhood of his work, wherever that might happen to be.
This matter of employment was naturally one of the first to be attended to. With the assistance of a few respectable tradesmen, with whom his work in former days had brought him into connection, he succeeded, after the lapse28 of a couple of weeks, in obtaining a situation as compositor in the office of a daily newspaper. During one week his work would occupy him throughout the day, during the next throughout the night, alternately.
This point happily gained, he was proceeding29 to look for a lodging30, when a visit from Mark Challenger spared him the trouble. Mark (who had some time since given up his shop in Charlotte Place, and gone to work as a journeyman), occupied a bedroom in Gower Place, a small thoroughfare running out of Gower Street into Euston Square, and in the same house happened to be a small room, to be let unfurnished. Mark begged so earnestly that he would not go quite out of the neighbourhood, and represented with such sincerity31 what a delight it would be to him to have his young friend’s companionship, that Arthur consented to take the room.
On the following day his bed, table, and two or three chairs were transported thither32, and the old house in Charlotte Place was abandoned for good. At the same time it was intimated to Mr. John Waghorn that, as it was impossible to pay the remaining hundred pounds on the mortgage, the property was waiting for him to take possession of it as soon as he chose.
Arthur was now to have his first experience — that is, since early childhood — of the ordinary London lodging-house.
His landlady’s name was Pettindund, and, besides her own family of grown-up sons and daughters, she had her house always full of lodgers33. When Arthur grew to know these people with some degree of familiarity, they excited in him a feeling of unutterable disgust. Enthusiastic as were his hopes for the amelioration of the poor and ignorant, he saw at once that here he had come into contact with a class of people from whom it was vain to expect improvement save by the agency of time. They could not be called poor, since the weekly earnings34 of the family amounted to no small sum, the whole of which they regularly squandered35 in surfeit36 and vice37; and their mental and moral debasement was to them no pain whatever. To attempt to influence these people by any powers of example or persuasion38, which an individual could exercise, he saw at once would be waste of time. They were too completely sunk in their hoggish39 slough40 to be capable of rescue by any single hand. Many an hour did he spend in contemplating41 their condition, and not without good results to himself. He got thus by degrees truer views on the subject which most interested him. He had glimpses in time of the great truth that education, and education only, working perhaps through generations toward the same end, gaining here a point and there a point, could be the instrument of the redemption of the well-to-do labouring classes.
But, in the meantime, events occurred which were the instruments of bringing him into active spheres of life such as he longed for.
One evening, very shortly after the two had gone to live together in Gower Place, Mark Challenger announced to Arthur that he had joined a club of which he should like his friend also to become a member. He proposed to take Arthur to a meeting which would be held on the ensuing Sunday evening.
“It’s a club of working men,” he said, when describing it; “but men that are unmarried and have no one to support but themselves, and who come together just to do what good they can. Every man pays just what he likes every week; we have a box with a slit42 in it hung up in one corner, so that no one sees what you put in. And this money goes to form a fund, you see, out of which any member can have help if he really needs it. It isn’t like a public club that almost anyone can join. We mean to have no more than twenty in it, at all events just at present, and all those twenty, Arthur, must be men that feel the wrongs of the poor and are sworn to work tooth and nail for bettering them. You see, it’s more like a sort of committee for real working purposes. If any one of us knows someone that’s badly in want and deserves help, he’s only to tell the rest of the club, and they inquire into the matter. If they find it all right they either give help out of the funds of the club, or have a special subscription43. We’re all teetotallers, mind you. If we drank away half our money every week we shouldn’t be able to contribute much; but as it is we make up a good purse, and, I can tell you, it goes to good uses.
“It seems to me a grand idea, if only it can be well carried out,” said Arthur. “But how much is it usual to contribute each week?”
“The best-to-do sometimes give two shillings. I earn thirty shillings a week, and out of that I manage to give five. But then, you see, I’ve no one dependent on me now, and I only pay six shillings rent.”
“Five shillings, Mr. Challenger!” exclaimed Arthur. “You indeed show yourself in earnest. I honour you for it.”
“Bah! It’s nothing. I have all I want to eat and drink, and before I get too old to work there’ll be better times coming, see if there won’t.”
“How many members have you at present?”
