“Why, about you!” Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly1. “And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?”
“Where I am now, of course,” said Alice.
“Not you!” Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. “You’d be nowhere. Why, you’re only a sort of thing in his dream!”
“If that there King was to wake,” added Tweedle-dum, “you’d go out—bang!—just like a candle!”
“I shouldn’t!” Alice exclaimed indignantly.
—Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass (1872)
Charles arrived at the station in ridiculously good time the next morning; and having gone through the ungentlemanly business of seeing his things loaded into the baggage van and then selected an empty first-class compartment2, he sat impa-tiently waiting for the train to start. Other passengers looked in from time to time, and were rebuffed by that Gorgon3 stare (this compartment is reserved for non-lepers) the English have so easily at command. A whistle sounded, and Charles thought he had won the solitude4 he craved5. But then, at the very last moment, a massively bearded face appeared at his window. The cold stare was met by the even colder stare of a man in a hurry to get aboard.
The latecomer muttered a “Pardon me, sir” and made his way to the far end of the compartment. He sat, a man of forty or so, his top hat firmly square, his hands on his knees, regaining6 his breath. There was something rather aggressively secure about him; he was perhaps not quite a gentleman ... an ambitious butler (but butlers did not travel first class) or a successful lay preacher—one of the bullying7 tabernacle kind, a would-be Spurgeon, converting souls by scorching8 them with the cheap rhetoric9 of eternal damnation. A de-cidedly unpleasant man, thought Charles, and so typical of the age—and therefore emphatically to be snubbed if he tried to enter into conversation.
As sometimes happens when one stares covertly10 at people and speculates about them, Charles was caught in the act; and reproved for it. There was a very clear suggestion in the sharp look sideways that Charles should keep his eyes to himself. He hastily directed his gaze outside his window and consoled himself that at least the person shunned11 intimacy12 as much as he did.
Very soon the even movement lulled13 Charles into a douce daydream14. London was a large city; but she must soon look for work. He had the time, the resources, the will; a week might pass, two, but then she would stand before him; perhaps yet another address would slip through his letter box. The wheels said it: she-could-not-be-so-cruel, she-could-not-be-so-cruel, she-could-not-be-so-cruel ... the train passed through the red and green valleys towards Cullompton. Charles saw its church, without knowing where the place was, and soon afterwards closed his eyes. He had slept poorly that previous night.
For a while his traveling companion took no notice of the sleeping Charles. But as the chin sank deeper and deeper— Charles had taken the precaution of removing his hat—the prophet-bearded man began to stare at him, safe in the knowledge that his curiosity would not be surprised.
His look was peculiar15: sizing, ruminative16, more than a shade disapproving17, as if he knew very well what sort of man this was (as Charles had believed to see very well what sort of man he was) and did not much like the knowledge or the species. It was true that, unobserved, he looked a little less frigid18 and authoritarian19 a person; but there remained about his features an unpleasant aura of self-confidence—or if not quite confidence in self, at least a confidence in his judgment20 of others, of how much he could get out of them, expect from them, tax them.
A stare of a minute or so’s duration, of this kind, might have been explicable. Train journeys are boring; it is amusing to spy on strangers; and so on. But this stare, which became positively21 cannibalistic in its intensity22, lasted far longer than a minute. It lasted beyond Taunton, though it was briefly23 inter-rupted there when the noise on the platform made Charles wake for a few moments. But when he sank back into his slumbers24, the eyes fastened on him again in the same leech-like manner.
You may one day come under a similar gaze. And you may—in the less reserved context of our own century—be aware of it. The intent watcher will not wait till you are asleep. It will no doubt suggest something unpleasant, some kind of devious25 sexual approach ... a desire to know you in a way you do not want to be known by a stranger. In my experience there is only one profession that gives that partic-ular look, with its bizarre blend of the inquisitive26 and the magistral; of the ironic27 and the soliciting28.
Now could I use you?
Now what could I do with you?
