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End of the Tether-Part3_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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by prejudiced views as to the derogatory nature of cer-

tain occupations. For his own part he had always pre-



ferred sailing merchant ships (which is a straight-

forward occupation) to buying and selling merchandise,



of which the essence is to get the better of somebody in a

bargain--an undignified trial of wits at best. His father



had been Colonel Whalley (retired) of the H. E. I. Com-

pany's service, with very slender means besides his pen-



sion, but with distinguished connections. He could re-

member as a boy how frequently waiters at the inns, coun-



try tradesmen and small people of that sort, used to "My

lord" the old warrior on the strength of his appear-



ance.

Captain Whalley himself (he would have entered the



Navy if his father had not died before he was fourteen)

had something of a grand air which would have suited



an old and gloriousadmiral; but he became lost like a

straw in the eddy of a brook amongst the swarm of



brown and yellow humanity filling a thoroughfare, that

by contrast with the vast and empty avenue he had left



seemed as narrow as a lane and absolutely riotous with

life. The walls of the houses were blue; the shops of



the Chinamen yawned like cavernous lairs; heaps of

nondescript merchandise overflowed the gloom of the



long range of arcades, and the fiery serenity of sunset

took the middle of the street from end to end with a



glow like the reflection of a fire. It fell on the bright

colors and the dark faces of the bare-footed crowd, on



the pallid yellow backs of the half-naked jostling coolies,

on the accouterments of a tall Sikh trooper with a



parted beard and fierce mustaches on sentry before the

gate of the police compound. Looming very big above



the heads in a red haze of dust, the tightly packed car

of the cable tramway navigated cautiously up the hu-



man stream, with the incessant blare of its horn, in the

manner of a steamer groping in a fog.



Captain Whalley emerged like a diver on the other

side, and in the desert shade between the walls of closed



warehouses removed his hat to cool his brow. A certain

disrepute attached to the calling of a landlady of a



boarding-house. These women were said to be rapacious,

unscrupulous, untruthful; and though he contemned no



class of his fellow-creatures--God forbid!--these were

suspicions to which it was unseemly that a Whalley



should lay herself open. He had not expostulated with

her, however. He was confident she shared his feelings;



he was sorry for her; he trusted her judgment; he con-

sidered it a mercifuldispensation that he could help her



once more,--but in his aristocratic heart of hearts he

would have found it more easy to reconcile himself to the



idea of her turning seamstress. Vaguely he remembered

reading years ago a touching piece called the "Song of



the Shirt." It was all very well making songs about

poor women. The granddaughter of Colonel Whalley,



the landlady of a boarding-house! Pooh! He replaced

his hat, dived into two pockets, and stopping a moment



to apply a flaring match to the end of a cheap cheroot,

blew an embittered cloud of smoke at a world that could



hold such surprises.

Of one thing he was certain--that she was the own



child of a clever mother. Now he had got over the

wrench of parting with his ship, he perceived clearly



that such a step had been unavoidable. Perhaps he had

been growing aware of it all along with an unconfessed



knowledge. But she, far away there, must have had

an intuitive perception of it, with the pluck to face that



truth and the courage to speak out--all the qualities

which had made her mother a woman of such excellent



counsel.

It would have had to come to that in the end! It was



fortunate she had forced his hand. In another year or

two it would have been an utterly barren sale. To keep






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