“Why, only twelve. You’ll make the thirteenth, if you join. You see, where there’s no fixed44 contribution, and where there’s serious work meant, we have to be quite sure of our men. Most working-men when they join a club just do it for their own advantage. But, as I’ve told you, that isn’t our aim. We help each other if we need it, but most of us have very little fear of wanting much as long as we’ve our heads and our hands on, and our object is to help those poor devils that haven’t had the strength or the good luck to hold out against the rich that we have. I should have been one of that sort still if it hadn’t been for old Sam Tollady. Aye, aye, Arthur Golding, we must never forget Sam. Gad45! What a chairman he’d have made for us if he’d only been alive now!”
“What do you do at your meetings? Is there one every Sunday night?”
“Yes, every Sunday night, and sometimes an extra called in the week, when there’s any case to be considered. I’m told it was started by Will Noble. He’s a printer, like yourself, and a grand fellow. You must know Will. Will had an idea that we working-men have waited too long for other people to help us, and it’s time we turned to and helped ourselves. So he began to look round him, and before long he found half-a-dozen other men who were not miserably46 poor, but who had the same ideas as he had about doing what they could to help others. You’ll know them all if you’ll come down to-night, and I can tell you they’re worth knowing. What do we do at our meetings? Well, we have some settled subject for discussion, you see, each Sunday night. Last Sunday was my first night there, and then Will Noble got up and spoke47 what he thought about the best way of helping48 poor people without making them lose their independence. Will said some uncommonly49 good things, and the best was that it’s the poor must help the poor. The rich will never do it — till the day comes when they’re made, and that won’t be so long, either! He said that we working men had the best chances of going about and seeing just what people wanted and what they didn’t want. And when Will Noble had done, one or two of us got up and said what we thought, you see. The subject to-night is: ‘How are the poor to get possession of their rights?’ A man named Hodgson, a carpenter, will speak first. I don’t know him at all, but I’m curious to hear what he’s got to say.
“Does Mr. Pether belong to the club?” asked Arthur.
A look of perplexity rested for a moment on Mark’s countenance.
“Well, no, he doesn’t,” he said at length, hesitating slightly in his speech; “and, to tell you the truth, Arthur, I shouldn’t care for him to know about it. Poor John Pether has suffered more than any of us, and his wrongs have driven him half mad like. I’m getting almost afraid of John, he’s so terribly fierce at times; I often fear he’ll do either himself or some one else an injury. You see, he has brooded year after year in solitude50, always growing poorer and poorer, till he couldn’t get his thoughts away from that one subject, however much he tried. John won’t hear of any other way of righting things except by violence, and it’s just that that our club won’t have anything to do with. Now you’ll hear to-night what Hodgson says, but I’ll warrant there won’t be a word about blood in the whole of his speech. So you can see the reason why John Pether couldn’t very well be a member; and things being so, I wouldn’t have him know of it at all. It would seem unkind, you know, to keep him out, and I wouldn’t have him think me unkind to him for the world. John and I have known each other hard upon thirty years, and we’ve been good friends all the time. I only wish he’d let me help him a bit now and then, but he gets into one of his fearful moods if ever I mention it. Poor fellow! I often wonder what’ll become of him.”
Eight o’clock was the time at which the club met, and about half-past seven Arthur and Mark set out together. Mark led his companion down Tottenham Court Road and across Oxford51 Street into Crown Street. Near the lower end of this they passed before the closed shop of a tin-worker, over which was written the name, “Isaac Spreadbrow.” Knocking, they were almost immediately admitted, and passed through the shop into a little yard at the back. It was a sort of small timber-yard, one side of which was occupied by a long carpenter’s shed. Here it was that the meetings of the club were held pro4 tempore.
Half-a-dozen men were already present in the yard, walking up and down, engaged in conversation. They were all hard-faced, hard-handed men, dressed with a decent care which betokened53 the tolerably well-to-do artisan.
Amongst them Arthur’s eye at once singled out one who, he felt sure, must be the leader. He was not mistaken. To this tall man Mark at once led him, whispering that it was Will Noble.
“Mr. Noble,” said Mark, “I’ve ventured to bring you a friend of mine, one I’ve known ever since he was a lad of ten or eleven. He’s heart and soul in this work of ours, I assure you, and he’d feel proud if he was made a member of the club. Wouldn’t you, Arthur?”
“I should indeed,” replied the young man, returning the hearty54 grasp of the hand with which the tall man greeted him “There is nothing I feel so much interest in as efforts such as yours, and I should think it a privilege to work with you Mr. Challenger forgot to tell you my name. It is Golding.”
“Well, Mr. Golding,” said Will Noble, in a full, deep voice which spoke the heartiness55 of the man’s nature, “I like the way in which you speak. You must know it is our rule that a new member must be introduced by at least two old ones who know him personally. You are one, Mr. Challenger; who is the other?”
