“And where does she live?” asked Dalroy, with something more like diffidence than he had ever shown before in his life.
“Wiles,” said the man, “but I ain’t seen ’er since I was born. But she’ll do.”
“You must realise,” said Dalroy, with difficulty, “that you may be arrested—it’s the man’s own car; and he’s left behind with nothing to eat, so to speak.”
“’E’s got ’is dornkey,” grunted4 the man. “Let the stinker eat ’is dornkey, with thistle sauce. ’E would if ’e was as ’ollow as I was.”
Humphrey Pump opened the glass window that separated him from the rear part of the car, and turned to speak to his friend over his square elbow and shoulder.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “he won’t stop for anything just yet. He’s as mad as Moody’s aunt, as they say.”
“Do they say it?” asked the Captain, with a sort of anxiety. “They never said it in Ithaca.”
“Honestly, I think you’d better leave him alone,” answered Pump, with his sagacious face. “He’d just run us into a Scotch5 Express like Dandy Mutton did, when they said he was driving carelessly. We can send the car back to Ivywood somehow later on, and really, I don’t think it’ll do the gentleman any harm to spend a night with a donkey. The donkey might teach him something, I tell you.”
“It’s true he denied the Principle of Private Property,” said Dalroy, reflectively, “but I fancy he was thinking of a plain house fixed6 on the ground. A house on wheels, such as this, he might perhaps think a more permanent possession. But I never understand it;” and again he passed a weary palm across his open forehead. “Have you ever noticed, Hump, what is really odd about those people?”
The car shot on amid the comfortable silence of Pump, and then the Irishman said again:
“That poet in the pussy-cat clothes wasn’t half bad. Lord Ivywood isn’t cruel; but he’s inhuman7. But that man wasn’t inhuman. He was ignorant, like most cultured fellows. But what’s odd about them is that they try to be simple and never clear away a single thing that’s complicated. If they have to choose between beef and pickles8, they always abolish the beef. If they have to choose between a meadow and a motor, they forbid the meadow. Shall I tell you the secret? These men only surrender the things that bind9 them to other men. Go and dine with a temperance millionaire and you won’t find he’s abolished the hors d’œuvres or the five courses or even the coffee. What he’s abolished is the port and sherry, because poor men like that as well as rich. Go a step farther, and you won’t find he’s abolished the fine silver forks and spoons, but he’s abolished the meat, because poor men like meat—when they can get it. Go a step farther, and you won’t find he goes without gardens or gorgeous rooms, which poor men can’t enjoy at all. But you will find he boasts of early rising, because sleep is a thing poor men can still enjoy. About the only thing they can still enjoy. Nobody ever heard of a modern philanthropist giving up petrol or typewriting or troops of servants. No, no! What he gives up must be some simple and universal thing. He will give up beef or beer or sleep—because these pleasures remind him that he is only a man.”
Humphrey Pump nodded, but still answered nothing; and the voice of the sprawling11 Dalroy took one of its upward turns of a sort of soaring flippancy12; which commonly embodied13 itself in remembering some song he had composed.
“Such,” he said, “was the case of the late Mr. Mandragon, so long popular in English aristocratic society as a bluff14 and simple democrat15 from the West, until he was unfortunately sand-bagged by six men whose wives he had had shot by private detectives, on his incautiously landing on American soil.
“Mr. Mandragon the Millionaire, he wouldn’t have wine or wife,
He couldn’t endure complexity16; he lived the simple life;
And used all his motors for canvassing18 voters, and twenty telephones;
Besides a dandy little machine,
Cunning and neat as ever was seen,
With a hundred pulleys and cranks between,
Made of iron and kept quite clean,
And wash him and brush him and shave him and dress him to live the Simple Life.
Say all the American newspapers that know refinement21 best;
Quiet and neat the hair and hat, and the coat quiet and neat,
And not, as anyone might expect,
A Tiger Skin, all striped and specked,
That might have had a more marked effect,
But fame and the flagon for Mr. Mandragon obscured the Simple Life.
“Mr. Mandragon the Millionaire, I am happy to say, is dead.
He enjoyed a quiet funeral in a crematorium shed,
When he might have rotted to flowers and fruit with Adam and all mankind.
