The weight of my box of books was a subject Hendry was very willing to shake his head over, but he never showed any desire to take off the lid. Jess, however, was more curious; indeed, she would have been an omnivorous2 devourer3 of books had it not been for her conviction that reading was idling. Until I found her out she never allowed to me that Leeby brought her my books one at a time. Some of them were novels, and Jess took about ten minutes to each. She confessed that what she read was only the last chapter, owing to a consuming curiosity to know whether "she got him."
She read all the London part, however, of "The Heart of Midlothian," because London was where Jamie lived, and she and I had a discussion about it which ended in her remembering that Thrums once had an author of its own.
"Bring oot the book," she said to Leeby; "it was put awa i' the bottom drawer ben i' the room sax year syne4, an' I sepad it's there yet."
Leeby came but with a faded little book, the title already rubbed from its shabby brown covers. I opened it, and then all at once I saw before me again the man who wrote and printed it and died. He came hobbling up the brae, so bent5 that his body was almost at right angles to his legs, and his broken silk hat was carefully brushed as in the days when Janet, his sister, lived. There he stood at the top of the brae, panting.
I was but a boy when Jimsy Duthie turned the corner of the brae for the last time, with a score of mourners behind him. While I knew him there was no Janet to run to the door to see if he was coming. So occupied was Jimsy with the great affair of his life, which was brewing6 for thirty years, that his neighbours saw how he missed his sister better than he realized it himself. Only his hat was no longer carefully brushed, and his coat hung awry7, and there was sometimes little reason why he should go home to dinner. It is for the sake of Janet who adored him that we should remember Jimsy in the days before she died.
Jimsy was a poet, and for the space of thirty years he lived in a great epic8 on the Millennium9. This is the book presented to me by Jess, that lies so quietly on my topmost shelf now. Open it, however, and you will find that the work is entitled "The Millennium: an Epic Poem, in Twelve Books: by James Duthie." In the little hole in his wall where Jimsy kept his books there was, I have no doubt—for his effects were rouped before I knew him except by name—a well-read copy of "Paradise Lost." Some people would smile, perhaps, if they read the two epics10 side by side, and others might sigh, for there is a great deal in "The Millennium" that Milton could take credit for. Jimsy had educated himself, after the idea of writing something that the world would not willingly let die came to him, and he began his book before his education was complete. So far as I know, he never wrote a line that had not to do with "The Millennium." He was ever a man sparing of his plural11 tenses, and "The Millennium" says "has" for "have"; a vain word, indeed, which Thrums would only have permitted as a poetical12 licence. The one original character in the poem is the devil, of whom Jimsy gives a picture that is startling and graphic13, and received the approval of the Auld14 Licht minister.
By trade Jimsy was a printer, a master-printer with no one under him, and he printed and bound his book, ten copies in all, as well as wrote it. To print the poem took him, I dare say, nearly as long as to write it, and he set up the pages as they were written, one by one. The book is only printed on one side of the leaf, and each page was produced separately like a little hand-bill. Those who may pick up the book—but who will care to do so?—will think that the author or his printer could not spell—but they would not do Jimsy that injustice15 if they knew the circumstances in which it was produced. He had but a small stock of type, and on many occasions he ran out of a letter. The letter e tried him sorely. Those who knew him best said that he tried to think of words without an e in them, but when he was baffled he had to use a little a or an o instead. He could print correctly, but in the book there are a good many capital letters in the middle of words, and sometimes there is a note of interrogation after "alas16" or "Woes17 me," because all the notes of exclamation18 had been used up.
Jimsy never cared to speak about his great poem even to his closest friends, but Janet told how he read it out to her, and that his whole body trembled with excitement while he raised his eyes to heaven as if asking for inspiration that would enable his voice to do justice to his writing. So grand it was, said Janet, that her stocking would slip from her fingers as he read—and Janet's stockings, that she was always knitting when not otherwise engaged, did not slip from her hands readily. After her death he was heard by his neighbours reciting the poem to himself, generally with his door locked. He is said to have declaimed part of it one still evening from the top of the commonty like one addressing a multitude, and the idlers who had crept up to jeer19 at him fell back when they saw his face. He walked through them, they told, with his old body straight once more, and a queer light playing on his face. His lips are moving as I see him turning the corner of the brae. So he passed from youth to old age, and all his life seemed a dream, except that part of it in which he was writing, or printing, or stitching, or binding20 "The Millennium." At last the work was completed.
"It is finished," he printed at the end of the last book. "The task of thirty years is over."
It is indeed over. No one ever read "The Millennium." I am not going to sentimentalize over my copy, for how much of it have I read? But neither shall I say that it was written to no end.
You may care to know the last of Jimsy, though in one sense he was blotted21 out when the last copy was bound. He had saved one hundred pounds by that time, and being now neither able to work nor to live alone, his friends cast about for a home for his remaining years. He was very spent and feeble, yet he had the fear that he might be still alive when all his money was gone. After that was the workhouse. He covered sheets of paper with calculations about how long the hundred pounds would last if he gave away for board and lodgings22 ten shillings, nine shillings, seven and sixpence a week. At last, with sore misgivings23, he went to live with a family who took him for eight shillings. Less than a month afterwards he died.
该作者的其它作品
《Peter Pan and Wendy》
《玛格丽特·奥格维 Margaret Ogilvy》
《小白鸟 The Little White Bird》
该作者的其它作品
《Peter Pan and Wendy》
《玛格丽特·奥格维 Margaret Ogilvy》
《小白鸟 The Little White Bird》
点击收听单词发音
1 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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2 omnivorous | |
adj.杂食的 | |
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3 devourer | |
吞噬者 | |
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4 syne | |
adv.自彼时至此时,曾经 | |
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5 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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6 brewing | |
n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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7 awry | |
adj.扭曲的,错的 | |
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8 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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9 millennium | |
n.一千年,千禧年;太平盛世 | |
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10 epics | |
n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 );壮举;惊人之举;史诗般的电影(或书籍) | |
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11 plural | |
n.复数;复数形式;adj.复数的 | |
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12 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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13 graphic | |
adj.生动的,形象的,绘画的,文字的,图表的 | |
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14 auld | |
adj.老的,旧的 | |
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15 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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16 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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17 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
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18 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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19 jeer | |
vi.嘲弄,揶揄;vt.奚落;n.嘲笑,讥评 | |
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20 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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21 blotted | |
涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 ); (用吸墨纸)吸干 | |
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22 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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23 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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