“Why, it’s rather awkward,” returned Mark, looking round at the other men, who stood in a group apart. “I’m afraid there isn’t another of us that knows Arthur personally. But I’ll tell you just how it is. Arthur has lived and worked from a boy up with an old friend of mine called Tollady. You didn’t know him, Mr. Noble; I only wish you had, but — ha! here comes Spreadbrow. He knew him. Isaac!” he called out to a stumpy little man who was shaking hands with the members of the other group, “Did you know Sam Tollady?”
“Know him, by God!” exclaimed the tin-worker, energetically, “if I didn’t know Sam Tollady show me the man who did. Damn me if I didn’t!”
“Well, did you ever hear him speak of one Arthur Golding, who had lived with him?”
“Many a time, and a good lad he must have been, though I didn’t know him at all. Where’s he gone now that poor Sam’s dead?”
“Why, here he stands,” replied Mark, pointing to Arthur. “I want him to be a member, but unfortunately I’m the only one who knows him.”
“I know him, Will Noble,” cried Isaac, in a squeaking56 voice which he might appear to have caught from his trade. “Damn me, I’ll go bail57 for him. Now I see him, I remember his face too. I must have seen him in the shop. But I’ll go bail for whoever was Sam Tollady’s friend, damn me if I won’t!”
“Then I think that’s quite enough,” said Noble. “Wait till we’re all together, and we’ll have you elected, Mr. Golding. Mr. Challenger will take you to sign the book. Isaac, I wish you could get out of that habit of swearing. I’m no Puritan, as you know; but it don’t fall pleasantly on a man’s ears. Couldn’t you make shift to do without it, don’t you think?”
“I tell you what it is, Will Noble,” returned the little man, stroking a scrubby beard, “you’re about right in what you say, as you always are for the matter of that. I’ve had many a damned hard struggle with this habit; but, by God! it’s always been too much for me yet. But I’ll try again, if it’s only to please you, Will. I’m damned if I don’t!”
Will Noble turned away with a good-natured laugh, and Mark Challenger took Arthur into the shed, which was now illuminated58 by half-a-dozen tallow candles. The litter of the shop had been all pushed away into corners, and in the centre of the shed stood a long deal table, round which were placed benches. A chair was at the head, for the chairman, and on the table in front of it lay a small book containing the rules of the society, written out in Will Noble’s own bold hand.
Every member had to read these rules and sign them. They recapitulated59 pretty much what Mark had already told Arthur, the principal being — “That every member must be a bona fide working man; that every member must be a teetotaller; that each must contribute something every week, the amount to be left to his own discretion60.”
As Arthur put his name after Mark Challenger’s, for Mark had been the last admitted, the men began to assemble in the shed, and to take seats round the table. Counting Arthur, exactly thirteen were present.
The office of chairman, it appeared, was held by all in turn. To-night, Isaac Spreadbrow assumed the head of the table. On his right hand sat Hodgson, the man who was to introduce the debate, if such it could be called where there was no opposition61. Hodgson was the owner of the shed, and worked in it on weekdays.
As soon as all were seated, Isaac Spreadbrow rose.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “the first thing we have to do tonight is to vote for a new member. I know you’ll be glad to hear that, and I’m glad to tell it you. You know we’ve set our limit at twenty, this one makes the thirteenth. His name is Arthur Golding, and he’s worked for years with an old friend of mine as is just dead — that’s Sam Tollady, one as would have been a member if he’d lived. I knew Mr. Golding through Sam Tollady well enough, though I never exactly talked to himself before to-night. Mr. Challenger has known him ever since he was a boy, too; and it’s Mr. Noble’s opinion as we may introduce him as a new member. So I’ll ask your vote on the point. Those who are in favour of electing Mr. Arthur Golding hold up their hands, please.”
The vote was unanimous.
“Then,” continued Isaac, “Mr. Golding makes our thirteenth member. And now, before we listen to our friend Mr. Hodgson, I’ve got something more on my paper to speak of. And it’s this. Most of us here, I think, are men as do a good bit of reading when we get the time, but most of us could do a good bit more if we’d only the books to read. It’s a great shame we haven’t a good public library to go to, where we could get books out for a small subscription, which we should all be able to pay. But as we haven’t that, we shall have to fall back on an old rule, the rule as proves our guide in everything we do, and try to help ourselves. Now, Mr. Noble, who, you know, has our work thoroughly62 at heart, and constantly puzzles his brains to see how things can best be managed, has suggested to me that we should have a small weekly subscription of a stated amount, which is to go to buy a good book now and then, and one, you see, that would be too dear for each one of us to buy for ourselves. When we bought the book, whatever it was, it could go the round of us, each keeping it a certain time, and after that we’d put it somewhere to be kept for the benefit of the club in general. In that way, you see, we should get a library by degrees. Now, any one that’s got anything to say to this idea, I should like him to speak.”
