However, dreams often conclude abruptly4, and two louis always do, as I found, several days later, when, after paying the rent for my unspeakable lodging5 and lending twenty francs to a poor, bad painter, whom I knew and whose wife was ill, I found myself with the choice of obtaining funds on my finery or not eating, either of which I was very loath6 to do. It is not essential for me to tell any person that when you seek a position it is better that you appear not too greatly in need of it; and my former garments had prejudiced many against me, I fear, because they had been patched by a friendly concierge7. Pantaloons suffer as terribly as do antiques from too obvious restorations; and while I was only grateful to the good woman’s needle (except upon one occasion when she forgot to remove it), my costume had reached, at last, great sympathies for the shade of Praxiteles, feeling the same melancholy8 over original intentions so far misrepresented by renewals9.
Therefore I determined10 to preserve my fineries to the uttermost; and it was fortunate that I did so; because, after dining, for three nights upon nothing but looking out of my window, the fourth morning brought me a letter from my English friend. I had written to him, asking if he knew of any people who wished to pay a salary to a young man who knew how to do nothing. I place his reply in direct annexation11:
“Henrietta Street, Cavendish Square, May 14.
“My dear Ansolini,—Why haven’t you made some of your relatives do something? I understand that they do not like you; neither do my own, but after our crupper at Monte Carlo what could mine do, except provide? If a few pounds (precious few, I fear!) be of any service to you, let me know. In the mean time, if you are serious about a position, I may, preposterously12 enough, set you in the way of it. There is an old thundering Yankee here, whom I met in the States, and who believed me a god because I am the nephew of my awful uncle, for whose career he has ever had, it appears, a life-long admiration13, sir! Now, by chance, meeting this person in the street, it developed that he had need of a man, precisely14 such a one as you are not: a sober, tutorish, middle-aged15, dissenting16 parson, to trot17 about the Continent tied to a dancing bear. It is the old gentleman’s cub18, who is a species of Caliban in fine linen19, and who has taken a few too many liberties in the land of the free. In fact, I believe he is much a youth of my own kind with similar admiration for baccarat and good cellars. His father must return at once, and has decided20 (the cub’s native heath and friends being too wild) to leave him in charge of a proper guide, philosopher, courier, chaplain, and friend, if such can be found, the same required to travel with the cub and keep him out of mischief21. I thought of your letter directly, and I have given you the most tremendous recommendation—part of it quite true, I suspect, though I am not a judge of learning. I explained, however, that you are a master of languages, of elegant though subdued22 deportment, and I extolled23 at length your saintly habits. Altogether, I fear there may have been too much of the virtuoso24 in my interpretation25 of you; few would have recognized from it the gentleman who closed a table at Monte Carlo and afterwards was closed himself in the handsome and spectacular fashion I remember with both delight and regret. Briefly26, I lied like a master. He almost had me in the matter of your age; it was important that you should be middle-aged. I swore that you were at least thirty-eight, but, owing to exemplary habits, looked very much younger. The cub himself is twenty-four.
“Hence, if you are really serious and determined not to appeal to your people, call at once upon Mr. Lambert R. Poor, of the Hotel d’Iena. He is the father, and the cub is with him. The elder Yankee is primed with my praises of you, and must engage someone at once, as he sails in a day or two. Go—with my blessing27, an air of piety28, and as much age as you can assume. When the father has departed, throw the cub into the Seine, but preserve his pocket-book, and we shall have another go at those infernal tables. Vale! J.G.S.”
I found myself smiling—I fear miserably—over this kind letter, especially at the wonder of my friend that I had not appealed to my relatives. The only ones who would have liked to help me, if they had known I needed something, were my two little nieces who were in my own care; because my father, being but a poet, had no family, and my mother had lost hers, even her eldest29 son, by marrying my father. After that they would have nothing to do with her, nor were they asked. That rascally30 old Antonio was now the head of all the Caravacioli, as was I of my own outcast branch of our house—that is, of my two little nieces and myself. It was partly of these poor infants I had thought when I took what was left of my small inheritance to Monte Carlo, hoping, since I seemed to be incapable31 of increasing it in any other way, that number seventeen and black would hand me over a fortune as a waiter does wine. Alas32! Luck is not always a fool’s servant, and the kind of fortune she handed me was of that species the waiter brings you in the other bottle of champagne33, the gold of a bubbling brain, lasting34 an hour. After this there is always something evil to one’s head, and mine, alas! was shaved.
