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Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow-Part6_Jerome K.Jerome(1859-1927)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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undertaker's mute in streaming hat-band and worn cotton gloves; here



the musty scholar fumbling his faded leaves, and here the scented

actor dangling his showy seals. Here the glib politician crying his



legislative panaceas, and here the peripatetic Cheap-Jack holding

aloft his quack cures for human ills. Here the sleek capitalist and



there the sinewy laborer; here the man of science and here the

shoe-back; here the poet and here the water-rate collector; here the



cabinet minister and there the ballet-dancer. Here a red-nosed

publican shouting the praises of his vats and there a temperance



lecturer at 50 pounds a night; here a judge and there a swindler; here

a priest and there a gambler. Here a jeweled duchess, smiling and



gracious; here a thin lodging-house keeper, irritable with cooking;

and here a wabbling, strutting thing, tawdry in paint and finery.



Cheek by cheek they struggle onward. Screaming, cursing, and praying,

laughing, singing, and moaning, they rush past side by side. Their



speed never slackens, the race never ends. There is no wayside rest

for them, no halt by cooling fountains, no pause beneath green shades.



On, on, on--on through the heat and the crowd and the dust--on, or

they will be trampled down and lost--on, with throbbing brain and



tottering limbs--on, till the heart grows sick, and the eyes grow

blurred, and a gurgling groan tells those behind they may close up



another space.

And yet, in spite of the killing pace and the stony track, who but the



sluggard or the dolt can hold aloof from the course? Who--like the

belated traveler that stands watching fairy revels till he snatches



and drains the goblin cup and springs into the whirling circle--can

view the mad tumult and not be drawn into its midst? Not I, for one.



I confess to the wayside arbor, the pipe of contentment, and the

lotus-leaves being altogether unsuitable metaphors. They sounded very



nice and philosophical, but I'm afraid I am not the sort of person to

sit in arbors smoking pipes when there is any fun going on outside. I



think I more resemble the Irishman who, seeing a crowd collecting,

sent his little girl out to ask if there was going to be a row



--"'Cos, if so, father would like to be in it."

I love the fiercestrife. I like to watch it. I like to hear of



people getting on in it--battling their way bravely and fairly--that

is, not slipping through by luck or trickery. It stirs one's old



Saxon fighting blood like the tales of "knights who fought 'gainst

fearful odds" that thrilled us in our school-boy days.



And fighting the battle of life is fighting against fearful odds, too.

There are giants and dragons in this nineteenth century, and the



golden casket that they guard is not so easy to win as it appears in

the story-books. There, Algernon takes one long, last look at the



ancestral hall, dashes the tear-drop from his eye, and goes off--to

return in three years' time, rolling in riches. The authors do not



tell us "how it's done," which is a pity, for it would surely prove

exciting.



But then not one novelist in a thousand ever does tell us the real

story of their hero. They linger for a dozen pages over a tea-party,



but sum up a life's history with "he had become one of our merchant

princes," or "he was now a great artist, with the world at his feet."



Why, there is more real life in one of Gilbert's patter-songs than in

half the biographical novels ever written. He relates to us all the



various steps by which his office-boy rose to be the "ruler of the

queen's navee," and explains to us how the briefless barrister managed



to become a great and good judge, "ready to try this breach of promise

of marriage." It is in the petty details, not in the great results,



that the interest of existence lies.

What we really want is a novel showing us all the hidden under-current



of an ambitious man's career--his struggles, and failures, and hopes,

his disappointments and victories. It would be an immense success. I



am sure the wooing of Fortune would prove quite as interesting a tale




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