A short discussion followed, two or three difficulties being raised with regard to the choice of books. This, however, was ultimately arranged, and the Book Club was unanimously voted for. The weekly subscription was arranged to be threepence.
The chairman then called upon Mr. Hodgson to deliver his address, which lasted some twenty minutes, and was listened to most attentively63, several of the hearers making notes of what was said.
There was nothing very original, but at the same time nothing absurd or exaggerated in the speaker’s ideas, which were principally that providence64 and cooperation were the best resources of the poor. He dwelt upon the evils of drink, maintaining that it was one of the most serious drawbacks to advancement65; that it brutalised the poor and made them necessarily the servants of the rich, who had more command over their passions, or, at all events, had more means of concealing66 their results. He held that it was only a question of time, this restoration of the poor to their rights. In conclusion, he hoped that such working men as had votes would always use them in behalf of such candidates for Parliament as bound themselves to protect the interests of the poor.
One or two members having made remarks on this address, there ensued a pause, in the midst of which William Noble rose, and was received with much slapping of the table and clapping of hands. He looked round at his fellow-members with an earnest glance, and, after collecting his thoughts for a moment, began to speak in a slow, emphatic67 voice.
“Our friend Mr. Hodgson,” he said, “has made a good and sensible speech, and I have had very much pleasure in listening to him. With what he said about the evils of drink I entirely agree. We are all here teetotallers simply because we see such terrible results ensue from the abuse of liquor that we choose rather to go without it altogether than to run the risk of becoming its slave. I only wish all working men could be induced to do the same. I know very well there is many a working man who drinks a glass or two glasses every day without its doing him the least harm; but these are the exceptions, I am sorry to say. We working men, on the whole, are a lot of poor, weak, ignorant fellows, who have next to no command over ourselves, whether it’s in anger, or whether it’s in any kind of enjoyment68, and in my opinion we must try to remedy our weakness by strong means. Our disease has gone too far for a moderate treatment. We must set our faces firmly to the task of cutting away the whole habit, just as if it was a limb, and I think that if even moderate drinkers set the example of altogether going without their drink, it will be an aid and an encouragement to those who have a harder struggle to undertake. In all things we must help each other, and in this way I think we, by being teetotallers, are helping the drunkards.”
The speaker was interrupted by applause, after which he continued in more rapid tones —
“But I didn’t mean to talk much about this matter just at present. In all things I like to go to the very bottom; if it’s geometry I study, I like to know what a straight line is; if it’s arithmetic, I must know the multiplication69 table; and so in this matter we’re discussing to-night, I want to ask myself what are these rights that the poor desire to win? Friends, I have heard men speak in the cause of the poor who seemed as if their object was nothing more nor less than to take away all the wealth from the rich and give it to the poor, as if that would mend matters. Now, I’m not one of these men. I think I have seen very well, from my own experience and from the books I’ve read, that as long as this world is a world, there will be in it rich people and poor people. That I feel sure of and I feel that it’s no use grumbling70 about it. Some men are’ born with more brains than others, and, even if there was no such thing as hereditary71 wealth, these men with the brains would have ten chances to one against the men without in the struggle for riches. Well, then, I say I am convinced there must be a rich class and a poor class. But shall I tell you what I am not convinced of? I am not convinced that, of these rich and poor, the one must be a class of brute72 beasts — of ignorant, besotted, starving, toil-worn creatures — whilst the other must be a class of lords and princes, spending in profitless luxuries — luxuries which perish with them and are of no further good to the world — riches which would suffice to put every poor man at his ease, which they obtain without labour, which serve only to rear generation after generation of vicious prodigals73. I am not convinced that it is a necessity for the rich class to spend their days in refined selfishness, as careless of the miseries74 of the poor at their palace-gates as if these poor lived in another world; or that it is right for them to sit in judgment75 daily upon wretches76 who have committed a so-called crime to save themselves from starvation, and to condemn77 them to horrible penalties. Of all this I am far from being convinced, and that is why I did my best to form this club of ours, and hope to see it number before long twenty men who are as far from being convinced as I am, and who will work with me to remedy what they think wrong.
