It is the great city’s one hour of purity, of dignity. The very rag-picker, groping with her filthy3 hands among the ashes, instead of an object of contempt, moves from door to door an accusing Figure, her thin soiled garments, her bent4 body, her scarred face, hideous5 with the wounds of poverty, an eloquent6 indictment7 of smug Injustice8, sleeping behind its deaf shutters9. Yet even into her dim brain has sunk the peace that fills for this brief hour the city. This, too, shall have its end, my sister! Men and women were not born to live on the husks that fill the pails outside the rich man’s door. Courage a little while longer, you and yours. Your rheumy eyes once were bright, your thin locks once soft and wavy10, your poor bent back once straight; and maybe, as they tell you in their gilded11 churches, this bulging12 sack shall be lifted from your weary shoulders, your misshapen limbs be straight again. You pass not altogether unheeded through these empty streets. Not all the eyes of the universe are sleeping.
The little seamstress, hurrying to her early work! A little later she will be one of the foolish crowd, joining in the foolish laughter, in the coarse jests of the work-room: but as yet the hot day has not claimed her. The work-room is far beyond, the home of mean cares and sordid13 struggles far behind. To her, also, in this moment are the sweet thoughts of womanhood. She puts down her bag, rests herself upon a seat. If all the day were dawn, this city of the morning always with us! A neighbouring clock chimes forth14 the hour. She starts up from her dream and hurries on—to the noisy work-room.
A pair of lovers cross the park, holding each other’s hands. They will return later in the day, but there will be another expression in their eyes, another meaning in the pressure of their hands. Now the purity of the morning is with them.
Some fat, middle-aged15 clerk comes puffing16 into view: his ridiculous little figure very podgy. He stops to take off his hat and mop his bald head with his handkerchief: even to him the morning lends romance. His fleshy face changes almost as one looks at him. One sees again the lad with his vague hopes, his absurd ambitions.
There is a statue of Aphrodite in one of the smaller Paris parks. Twice in the same week, without particularly meaning it, I found myself early in the morning standing17 in front of this statue gazing listlessly at it, as one does when in dreamy mood; and on both occasions, turning to go, I encountered the same man, also gazing at it with, apparently18, listless eyes. He was an uninteresting looking man—possibly he thought the same of me. From his dress he might have been a well-to-do tradesman, a minor19 Government official, doctor, or lawyer. Quite ten years later I paid my third visit to the same statue at about the same hour. This time he was there before me. I was hidden from him by some bushes. He glanced round but did not see me; and then he did a curious thing. Placing his hands on the top of the pedestal, which may have been some seven feet in height, he drew himself up, and kissed very gently, almost reverentially, the foot of the statue, begrimed though it was with the city’s dirt. Had he been some long-haired student of the Latin Quarter one would not have been so astonished. But he was such a very commonplace, quite respectable looking man. Afterwards he drew a pipe from his pocket, carefully filled and lighted it, took his umbrella from the seat where it had been lying, and walked away.
Had it been their meeting-place long ago? Had he been wont20 to tell her, gazing at her with lover’s eyes, how like she was to the statue? The French sculptor21 has not to consider Mrs. Grundy. Maybe, the lady, raising her eyes, had been confused; perhaps for a moment angry—some little milliner or governess, one supposes. In France the jeune fille of good family does not meet her lover unattended. What had happened? Or was it but the vagrant22 fancy of a middle-aged bourgeois23 seeking in imagination the romance that reality so rarely gives us, weaving his love dream round his changeless statue?
In one of Ibsen’s bitter comedies the lovers agree to part while they are still young, never to see each other in the flesh again. Into the future each will bear away the image of the other, godlike, radiant with the glory of youth and love; each will cherish the memory of a loved one who shall be beautiful always. That their parting may not appear such wild nonsense as at first it strikes us, Ibsen shows us other lovers who have married in the orthodox fashion. She was all that a mistress should be. They speak of her as they first knew her fifteen years ago, when every man was at her feet. He then was a young student, burning with fine ideals, with enthusiasm for all the humanities.
They enter.
What did you expect? Fifteen years have passed—fifteen years of struggle with the grim realities. He is fat and bald. Eleven children have to be provided for. High ideals will not even pay the bootmaker. To exist you have to fight for mean ends with mean weapons. And the sweet girl heroine! Now the worried mother of eleven brats24! One rings down the curtain amid Satanic laughter.
That is why, for one reason among so many, I love this mystic morning light. It has a strange power of revealing the beauty that is hidden from us by the coarser beams of the full day. These worn men and women, grown so foolish looking, so unromantic; these artisans and petty clerks plodding25 to their monotonous26 day’s work; these dull-eyed women of the people on their way to market to haggle27 over sous, to argue and contend over paltry28 handfuls of food. In this magic morning light the disguising body becomes transparent29. They have grown beautiful, not ugly, with the years of toil30 and hardship; these lives, lived so patiently, are consecrated31 to the service of the world. Joy, hope, pleasure—they have done with all such, life for them is over. Yet they labour, ceaselessly, uncomplainingly. It is for the children.
One morning, near Brussels, I encountered a cart of faggots, drawn32 by a hound so lean that stroking him might have hurt a dainty hand. I was shocked—angry, till I noticed his fellow beast of burden pushing the cart from behind. Such a scarecrow of an old woman! There was little to choose between them. I walked with them a little way. She lived near Waterloo. All day she gathered wood in the great forest, and starting at three o’clock each morning, the two lean creatures between them dragged the cart nine miles to Brussels, returning when they had sold their load. With luck she might reckon on a couple of francs. I asked her if she could not find something else to do.
Yes, it was possible, but for the little one, her grandchild. Folks will not employ old women burdened with grandchildren.
You fair, dainty ladies, who would never know it was morning if somebody did not enter to pull up the blind and tell you so! You do well not to venture out in this magic morning light. You would look so plain—almost ugly, by the side of these beautiful women.
It is curious the attraction the Church has always possessed33 for the marketing34 classes. Christ drove them from the Temple, but still, in every continental35 city, they cluster round its outer walls. It makes a charming picture on a sunny morning, the great cathedral with its massive shadow forming the background; splashed about its feet, like a parterre of gay flowers around the trunk of some old tree, the women, young girls in their many coloured costumes, sitting before their piled-up baskets of green vegetables, of shining fruits.
In Brussels the chief market is held on the Grande Place. The great gilded houses have looked down upon much the same scene every morning these four hundred years. In summer time it commences about half-past four; by five o’clock it is a roaring hive, the great city round about still sleeping.
Here comes the thrifty36 housewife of the poor, to whom the difference of a tenth of a penny in the price of a cabbage is all-important, and the much harassed37 keeper of the petty pension. There are houses in Brussels where they will feed you, light you, sleep you, wait on you, for two francs a day. Withered38 old ladies, ancient governesses, who will teach you for forty centimes an hour, gather round these ricketty tables, wolf up the thin soup, grumble39 at the watery40 coffee, help themselves with unladylike greediness to the potato pie. It must need careful housewifery to keep these poor creatures on two francs a day and make a profit for yourself. So “Madame,” the much-grumbled-at, who has gone to bed about twelve, rises a little before five, makes her way down with her basket. Thus a few sous may be saved upon the day’s economies.
Sometimes it is a mere41 child who is the little housekeeper42. One thinks that perhaps this early training in the art of haggling43 may not be good for her. Already there is a hard expression in the childish eyes, mean lines about the little mouth. The finer qualities of humanity are expensive luxuries, not to be afforded by the poor.
They overwork their patient dogs, and underfeed them. During the two hours’ market the poor beasts, still fastened to their little “chariots,” rest in the open space about the neighbouring Bourse. They snatch at what you throw them; they do not even thank you with a wag of the tail. Gratitude44! Politeness! What mean you? We have not heard of such. We only work. Some of them amid all the din2 lie sleeping between their shafts45. Some are licking one another’s sores. One would they were better treated; alas46! their owners, likewise, are overworked and underfed, housed in kennels47 no better. But if the majority in every society were not overworked and underfed and meanly housed, why, then the minority could not be underworked and overfed and housed luxuriously48. But this is talk to which no respectable reader can be expected to listen.
They are one babel of bargaining, these markets. The purchaser selects a cauliflower. Fortunately, cauliflowers have no feelings, or probably it would burst into tears at the expression with which it is regarded. It is impossible that any lady should desire such a cauliflower. Still, out of mere curiosity, she would know the price—that is, if the owner of the cauliflower is not too much ashamed of it to name a price.
The owner of the cauliflower suggests six sous. The thing is too ridiculous for argument. The purchaser breaks into a laugh.
The owner of the cauliflower is stung. She points out the beauties of that cauliflower. Apparently it is the cauliflower out of all her stock she loves the best; a better cauliflower never lived; if there were more cauliflowers in the world like this particular cauliflower things might be different. She gives a sketch49 of the cauliflower’s career, from its youth upwards50. Hard enough it will be for her when the hour for parting from it comes. If the other lady has not sufficient knowledge of cauliflowers to appreciate it, will she kindly51 not paw it about, but put it down and go away, and never let the owner of the cauliflower see her again.
The other lady, more as a friend than as a purchaser, points out the cauliflower’s defects. She wishes well to the owner of the cauliflower, and would like to teach her something about her business. A lady who thinks such a cauliflower worth six sous can never hope to succeed as a cauliflower vendor52. Has she really taken the trouble to examine the cauliflower for herself, or has love made her blind to its shortcomings?
The owner of the cauliflower is too indignant to reply. She snatches it away, appears to be comforting it, replaces it in the basket. The other lady is grieved at human obstinacy53 and stupidity in general. If the owner of the cauliflower had had any sense she would have asked four sous. Eventually business is done at five.
It is the custom everywhere abroad—asking the price of a thing is simply opening conversation. A lady told me that, the first day she began housekeeping in Florence, she handed over to a poulterer for a chicken the price he had demanded—with protestations that he was losing on the transaction, but wanted, for family reasons, apparently, to get rid of the chicken. He stood for half a minute staring at her, and then, being an honest sort of man, threw in a pigeon.
Foreign housekeepers54 starting business in London appear hurt when our tradesmen decline to accept half-a-crown for articles marked three-and-six.
“Then why mark it only three-and-sixpence?” is the foreign housekeeper’s argument.
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1
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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haggle
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| vi.讨价还价，争论不休 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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39
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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43
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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45
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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46
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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51
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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52
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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54
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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