I
I have tried throughout all this story to tell things as they happened to me. In the beginning—the sheets are still here on the table, grimy and dogs-eared and old-looking—I said I wanted to tell myself and the world in which I found myself, and I have done my best. But whether I have succeeded I cannot imagine. All this writing is grey now and dead and trite1 and unmeaning to me; some of it I know by heart. I am the last person to judge it.
As I turn over the big pile of manuscript before me certain things become clearer to me, and particularly the immense inconsequences of my experiences. It is, I see now that I have it all before me, a story of activity and urgency and sterility2. I have called it Tono-Bungay, but I had far better have called it Waste. I have told of childless Marion, of my childless aunt, of Beatrice wasted and wasteful3 and futile4. What hope is there for a people whose women become fruitless? I think of all the energy I have given to vain things. I think of my industrious5 scheming with my uncle, of Crest6 Hill’s vast cessation, of his resonant7 strenuous8 career. Ten thousand men have envied him and wished to live as he lived. It is all one spectacle of forces running to waste, of people who use and do not replace, the story of a country hectic9 with a wasting aimless fever of trade and money-making and pleasure-seeking. And now I build destroyers!
Other people may see this country in other terms; this is how I have seen it. In some early chapter in this heap I compared all our present colour and abundance to October foliage10 before the frosts nip down the leaves. That I still feel was a good image. Perhaps I see wrongly. It may be I see decay all about me because I am, in a sense, decay. To others it may be a scene of achievement and construction radiant with hope. I, too, have a sort of hope, but it is a remote hope, a hope that finds no promise in this Empire or in any of the great things of our time.
How they will look in history I do not know, how time and chance will prove them I cannot guess; that is how they have mirrored themselves on one contemporary mind.
II
Concurrently11 with writing the last chapter of this book I have been much engaged by the affairs of a new destroyer we have completed. It has been an oddly complementary alternation of occupations. Three weeks or so ago this novel had to be put aside in order that I might give all my time day and night to the fitting and finishing of the engines. Last Thursday X 2, for so we call her, was done and I took her down the Thames and went out nearly to Texel for a trial of speed.
It is curious how at times one’s impressions will all fuse and run together into a sort of unity12 and become continuous with things that have hitherto been utterly13 alien and remote. That rush down the river became mysteriously connected with this book.
As I passed down the Thames I seemed in a new and parallel manner to be passing all England in review. I saw it then as I had wanted my readers to see it. The thought came to me slowly as I picked my way through the Pool; it stood out clear as I went dreaming into the night out upon the wide North Sea.
It wasn’t so much thinking at the time as a sort of photographic thought that came and grew clear. X2 went ripping through the dirty oily water as scissors rip through canvas, and the front of my mind was all intent with getting her through under the bridges and in and out among the steam-boats and barges14 and rowing-boats and piers15. I lived with my hands and eyes hard ahead. I thought nothing then of any appearances but obstacles, but for all that the back of my mind took the photographic memory of it complete and vivid....
“This,” it came to me, “is England. That is what I wanted to give in my book. This!”
We started in the late afternoon. We throbbed16 out of our yard above Hammersmith Bridge, fussed about for a moment, and headed down stream. We came at an easy rush down Craven Reach, past Fulham and Hurlingham, past the long stretches of muddy meadow And muddy suburb to Battersea and Chelsea, round the cape17 of tidy frontage that is Grosvenor Road and under Vauxhall Bridge, and Westminster opened before us. We cleared a string of coal barges and there on the left in the October sunshine stood the Parliament houses, and the flag was flying and Parliament was sitting.
I saw it at the time unseeingly; afterwards it came into my mind as the centre of the whole broad panoramic18 effect of that afternoon. The stiff square lace of Victorian Gothic with its Dutch clock of a tower came upon me suddenly and stared and whirled past in a slow half pirouette and became still, I know, behind me as if watching me recede19. “Aren’t you going to respect me, then?” it seemed to say.
