In Clym Yeobright’s face could be dimly seen the typical countenance1 of the future. Should there be a classic period to art hereafter, its Pheidias may produce such faces. The view of life as a thing to be put up with, replacing that zest2 for existence which was so intense in early civilizations, must ultimately enter so thoroughly3 into the constitution of the advanced races that its facial expression will become accepted as a new artistic4 departure. People already feel that a man who lives without disturbing a curve of feature, or setting a mark of mental concern anywhere upon himself, is too far removed from modern perceptiveness5 to be a modern type. Physically6 beautiful men—the glory of the race when it was young—are almost an anachronism now; and we may wonder whether, at some time or other, physically beautiful women may not be an anachronism likewise.
The truth seems to be that a long line of disillusive centuries has permanently7 displaced the Hellenic idea of life, or whatever it may be called. What the Greeks only suspected we know well; what their Aeschylus imagined our nursery children feel. That old-fashioned revelling8 in the general situation grows less and less possible as we uncover the defects of natural laws, and see the quandary9 that man is in by their operation.
The lineaments which will get embodied10 in ideals based upon this new recognition will probably be akin11 to those of Yeobright. The observer’s eye was arrested, not by his face as a picture, but by his face as a page; not by what it was, but by what it recorded. His features were attractive in the light of symbols, as sounds intrinsically common become attractive in language, and as shapes intrinsically simple become interesting in writing.
He had been a lad of whom something was expected. Beyond this all had been chaos12. That he would be successful in an original way, or that he would go to the dogs in an original way, seemed equally probable. The only absolute certainty about him was that he would not stand still in the circumstances amid which he was born.
Hence, when his name was casually13 mentioned by neighbouring yeomen, the listener said, “Ah, Clym Yeobright—what is he doing now?” When the instinctive14 question about a person is, What is he doing? it is felt that he will be found to be, like most of us, doing nothing in particular. There is an indefinite sense that he must be invading some region of singularity, good or bad. The devout15 hope is that he is doing well. The secret faith is that he is making a mess of it. Half a dozen comfortable market-men, who were habitual16 callers at the Quiet Woman as they passed by in their carts, were partial to the topic. In fact, though they were not Egdon men, they could hardly avoid it while they sucked their long clay tubes and regarded the heath through the window. Clym had been so inwoven with the heath in his boyhood that hardly anybody could look upon it without thinking of him. So the subject recurred17: if he were making a fortune and a name, so much the better for him; if he were making a tragical18 figure in the world, so much the better for a narrative19.
The fact was that Yeobright’s fame had spread to an awkward extent before he left home. “It is bad when your fame outruns your means,” said the Spanish Jesuit Gracian. At the age of six he had asked a Scripture20 riddle21: “Who was the first man known to wear breeches?” and applause had resounded22 from the very verge23 of the heath. At seven he painted the Battle of Waterloo with tiger-lily pollen24 and black-currant juice, in the absence of water-colours. By the time he reached twelve he had in this manner been heard of as artist and scholar for at least two miles round. An individual whose fame spreads three or four thousand yards in the time taken by the fame of others similarly situated25 to travel six or eight hundred, must of necessity have something in him. Possibly Clym’s fame, like Homer’s, owed something to the accidents of his situation; nevertheless famous he was.
He grew up and was helped out in life. That waggery of fate which started Clive as a writing clerk, Gay as a linen-draper, Keats as a surgeon, and a thousand others in a thousand other odd ways, banished26 the wild and ascetic27 heath lad to a trade whose sole concern was with the especial symbols of self-indulgence and vainglory.
The details of this choice of a business for him it is not necessary to give. At the death of his father a neighbouring gentleman had kindly28 undertaken to give the boy a start, and this assumed the form of sending him to Budmouth. Yeobright did not wish to go there, but it was the only feasible opening. Thence he went to London; and thence, shortly after, to Paris, where he had remained till now.
Something being expected of him, he had not been at home many days before a great curiosity as to why he stayed on so long began to arise in the heath. The natural term of a holiday had passed, yet he still remained. On the Sunday morning following the week of Thomasin’s marriage a discussion on this subject was in progress at a hair-cutting before Fairway’s house. Here the local barbering was always done at this hour on this day, to be followed by the great Sunday wash of the inhabitants at noon, which in its turn was followed by the great Sunday dressing29 an hour later. On Egdon Heath Sunday proper did not begin till dinner-time, and even then it was a somewhat battered30 specimen31 of the day.