It is precisely29, it has always seemed to me, the look an omnipotent30 god—if there were such an absurd thing—should be shown to have. Not at all what we think of as a divine look; but one of a distinctly mean and dubious31 (as the theoreticians of the nouveau roman have pointed32 out) moral quality. I see this with particular clarity on the face, only too familiar to me, of the bearded man who stares at Charles. And I will keep up the pretense33 no longer.
Now the question I am asking, as I stare at Charles, is not quite the same as the two above. But rather, what the devil am I going to do with you? I have already thought of ending Charles’s career here and now; of leaving him for eternity34 on his way to London. But the conventions of Victorian fiction allow, allowed no place for the open, the inconclusive ending; and I preached earlier of the freedom characters must be given. My problem is simple—what Charles wants is clear? It is indeed. But what the protagonist35 wants is not so clear; and I am not at all sure where she is at the moment. Of course if these two were two fragments of real life, instead of two figments of my imagination, the issue of the dilemma36 is obvious: the one want combats the other want, and fails or succeeds, as the actuality may be. Fiction usually pretends to conform to the reality: the writer puts the conflicting wants in the ring and then describes the fight—but in fact fixes the fight, letting that want he himself favors win. And we judge writers of fiction both by the skill they show in fixing the fights (in other words, in persuading us that they were not fixed) and by the kind of fighter they fix in favor of: the good one, the tragic37 one, the evil one, the funny one, and so on.
But the chief argument for fight-fixing is to show one’s readers what one thinks of the world around one—whether one is a pessimist38, an optimist39, what you will. I have pretend-ed to slip back into 1867; but of course that year is in reality a century past. It is futile40 to show optimism or pessimism41, or anything else about it, because we know what has happened since.
So I continue to stare at Charles and see no reason this time for fixing the fight upon which he is about to engage. That leaves me with two alternatives. I let the fight proceed and take no more than a recording42 part in it; or I take both sides in it. I stare at that vaguely43 effete44 but not completely futile face. And as we near London, I think I see a solution; that is, I see the dilemma is false. The only way I can take no part in the fight is to show two versions of it. That leaves me with only one problem: I cannot give both versions at once, yet whichever is the second will seem, so strong is the tyranny of the last chapter, the final, the “real” version.
I take my purse from the pocket of my frock coat, I extract a florin, I rest it on my right thumbnail, I flick45 it, spinning, two feet into the air and catch it in my left hand.
So be it. And I am suddenly aware that Charles has opened his eyes and is looking at me. There is something more than disapproval46 in his eyes now; he perceives I am either a gambler or mentally deranged47. I return his disapproval, and my florin to my purse. He picks up his hat, brushes some invisible speck48 of dirt (a surrogate for myself) from its nap and places it on his head.
We draw under one of the great cast-iron beams that support the roof of Paddington station. We arrive, he steps down to the platform, beckoning49 to a porter. In a few mo-ments, having given his instructions, he turns. The bearded man has disappeared in the throng50.
收听单词发音 |
1
triumphantly
|
|
| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
compartment
|
|
| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
gorgon
|
|
| n.丑陋女人，蛇发女怪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
craved
|
|
| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
regaining
|
|
| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
bullying
|
|
| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
scorching
|
|
| adj. 灼热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
rhetoric
|
|
| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
covertly
|
|
| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
shunned
|
|
| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
lulled
|
|
| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
daydream
|
|
| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
ruminative
|
|
| adj.沉思的，默想的，爱反复思考的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
disapproving
|
|
| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
frigid
|
|
| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
authoritarian
|
|
| n./adj.专制(的)，专制主义者，独裁主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
slumbers
|
|
| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
devious
|
|
| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
inquisitive
|
|
| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
ironic
|
|
| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
soliciting
|
|
| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
omnipotent
|
|
| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
dubious
|
|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
pretense
|
|
| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
eternity
|
|
| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
protagonist
|
|
| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
dilemma
|
|
| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
pessimist
|
|
| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
optimist
|
|
| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
pessimism
|
|
| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
recording
|
|
| n.录音，记录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
effete
|
|
| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
flick
|
|
| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
disapproval
|
|
| n.反对，不赞成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
deranged
|
|
| adj.疯狂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
speck
|
|
| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
beckoning
|
|
| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
throng
|
|
| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |