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MIDDLEMARCH-Part71_GEORGE ELIOT(1819-1880)_English Literature(文学)-第2页

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The garden and gravel approach, as seen from the two windows of the

wainscoted parlor at Stone Court, were never in better trim than now,



when Mr. Rigg Featherstone stood, with his hands behind him,

looking out on these grounds as their master. But it seemed doubtful



whether he looked out for the sake of contemplation or of turning his

back to a person who stood in the middle of the room, with his legs



considerably apart and his hands in his trouser-pockets: a person

in all respects a contrast to the sleek and cool Rigg. He was a man



obviously on the way towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with much

gray in his bushy whiskers and thick curly hair, a stoutish body



which showed to advantage" target="_blank" title="n.不利(条件)；损失">disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of his clothes,

and the air of a swaggerer, who would aim at being noticeable even at



a show of fireworks, regarding his own remarks on any other person's

performance as likely to be more interesting than the performance itself.



His name was John Raffles, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.A.G.

after his signature, observing when he did so, that he was once



taught by Leonard Lamb of Finsbury who wrote B.A. after his name,

and that he, Raffles, originated the witticism of calling that



celebrated principal Ba-Lamb. Such were the appearance and mental

flavor of Mr. Raffles, both of which seemed to have a stale odor



of travellers' rooms in the commercial hotels of that period.

"Come, now, Josh," he was saying, in a full rumbling tone, "look at it



in this light: here is your poor mother going into the vale of years,

and you could afford something handsome now to make her comfortable."



"Not while you live. Nothing would make her comfortable while

you live," returned Rigg, in his cool high voice. "What I give her,



you'll take."

"You bear me a grudge, Josh, that I know. But come, now--as between



man and man--without humbug--a little capital might enable me to make

a first-rate thing of the shop. The tobacco trade is growing.



I should cut my own nose off in not doing the best I could at it.

I should stick to it like a flea to a fleece for my own sake.



I should always be on the spot. And nothing would make your

poor mother so happy. I've pretty well done with my wild oats--



turned fifty-five. I want to settle down in my chimney-corner. And

if I once buckled to the tobacco trade, I could bring an amount



of brains and experience to bear on it that would not be found

elsewhere in a hurry. I don't want to be bothering you one time



after another, but to get things once for all into the right channel.

Consider that, Josh--as between man and man--and with your poor mother



to be made easy for her life. I was always fond of the old woman,

by Jove!"



"Have you done?" said Mr. Rigg, quietly, without looking away

from the window.



"Yes, I've done," said Raffles, taking hold of his hat which stood

before him on the table, and giving it a sort of oratorical push.



"Then just listen to me. The more you say anything, the less I shall

believe it. The more you want me to do a thing, the more reason I



shall have for never doing it. Do you think I mean to forget your

kicking me when I was a lad, and eating all the best victual away



from me and my mother? Do you think I forget your always coming

home to sell and pocket everything, and going off again leaving us



in the lurch? I should be glad to see you whipped at the cart-tail.

My mother was a fool to you: she'd no right to give me a father-in-law,



and she's been punished for it. She shall have her weekly allowance

paid and no more: and that shall be stopped if you dare to come



on to these premises again, or to come into this country after

me again. The next time you show yourself inside the gates here,



you shall be driven off with the dogs and the wagoner's whip."

As Rigg pronounced the last words he turned round and looked



at Raffles with his prominentfrozen eyes. The contrast

was as striking as it could have been eighteen years before,



when Rigg was a most unengaging kickable boy, and Raffles was

the rather thick-set Adonis of bar-rooms and back-parlors. But



the advantage now was on the side of Rigg, and auditors of this

conversation might probably have expected that Raffles would retire



with the air of a defeated dog. Not at all. He made a grimace

which was habitual with him whenever he was "out" in a game;



then subsided into a laugh, and drew a brandy-flask from his pocket.

"Come, Josh," he said, in a cajoling tone, "give us a spoonful of brandy,



and a sovereign to pay the way back, and I'll go. Honor bright!

I'll go like a bullet, BY Jove!"



"Mind," said Rigg, drawing out a bunch of keys, "if I ever see you again,

I shan't speak to you. I don't own you any more than if I saw a crow;



and if you want to own me you'll get nothing by it but a character

for being what you are--a spiteful, brassy, bullying rogue."






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