He found Lewis in his room alone. The place was quite dark for no lamp was lit, and only a merry fire showed the occupant. He welcomed his friend with crazy vehemence10, pushing him into a great armchair, offering a dozen varieties of refreshment11, and leaving the butler aghast with contradictory12 messages about dinner.
“Are you alone?” Wratislaw asked.
“George is staying here, but he has gone over to Glenaller to a big shoot. I didn’t care much about it, so I stayed at home. He will be back to-morrow.”
Lewis’s face in the firelight seemed cheerful and wholesome14 enough, but his words belied15 it. Wratislaw wondered why this man, who had been wont16 to travel to the ends of the earth for good shooting, should deny himself the famous Glenaller coverts17.
At dinner the lamplight showed him more clearly, and the worried look in his eyes could not be hidden. He was listless, too, his kindly18, boisterous19 manner seemed to have forsaken20 him, and he had acquired a great habit of abstracted silence. He asked about recent events in the House, commenting shrewdly enough, but without interest. When Wratislaw in turn questioned him on his doings, he had none of the ready enthusiasm which had been used to accompany his talk on sport. He gave bare figures and was silent.
Afterwards in his own sanctum, with drawn21 curtains and a leaping fire, he became more cheerful. It was hard to be moody22 in that pleasant room, with the light glancing from silver and vellum and dark oak, and a thousand memories about it of the clean, outdoor life. Wratislaw stretched his legs to the blaze and watched the coils of blue smoke mounting from his pipe with a feeling of keen pleasure. His errand was out of the focus of his thoughts.
It was Lewis himself who recalled him to the business.
“I thought of coming down to town,” he said. “I have been getting out of spirits up here, and I wanted to be near you.”
“Then it was an excellent chance which brought me up to-night. But why are you dull? I thought you were the sort of man who is sufficient unto himself, you know.”
“I am not,” he said sharply. “I never realized my gross insufficiency so bitterly.”
“Ah!” said Wratislaw, sitting up, “love?”
“Did you happen to see Miss Wishart’s engagement in the papers?”
“I never read the papers. But I have heard about this: in fact, I believe I have congratulated Stocks.”
“Do you know that she ought to have married me?” Lewis cried almost shrilly23. “I swear she loved me. It was only my hideous24 folly25 that drove her from me.”
“Folly?” said Wratislaw, smiling. “Folly? Well you might call it that. I have come up ‘ane’s errand,’ as your people hereabouts say, to talk to you like a schoolmaster, Lewie. Do you mind a good talking-to?”
“I need it,” he said. “Only it won’t do any good, because I have been talking to myself for a month without effect. Do you know what I am, Tommy?”
“I am prepared to hear,” said the other.
“A coward! It sounds nice, doesn’t it? I am a shirker, a man who would be drummed out of any regiment26.”
“Rot!” said Wratislaw. “In that sort of thing you have the courage of your kind. You are the wrong sort of breed for common shirking cowards. Why, man, you might get the Victoria Cross ten times over with ease, as far as that goes. Only you wouldn’t, for you are something much more subtle and recondite27 than a coward.”
It was Lewis’s turn for the request. “I am prepared to hear,” he said.
“A fool! An arrant28, extraordinary fool! A fool of quality and parts, a fool who is the best fellow in the world and who has every virtue29 a man can wish, but at the same time a conspicuous30 monument of folly. And it is this that I have come to speak about.”
“I want you to make it all plain,” he said slowly. “I know it all already; I have got the dull, dead consciousness of it in my heart, but I want to hear it put into words.” And he set his lips like a man in pain.
“It is hard,” said Wratislaw, “devilish hard, but I’ve got to try.” He knocked out the ashes from his pipe and leaned forward.
“What would you call the highest happiness, Lewie?” he asked.
“Right. And what do we mean by competence? Not success! God knows it is something very different from success! Any fool may be successful, if the gods wish to hurt him. Competence means that splendid joy in your own powers and the approval of your own heart, which great men feel always and lesser34 men now and again at favoured intervals35. There are a certain number of things in the world to be done, and we have got to do them. We may fail—it doesn’t in the least matter. We may get killed in the attempt—it matters still less. The things may not altogether be worth doing—it is of very little importance. It is ourselves we have got to judge by. If we are playing our part well, and know it, then we can thank God and go on. That is what I call happiness.”
“And I,” said Lewis.
“And how are you to get happiness? Not by thinking about it. The great things of the world have all been done by men who didn’t stop to reflect on them. If a man comes to a halt and analyses his motives36 and distrusts the value of the thing he strives for, then the odds37 are that his halt is final. You strive to strive and not to attain38. A man must have that direct practical virtue which forgets itself and sees only its work. Parsons will tell you that all virtue is self-sacrifice, and they are right, though not in the way they mean. It may all seem a tissue of contradictions. You must not pitch on too fanciful a goal, nor, on the other hand, must you think on yourself. And it is a contradiction which only resolves itself in practice, one of those anomalies on which the world is built up.”
Lewis nodded his head.
“And the moral of it all is that there are two sorts of people who will never do any good on this planet. One is the class which makes formulas and shallow little ideals its gods and has no glimpse of human needs and the plain issues of life. The other is the egotist whose eye is always filled with his own figure, who investigates his motives, and hesitates and finicks, till Death knocks him on the head and there is an end of him. Of the two give me the second, for even a narrow little egotistical self is better than a formula. But I pray to be delivered from both.”