These Sunday-morning hair-cuttings were performed by Fairway; the victim sitting on a chopping-block in front of the house, without a coat, and the neighbours gossiping around, idly observing the locks of hair as they rose upon the wind after the snip32, and flew away out of sight to the four quarters of the heavens. Summer and winter the scene was the same, unless the wind were more than usually blusterous, when the stool was shifted a few feet round the corner. To complain of cold in sitting out of doors, hatless and coatless, while Fairway told true stories between the cuts of the scissors, would have been to pronounce yourself no man at once. To flinch33, exclaim, or move a muscle of the face at the small stabs under the ear received from those instruments, or at scarifications of the neck by the comb, would have been thought a gross breach34 of good manners, considering that Fairway did it all for nothing. A bleeding about the poll on Sunday afternoons was amply accounted for by the explanation. “I have had my hair cut, you know.”
The conversation on Yeobright had been started by a distant view of the young man rambling35 leisurely36 across the heath before them.
“A man who is doing well elsewhere wouldn’t bide37 here two or three weeks for nothing,” said Fairway. “He’s got some project in ‘s head—depend upon that.”
“Well, ‘a can’t keep a diment shop here,” said Sam.
“I don’t see why he should have had them two heavy boxes home if he had not been going to bide; and what there is for him to do here the Lord in heaven knows.”
Before many more surmises38 could be indulged in Yeobright had come near; and seeing the hair-cutting group he turned aside to join them. Marching up, and looking critically at their faces for a moment, he said, without introduction, “Now, folks, let me guess what you have been talking about.”
“Ay, sure, if you will,” said Sam.
“About me.”
“Now, it is a thing I shouldn’t have dreamed of doing, otherwise,” said Fairway in a tone of integrity; “but since you have named it, Master Yeobright, I’ll own that we was talking about ‘ee. We were wondering what could keep you home here mollyhorning about when you have made such a world-wide name for yourself in the nick-nack trade—now, that’s the truth o’t.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Yeobright. with unexpected earnestness. “I am not sorry to have the opportunity. I’ve come home because, all things considered, I can be a trifle less useless here than anywhere else. But I have only lately found this out. When I first got away from home I thought this place was not worth troubling about. I thought our life here was contemptible39. To oil your boots instead of blacking them, to dust your coat with a switch instead of a brush—was there ever anything more ridiculous? I said.”
“So ‘tis; so ‘tis!”
“No, no—you are wrong; it isn’t.”
“Beg your pardon, we thought that was your maning?”
“Well, as my views changed my course became very depressing. I found that I was trying to be like people who had hardly anything in common with myself. I was endeavouring to put off one sort of life for another sort of life, which was not better than the life I had known before. It was simply different.”
“True; a sight different,” said Fairway.
“Yes, Paris must be a taking place,” said Humphrey.
“Grand shop-winders, trumpets40, and drums; and here be we
out of doors in all winds and weathers—“
“But you mistake me,” pleaded Clym. “All this was very depressing. But not so depressing as something I next perceived—that my business was the idlest, vainest, most effeminate business that ever a man could be put to. That decided41 me—I would give it up and try to follow some rational occupation among the people I knew best, and to whom I could be of most use. I have come home; and this is how I mean to carry out my plan. I shall keep a school as near to Egdon as possible, so as to be able to walk over here and have a night-school in my mother’s house. But I must study a little at first, to get properly qualified42. Now, neighbours, I must go.”
And Clym resumed his walk across the heath.
“He’ll never carry it out in the world,” said Fairway.
“In a few weeks he’ll learn to see things otherwise.”
“’Tis good-hearted of the young man,” said another.
“But, for my part, I think he had better mind his business.”
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1
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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2
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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3
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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4
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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5
perceptiveness
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| n.洞察力强，敏锐，理解力 | |
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6
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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7
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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8
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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10
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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11
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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14
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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17
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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19
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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20
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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21
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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22
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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23
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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24
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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25
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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26
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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28
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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29
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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30
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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31
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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32
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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34
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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35
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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36
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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37
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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38
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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39
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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40
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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41
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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42
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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