Out of the insensate tangle1 of machines and lives, high above the thunderous clamour of the printing-presses, the rolling of heavy vans stacked high with cylinders2 of paper, the ringing of telephone bells, the ticking and clicking and buzzing, floor above floor, of the great grey building in which they all lived, Ferrol rises with his masterful personality and calm voice, carving3 the chaos4 of it all into discipline and order. He looms5, in the imagination, powerful and omnipresent, making his desires felt in the far corners of the continents.
Ferrol whispered, and Berlin, Vienna or San Francisco gave him his needs. He was the brain and the heart of the body he had created, and his nerves and his arteries6 were spread over the earth. He placed his fingers on the pulse of mankind, and knew what was ailing—knew what it wanted, and found the specialist to attend to it.
[21]
His influence lay over the narrow street of tall buildings, urging men onwards and upwards7 with the gospel of great endeavour. Some men, as their pagan ancestors worshipped the Sun as the God of Light, placed him on a pedestal in their hearts, and bowed down to him as the God of Success, for the energy of his spirit was everywhere. If you searched behind the ponderous8 double octuple machines, rattling9 and thudding, and driving the work of their world forward, you would have found it there—the motive10 power of the whole. It lurked11 in the tap-tap of the telegraph transmitter, in the quick click of the type in the slots of the linotype machines as the aproned operators touched the keyboard; it was in the heart of the reporter groping through the day for facts, and writing them with the shadow of Ferrol falling across the paper. The clerks in the counting-house, the advertising12 men, the grimy printers' boys in the basement, the type-setters and the block-makers on the top floors near the skylights, messengers, typists—they were all bricks in the edifice13 which was built up for the men who wrote the paper—the edifice of which Ferrol was the keystone.
His enemies distorted the vision of him; they saw him, an inhuman14, incredible monster, with neither soul nor heart, grimly eager for one end—the making of money. They wrote of him as an evil thing, brooding over sensationalism.... One must see him as Tommy Pride and all those who worked for him on The Day saw him, eager, keen, and large-hearted, a wonderful blend of sentiment and business, torn, sometimes, between expediency15 and the hidden desires of his heart. One must see him reckless and, since he was only human, making mistakes, creating, destroying, living only for what the day brought forth16....
[22]
The spirit of Fleet Street, itself.
Like a silver thread woven into the texture17 of his character, in which good and evil were patterned as they are in most men, a streak18 of the sentimental19 was there, shining untarnished, a survival of his days of young romance. Very few people knew of this trait; Ferrol hugged it to himself secretly, as though it were a weakness of which he was ashamed. It came upon him at odd, unexpected moments when he was hemmed21 in by the gross materialism22 of every day, this passionate23, sudden yearning24 for poetry and ideals. He would try to lift the latch25 of the door that had locked the world of beauty and art from him. Swift desires would seize him to be carried away in his motor-car, as if it were a magic carpet, to some Arcadia of dreaming shadows, with the sunlight splashing through the green roofs of the forests.
The sentimental in him would, at such times, find expression in many ways. He made extravagant26 gifts to people; he would take a sudden interest in the career of one man, and bring all that man's longings28 to realization29 by lifting him up and making his name. How glorious that power was to Ferrol! The power of singling men out, finding the spark of genius that he could raise to a steady flame, fanning it with opportunity; he could make a man suddenly rich with a stroke of his pen; pack him off to Arabia or South America and bid him write his best. Sometimes they failed, because it was not in them to succeed, and Ferrol was as merciless to failures as he was generous to those who won through.
The men he made!...
Sometimes, when the waves of sentiment swept over him, he would try and materialize his ideals for a time.[23] He would commission a great poet to contribute to The Day; he would open his columns to the cult30 of the beautiful, and then a grisly murder or a railway disaster would happen, crushing Ferrol's sentiment. Away with the ideal, for, after all, the world does not want it! Three columns of the murder or the railway disaster, with photographs, leaders, special articles, all turning round the news itself. That was how it was done.
And now the fit was on Ferrol as he sat in his room with the crimson31 carpet and the dark red walls, hung with contents bills of The Day. He had been going over the morning letters with his secretary, listening to the applications for employment. He made a point of hearing them, now and again. There was one letter there that suddenly awoke his interest; the name touched a chord in his memory, a chord that responded with a low, tender note.... And, his mind marched back through the corridors of the past, until he came out upon the old, quiet, cathedral town of the days of his youth.
He saw himself, a slight, eager young man, long, long before his dreams of greatness came to pass, yet feeling in his heart that the plans he was making would be followed. A young Ferrol plotting within himself to wrest32 spoils from the world, longing27 intolerably for power and the wealth that could give it. Well did he know, even in those far-off days, that destiny was holding out her hands, laden33 with roses and prizes for him.... Those were the days of the young heart; the days of nineteen and twenty, and the first love, scarce understood, that comes to us, mysterious and beautiful. He saw a very different Ferrol then. The lip unshaven, that was now hidden with a bushy moustache turning grey; the hair, now also grey under the[24] touch of Time, silky and black. He saw this boy walking the lanes that led out of Easterham town, in the spring-time, with a girl at his side.