“There are two men only who will not be ashamed to look their work in the face in the end—the brazen40 opportunist and the rigid41 Puritan. Suppose you had some desperate frontier work to get through with and a body of men to pick for it, whom would you take? Not the ordinary, colourless, respectable being, and still less academic nonentities42! If I had my pick, my companions should either be the narrowest religionists or frank, unashamed blackguards. I should go to the Calvinists and the fanatics43 for choice, but if I could not get them then I should have the rankers. For, don’t you see, the first would have the fear of God in them, and that somehow keeps a man from fearing anything else. They would do their work because they believed it to be their duty. And the second would have the love of the sport in them, and they should also be made to dwell in the fear of me. They would do their work because they liked it, and liked me, and I told them to do it.”
“I agree with you absolutely,” said Lewis. “I never thought otherwise.”
“Good,” said Wratislaw. “Now for my application. You’ve had the misfortune to fall between the two stools, Lewie. You’re too clever for a Puritan and too good for a ranker. You’re too finicking and high-strung and fanciful for a prosaic44 world. You think yourself the laughing philosopher with an infinite appreciation45 of everything, and yet you have not the humour to stand aside and laugh at yourself.”
“No, you are not. But you can’t bring yourself down to the world of compromises, which is the world of action. You have lost the practical touch. You muddled47 your fight with Stocks because you couldn’t get out of touch with your own little world in practice, however you might manage it in theory. You can’t be single-hearted. Twenty impulses are always pulling different ways with you, and the result is that you become an unhappy, self-conscious waverer.”
Lewis was staring into the fire, and the older man leaned forward and put his hand very tenderly on his shoulder.
“I don’t want to speak about the thing which gives you most pain, old chap; but I think you have spoiled your chances in the same way in another matter—the most important matter a man can have to do with, though it ill becomes a cynical48 bachelor like myself to say it.”
“You see it is the Nemesis50 of your race which has overtaken you. The rich, strong blood of you Haystouns must be given room or it sours into moodiness51. It is either a spoon or a spoiled horn with you. You are capable of the big virtues52, and just because of it you are extraordinarily53 apt to go to the devil. Not the ordinary devil, of course, but to a very effective substitute. You want to be braced54 and pulled together. A war might do it, if you were a soldier. A religious enthusiasm would do it, if that were possible for you. As it is, I have something else, which I came up to propose to you.”
Lewis faced round in an attitude of polite attention. But his eyes had no interest in them.
“You know Bardur and the country about there pretty well?”
Lewis nodded.
“Also I once talked to you about a man called Marka. Do you remember?”
“Yes, of course I do. The man who went north from Bardur the week before I turned up there?”
“Well, there’s trouble brewing55 thereabouts. You know the Taghati country up beyond the Russian line. Things are in a ferment56 there, great military preparations and all the rest of it, and the reason, they say, is that the hill-tribes in the intervening No-man’s-land are at their old games. Things look very ugly abroad just now, and we can’t afford to neglect anything when a crisis may be at the door. So we want a man to go out there and find out the truth.”
Lewis had straightened himself and was on his feet before Wratislaw had done. “Upon my word,” he cried, “if it isn’t what I expected! We have been far too sure of the safety of that Kashmir frontier. You mean, of course, that there may be a chance of an invasion?”
“I mean nothing. But things look ugly enough in Europe just now, and Asia would naturally be the starting-point.”
Lewis made some rapid calculations in his head which he jotted57 on the wood of the fireplace. “It would take a week to get from Bardur to Taghati by the ordinary Kashmir rate of travelling, but of course the place is unknown and it might take months. One would have to try it?”
“I can only give you the bare facts. If you decide to go, Beauregard will give you particulars in town.”
“When would he want to know?”
“At once. I go back to-morrow morning, and I must have your answer within three days. You would be required to start within a week. You can take time and quiet to make up your mind.”
“It’s a great chance,” said Lewis. “Does Beauregard think it important?”
“Of the highest importance. Also, of course it is dangerous. The travelling is hard, and you may be knocked on the head at any moment as a spy.”
“I don’t mind that,” said the other, flushing. “I’ve been through the same thing before.”
“I need not say the work will be very difficult. Remember that your errand will not be official, so in case of failure or trouble we could not support you. We might even have to disclaim58 all responsibility. In the event of success, on the other hand, your fortune is something more than made.”
“Would you go?” came the question.
“No,” said Wratislaw, “I shouldn’t.”
“But if you were in my place?”
“I should hope that I would, but then I might not have the courage. I am giving you the brave man’s choice, Lewie. You will be going out to uncertainty59 and difficulty and extreme danger. On the other hand, I believe in my soul it will harden you into the man you ought to be. Lord knows I would rather have you stay at home!”
The younger man looked up for a second and saw something in Wratislaw’s face which made him turn away his eyes. The look of honest regret cut him to the heart. Those friends of his, of whom he was in nowise worthy60, made the burden of his self-distrust doubly heavy.
“I will tell you within three days,” he said hoarsely61. “God bless you, Tommy. I don’t deserve to have a man like you troubling himself about me.”
It was his one spoken tribute to their friendship; and both, with the nervousness of honest men in the presence of emotion, hastened to change the subject.
该作者的其它作品
《Greenmantle绿斗篷》
《Mr. Standfast》
《No man's land》
该作者的其它作品
《Greenmantle绿斗篷》
《Mr. Standfast》
《No man's land》
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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3
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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5
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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6
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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7
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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9
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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10
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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11
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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12
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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13
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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15
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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17
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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18
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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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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20
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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21
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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23
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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24
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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26
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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27
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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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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32
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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35
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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36
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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38
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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39
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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40
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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41
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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42
nonentities
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| n.无足轻重的人( nonentity的名词复数 )；蝼蚁 | |
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43
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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44
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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45
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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46
dourly
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47
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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48
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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49
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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50
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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51
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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52
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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53
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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54
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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55
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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56
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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57
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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58
disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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59
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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60
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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61
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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