Not I! There in that great pile of Victorian architecture the landlords and the lawyers, the bishops20, the railway men and the magnates of commerce go to and fro—in their incurable21 tradition of commercialised Bladesovery, of meretricious22 gentry24 and nobility sold for riches. I have been near enough to know. The Irish and the Labour-men run about among their feet, making a fuss, effecting little, they’ve got no better plans that I can see. Respect it indeed! There’s a certain paraphernalia25 of dignity, but whom does it deceive? The King comes down in a gilt26 coach to open the show and wears long robes and a crown; and there’s a display of stout27 and slender legs in white stockings and stout and slender legs in black stockings and artful old gentlemen in ermine. I was reminded of one congested afternoon I had spent with my aunt amidst a cluster of agitated28 women’s hats in the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords and how I saw the King going to open Parliament, and the Duke of Devonshire looking like a gorgeous pedlar and terribly bored with the cap of maintenance on a tray before him hung by slings29 from his shoulder. A wonderful spectacle!
It is quaint30, no doubt, this England—it is even dignified31 in places—and full of mellow32 associations. That does not alter the quality of the realities these robes conceal33. The realities are greedy trade, base profit—seeking, bold advertisement; and kingship and chivalry34, spite of this wearing of treasured robes, are as dead among it all as that crusader my uncle championed against the nettles35 outside the Duffield church.
To run down the Thames so is to run one’s hand over the pages in the book of England from end to end. One begins in Craven Reach and it is as if one were in the heart of old England. Behind us are Kew and Hampton Court with their memories of Kings and Cardinals37, and one runs at first between Fulham’s episcopal garden parties and Hurlingham’s playground for the sporting instinct of our race. The whole effect is English. There is space, there are old trees and all the best qualities of the home-land in that upper reach. Putney, too, looks Anglican on a dwindling38 scale. And then for a stretch the newer developments slop over, one misses Bladesover and there come first squalid stretches of mean homes right and left and then the dingy39 industrialism of the south side, and on the north bank the polite long front of nice houses, artistic40, literary, administrative41 people’s residences, that stretches from Cheyne Walk nearly to Westminster and hides a wilderness42 of slums. What a long slow crescendo43 that is, mile after mile, with the houses crowding closelier, the multiplying succession of church towers, the architectural moments, the successive bridges, until you come out into the second movement of the piece with Lambeth’s old palace under your quarter and the houses of Parliament on your bow! Westminster Bridge is ahead of you then, and through it you flash, and in a moment the round-faced clock tower cranes up to peer at you again and New Scotland Yard squares at you, a fat beef-eater of a policeman disguised miraculously44 as a Bastille.
For a stretch you have the essential London; you have Charing45 Cross railway station, heart of the world, and the Embankment on the north side with its new hotels overshadowing its Georgian and Victorian architecture, and mud and great warehouses46 and factories, chimneys, shot towers, advertisements on the south. The northward47 skyline grows more intricate and pleasing, and more and more does one thank God for Wren48. Somerset House is as picturesque49 as the civil war, one is reminded again of the original England, one feels in the fretted50 sky the quality of Restoration Lace.
And then comes Astor’s strong box and the lawyers’ Inns.
(I had a passing memory of myself there, how once I had trudged51 along the Embankment westward52, weighing my uncle’s offer of three hundred pounds a year....)
Through that central essential London reach I drove, and X2 bored her nose under the foam53 regardless of it all like a black hound going through reeds—on what trail even I who made her cannot tell.