Or been eaten by bears that fancy blood,
Or burnt on a big tall tower of wood,
In a towering flame as a heathen should,
Or even sat with us here at food,
Merrily taking twopenny rum and cheese with a pocket knife,
But these were luxuries lost for him that lived for the Simple Life.”
Mr. Pump had made many attempts to arrest this song, but they were as vain as all attempts to arrest the car. The angry chauffeur seemed, indeed, rather inspired to further energy by the violent vocal28 noises behind; and Pump again found it best to fall back on conversation.
“Well, Captain,” he said, amicably29. “I can’t quite agree with you about those things. Of course, you can trust foreigners too much as poor Thompson did; but then you can go too far the other way. Aunt Sarah lost a thousand pounds that way. I told her again and again he wasn’t a nigger, but she wouldn’t believe me. And, of course, that was just the kind of thing to offend an ambassador if he was an Austrian. It seems to me, Captain, you aren’t quite fair to these foreign chaps. Take these Americans, now! There were many Americans went by Pebblewick, you may suppose. But in all the lot there was never a bad lot; never a nasty American, nor a stupid American—nor, well, never an American that I didn’t rather like.”
“I know,” said Dalroy, “you mean there was never an American who did not appreciate ‘The Old Ship.’”
“I suppose I do mean that,” answered the inn-keeper, “and somehow, I feel ‘The Old Ship’ might appreciate the American too.”
“You English are an extraordinary lot,” said the Irishman, with a sudden and sombre quietude. “I sometimes feel you may pull through after all.”
After another silence he said, “You’re always right, Hump, and one oughtn’t to think of Yankees like that. The rich are the scum of the earth in every country. And a vast proportion of the real Americans are among the most courteous30, intelligent, self-respecting people in the world. Some attribute this to the fact that a vast proportion of the real Americans are Irishmen.”
Pump was still silent, and the Captain resumed in a moment.
“All the same,” he said, “it’s very hard for a man, especially a man of a small country like me, to understand how it must feel to be an American; especially in the matter of nationality. I shouldn’t like to have to write the American National Anthem31, but fortunately there is no great probability of the commission being given. The shameful32 secret of my inability to write an American patriotic33 song is one that will die with me.”
“Well, what about an English one,” said Pump, sturdily. “You might do worse, Captain.”
“English, you bloody34 tyrant35,” said Patrick, indignantly. “I could no more fancy a song by an Englishman than you could one by that dog.”
Mr. Humphrey Pump gravely took the paper from his pocket, on which he had previously36 inscribed37 the sin and desolation of grocers, and felt in another of his innumerable pockets for a pencil.
Quoodle lifted his ears at his name. Mr. Pump smiled a slight and embarrassed smile. He was secretly proud of Dalroy’s admiration39 for his previous literary attempts and he had some natural knack40 for verse as a game, as he had for all games; and his reading, though desultory41, had not been merely rustic42 or low.
“On condition,” he said, deprecatingly, “that you write a song for the English.”
“Oh, very well,” said Patrick, with a huge sigh that really indicated the very opposite of reluctance43. “We must do something till the thing stops, I suppose, and this seems a blameless parlour game. ‘Songs of the Car Club.’ Sounds quite aristocratic.”
And he began to make marks with a pencil on the fly-leaf of a little book he had in his pocket—Wilson’s Noctes Ambrosianæ. Every now and then, however, he looked up and delayed his own composition by watching Pump and the dog, whose proceedings44 amused him very much. For the owner of “The Old Ship” sat sucking his pencil and looking at Mr. Quoodle with eyes of fathomless45 attention. Every now and then he slightly scratched his brown hair with the pencil, and wrote down a word. And the dog Quoodle, with that curious canine46 power of either understanding or most brazenly47 pretending to understand what is going on, sat erect with his head at an angle, as if he were sitting for his portrait.
Hence it happened that though Pump’s poem was a little long, as are often the poems of inexperienced poets, and though Dalroy’s poem was very short (being much hurried toward the end) the long poem was finished some time before the short one.
Therefore it was that there was first produced for the world the song more familiarly known as “No Noses,” or more correctly called “The Song of Quoodle.” Part of it ran eventually thus:—
“They haven’t got no noses
The fallen sons of Eve,
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes,
But more than mind discloses,
And more than men believe.
“They haven’t got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the Law of Moses
Will let you steal a smell;
“The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder
And old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
“The wind from winter forests,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours.
“And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can;
They haven’t got no noses,
They haven’t got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.”