Murmured approvals. All the listeners hang upon the speaker’s lips with rapt attention.
“And now shall I tell you why I am far from being convinced that these things are necessary? For that is the next point in an attempt to get to the bottom of the matter. For these reasons then. At their birth all men are equal, all are helpless, young creatures, dependent upon the care of parents for existence. These parents have to find sustenance78 for the children as they grow up, sustenance and clothing. These are the essential needs of man. Now nature has ordered that the infant’s sustenance should first of all come from the mother; after that, that it should come from the earth. Now suppose a mother finds herself unable to afford milk to her new-born child, what do we say of her? Do we not say that the mother is diseased, that there is something wrong in her system, that things are not as they ought to be? Very well. Now if at a later period the child, or the grown-up man, finds himself unable to obtain that sustenance from the earth which nature prescribes, oughtn’t we also to say that here too something is most clearly wrong? And worse wrong, friends, than in the other case! For whereas the diseased mother could not afford milk, the earth offers abundance of food, but certain men monopolise it, and do not allow their starving brothers to have their share. Mind you, I say their share, and their share is a sufficient quantity properly to sustain life. I have already told you that I believe some will always have more than others, but I hold that it is a wrong against nature to say that some shall have none at all!
“But you will perhaps say to me, why do you talk so much about nature? We are no longer in a state of nature. We are no longer savages80, but men living in a social order. And I have even heard men say that it was one of the necessities of this social order that certain men should starve, they said they could prove it by political economy! But I tell you, friends, that, as far as food, clothing and shelter go, we are still in a state of nature, and must be, as long as we are men. We require all these as much as any savage79, although we boast of being civilised. In spite of their political economy I venture to assert that my argument has proved man’s right to these necessaries. If the human family increased so much that the earth could not afford food for them all, that would be a very different thing. Then no one but the earth would be to blame, and the maker81 of the earth, whoever that is. But we know this is so far from being the case that untold82 millions could yet be added without exhausting the capacities of this old earth!
“Now I think I have shown you what these rights are that Mr. Hodgson has spoken of, and also why they are rights. These are two important points gained. Now we pass to the harder questions of practical application. After all the men are right who say that, though every man is the earth’s creditor83 for a sufficient quantity of food, it is impossible for everyone to go into the fields and gather it whenever he wants it. Of course he cannot, and the reason is because we live in an artificial state of society. (Mind, I don’t imply anything bad of that word artificial. I should be crazy if I proposed that we should break up society and go back to the woods, to live as savages.) Well, it has been found necessary, through long centuries of experience, for men to do a certain amount of work for this food. As we can’t all plough and reap we must do something to pay those men who do actually plough and reap for us. All men agree to this in theory, but strangely enough it has been found in practice that certain men refuse to work because they can obtain food without it, whilst others are willing to work their hardest, and yet cannot obtain food for all that. You will see that the fact of our being civilised does not in any sense take away our original rights, it only slightly alters the mode in which we are to receive them. So when the case is found to be as I have described, what shall we say? Surely not that a man must suffer because he happens to be a social being, but that there is something radically84 wrong in the social system which deprives him of his rights. I know very well that we find men now and then who starve because they are too lazy to work. Should I say that because these men are men, therefore they must be fed whether they work or not? Certainly not, and for this reason. If it is bidden by nature that every man should be fed, it is equally bidden by nature that every man should take the trouble of reaping his food. Now one way of reaping our food now-a-days is by working for it, and if a man refuse to do this he must suffer just as a savage would who should lie down on the ground and refuse to take the trouble of plucking fruit or killing85 animals. Nature would not drop food into his mouth.
“I assume, then, that nature bids the construction of a social order. But then comes a question which it is left for man to decide: ‘How shall this social order be best arranged for the benefit of all men?’ And here we are, friends, at the centre of the problem. We grumblers don’t complain that nature will not feed us without our working, but we complain that this rich class, this class which has the main voice in the formation of society, has managed things so badly that they could scarcely have been managed worse; and, further still, that these rich men are altogether careless about the result of their bad management, trouble themselves not the least about anything, so long as they have their fine houses, their fine clothes, their fine dinners.
