Each for himself is still the rule:
We learn it when we go to school—
The devil take the hindmost, O!
—A. H. Clough, Poem (1849)
And now let us jump twenty months. It is a brisk early Feb-ruary day in the year 1869. Gladstone has in the interval1 at last reached No. 10 Downing Street; the last public execu-tion in England has taken place; Mill’s Subjection of Women and Girton College are about to appear. The Thames is its usual infamous2 mud-gray. But the sky above is derisively3 blue; and looking up, one might be in Florence.
Looking down, along the new embankment in Chelsea, there are traces of snow on the ground. Yet there is also, if only in the sunlight, the first faint ghost of spring. I am ver ... I am sure the young woman whom I should have liked to show pushing a perambulator (but can’t, since they do not come into use for another decade) had never heard of Ca-tullus, nor would have thought much of all that going on about unhappy love even if she had. But she knew the sen-timent about spring. After all, she had just left the result of an earlier spring at home (a mile away to the west) and so blanketed and swaddled and swathed that it might just as well have been a bulb beneath the ground. It is also clear, trimly though she contrives4 to dress, that like all good gardeners she prefers her bulbs planted en masse. There is something in that idle slow walk of expectant mothers; the least offensive arrogance5 in the world, though still an arrogance.
This idle and subtly proud young woman leans for a moment over the parapet and stares at the gray ebb6. Pink cheeks, and superb wheaten-lashed eyes, eyes that concede a little in blueness to the sky over her, but nothing in brilliance7; London could never have bred a thing so pure. Yet when she turns and surveys the handsome row of brick houses, some new, some old, that front the river across the road it is very evident that she holds nothing against London. And it is a face without envy, as it takes in the well-to-do houses; but full of a naive8 happiness that such fine things exist.
A hansom approaches, from the direction of central Lon-don. The blue-gray eyes watch it, in a way that suggests the watcher still finds such banal9 elements of the London scene fascinating and strange. It draws to a stop outside a large house opposite. A woman emerges, steps down to the pave-ment, takes a coin from her purse.
The mouth of the girl on the embankment falls open. A moment’s pallor attacks the pink, and then she flushes. The cabby touches the brim of his hat with two fingers. His fare walks quickly towards the front door of the house behind her. The girl moves forward to the curb10, half hiding behind a tree trunk. The woman opens the front door, disappears inside.
“’Twas ‘er, Sam. I saw ‘er clear as—“
“I can’t hardly believe it.”
But he could; indeed, some sixth or seventh sense in him had almost expected it. He had looked up the old cook, Mrs. Rogers, on his return to London; and received from her a detailed11 account of Charles’s final black weeks in Kensington. That was a long time ago now. Outwardly he had shared her disapproval12 of their former master. But inwardly something had stirred; being a matchmaker is one thing. A match-breaker is something other.
Sam and Mary were staring at each other—a dark wonder-ment in her eyes matching a dark doubt in his—in a front parlor13 that was minuscule14, yet not too badly furnished. A bright fire burned in the grate. And as they questioned each other the door opened and a tiny maid, an unprepossessing girl of fourteen, came in carrying the now partly unswaddled infant—the last good crop, I believe, ever to come out of Carslake’s Barn. Sam immediately took the bundle in his arms and dandled it and caused screams, a fairly invariable procedure when he returned from work. Mary nastily took the precious burden and grinned at the foolish father, while the little waif by the door grinned in sympathy at both. And now we can see distinctly that Mary is many months gone with another child.
“Well, my love, I’m hoff to partake of refreshment15. You put the supper on. ‘Arriet?”
“Yes. sir. Read’in narf-n-nour, sir.”
“There’s a good girl. My love.” And as if nothing was on his mind, he kissed Mary on the cheek, then tickled16 the baby’s ribs17.
He did not look quite so happy a man five minutes later, when he sat in the sawdusted corner of a nearby public house, with a gin and hot water in front of him. He certainly had everv outward reason to be happy. He did not own his own shop, but he had something nearly as good. The first baby had been a girl, but that was a small disappoint-ment he felt confident would soon be remedied.
Sam had played his cards very right in Lyme. Aunt Tranter had been a soft touch from the start. He had thrown himself, with Mary’s aid, on her mercy. Had he not lost all his prospects18 by his brave giving in of notice? Was it not gospel that Mr. Charles had promised him a loan, of four hundred (always ask a higher price than you dare) to set him up in business? What business?
“Same as Mr. Freeman’s, m’m, honly in a very, very ‘umble way.”
And he had played the Sarah card very well. For the first few days nothing would make him betray his late master’s guilty secrets; his lips were sealed. But Mrs. Tranter was so kind—Colonel Locke at Jericho House was looking for a manservant, and Sam’s unemploy-ment was of a very short duration. So was his remaining bachelor-hood; and the cere-mony that concluded it was at the bride’s mistress’s expense. Clearly he had to make some return.
Like all lonely old ladies Aunt Tranter was forever in search of someone to adopt and help; and she was not allowed to forget that Sam wanted to go into the haberdash-ery line. Thus it was that one day, when staying in London with her sister, Mrs. Tranter ventured to broach20 the matter to her brother-in-law. At first he was inclined to shake his head. But then he was gently reminded how honorably the young servant had behaved; and he knew better than Mrs. Tranter to what good use Sam’s information had been and might still be put.
“Very well, Ann. I will see what there is. There may be a vacancy21.”
Thus Sam gained a footing, a very lowly one, in the great store. But it was enough. What deficiencies he had in educa-tion he supplied with his natural sharpness. His training as a servant stood him in good stead in dealing22 with customers. He dressed excellently. And one day he did something better.
