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The Wheels of Chance-Part6_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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stories linked only by the general resemblance of their hero, a

brown-haired young fellow commonly, with blue eyes and a fair



moustache, graceful rather than strong, sharp and resolute rather

than clever (cp., as the scientific books say, p. 2). Invariably



this person possessed an iron will. The stories fluctuated

indefinitely. The smoking of a cigarette converted Hoopdriver's



hero into something entirely worldly, subtly rakish, with a

humorous twinkle in the eye and some gallant sinning in the



background. You should have seen Mr. Hoopdriver promenading the

brilliant gardens at Earl's Court on an early-closing night. His



meaning glances! (I dare not give the meaning.) Such an influence

as the eloquence of a revivalist preacher would suffice to divert



the story into absolutely different channels, make him a

white-soured hero, a man still pure, walking untainted and brave



and helpful through miry ways. The appearance of some daintily

gloved frockcoated gentleman with buttonhole and eyeglass



complete, gallantly attendant in the rear of customers, served

again to start visions of a simplicityessentially Cromwell-like,



of sturdy plainness, of a strong, silent man going righteously

through the world. This day there had predominated a fine



leisurely person immaculately clothed, and riding on an

unexceptional machine, a mysterious person--quite unostentatious,



but with accidental self-revelation of something over the common,

even a "bloomin' Dook," it might be incognito, on the tour of the



South Coast.

You must not think that there was any TELLING of these stories of



this life-long series by Mr. Hoopdriver. He never dreamt that

they were known to a soul. If it were not for the trouble, I



would, I think, go back and rewrite this section from the

beginning, expunging the statements that Hoopdriver was a poet



and a romancer, and saying instead that he was a playwright and

acted his own plays. He was not only the sole performer, but the



entire audience, and the entertainment kept him almost

continuously happy. Yet even that playwrightcomparisonscarcely



expresses all the facts of the case. After all, very many of his

dreams never got acted at all, possibly indeed, most of them, the



dreams of a solitary walk for instance, or of a tramcar ride, the

dreams dreamt behind the counter while trade was slack and



mechanical foldings and rollings occupied his muscles. Most of

them were little dramatic situations, crucial dialogues, the



return of Mr. Hoopdriver to his native village, for instance, in

a well-cut holiday suit and natty gloves, the unheard asides of



the rival neighbours, the delight of the old 'mater,' the

intelligence--"A ten-pound rise all at once from Antrobus,



mater. Whad d'yer think of that?" or again, the first whispering

of love, dainty and witty and tender, to the girl he served a few



days ago with sateen, or a gallantrescue of generalised beauty

in distress from truculent insult or ravening dog.



So many people do this--and you never suspect it. You see a

tattered lad selling matches in the street, and you think there



is nothing between him and the bleakness of immensity, between

him and utter abasement, but a few tattered rags and a feeble



musculature. And all unseen by you a host of heaven- sent

fatuities swathes him about, even, maybe, as they swathe you



about. Many men have never seen their own profiles or the backs

of their heads, and for the back of your own mind no mirror has



been invented. They swathe him about so thickly that the pricks

of fate scarcepenetrate to him, or become but a pleasant



titillation. And so, indeed, it is with all of us who go on

living. Self-deception is the anaesthetic of life, while God is



carving out our beings.

But to return from this general vivisection to Mr. Hoopdriver's



imaginings. You see now how external our view has been; we have




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