“Mr. Hodgson ended his address by reference to politics. Now what do we mean by politics? The science of government, I should say. In other words, the sum of what men know of the best rules for managing this social machine of ours. Now, because it is impossible for every man to have a hand in this management, we have what we call a government. Never mind that our form of government, monarchy86, is in theory the most absurd the mind of man could conceive; for in reality we are not governed by a monarch87, we merely pay for maintaining one because it looks generous, I suppose, to do so. But this parliament which really governs us, what has it to say to these frightful88 evils we have hourly before our eyes, these outrageous89 wrongs to which the poor have to submit? Friends, does it not in reality say: ‘Well, I see the evil, I am very sorry for it, but I really don’t know how to remedy it?’ I maintain that all its acts amount to such a speech. But, I ask, what right has a government to exist, except as long as it successfully does its duty, the managing of the social machine? If a government no longer does this, it is no government. It should be swept from the face of the earth!
“But, friends, I am sorry to say that we cannot do this. We are not strong enough. In numbers we poor constitute a vast majority, but in influence you know we are very weak. The weakness is partly due to our poverty, partly to our ignorance. Before we can get a government such as we wish we must become as influential90 as the rich. How to bring this about, then, was the question Mr. Hodgson asked to-night. In my mind there is only one answer: We must get taught! The rich domineer over us not only because we are poor, but still more because we are too like the animals, we have too little of that grand intellectual power which, by taking entirely the place of bodily strength, distinguishes civilisation91 from barbarism! Yes, we must get taught. You have seen the government this year grant a scheme of education which will be of admirable effect, and what is this measure but the result of that very spirit in the nation which collects us together here to-night? This is our work, the work of those known as the Radicals92, never mind who were the immediate52 agents. Well, is not this an encouragement for us? Does it not prove that we shall by degrees gain our objects? Depend upon it, it is not the government that will originate such measures; it is us, the poor, who must struggle without ceasing to raise ourselves out of the gutter93 and make our voices heard by the rich. If our reasons are good, the rich cannot but listen to them; these reasons of ours will weigh heavily against their wealth, and will ultimately prevail. But first we must get our reasons! We must keep our brains clear from the fumes94 of drink, we must get books, read and remember them; we must lay hold of this boon95 of reading and writing for our children, and make it a stepping stone to still more! And in the meantime we must also do our best to aid those suffering from actual want of the necessaries of life. The rich will not do this to any purpose, so we must do it ourselves. We who are here form a club of men without any ties, and therefore we can spare something out of our weekly wages. To-night we have got a new member, that means new possibilities for doing good. Don’t let us be discouraged, friends, if we seem to do only a little. Every little helps, and depend upon it our exertions96 will not be without their influence. And so I have had my say.
Noble resumed his seat amidst much applause. Arthur, in particular, had listened to him with admiration97, and had warmed with him into enthusiasm. When a few more had spoken and, after the chairman had announced the subject for the following Sunday, as well as certain items of business for the week-day meetings, the assembly broke up, Arthur shook hands heartily98 with him, and expressed his gratification in a few words glowing with earnest sincerity. Noble returned the young man’s warmth with interest.
“Well, Mr. Golding,” he said. “I see no reason why we shouldn’t be very good friends. We are both of a trade are we not?”
“Yes, I work at the case,” replied Arthur, with a sense of pride. “But at present the death of Mr. Tollady has put me out of employment. I hope to find some, however, before long.”
“I will keep my eyes open for you, if you like,” said Noble.
“Thank you,” returned the other, “I should be very glad if you would.”
By Mark Challenger’s advice, Arthur had said nothing about his interval99 of artist’s work, and indeed he felt there was no Insincerity in altogether passing it over. For in his present mood he firmly believed that all the time spent in the study of art had been wasted time, and that he was only now beginning serious life. His feelings were excited to the highest pitch by the events of the evening, and, on their return home, he and Mark sat up together till a late hour ardently100 discussing the prospects101 of the club.
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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disingenuousness
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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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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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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16
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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19
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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20
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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21
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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22
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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25
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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27
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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29
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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30
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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32
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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34
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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35
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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37
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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38
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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39
hoggish
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| adj.贪婪的 | |
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40
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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41
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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42
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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43
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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44
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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45
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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47
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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48
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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49
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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52
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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53
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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55
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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56
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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57
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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58
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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59
recapitulated
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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61
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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64
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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66
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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67
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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68
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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69
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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73
prodigals
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| n.浪费的( prodigal的名词复数 )；铺张的；挥霍的；慷慨的 | |
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74
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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75
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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76
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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77
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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78
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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81
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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84
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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85
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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86
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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88
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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91
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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92
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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93
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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96
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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97
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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98
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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100
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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