And in this reach, too, one first meets the seagulls and is reminded of the sea. Blackfriars one takes—just under these two bridges and just between them is the finest bridge moment in the world—and behold55, soaring up, hanging in the sky over a rude tumult56 of warehouses, over a jostling competition of traders, irrelevantly57 beautiful and altogether remote, Saint Paul’s! “Of course!” one says, “Saint Paul’s!” It is the very figure of whatever fineness the old Anglican culture achieved, detached, a more dignified and chastened Saint Peter’s, colder, greyer, but still ornate; it has never been over thrown, never disavowed, only the tall warehouses and all the roar of traffic have forgotten it, every one has forgotten it; the steamships59, the barges, go heedlessly by regardless of it, intricacies of telephone wires and poles cut blackly into its thin mysteries, and presently, when in a moment the traffic permits you and you look round for it, it has dissolved like a cloud into the grey blues60 of the London sky.
And then the traditional and ostensible61 England falls from you altogether. The third movement begins, the last great movement in the London symphony, in which the trim scheme of the old order is altogether dwarfed62 and swallowed up. Comes London Bridge, and the great warehouses tower up about you, waving stupendous cranes, the gulls54 circle and scream in your ears, large ships lie among their lighters63, and one is in the port of the world. Again and again in this book I have written of England as a feudal64 scheme overtaken by fatty degeneration and stupendous accidents of hypertrophy.
For the last time I must strike that note as the memory of the dear neat little sunlit ancient Tower of London lying away in a gap among the warehouses comes back to me, that little accumulation of buildings so provincially65 pleasant and dignified, overshadowed by the vulgarest, most typical exploit of modern England, the sham66 Gothic casings to the ironwork of the Tower Bridge. That Tower Bridge is the very balance and confirmation67 of Westminster’s dull pinnacles68 and tower. That sham Gothic bridge; in the very gates of our mother of change, the Sea!
But after that one is in a world of accident and nature. For the third part of the panorama of London is beyond all law, order, and precedence; it is the seaport69 and the sea. One goes down the widening reaches through a monstrous70 variety of shipping71, great steamers, great sailing-ships, trailing the flags of all the world, a monstrous confusion of lighters, witches’ conferences of brown-sailed barges, wallowing tugs72, a tumultuous crowding and jostling of cranes and spars, and wharves73 and stores, and assertive74 inscriptions75. Huge vistas76 of dock open right and left of one, and here and there beyond and amidst it all are church towers, little patches of indescribably old-fashioned and worn-out houses, riverside pubs and the like, vestiges77 of townships that were long since torn to fragments and submerged in these new growths. And amidst it all no plan appears, no intention, no comprehensive desire. That is the very key of it all. Each day one feels that the pressure of commerce and traffic grew, grew insensibly monstrous, and first this man made a wharf78 and that erected79 a crane, and then this company set to work and then that, and so they jostled together to make this unassimilable enormity of traffic. Through it we dodged80 and drove eager for the high seas.
I remember how I laughed aloud at the glimpse of the name of a London County Council steamboat that ran across me. Caxton it was called, and another was Pepys, and another was Shakespeare. They seemed so wildly out of place, splashing about in that confusion. One wanted to take them out and wipe them and put them back in some English gentleman’s library. Everything was alive about them, flash ing, splashing, and passing, ships moving, tugs panting, hawsers81 taut82, barges going down with men toiling83 at the sweeps, the water all a-swirl with the wash of shipping, scaling into millions of little wavelets, curling and frothing under the whip of the unceasing wind. Past it all we drove. And at Greenwich to the south, you know, there stands a fine stone frontage where all the victories are recorded in a Painted Hall, and beside it is the “Ship” where once upon a time those gentlemen of Westminster used to have an annual dinner—before the port of London got too much for them altogether. The old façade of the Hospital was just warming to the sunset as we went by, and after that, right and left, the river opened, the sense of the sea increased and prevailed, reach after reach from Northfleet to the Nore.
