And gains by subtle craft all worldly prizes.
When the three gentlemen were comfortably seated in the vicar's study, Beaumont, without further preamble4, explained his errand.
"You know, sir," he said to genial5 Dr. Larcher, "that Blake has a very fine voice--a phenomenal tenor6 voice, which, when properly trained, will make his fortune. Blake tells me he has not decided7 what line of life to take up, so I propose he should be a singer."
"Oh, I should like it above all things," cried Reginald with the usual thoughtless impulse of youth.
"Wait a moment," observed the vicar cautiously. "I am not much in favour of a theatrical8 career for you, Reginald, and, this is too important a matter to be decided lightly, so I would like to hear Mr. Beaumont's views on the subject."
"Oh, my views are easily explained," said Beaumont coolly. "I know very well your objections to a theatrical career, Doctor Larcher, and no doubt it is full of temptations to a young man, still, Blake need not sing on the stage, but make his appearance on the concert-platform--good tenors9 are rare, so he will soon have plenty of work and make an excellent income."
"And what do you propose to do?" asked the vicar thoughtfully.
"That is the point I am coming to," explained Beaumont quickly. "I am not a rich man myself, but I know many people in Town who are wealthy; if Blake will come up to Town with me, I will undertake to find sufficient money to give him a first class training as a singer; when he makes a success--and I have very little doubt he will do so--he can pay me back the money advanced and a certain percentage for the loan and risk: then of course he will have an excellent profession and be able to earn his own living."
"London is full of temptation to a young man," observed Dr. Larcher doubtfully.
"A young man must take his chance about that," replied Beaumont satirically. "Of course Blake will be with me and for my own sake I will do my best to keep him out of harm's way; but you surely don't want him to stay in this village all his life, wrapped up in cotton wool?"
"I'm not in the habit of being wrapped up in cotton wool," cried Reginald, piqued10 at the artist's tone, "and I daresay if I was in London I could look after myself without anybody's help."
"I've no doubt you could," replied Beaumont cordially, "all I offer you is assistance. Now what do you say, Dr. Larcher?"
"At present, I can say nothing," answered the vicar slowly. "Reginald is as dear to me as if he was my own son, and the choice of a career is not lightly to be decided upon. I had hoped he would become a curate, and then there would have been no necessity for his leaving me."
"I don't think I would have made a good curate," said Blake shaking his head, "and though I love this dear old village very much, yet I want to see a little of the world--my voice is my only talent, so the sooner I make use of it the better."
"Quod adest memento11 componere aquus," quoted the vicar significantly.
"Dum loquimur, fugerit invida ?tas," replied Reginald quickly.
"Fairly answered," said the vicar with a half sigh. "Yes, I suppose you must take advantage of flying time and it is no use for you to waste your life in idleness. Would you like to be a singer?"
"I think so," said Blake after a pause. "Of course I am anxious to make my own way in the world, and unless I make use of my one talent I do not see how I am to do so."
"I wish I had your one talent," observed Beaumont, rather enviously12; "I would not rail against fate--well Doctor Larcher, and what is your decision?"
"I cannot give it to you now," said the old man rising, "it is too important a matter to be dismissed lightly. I will let you have an answer in a few days. Still, Mr. Beaumont, I must thank you for your kind intentions regarding Reginald."
"Only too glad to be of service," replied Beaumont, with a bow.
"Meantime," said the vicar genially13, "you must stop and have some dinner with us."
"Delighted," responded Beaumont, and went away with Reginald, very well satisfied with the result of the interview.
After dinner, hearing that a visitor was in the house Mrs. Larcher, who had been lying down all day under the influence of "The Affliction," made her appearance and greeted Beaumont with great cordiality.
"So pleased to see you," she said graciously, when she was established on the sofa amid a multiplicity of wraps and pillows; "quite a treat to have some one to talk to."
"Come, come, my dear, this is rather hard upon us," said the vicar good-humouredly.
"I mean some one new," explained Mrs. Larcher graciously. "I am so fond of company, but owing to my affliction see very, very few people; it's a great deprivation14 to me I assure you."
"No doubt," assented15 Beaumont, rather bored by the constant flow of Mrs. Larcher's conversation, "but I hope you will soon quite recover from your illness and then you can mix with the world."
"Never, ah never," murmured Mrs. Larcher, looking up to the ceiling. "I'm a wreck--positively a wreck--I will never, never be what I was--I suffer from so many things, do I not, Eleanor Gwendoline?"
"You do, mama," replied that damsel who was seated at the piano. "But you would not object to a little music, would you, dear?"
"If it's soft, no," answered the invalid16 wearily, "but dear Reginald, do not sing loud songs, they are so bad for my nerves."
"All right," replied Reginald, and forthwith sang a sentimental17 ditty called "Loneliness," which had dreary18 words and equally dreary music.
"I do wish song writers and their poets would invent something new," observed Beaumont when this lachrymose19 ballad20 came to an end, "one gets so weary of broken hearts and all that rubbish."
"I quite agree with you, Mr. Beaumont," said Dr. Larcher emphatically. "I observe in the songs of the present day a tendency to effeminate bewailings which I infinitely21 deplore22. We have, I am afraid, lost in a great measure, the manliness23 of Dibdin and the joyous24 ideas of the Jacobean lyricists."
"What about the sea songs?" asked Dick, "they are jolly enough."
"No doubt," replied Beaumont, "'Nancy Lee' and the 'Three Jolly Sailor Boys,' have a breezy ring about them, but this sugar and water sentimentality now so much in vogue25 is simply horrible--it's a great pity a reaction does not set in, then we would have a more healthy tone."
"Still there is a fascination26 about sorrow which neither poet nor musician can resist," observed Ferdinand Priggs, who was anxious to read one of his poems to the company.
