We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, or with those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk.
The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge1 of gentility. He was not in the abyss, but he could see it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it: he would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous2 as the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, and because he was modern they were always craving3 better food. Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured civilizations of the past, he would have had a definite status, his rank and his income would have corresponded. But in his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing the classes with leathern wings, and proclaiming, "All men are equal--all men, that is to say, who possess umbrellas," and so he was obliged to assert gentility, lest he slipped into the abyss where nothing counts, and the statements of Democracy are inaudible.
As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care was to prove that he was as good as the Miss Schlegels. Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to wound them in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured and cold. At each step his feeling of superiority increased. Would a real lady have talked about stealing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all, and if he had gone into the house they could have clapped a chloroformed handkerchief over his face. He walked on complacently4 as far as the Houses of Parliament. There an empty stomach asserted itself, and told him he was a fool.
"Evening, Mr. Bast."
"Evening, Mr. Dealtry."
"Nice evening."
"Evening."
Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard stood wondering whether he would take the tram as far as a penny would take him, or whether he would walk. He decided5 to walk--it is no good giving in, and he had spent money enough at Queen's Hall--and he walked over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas's Hospital, and through the immense tunnel that passes under the South-Western main line at Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the trains. A sharp pain darted6 through his head, and he was conscious of the exact form of his eye sockets7. He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken speed until he stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road, which was at present his home.
Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right and left, like a rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole. A block of flats, constructed with extreme cheapness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road two more blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was being demolished8 to accommodate another pair. It was the kind of scene that may be observed all over London, whatever the locality--bricks and mortar9 rising and falling with the restlessness of the water in a fountain, as the city receives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out like a fortress10, and command, for a little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were out for the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few years, and all the flats in either road might be pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen.
"Evening, Mr. Bast."
"Evening, Mr. Cunningham."
"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester," repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sunday paper, in which the calamity11 in question had just been announced to him.
"Ah, yes," said Leonard, who was not going to let on that he had not bought a Sunday paper.
"If this kind of thing goes on the population of England will be stationary12 in 1960."
"You don't say so."
"I call it a very serious thing, eh?"
"Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham."
"Good-evening, Mr. Bast."
Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned, not upstairs, but down, into what is known to house agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a cellar. He opened the door, and cried "Hullo!" with the pseudo-geniality of the Cockney. There was no reply. "Hullo!" he repeated. The sitting-room13 was empty, though the electric light had been left burning. A look of relief came over his face, and he flung himself into the armchair.
The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, two other chairs, a piano, a three-legged table, and a cosy14 corner. Of the walls, one was occupied by the window, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling15 with Cupids. Opposite the window was the door, and beside the door a bookcase, while over the piano there extended one of the masterpieces of Maud Goodman. It was an amorous16 and not unpleasant little hole when the curtains were drawn17, and the lights turned on, and the gas-stove unlit. But it struck that shallow makeshift note that is so often heard in the modem18 dwelling-place. It had been too easily gained, and could be relinquished19 too easily.
As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the three-legged table, and a photograph frame, honourably20 poised21 upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the fireplace, and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady called Jacky, and had been taken at the time when young ladies called Jacky were often photographed with their mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended along either of Jacky's jaws22, and positively23 weighted her head sideways, so large were they and so numerous. Take my word for it, that smile was simply stunning24, and it is only you and I who will be fastidious, and complain that true joy begins in the eyes, and that the eyes of Jacky did not accord with her smile, but were anxious and hungry.
Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and cut his fingers and swore again. A drop of blood fell on the frame, another followed, spilling over on to the exposed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and dashed to the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. The kitchen was the same size as the sitting room; through it was a bedroom. This completed his home. He was renting the flat furnished: of all the objects that encumbered25 it none were his own except the photograph frame, the Cupids, and the books.
"Damn, damn, damnation!" he murmured, together with such other words as he had learnt from older men. Then he raised his hand to his forehead and said, "Oh, damn it all--" which meant something different. He pulled himself together. He drank a little tea, black and silent, that still survived upon an upper shelf. He swallowed some dusty crumbs26 of cake. Then he went back to the sitting-room, settled himself anew, and began to read a volume of Ruskin.
"Seven miles to the north of Venice--"
How perfectly27 the famous chapter opens! How supreme28 its command of admonition and of poetry! The rich man is speaking to us from his gondola29.
"Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand which nearer the city rise little above low-water mark attain30 by degrees a higher level, and knit themselves at last into fields of salt morass31, raised here and there into shapeless mounds32, and intercepted33 by narrow creeks34 of sea."
Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: he understood him to be the greatest master of English Prose. He read forward steadily35, occasionally making a few notes.
"Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession, and first (for of the shafts36 enough has been said already), what is very peculiar37 to this church--its luminousness38."
Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sentence? Could he adapt it to the needs of daily life? Could he introduce it, with modifications39, when he next wrote a letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example--
"Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession, and first (for of the absence of ventilation enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to this flat--its obscurity. "
Something told him that the modifications would not do; and that something, had he known it, was the spirit of English Prose. "My flat is dark as well as stuffy40." Those were the words for him.
And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping melodiously41 of Effort and Self-Sacrifice, full of high purpose, full of beauty, full even of sympathy and the love of men, yet somehow eluding42 all that was actual and insistent43 in Leonard's life. For it was the voice of one who had never been dirty or hungry, and had not guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are.