This poem also shows traces of haste in its termination, and the present editor (who has no aim save truth) is bound to confess that parts of it were supplied in the criticisms of the Captain, and even enriched (in later and livelier circumstances) by the Poet of the Birds himself. At the actual moment the chief features of this realistic song about dogs was a crashing chorus of “Bow-wow, wow,” begun by Mr. Patrick Dalroy; but immediately imitated (much more successfully) by Mr. Quoodle. In the face of all this Dalroy suffered some real difficulty in fulfilling the bargain by reading out his much shorter poem about what he imagined an Englishman might feel. Indeed there was something very rough and vague in his very voice as he read it out; as of one who had not found the key to his problem. The present compiler (who has no aim save truth) must confess that the verses ran as follows:—
“St. George he was for England,
And before he killed the dragon
Out of an English flagon.
For though he fast right readily
In hair-shirt or in mail,
It isn’t safe to give him cakes
Unless you give him ale.
St. George he was for England,
The lady left for dragon’s meat
And tied up to a tree;
But since he stood for England
And knew what England means,
Unless you give him bacon,
You mustn’t give him beans.
“St. George he was for England,
And shall wear the shield he wore
With the battle-cross before;
But though he is jolly company
And very pleased to dine,
It isn’t safe to give him nuts
Unless you give him wine.”
“Very philosophical55 song that,” said Dalroy, shaking his head solemnly, “full of deep thought. I really think that is about the truth of the matter, in the case of the Englishman. Your enemies say you’re stupid, and you boast of being illogical—which is about the only thing you do that really is stupid. As if anybody ever made an Empire or anything else by saying that two and two make five. Or as if anyone was ever the stronger for not understanding anything—if it were only tip-cat or chemistry. But this is true about you Hump. You English are supremely56 an artistic57 people, and therefore you go by associations, as I said in my song. You won’t have one thing without the other thing that goes with it. And as you can’t imagine a village without a squire58 and parson, or a college without port and old oak, you get the reputation of a Conservative people. But it’s because you’re sensitive, Hump, not because you’re stupid, that you won’t part with things. It’s lies, lies and flattery they tell you, Hump, when they tell you you’re fond of compromise. I tell ye, Hump, every real revolution is a compromise. D’ye think Wolfe Tone or Charles Stuart Parnell never compromised? But it’s just because you’re afraid of a compromise that you won’t have a revolution. If you really overhauled59 ‘The Old Ship’—or Oxford—you’d have to make up your mind what to take and what to leave, and it would break your heart, Humphrey Pump.”
He stared in front of him with a red and ruminant face, and at length added, somewhat more gloomily.
“This æsthetic way we have, Hump, has only two little disadvantages which I will now explain to you. The first is exactly what has sent us flying in this contraption. When the beautiful, smooth, harmonious60 thing you’ve made is worked by a new type, in a new spirit, then I tell you it would be better for you a thousand times to be living under the thousand paper constitutions of Condorcet and Sieyès. When the English oligarchy61 is run by an Englishman who hasn’t got an English mind—then you have Lord Ivywood and all this nightmare, of which God could only guess the end.”
The car had beaten some roods of dust behind it, and he ended still more darkly:
“And the other disadvantage, my amiable62 æsthete, is this. If ever, in blundering about the planet, you come on an island in the Atlantic—Atlantis, let us say—which won’t accept all your pretty picture—to which you can’t give everything—why you will probably decide to give nothing. You will say in your hearts: ‘Perhaps they will starve soon’; and you will become, for that island, the deafest and the most evil of all the princes of the earth.”
It was already daybreak, and Pump, who knew the English boundaries almost by intuition, could tell even through the twilight63 that the tail of the little town they were leaving behind was of a new sort, the sort to be seen in the western border. The chauffeur’s phrase about his mother might merely have been a music-hall joke; but certainly he had driven darkly in that direction.
White morning lay about the grey stoney streets like spilt milk. A few proletarian early risers, wearier at morning than most men at night, seemed merely of opinion that it was no use crying over it. The two or three last houses, which looked almost too tired to stand upright, seemed to have moved the Captain into another sleepy explosion.