"I dare say," said Beaumont quickly; "but there is a great tendency to morbidness27, too much use of broken hearts and minor28 keys, in fact the whole tendency of the age is pessimistic--we are always regretting the past, deploring29 the present, and dreading30 the future."
"I think that has been the case in all ages of the world," observed the vicar; "man has invariably talked of the prosperity of the past, and the decadence31 of the present."
"The past is past, and the dead are dead," murmured the poet thoughtfully.
"A quotation32?" asked Beaumont, struck with the remark.
"From a poem of my own," said Ferdinand quickly, "which I would like to read."
"By all means, my boy," asserted the vicar heartily33. "Read on."
All the company glanced at one another and Dick groaned34 audibly, while Mrs. Larcher settled herself in her pillows with a sigh of resignation. But the poet rejoiced that he had succeeded in gaining a hearing, and producing from his pocket a carefully written manuscript read the following poem in a carefully modulated35 voice:--
A BALLADE OF DEAD DAYS.
I.
Oh, I am weary of idle songs
Of lords and ladies and olden time,
All their mirth to the past belongs,
Sorrow sounds in our present rhyme.
Joy-bells change to the death-bell's chime,
Age is bitter and youth hath fled,
Gone is the season of hope sublime36,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
II.
Ladies I loved in those far-off days,
Where are ye now with your golden hair?
My locks are white neath a crown of bays,
But youth's rose-crown was to me more fair.
My heart was captured in many a snare37
Enmeshed in ringlets of gold outspread,
Now in my heart lurks38 a bleak39 despair.
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
III.
Many the goblets40 of wine I quaffed41
To health of dames42 who were fair and frail43,
A kiss of the hand and a plumed44 hat doffed45.
Then away to the wars in a coat of mail.
But, ah, that armour46 could not prevail
Against your eyes and your lips so red,
Nay47, but such thoughts are a twice-told tale,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
ENVOI.
Time, wilt48 thou never let me forget
Those perished days till I'm cased in lead?
Folly49 to dream with such vague regret,
The past is past, and the dead are dead.
"The style is Villon, I see," observed Beaumont, when the poet ended.
"It's more than the genius is," muttered Dick, who cherished a deadly hatred50 of Ferdinand's poetry.
"I like your refrain, my dear Ferdinand," observed the vicar graciously; "it has a certain pleasant lilt about it, but I'm afraid your verses are somewhat gruesome. Still, they have merit. Oh, yes, they have merit."
"I'm glad you think so," said the modest poet humbly51, to whom praise was as rain on thirsty flowers. "I hope to do better soon."
"I've no doubt you will," said Beaumont, rather sorry for the poor youth, who was blushing painfully. "Your verses are, to a certain extent, an echo of Villon, still you have a musical ear, and that is a great thing. If I may be permitted to give an opinion I rather think your views are a trifle pessimistic."
"Just what we were talking about," cried Reginald gaily52. "A regret for the past and a lament53 for the present."
"It is the spirit of the age," sighed Ferdinand, putting the poem in his pocket. "It is hard to escape its influence."
"If any one had a chance of escaping it you ought to be the individual," said Beaumont, with a smile. "In London, where the latest ideas are floating in the air, it is difficult to be original, but out here, where the work is standing54 still, you ought to have struck out a new line. I'm afraid your poetry comes from books, not from Nature."
"Why so?" demanded Ferdinand, rather nettled55.
"By the very fact that you used in that ballade an exotic form of rhyme, and the ideas therein are the dreary, hopeless sorrows of a worn-out world. Sing, like Herrick of the things around you,
'Of brooks56, of blossoms, birds and bowers57,
Of April, May, of June and July flowers,'
then you will probably strike a new note."
"I don't think much of Herrick," muttered Ferdinand proudly.
"Too cheerful, perhaps?" said Beaumont sarcastically58. "That's a pity, as I see you are in danger of joining the dyspeptic school of poets, of whom we have been talking. Don't have too much gaslight about your muse59, my dear boy, but let her be the buxom60 nymph of that charming old pagan, Robert Herrick."
"Your remarks are very sensible," observed the vicar heartily, as Beaumont rose to go. "If poetry must be written, let it be natural poetry. There is too much of the dissecting-table and charnel-house about our modern rhymists."
"It's the dead world of the past which presses on the dying world of the present," said Ferdinand, gloomily.
"Oh, bosh!" cried Dick, in disgust. "Your liver's out of order, my dear chap, that's what's the matter with you."
The outraged61 poet withdrew in haughty62 dignity, while Beaumont took his leave of this kindly63 family circle, who pressed him to come again, so much had they enjoyed his company.
"Come again," muttered Beaumont to himself, as he strolled back to the inn, with a cigarette between his lips. "I should rather think so. I've won the vicar's heart by my disinterested64 affection for his protégé. It's wonderful, the effect of a little diplomacy65--so much better than outward defiance66. I think, my dear Patience, that should you take it into your foolish head to malign67 me, you will find it a more difficult task than you think. Diplomacy is the only weapon I can use against a woman like you, and it's an uncommonly68 useful weapon when properly used."
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1
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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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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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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9
tenors
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| n.男高音( tenor的名词复数 )；大意；男高音歌唱家；（文件的）抄本 | |
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10
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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15
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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23
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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26
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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morbidness
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| （精神的）病态 | |
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28
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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29
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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30
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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31
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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32
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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33
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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34
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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35
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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36
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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37
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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38
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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39
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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40
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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41
quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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42
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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43
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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44
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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45
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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47
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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48
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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51
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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52
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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53
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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54
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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55
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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57
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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58
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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59
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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60
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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61
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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62
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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64
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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65
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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66
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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67
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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68
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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