And out you come at last with the sun behind you into the eastern sea. You speed up and tear the oily water louder and faster, siroo, siroo-swish-siroo, and the hills of Kent—over which I once fled from the Christian84 teachings of Nicodemus Frapp—fall away on the right hand and Essex on the left. They fall away and vanish into blue haze85, and the tall slow ships behind the tugs, scarce moving ships and wallowing sturdy tugs, are all wrought86 of wet gold as one goes frothing by. They stand out, bound on strange missions of life and death, to the killing87 of men in unfamiliar88 lands. And now behind us is blue mystery and the phantom89 flash of unseen lights, and presently even these are gone, and I and my destroyer tear out to the unknown across a great grey space. We tear into the great spaces of the future and the turbines fall to talking in unfamiliar tongues. Out to the open we go, to windy freedom and trackless ways. Light after light goes down. England and the Kingdom, Britain and the Empire, the old prides and the old devotions, glide90 abeam91, astern, sink down upon the horizon, pass—pass. The river passes—London passes, England passes...
III
This is the note I have tried to emphasise92, the note that sounds clear in my mind when I think of anything beyond the purely93 personal aspects of my story.
It is a note of crumbling94 and confusion, of change and seemingly aimless swelling95, of a bubbling up and medley96 of futile loves and sorrows. But through the confusion sounds another note. Through the confusion something drives, something that is at once human achievement and the most inhuman97 of all existing things. Something comes out of it.... How can I express the values of a thing at once so essential and so immaterial. It is something that calls upon such men as I with an irresistible98 appeal.
I have figured it in my last section by the symbol of my destroyer, stark99 and swift, irrelevant58 to most human interests. Sometimes I call this reality Science, sometimes I call it Truth. But it is something we draw by pain and effort ont of the heart of life, that we disentangle and make clear. Other men serve it, I know, in art, in literature, in social invention, and see it in a thousand different figures, under a hundred names. I see it always as austerity, as beauty. This thing we make clear is the heart of life. It is the one enduring thing. Men and nations, epochs and civilisation100 pass each making its contribution I do not know what it is, this something, except that it is supreme101. It is, a something, a quality, an element, one may find now in colours, now in norms, now in sounds, now in thoughts. It emerges from life with each year one lives and feels, and generation by generation and age by age, but the how and why of it are all beyond the compass of my mind....
Yet the full sense of it was with me all that night as I drove, lonely above the rush and murmur102 of my engines, out upon the weltering circle of the sea.
Far out to the northeast there came the flicker103 of a squadron of warships104 waving white swords of light about the sky. I kept them hull-down, and presently they were mere23 summer lightning over the watery105 edge of the globe.... I fell into thought that was nearly formless, into doubts and dreams that have no words, and it seemed good to me to drive ahead and on and or through the windy starlight, over the long black waves.
IV
It was morning and day before I returned with the four sick and starving journalists who had got permission to come with me, up the shining river, and past the old grey Tower....
I recall the back views of those journalists very distinctly, going with a certain damp weariness of movement, along a side street away from the river. They were good men and bore me no malice106, and they served me up to the public in turgid degenerate107 Kiplingese, as a modest button on the complacent108 stomach of the Empire. Though as a matter of fact, X2 isn’t intended for the empire, or indeed for the hands of any European power. We offered it to our own people first, but they would have nothing to do with me, and I have long since ceased to trouble much about such questions. I have come to see myself from the outside, my country from the outside—without illusions. We make and pass.
We are all things that make and pass striving upon a hidden mission, out to the open sea.
《时间机器 The Time Machine》
《隐身人 The Invisible Man》
《The Sleeper Awakes》
《时间机器 The Time Machine》
《隐身人 The Invisible Man》
《The Sleeper Awakes》
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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concurrently
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| adv.同时地 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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panoramic
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| adj. 全景的 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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nettles
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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steamships
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| n.汽船，大轮船( steamship的名词复数 ) | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lighters
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| n.打火机，点火器( lighter的名词复数 ) | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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provincially
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| adv.外省地，地方地 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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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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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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hawsers
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| n.（供系船或下锚用的）缆索，锚链( hawser的名词复数 ) | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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abeam
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| adj.正横着(的) | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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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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102
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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103
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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104
warships
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| 军舰，战舰( warship的名词复数 )； 舰只 | |
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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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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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