On the other hand Edwin had a sneezing cold which he could not conceal3, and Darius inimically inquired what foolishness he had committed to have brought this on himself. Edwin replied that he knew of no cause for it. A deliberate lie! He knew that he had contracted a chill while writing a letter to his father in an unwarmed attic4, and had intensified5 the chill by going forth6 to post the letter without his overcoat in a raw evening mist. Obviously, however, he could not have stated the truth. He was uncomfortable at the breakfast-table, but, after the first few moments, less so than during the disturbed night he had feared to be. His father had neither eaten him, nor jumped down his throat, nor performed any of those unpleasant miraculous7 feats8 which fathers usually do perform when infuriated by filial foolishness. The letter therefore had not been utterly9 disastrous10; sometimes a letter would ruin a breakfast, for Mr Clayhanger, with no consideration for the success of meals, always opened his post before bite or sup. He had had the letter, and still he was ready to talk to his son in the ordinary grim tone of a goose-morrow. Which was to the good. Edwin was now convinced that he had done well to write the letter.
Two.
But as the day passed, Edwin began to ask himself: “Has he had the letter?” There was no sign of the letter in his father’s demeanour, which, while not such as to make it credible11 that he ever had moods of positive gay roguishness, was almost tolerable, considering his headache and his nausea12. Letters occasionally were lost in the post, or delayed. Edwin thought it would be just his usual bad luck if that particular letter, that letter of all letters, should be lost. And the strange thing is that he could not prevent himself from hoping that it indeed was lost. He would prefer it to be lost rather than delayed. He felt that if the postman brought it by the afternoon delivery while he and his father were in the shop together, he should drop down dead. The day continued to pass, and did pass. And the shop was closed. “He’ll speak to me after supper,” said Edwin. But Darius did not speak to him after supper. Darius put on his hat and overcoat and went out, saying no word except to advise the children to be getting to bed, all of them.
As soon as he was gone Edwin took a candle and returned to the shop. He was convinced now that the letter had not been delivered, but he wished to make conviction sure. He opened the desk. His letter was nearly the first document he saw. It looked affrighting, awful. He dared not read it, to see whether its wording was fortunate or unfortunate. He departed, mystified. Upstairs in his bedroom he had a new copy of an English translation of Victor Hugo’s “Notre Dame,” which had been ordered by Lawyer Lawton, but would not be called for till the following week, because Lawyer Lawton only called once a fortnight. He had meant to read that book, with due precautions, in bed. But he could not fix attention on it. Impossible for him to follow a single paragraph. He extinguished the candle. Then he heard his father come home. He thought that he scarcely slept all night.
Three.
The next morning, Tuesday, the girls, between whom and their whispering friend Miss Ingamells something feminine was evidently afoot, left the breakfast-table sooner than usual, not without stifled13 giggles14: upon occasion Maggie would surprisingly meet Clara and Miss Ingamells on their own plane; since Sunday afternoon she had shown no further interest in Edwin’s important crisis; she seemed, so far as he could judge, to have fallen back into her customary state of busy apathy15.
The man and the young man were alone together. Darius, in his satisfaction at having been delivered so easily from the goose, had taken an extra slice of bacon. Edwin’s cold was now fully16 developed; and Maggie had told him to feed it.
“I suppose you got that letter I wrote you, father, about me going in for architecture,” said Edwin. Then he blew his nose to hide his confusion. He was rather startled to hear himself saying those bold words. He thought that he was quite calm and in control of his impulses; but it was not so; his nerves were stretched to the utmost.
Darius said nothing. But Edwin could see his face darkening, and his lower lip heavily falling. He glowered17, though not at Edwin. With eyes fixed18 on the window he glowered into vacancy19. The pride went out of Edwin’s heart.
“So ye’d leave the printing?” muttered Darius, when he had finished masticating20. He spoke21 in a menacing voice thick with ferocious22 emotion.
“Well—” said Edwin, quaking.
He thought he had never seen his father so ominously23 intimidating24. He was terrorised as he looked at that ugly and dark countenance25. He could not say any more. His voice left him. Thus his fear was physical as well as moral. He reflected: “Well, I expected a row, but I didn’t expect it would be as bad as this!” And once more he was completely puzzled and baffled by the enigma26 of his father.
Four.
He did not hold the key, and even had he held it he was too young, too inexperienced, to have used it. As with gathering27 passion the eyes of Darius assaulted the window-pane, Darius had a painful intense vision of that miracle, his own career. Edwin’s grand misfortune was that he was blind to the miracle. Edwin had never seen the little boy in the Bastille. But Darius saw him always, the infant who had begun life at a rope’s-end. Every hour of Darius’s present existence was really an astounding28 marvel29 to Darius. He could not read the newspaper without thinking how wonderful it was that he should be able to read the newspaper. And it was wonderful! It was wonderful that he had three different suits of clothes, none of them with a single hole. It was wonderful that he had three children, all with complete outfits30 of good clothes. It was wonderful that he never had to think twice about buying coal, and that he could have more food than he needed. It was wonderful that he was not living in a two-roomed cottage. He never came into his house by the side entrance without feeling proud that the door gave on to a preliminary passage and not direct into a living-room; he would never lose the idea that a lobby, however narrow, was the great distinguishing mark of wealth. It was wonderful that he had a piano, and that his girls could play it and could sing. It was wonderful that he had paid twenty-eight shillings a term for his son’s schooling31, in addition to book-money. Twenty-eight shillings a term! And once a penny a week was considered enough, and twopence generous! Through sheer splendid wilful32 pride he had kept his son at school till the lad was sixteen, going on seventeen! Seventeen, not seven! He had had the sort of pride in his son that a man may have in an idle, elegant, and absurdly expensive woman. It even tickled33 him to hear his son called ‘Master Edwin,’ and then ‘Mister Edwin’; just as the fine ceremonious manners of his sister-in-law Mrs Hamps tickled him. His marriage! With all its inevitable34 disillusions35 it had been wonderful, incredible. He looked back on it as a miracle. For he had married far above him, and had proved equal to the enormously difficult situation. Never had he made a fool of himself. He often took keen pleasure in speculating upon the demeanour of his father, his mother, his little sister, could they have seen him in his purple and in his grandeur36. They were all dead. And those days were fading, fading, gone, with their unutterable, intolerable shame and sadness, intolerable even in memory. And his wife dead too! All that remained was Mr Shushions.
And then his business? Darius’s pride in the achievement of his business was simply indescribable. If he had not built up that particular connexion he had built up another one whose sale had enabled him to buy it. And he was waxing yearly. His supremacy37 as a printer could not be challenged in Bursley. Steam! A double-windowed shop! A foreman to whom alone he paid thirty shillings a week! Four other employees! (Not to mention a domestic servant.) ... How had he done it? He did not know. Certainly he did not credit himself with brilliant faculties38. He knew he was not brilliant; he knew that once or twice he had had luck. But he had the greatest confidence in his rough-hewing common sense. The large curves of his career were correctly drawn. His common sense, his slow shrewdness, had been richly justified39 by events. They had been pitted against foes—and look now at the little boy from the Bastille!
Five.
To Darius there was no business quite like his own. He admitted that there were businesses much bigger, but they lacked the miraculous quality that his own had. They were not sacred. His was, genuinely. Once, in his triumphant40 and vain early manhood he had had a fancy for bulldogs; he had bred bulldogs; and one day he had sacrificed even that great delight at the call of his business; and now no one could guess that he knew the difference between a setter and a mastiff!
It was this sacred business (perpetually adored at the secret altar in Darius’s heart), this miraculous business, and not another, that Edwin wanted to abandon, with scarcely a word; just casually41!
True, Edwin had told him one night that he would like to be an architect. But Darius had attached no importance to the boyish remark. Darius had never even dreamed that Edwin would not go into the business. It would not have occurred to him to conceive such a possibility. And the boy had shown great aptitude42. The boy had saved the printing office from disaster. And Darius had proved his satisfaction therein, not by words certainly, but beyond mistaking in his general demeanour towards Edwin. And after all that, a letter—mind you, a letter!—proposing with the most damnable insolent43 audacity44 that he should be an architect, because he would not be ‘happy’ in the printing business! ... An architect! Why an architect, specially45? What in the name of God was there to attract in bricks and mortar46? He thought the boy had gone off his head for a space. He could not think of any other explanation. He had not allowed the letter to upset him. By his armour47 of thick callousness48, he had protected the tender places in his soul from being wounded. He had not decided49 how to phrase his answer to Edwin. He had not even decided whether he would say anything at all, whether it would not be more dignified50 and impressive to make no remark whatever to Edwin, to let him slowly perceive, by silence, what a lamentable51 error he had committed.
And here was the boy lightly, cheekily, talking at breakfast about ‘going in for architecture’! The armour of callousness was pierced. Darius felt the full force of the letter; and as he suffered, so he became terrible and tyrannic in his suffering. He meant to save his business, to put his business before anything. And he would have his own way. He would impose his will. And he would have treated argument as a final insult. All the heavy, obstinate52, relentless53 force of his individuality was now channelled in one tremendous instinct.
Six.
In spite of his advanced age Edwin began to cry. Yes, the tears came out of his eyes.
“And now you begin blubbing!” said his father.
“And what’s made ye settle on architecting, I’d like to be knowing?” Darius went on.
Edwin was not able to answer this question. He had never put it to himself. Assuredly he could not, at the pistol’s point, explain why he wanted to be an architect. He did not know. He announced this truth ingenuously—
“I don’t know—I—”
“I sh’d think not!” said his father. “D’ye think architecting’ll be any better than this?” ‘This’ meant printing.
“I don’t know—”
“Ye don’t know! Ye don’t know!” Darius repeated testily57. His testiness58 was only like foam59 on the great wave of his resentment60.
“Mr Orgreave—” Edwin began. It was unfortunate, because Darius had had a difficulty with Mr Orgreave, who was notoriously somewhat exacting61 in the matter of prices.
“Don’t talk to me about Mester Orgreave!” Darius almost shouted.
Edwin didn’t. He said to himself: “I am lost.”
“What’s this business o’ mine for, if it isna’ for you?” asked his father. “Architecting! There’s neither sense nor reason in it! Neither sense nor reason!”
He rose and walked out. Edwin was now sobbing62. In a moment his father returned, and stood in the doorway63.
“Ye’ve been doing well, I’ll say that, and I’ve shown it! I was beginning to have hopes of ye!” It was a great deal to say.
He departed.
“Perhaps if I hadn’t stopped his damned old machine from going through the floor, he’d have let me off!” Edwin muttered bitterly. “I’ve been too good, that’s what’s the matter with me!”
Seven.
He saw how fantastic was the whole structure of his hopes. He wondered that he had ever conceived it even wildly possible that his father would consent to architecture as a career! To ask it was to ask absurdly too much of fate. He demolished64, with a violent and resentful impulse, the structure of his hopes; stamped on it angrily. He was beaten. What could he do? He could do nothing against his father. He could no more change his father than the course of a river. He was beaten. He saw his case in its true light.
Mrs Nixon entered to clear the table. He turned away to hide his face, and strode passionately65 off. Two hours elapsed before he appeared in the shop. Nobody asked for him, but Mrs Nixon knew he was in the attic. At noon, Maggie, with a peculiar66 look, told him that Auntie Hamps had called and that he was to go and have dinner with her at one o’clock, and that his father consented. Obviously, Maggie knew the facts of the day. He was perturbed67 at the prospect68 of the visit. But he was glad; he thought he could not have lived through a dinner at the same table as Clara. He guessed that his auntie had been made aware of the situation and wished to talk to him.
Eight.
“Your father came to see me in such a state last night!” said Auntie Hamps, after she had dealt with his frightful69 cold.
Edwin was astonished by the news. Then after all his father had been afraid! ... After all perhaps he had yielded too soon! If he had held out... If he had not been a baby! ... But it was too late. The incident was now closed.
Mrs Hamps was kind, but unusually firm in her tone; which reached a sort of benevolent70 severity.
“Your father had such high hopes of you. Has—I should say. He couldn’t imagine what on earth possessed71 you to write such a letter. And I’m sure I can’t. I hope you’re sorry. If you’d seen your father last night you would be, I’m sure.”
“But look here, auntie,” Edwin defended himself, sneezing and wiping his nose; and he spoke of his desire. Surely he was entitled to ask, to suggest! A son could not be expected to be exactly like his father. And so on.
No! no! She brushed all that aside. She scarcely listened to it.
“But think of the business! And just think of your father’s feelings!”
Edwin spoke no more. He saw that she was absolutely incapable72 of putting herself in his place. He could not have explained her attitude by saying that she had the vast unconscious cruelty which always goes with a perfect lack of imagination; but this was the explanation. He left her, saddened by the obvious conclusion that his auntie, whom he had always supported against his sisters, was part author of his undoing73. She had undoubtedly74 much strengthened his father against him. He had a gleam of suspicion that his sisters had been right, and he wrong, about Mrs Hamps. Wonderful, the cruel ruthless insight of girls—into some things!
Nine.
Not till Saturday did the atmosphere of the Clayhanger household resume the normal. But earlier than that Edwin had already lost his resentment. It disappeared with his cold. He could not continue to bear ill-will. He accepted his destiny of immense disappointment. He shouldered it. You may call him weak or you may call him strong. Maggie said nothing to him of the great affair. What could she have said? And the affair was so great that even Clara did not dare to exercise upon it her peculiar faculties of ridicule75. It abashed76 her by its magnitude.
On Saturday Darius said to his son, good-humouredly—
“Canst be trusted to pay wages?”
Edwin smiled.
At one o’clock he went across the yard to the printing office with a little bag of money. The younger apprentice77 was near the door scrubbing type with potash to cleanse78 it. The backs of his hands were horribly raw and bleeding with chaps, due to the frequent necessity of washing them in order to serve the machines, and the impossibility of drying them properly. Still, winter was ending now, and he only worked eleven hours a day, in an airy room, instead of nineteen hours in a cellar, like the little boy from the Bastille. He was a fortunate youth. The journeyman stood idle; as often, on Saturdays, the length of the journeyman’s apron79 had been reduced by deliberate tearing during the week from three feet to about a foot—so imperious and sudden was the need for rags in the processes of printing. Big James was folding up his apron. They all saw that Edwin had the bag, and their faces relaxed.
“You’re as good as the master now, Mr Edwin,” said Big James with ceremonious politeness and a fine gesture, when Edwin had finished paying.
“Am I?” he rejoined simply.
Everybody knew of the great affair. Big James’s words were his gentle intimation to Edwin that every one knew the great affair was now settled.
That night, for the first time, Edwin could read “Notre Dame” with understanding and pleasure. He plunged80 with soft joy into the river of the gigantic and formidable narrative81. He reflected that after all the sources of happiness were not exhausted82.
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1
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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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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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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8
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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9
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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13
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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14
giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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masticating
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| v.咀嚼( masticate的现在分词 )；粉碎，磨烂 | |
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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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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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32
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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disillusions
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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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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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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45
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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46
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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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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callousness
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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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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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51
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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52
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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54
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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56
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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57
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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58
testiness
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| n.易怒，暴躁 | |
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59
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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61
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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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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67
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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73
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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80
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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81
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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82
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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