It was a splendid April morning some six months after his married return to London, and just nine before the evening that saw him so unchipper in his place of refreshment. Mr. Freeman had elected to walk to his store from the Hyde Park house. He passed at last along its serried23 windows and entered the store, the sign for a great springing, scraping and bowing on the part of his ground-floor staff. Customers were few at that early hour. He raised his hat in his customary seigneurial way, but then to everyone’s astonishment24 prompt-ly turned and went out again. The nervous superintendent25 of the floor stepped outside as well. He saw the tycoon26 standing27 in front of a window and staring at it. The superintendent’s heart fell, but he sidled up discreetly28 behind Mr. Freeman.
“An experiment, Mr. Freeman. I will have it removed at once.”
Three other men stopped beside them. Mr. Freeman cast them a quick look, then took the superintendent by the arm and led him a few steps away.
“Now watch, Mr. Simpson.”
They stood there for some five minutes. Again and again people passed the other windows and stopped at that one. Some, as Mr. Freeman himself had done, took it in without noticing, then retraced29 their steps to look at it.
I am afraid it will be an anticlimax30 to describe it. But you would have had to see those other windows, monotonously31 cluttered32 and monotonously ticketed, to appreciate its distinc-tion; and you have to remember that unlike our age, when the finest flower of mankind devote their lives to the great god Publicity33, the Victorians believed in the absurd notion that good wine needs no bush. The back of the display was a simple draped cloth of dark purple. Floating in front was a striking array, suspended on thin wires, of gentlemen’s collars of every conceivable shape, size and style. But the cunning in the thing was that they were arranged to form words. And they cried, they positively34 bellowed35: Freeman’s For Choice.
“That, Mr. Simpson, is the best window dressing36 we have done this year.”
“Exactly, Mr. Freeman. Very bold. Very eye-catching.”
“‘Freeman’s for Choice.’ That is precisely37 what we offer— why else do we carry such a large stock? ‘Freeman’s for Choice’—excellent! I want that phrase in all our circulars and advertisements from now on.”
He marched back towards the entrance. The superinten-dent smiled.
“We owe this to you in great part, Mr. Freeman, sir. That young man—Mr. Farrow?—you remember you took a per-sonal interest in his coming to us?”
Mr. Freeman stopped. “Farrow—his first name is Sam?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Bring him to me.”
“He came in at five o’clock, sir, especially to do it.”
Thus Sam was at last brought bashfully face to face with the great man.
“Excellent work, Farrow.”
Sam bowed deep. “It was my hutmost pleasure to do it, sir.”
“How much are we paying Farrow, Mr. Simpson?”
“Twenty-five shillings, sir.”
“Twenty-seven and sixpence.”
And he walked on before Sam could express his gratitude38. Better was to come, for an envelope was handed to him when he went to collect his money at the end of the week. In it were three sovereigns and a card saying, “Bonus for zeal39 and invention.”
Now, only nine months later, his salary had risen to the giddy heights of thirty-two and sixpence; and he had a strong suspicion, since he had become an indispensable member of the window-dressing staff, that any time he asked for a rise he would get it.
Sam bought himself another and extraordinary supplement of gin and returned to his seat. The unhappy thing about him—a defect that his modern descendants in the publicity game have managed to get free of—was that he had a conscience ... or perhaps he had simply a feeling of unjus-tified happiness and good luck. The Faust myth is archetypal in civilized40 man; never mind that Sam’s civilization had not taught him enough even to know who Faust was, he was sufficiently41 sophisticated to have heard of pacts42 with the Devil and of the course they took. One did very well for a while, but one day the Devil would claim his own. Fortune is a hard taskmaster; it stimulates43 the imagination into foresee-ing its loss, and in strict relation, very often, to its kindness.
And it worried him, too, that he had never told Mary of what he had done. There were no other secrets between them; and he trusted her judgment44. Every now and again his old longing45 to be his own master in his own shop would come back to him; was there not now proof of his natural apti-tude? But it was Mary, with her sound rural sense of the best field to play, who gently—and once or twice, not so gently— sent him back to his Oxford46 Street grindstone.
Even if it was hardly yet reflected in their accents and use of the language, these two were rising in the world; and knew it. To Mary, it was all like a dream. To be married to a man earning over thirty shillings a week! When her own father, the carter, had never risen above ten! To live in a house that cost ￡19 a year to rent!
And, most marvelous of all, to have recently been able to interview eleven lesser47 mortals for a post one had, only two years before, occupied oneself! Why eleven? Mary, I am afraid, thought a large part of playing the mistress was being hard to please—a fallacy in which she copied the niece rather than the aunt. But then she also followed a procedure not unknown among young wives with good-looking young hus-bands. Her selection of a skivvy had been based very little on intelligence and efficiency; and very much on total unattractiveness. She told Sam she finally offered Harriet the six pounds a year because she felt sorry for her; it was not quite a lie.
When he returned home to his mutton stew48, that evening of the double ration19 of gin, he put his arm round the swollen49 waist and kissed its owner; then looked down at the flower mosaic50 brooch she wore between her breasts—always wore at home and always took off when she went out, in case some thief garrotted her for it.
“’Ow’s the old pearl and coral then?”
She smiled and held it up a little.
“Happy to know ‘ee, Sam.”
And they stayed there, staring down at the emblem51 of their good fortune; always deserved, in her case; and now finally to be paid for, in his.
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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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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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minuscule
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| adj.非常小的；极不重要的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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tycoon
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| n.有钱有势的企业家，大亨 | |
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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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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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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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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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pacts
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| 条约( pact的名词复数 )； 协定； 公约 | |
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stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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