Over the abyss of the years the boy beckoned34 to him, and Ferrol looked back on a yesterday of thirty years. Her name was Margaret, and she was for him the beginning of things. From her he learned much of the tenderness of life, and the love of Nature that had remained with him. He was a clerk in an auctioneer's office then, with most of his dreams still undreamt. He and Margaret had been children together. They were children now, laughing, and walking over the fields with the spire35 of the cathedral, pointing like a finger to the skies, in the distant haze36 of the afternoon.
There was more purity in that first romance of his than in anything he had found in after years. Oh! wonderful days of young unsullied hearts, and the white innocence37 of life. The memory of evenings came to him, of kisses in the starlight, when incomprehensible emotions surged through him, vague imaginings of what life must really be, and the torture of unrest, of something that he did not understand. Her eyes were tearful, and yet she smiled, and at her smile they both laughed. And so the spell was broken, and they trudged38, side by side, homeward in the silent night.
She inspired him, and in that, perhaps, she fulfilled her destiny. She sowed the seeds of ambition in his soul: he would dare anything for her, yea, reach his hand upwards, and pluck the very stars from Heaven to lay at her feet. And, very gradually, a dreadful nausea39 of Easterham came over him. His desk was by the window that looked upon the High Street: he almost remembered, now, the day when it first dawned on him that the place was no longer tolerable. It was[25] mid-day and the heat quivered above the cobble-stones: two dogs were fighting with jarring yelps40 that could be heard all down the street; the baker41's cart went by with an empty rattle42, and Miss Martin of Willow43 Hall drove in as usual to the bank next door. An old man was herding44 a flock of sheep towards the market-place, and the sheep-dog ran this way and that way, barking as he ran. Three sandwich-men, grotesquely45 hidden in boards, slouched past in frayed46 clothes and battered47 hats, with pipes in their mouths. He read their boards mechanically.... "Sale at Wilcox's.... Ladies' Undergarments.... Ribbons." He had read the same thing every day in the week; he had looked out upon the same scene, every day, it seemed; the dogs had been quarrelling eternally, the shepherd passed and repassed like a never-ending silent dream; grocer, and baker, and banker, and Hargrave, the farmer ... there he was again touching48 his hat to Miss Martin as she stepped from her trap.... O God! the heavy monotony of it all fell like a weight on his heart.
The nostalgia49 grew. The chimes of the cathedral lost their music, the stillness of the town became more unbearable50 than the turmoil51 and clatter52 of cities. There was something to be wrought53 for and fought for in the world outside. This was not life; this was a mausoleum!
The arguments with his father—his mother was dead—and the long time it took to persuade him.... The parting with Margaret, and the whispered vows54 and promises, spoken breathlessly from their earnest young hearts. It seemed they could never be broken.
He came to London. It was in the late seventies, at the beginning of the spread of education that has resulted in the amazing flood of periodicals: it was a[26] flood that led Ferrol on to fortune. His scope widened; he grew in his outlook, and saw that here was a way to power indeed. He shone like a new star over London, gathering55 lesser56 lights around him, developing that marvellous power of organization, that astonishing personality that drew men to him, until he seized his opportunity and bought the moribund58 Day when it was a penny paper on its last legs. In ten years' time he had become wealthy and powerful, and since then he had gone on and on until no triumph was denied him.
And Margaret...? The years passed, and with the passing of time, they both developed. That young love, once so irrefrangible, grew warped59 and misshapen, until it finally snapped. There was no quarrel; neither could reproach the other; they simply grew out of their love, as so many young people do. There was a correspondence for a time, but it slackened and presently ceased altogether. She must have felt her hold loosening on Ferrol, as with a thousand new interests he came upon the wide horizon of life. She must have noticed this in his letters, and instead of seeking to bind60 him to her against his will, she just let him go. And Ferrol must have weighed the impossibility of asking her to marry him at this point of his career, when he was striving and struggling upwards; not all men travel the fastest when they travel alone, but Ferrol was one of those who could run no risk of being delayed. They had none of the pang61 of parting ... but years afterwards, when Ferrol was a childless widower62 (for he married when he was thirty-five, and walked behind his wife's coffin63 two years afterwards), he wondered what had become of Margaret, and always he cherished that memory of his one romance that had tapered64 away out of his life. He could never forget the sweet simplicity[27] of Margaret's face, the tears on her eyelashes, and the yielding softness of her youth when he pressed her to his heart and lips with wonderful thoughts quivering through his soul.