“There are two kinds of idealists, as everybody knows—or must have thought of. There are those who idealize the real and those who (precious seldom) realize the ideal. Artistic and poetical64 people like the English generally idealize the real. This I have expressed in a song, which—”
“No, really,” protested the innkeeper, “really now, Captain—”
“This I have expressed in a song,” repeated Dalroy, in an adamantine manner, “which I will now sing with every circumstance of leisure, loudness, or any other—”
He stopped because the flying universe seemed to stop. Charging hedgerows came to a halt, as if challenged by the bugle65. The racing66 forests stood rigid67. The last few tottering68 houses stood suddenly at attention. For a noise like a pistol-shot from the car itself had stopped all that race, as a pistol-shot might start any other.
The driver clambered out very slowly, and stood about in various tragic69 attitudes round the car. He opened an unsuspected number of doors and windows in the car, and touched things and twisted things and felt things.
“I must back as best I can to that there garrige, sir,” he said, in a heavy and husky tone they had not heard from him before.
Then he looked round on the long woods and the last houses, and seemed to gnaw70 his lip, like a great general who has made a great mistake. His brow seemed as black as ever, yet his voice, when he spoke71 again, had fallen many further degrees toward its dull and daily tone.
“Yer see, this is a bit bad,” he said. “It’ll be a beastly job even at the best plices, if I’m gettin’ back at all.”
“Getting back,” repeated Dalroy, opening the blue eyes of a bull. “Back where?”
“Well, yer see,” said the chauffeur, reasonably, “I was bloody keen to show ’im it was me drove the car and not ’im. By a bit o’ bad luck, I done damage to ’is car. Well—if you can stick in ’is car—”
Captain Patrick Dalroy sprang out of the car so rapidly that he almost reeled and slipped upon the road. The dog sprang after him, barking furiously.
“Hump,” said Patrick, quietly. “I’ve found out everything about you. I know what always bothered me about the Englishman.”
Then, after an instant’s silence, he said, “That Frenchman was right who said (I forget how he put it) that you march to Trafalgar Square to rid yourself of your temper; not to rid yourself of your tyrant. Our friend was quite ready to rebel, rushing away. To rebel sitting still was too much for him. Do you read Punch? I am sure you do. Pump and Punch must be almost the only survivors72 of the Victorian Age. Do you remember an old joke in an excellent picture, representing two ragged73 Irishmen with guns, waiting behind a stone wall to shoot a landlord? One of the Irishmen says the landlord is late, and adds, ‘I hope no accident’s happened to the poor gintleman.’ Well, it’s all perfectly74 true; I knew that Irishman intimately, but I want to tell you a secret about him. He was an Englishman.”
The chauffeur had backed with breathless care to the entrance of the garage, which was next door to a milkman’s or merely separated from it by a black and lean lane, looking no larger than the crack of a door. It must, however, have been larger than it looked, because Captain Dalroy disappeared down it.
He seemed to have beckoned75 the driver after him; at any rate that functionary76 instantly followed. The functionary came out again in an almost guilty haste, touching77 his cap and stuffing loose papers into his pocket. Then the functionary returned yet again from what he called the “garrige,” carrying larger and looser things over his arm.
All this did Mr. Humphrey Pump observe, not without interest. The place, remote as it was, was evidently a rendez-vous for motorists. Otherwise a very tall motorist, throttled78 and masked in the most impenetrable degree, would hardly have strolled up to speak to him. Still less would the tall motorist have handed him a similar horrid79 disguise of wraps and goggles80, in a bundle over his arm. Least of all would any motorist, however tall, have said to him from behind the cap and goggles, “Put on these things, Hump, and then we’ll go into the milk shop. I’m waiting for the car. Which car, my seeker after truth? Why the car I’m going to buy for you to drive.”
The remorseful81 chauffeur, after many adventures, did actually find his way back to the little moonlit wood where he had left his master and the donkey. But his master and the donkey had vanished.
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收听单词发音
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1
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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3
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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4
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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5
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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6
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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7
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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8
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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9
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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10
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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11
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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12
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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13
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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14
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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15
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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16
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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17
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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18
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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19
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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21
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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22
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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23
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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24
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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25
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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26
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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28
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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29
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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30
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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31
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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32
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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33
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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34
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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35
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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36
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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37
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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39
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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40
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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41
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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42
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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43
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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44
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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45
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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46
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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47
brazenly
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| adv.厚颜无耻地；厚脸皮地肆无忌惮地 | |
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48
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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49
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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50
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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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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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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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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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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