Half an hour after I had read the letter, the little paper-flower makers35 in the attic36 window across from mine may have seen me shaving it—without pleasure—again. What else was I to do? I could not well expect to be given the guardianship37 of an erring38 young man if I presented myself to his parent as a gentleman who had been sitting at the Cafe’ de la Paix with his head painted. I could not wear my hat through the interview. I could not exhibit the thick five days’ stubble, to appear in contrast with the heavy fringe that had been spared;—I could not trim the fringe to the shortness of the stubble; I should have looked like Pierrot. I had only, then, to remain bald, and, if I obtained the post, to shave in secret—a harmless and mournful imposition.
It was well for me that I came to this determination. I believe it was the appearance of maturity39 which my head and dining upon thoughts lent me, as much as my friend’s praises, which created my success with the amiable40 Mr. Lambert R. Poor. I witness that my visit to him provided one of the most astonishing interviews of my life. He was an instance of those strange beings of the Western republic, at whom we are perhaps too prone41 to pass from one of ourselves to another the secret smile, because of some little imperfections of manner. It is a type which has grown more and more familiar to us, yet never less strange: the man in costly42 but severe costume, big, with a necessary great waistcoat, not noticing the loudness of his own voice; as ignorant of the thousand tiny things which we observe and feel as he would be careless of them (except for his wife) if he knew. We laugh at him, sometimes even to his face, and he does not perceive it. We are a little afraid that he is too large to see it; hence too large for us to comprehend, and in spite of our laughter we are always conscious of a force—yes, of a presence! We jeer43 slyly, but we respect, fear a little, and would trust.
Such was my patron. He met me with a kind greeting, looked at me very earnestly, but smiling as if he understood my good intentions, as one understands the friendliness44 of a capering45 poodle, yet in such a way that I could not feel resentment46, for I could see that he looked at almost everyone in the same fashion.
My friend had done wonders for me; and I made the best account of myself that I could, so that within half an hour it was arranged that I should take charge of his son, with an honourarium which gave me great rejoicing for my nieces and my accumulated appetite.
“I think I can pick men,” he said, “and I think that you are the man I want. You’re old enough and you’ve seen enough, and you know enough to keep one fool boy in order for six months.”
So frankly47 he spoke48 of his son, yet not without affection and confidence. Before I left, he sent for the youth himself, Lambert R. Poor, Jr.,—not at all a Caliban, but a most excellent-appearing, tall gentleman, of astonishingly meek49 countenance50. He gave me a sad, slow look from his blue eyes at first; then with a brightening smile he gently shook my hand, murmuring that he was very glad in the prospect51 of knowing me better; after which the parent defined before him, with singular elaboration, my duties. I was to correct all things in his behaviour which I considered improper52 or absurd. I was to dictate53 the line of travel, to have a restraining influence upon expenditures54; in brief, to control the young man as a governess does a child.
To all of his parent’s instructions Poor Jr. returned a dutiful nod and expressed perfect acquiescence55. The following day the elder sailed from Cherbourg, and I took up my quarters with the son.
点击收听单词发音
1 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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2 reassured | |
adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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3 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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4 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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5 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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6 loath | |
adj.不愿意的;勉强的 | |
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7 concierge | |
n.管理员;门房 | |
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8 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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9 renewals | |
重建( renewal的名词复数 ); 更新; 重生; 合同的续订 | |
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10 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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11 annexation | |
n.吞并,合并 | |
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12 preposterously | |
adv.反常地;荒谬地;荒谬可笑地;不合理地 | |
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13 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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14 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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15 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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16 dissenting | |
adj.不同意的 | |
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17 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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18 cub | |
n.幼兽,年轻无经验的人 | |
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19 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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20 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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21 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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22 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23 extolled | |
v.赞颂,赞扬,赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24 virtuoso | |
n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家,行家里手 | |
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25 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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26 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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27 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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28 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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29 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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30 rascally | |
adj. 无赖的,恶棍的 adv. 无赖地,卑鄙地 | |
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31 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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32 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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33 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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34 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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35 makers | |
n.制造者,制造商(maker的复数形式) | |
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36 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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37 guardianship | |
n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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38 erring | |
做错事的,错误的 | |
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39 maturity | |
n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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40 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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41 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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42 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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43 jeer | |
vi.嘲弄,揶揄;vt.奚落;n.嘲笑,讥评 | |
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44 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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45 capering | |
v.跳跃,雀跃( caper的现在分词 );蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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46 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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47 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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48 spoke | |
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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49 meek | |
adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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50 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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51 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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52 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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53 dictate | |
v.口授;(使)听写;指令,指示,命令 | |
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54 expenditures | |
n.花费( expenditure的名词复数 );使用;(尤指金钱的)支出额;(精力、时间、材料等的)耗费 | |
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55 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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