Leonard listened to it with reverence44. He felt that he was being done good to, and that if he kept on with Ruskin, and the Queen's Hall Concerts, and some pictures by Watts45, he would one day push his head out of the grey waters and see the universe. He believed in sudden conversion46, a belief which may be right, but which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. It is the bias47 of much popular religion: in the domain48 of business it dominates the Stock Exchange, and becomes that "bit of luck" by which all successes and failures are explained. "If only I had a bit of luck, the whole thing would come straight. . . . He's got a most magnificent place down at Streatham and a 20 h.-p. Fiat49, but then, mind you, he's had luck. . . . I'm sorry the wife's so late, but she never has any luck over catching50 trains." Leonard was superior to these people; he did believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the change that he desired. But of a heritage that may expand gradually, he had no conception: he hoped to come to Culture suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus. Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all. And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy.
Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut up Margaret's card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was awesome51. She seemed all strings52 and bell-pulls--ribbons, chains, bead53 necklaces that clinked and caught--and a boa of azure54 feathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven55. Her throat was bare, wound with a double row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows, and might again be detected at the shoulder, through cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, resembled those punnets, covered with flannel56, which we sowed with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which germinated57 here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter58 destiny, rippled59 around her forehead. The face--the face does not signify. It was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so numerous as the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was descending60 quicker than most women into the colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it.
"What ho!" said Leonard, greeting that apparition61 with much spirit, and helping62 it off with its boa.
Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!"
"Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous63, but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No," adding, "Oh, I am so tired."
"You tired?"
"Eh?"
"I'm tired," said he, hanging the boa up.
"Oh, Len, I am so tired."
"I've been to that classical concert I told you about," said Leonard.
"What's that?"
"I came back as soon as it was over."
"Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky.
"Not that I've seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few remarks."
"What, not Mr. Cunnginham?"
"Yes."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham."
"Yes. Mr. Cunningham."
"I've been out to tea at a lady friend's."
Her secret being at last given to the world, and the name of the lady-friend being even adumbrated64, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was--
"On the shelf, On the shelf, Boys, boys, I'm on the shelf,"
she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare.
She sat down on Leonard's knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you're reading?" and he said, "That's a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret's card fell out of it. It fell face downwards66, and he murmured, "Bookmarker."
"Len--"
"What is it?" he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.
"You do love me?"
"Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!"
"But you do love me, Len, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
A pause. The other remark was still due.
"Len--"
"Well? What is it?"
"Len, you will make it all right?"
"I can't have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring67 up into a sudden passion. "I've promised to marry you when I'm of age, and that's enough. My word's my word. I've promised to marry you as soon as ever I'm twenty-one, and I can't keep on being worried. I've worries enough. It isn't likely I'd throw you over, let alone my word, when I've spent all this money. Besides, I'm an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I'll marry you. Only do stop badgering me."
"When's your birthday, Len?"
"I've told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my knee a bit; someone must get supper, I suppose."
Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs68. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking69 with metallic70 fumes71. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly.
"It really is too bad when a fellow isn't trusted. It makes one feel so wild, when I've pretended to the people here that you're my wife--all right, you shall be my wife--and I've bought you the ring to wear, and I've taken this flat furnished, and it's far more than I can afford, and yet you aren't content, and I've also not told the truth when I've written home." He lowered his voice. "He'd stop it." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious72, he repeated: "My brother'd stop it. I'm going against the whole world, Jacky.
"That's what I am, Jacky. I don't take any heed73 of what anyone says. I just go straight forward, I do. That's always been my way. I'm not one of your weak knock-kneed chaps. If a woman's in trouble, I don't leave her in the lurch74. That's not my street. No, thank you.
"I'll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal about improving myself by means of Literature and Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when you came in I was reading Ruskin's STONES OF VENICE. I don't say this to boast, but just to show you the kind of man I am. I can tell you, I enjoyed that classical concert this afternoon."
To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. When supper was ready--and not before--she emerged from the bedroom, saying: "But you do love me, don't you?"
They began with a soup square, which Leonard had just dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by the tongue--a freckled75 cylinder76 of meat, with a little jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the bottom--ending with another square dissolved in water (jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier in the day. Jacky ate contentedly77 enough, occasionally looking at her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing else in her appearance corresponded, and which yet seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed to convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing meal.
After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a few statements. She observed that her "likeness78" had been broken. He found occasion to remark, for the second time, that he had come straight back home after the concert at Queen's Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee. The inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads, and the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to sing, "Hark, my soul, it is the Lord."
"That tune79 fairly gives me the hump," said Leonard.
Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she thought it a lovely tune.
"No; I'll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for a minute."
He went to the piano and jingled80 out a little Grieg. He played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was not without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she'd be going to bed. As she receded81, a new set of interests possessed82 the boy, and he began to think of what had been said about music by that odd Miss Schlegel--the one that twisted her face about so when she spoke65. Then the thoughts grew sad and envious83. There was the girl named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and the German girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and Herr someone, and Aunt someone, and the brother--all, all with their hands on the ropes. They had all passed up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham Place, to some ample room, whither he could never follow them, not if he read for ten hours a day. Oh, it was not good, this continual aspiration84. Some are born cultured; the rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see life steadily and to see it whole was not for the likes of him.
From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, "Len?"
"You in bed?" he asked, his forehead twitching85.
"M'm."
"All right."
Presently she called him again.
"I must clean my boots ready for the morning," he answered.
Presently she called him again.
"I rather want to get this chapter done."
"What?"
He closed his ears against her.
"What's that?"
"All right, Jacky, nothing; I'm reading a book."
"What?"
"What?" he answered, catching her degraded deafness.
Presently she called him again.
Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was ordering his gondoliers to take him to Murano. It occurred to him, as he glided86 over the whispering lagoons87, that the power of Nature could not be shortened by the folly88, nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery89, of such as Leonard.
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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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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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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modem
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| n.调制解调器 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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luminousness
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| 透光率 | |
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modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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melodiously
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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germinated
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| v.（使）发芽( germinate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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adumbrated
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| v.约略显示，勾画出…的轮廓( adumbrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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