He remembered one day in his life, a few years after the death of his wife, when a wild desire had seized him to handle his past again, as an antiquarian turns over his treasures and rejoices in some ancient relic65. It was a day in summer, when the heat was heavy over London, and the city smelt66 of hot asphalt and tar20: without a word to anybody he had left his work and taken the train, back to Easterham and his youth.
The old familiar landmarks67 rose up before him, bringing a strange feeling of age to him. So much had happened in the interval68 that it seemed that year upon year had piled up a wall before him, separating him for evermore from this old world that had been. The ivy69 still clung to the castellated walls of the Cathedral close; the clock chimed as he went by, just as he had heard it chime in the long days that were gone. The very rooks seemed unchanged as they clamoured huskily in the old beeches70.
And yet, with it all, there was something different, and he knew that the difference lay not so much with the place as with himself. His entire perception had altered. He saw things through eyes that had grown older. The High Street, with its brooding air of stillness, that had once seemed so stale and intolerable to him, now appealed to him with its wondrous71 peace, a magical spot far away from the turmoil of things. There were the same names over the grocers' and the drapers' and the ironmongers' shops, but old Matthew Bethell's quaint72 bookshop had gone, and in its place there stood a large green, flat-fronted establishment,[28] with an open window stacked high with magazines and newspapers, and a great poster above it, thus:
The Day.
ONE HALFPENNY
HOWARD
SLANDER73
CASE.
FULL REPORT.
The sentimental in him winced74, but the material business man glowed with pride as he saw the great poster, proclaiming The Day paramount75 over its rivals. There was always a conflict between the two men that made up that complex personality known as Ferrol. He went to the house where he had once lived; his father was dead now, and as he looked up at the open window and saw a strange woman doing some needle-work, it seemed to him as if the people that were living there had laid sacrilegious hands upon the holy fragrance76 of the past; as if their prying77 eyes had peered into all the hidden secrets that belonged to him. He turned away resentfully towards the old inn, the Red Lion, whose proprietor78, old Hamblin, remembered him from other days when he revealed himself, and was inclined to be overcome with the importance of the visit, until Ferrol put him at his ease. They chatted together, the[29] old man, with his back to the fireplace, coat-tails lifted from habit, for the grate was empty on this hot day, Ferrol sitting astride a chair, watching the blue stream of smoke that came from Hamblin's lips as he puffed79 at his long white churchwarden.... Hamblin must have stood like that during all the years that Ferrol had been in London. The only change that came to the people of Easterham was death.
They talked of people they had known, and so the talk came naturally to Margaret. He listened unmoved to the news of her marriage, and found that nothing more than conventional phrases came from his lips when Hamblin told him of her death. Somehow, it seemed to him so natural. He had been away seventeen years, and Easterham had lost its hold upon him now. The death of his father ... the new face at the window of their house.... The death of Margaret seemed to come as a natural sequence to things.
Hamblin went on talking about people. "She married Mr Quain, one of the College schoolmasters.... I expect he was after your time ... a good deal older than you, Mr Ferrol.... They had one child, a boy ... living with his aunt now. All her people left Easterham years ago...." And so on.
It was in the afternoon that Ferrol came back to London, feeling that he had been prodding80 at wet moss-grown stones in some old decayed ruin, turning them over to see what he could find, and having them crumble81 apart in his hands. He never went back again.
That was thirteen years ago. Ferrol's memories ended abruptly83. He touched a button, and a young man, with a shiny, pink face and fair hair parted in the middle, came in with a notebook and pencil in his hand. He looked as if he spent every moment of his[30] spare time in washing his face. There was a quiet, nervous air about him—the air of one who is never certain of what is going to happen next. Ferrol's abrupt82 sentences always unnerved him.
"Trinder," he said, "there was a letter among the lot to-day. Quain. Written on Easterham Gazette notepaper. Asking for editorial employment."
"Yes, sir." Trinder had long ceased to marvel57 at Ferrol's memory for details.
"Write to him the usual letter asking him to call. Wednesday at twelve."
Trinder made a note and withdrew.
Ferrol wondered what Margaret's boy was like.
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收听单词发音
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1
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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2
cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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3
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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4
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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5
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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6
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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7
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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8
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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9
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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10
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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11
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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12
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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13
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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14
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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15
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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16
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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18
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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19
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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20
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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21
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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23
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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24
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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25
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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26
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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27
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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29
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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30
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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31
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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32
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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33
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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34
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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36
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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37
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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38
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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39
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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40
yelps
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| n.（因痛苦、气愤、兴奋等的）短而尖的叫声( yelp的名词复数 )v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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42
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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43
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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44
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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45
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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46
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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48
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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49
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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50
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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51
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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52
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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53
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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54
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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55
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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56
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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57
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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58
moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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59
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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60
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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61
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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62
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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63
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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64
tapered
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| adj. 锥形的，尖削的，楔形的，渐缩的，斜的 动词taper的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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66
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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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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69
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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70
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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71
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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72
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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73
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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74
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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76
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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77
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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79
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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80
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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81
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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82
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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