little dorrit-信丽(英文版)-第25部分

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fault　to　find　with　the　old　lady　for　eliciting　it；　now　that　he　was
relieved　from　the　terrors　of　her　presence；　and　they　took　a　glass　or
two　of　wine　in　peace。　Foreseeing　then　that　the　Pancks　would　shortly　get
under　weigh；　and　that　the　Patriarch　would　go　to　sleep；　he　pleaded　the
necessity　of　visiting　his　mother；　and　asked　Mr　Pancks　in　which　direction
he　was　going？

'Citywards；　sir；'　said　Pancks。　'Shall　we　walk　together？'　said　Arthur。

'Quite　agreeable；'　said　Pancks。

Meanwhile　Flora　was　murmuring　in　rapid　snatches　for　his　ear；　that　there
was　a　time　and　that　the　past　was　a　yawning　gulf　however　and　that　a
golden　chain　no　longer　bound　him　and　that　she　revered　the　memory　of　the
late　Mr　F。　and　that　she　should　be　at　home　to…morrow　at　half…past　one
and　that　the　decrees　of　Fate　were　beyond　recall　and　that　she　considered
nothing　so　improbable　as　that　he　ever　walked　on　the　north…west　side　of
Gray's…Inn　Gardens　at　exactly　four　o'clock　in　the　afternoon。　He　tried
at　parting　to　give　his　hand　in　frankness　to　the　existing　Flora……not　the
vanished　Flora；　or　the　mermaid……but　Flora　wouldn't　have　it；　couldn't
have　it；　was　wholly　destitute　of　the　power　of　separating　herself　and　him
from　their　bygone　characters。　He　left　the　house　miserably　enough；　and
so　much　more　light…headed　than　ever；　that　if　it　had　not　been　his　good
fortune　to　be　towed　away；　he　might；　for　the　first　quarter　of　an　hour；
have　drifted　anywhere。

When　he　began　to　e　to　himself；　in　the　cooler　air　and　the　absence　of
Flora；　he　found　Pancks　at　full　speed；　cropping　such　scanty　pasturage　of
nails　as　he　could　find；　and　snorting　at　intervals。　These；　in　conjunction
with　one　hand　in　his　pocket　and　his　roughened　hat　hind　side　before；　were
evidently　the　conditions　under　which　he　reflected。

'A　fresh　night！'　said　Arthur。

'Yes；　it's　pretty　fresh；'　assented　Pancks。　'As　a　stranger　you　feel　the
climate　more　than　I　do；　I　dare　say。　Indeed　I　haven't　got　time　to　feel
it。'

'You　lead　such　a　busy　life？'

'Yes；　I　have　always　some　of　'em　to　look　up；　or　something　to　look　after。
But　I　like　business；'　said　Pancks；　getting　on　a　little　faster。　'What's　a
man　made　for？'

'For　nothing　else？'　said　Clennam。

Pancks　put　the　counter　question；　'What　else？'　It　packed　up；　in　the
smallest　pass；　a　weight　that　had　rested　on　Clennam's　life；　and　he
made　no　answer。

'That's　what　I　ask　our　weekly　tenants；'　said　Pancks。　'Some　of　'em　will
pull　long　faces　to　me；　and　say；　Poor　as　you　see　us；　master；　we're　always
grinding；　drudging；　toiling；　every　minute　we're　awake。

I　say　to　them；　What　else　are　you　made　for？　It　shuts　them　up。　They
haven't　a　word　to　answer。　What　else　are　you　made　for？　That　clinches　it。'

'Ah　dear；　dear；　dear！'　sighed　Clennam。

'Here　am　I；'　said　Pancks；　pursuing　his　argument　with　the　weekly　tenant。
'What　else　do　you　suppose　I　think　I　am　made　for？　Nothing。

Rattle　me　out　of　bed　early；　set　me　going；　give　me　as　short　a　time　as　you
like　to　bolt　my　meals　in；　and　keep　me　at　it。　Keep　me　always　at　it；　and
I'll　keep　you　always　at　it；　you　keep　somebody　else　always　at　it。　There
you　are　with　the　Whole　Duty　of　Man　in　a　mercial　country。'

When　they　had　walked　a　little　further　in　silence；　Clennam　said：　'Have
you　no　taste　for　anything；　Mr　Pancks？'

'What's　taste？'　drily　retorted　Pancks。

'Let　us　say　inclination。'

'I　have　an　inclination　to　get　money；　sir；'　said　Pancks；　'if　you　will
show　me　how。'　He　blew　off　that　sound　again；　and　it　occurred　to　his
panion　for　the　first　time　that　it　was　his　way　of　laughing。　He　was　a
singular　man　in　all　respects；　he　might　not　have　been　quite　in　earnest；
but　that　the　short；　hard；　rapid　manner　in　which　he　shot　out　these
cinders　of　principles；　as　if　it　were　done　by　mechanical　revolvency；
seemed　irreconcilable　with　banter。

'You　are　no　great　reader；　I　suppose？'　said　Clennam。

'Never　read　anything　but　letters　and　accounts。　Never　collect　anything
but　advertisements　relative　to　next　of　kin。　If　that's　a　taste；　I　have
got　that。　You're　not　of　the　Clennams　of　Cornwall；　Mr　Clennam？'

'Not　that　I　ever　heard　of。'　'I　know　you're　not。　I　asked　your　mother；
sir。　She　has　too　much　character　to　let　a　chance　escape　her。'

'Supposing　I　had　been　of　the　Clennams　of　Cornwall？'　'You'd　have　heard　of
something　to　your　advantage。'

'Indeed！　I　have　heard　of　little　enough　to　my　advantage　for　some　time。'

'There's　a　Cornish　property　going　a　begging；　sir；　and　not　a　Cornish
Clennam　to　have　it　for　the　asking；'　said　Pancks；　taking　his　note…book
from　his　breast　pocket　and　putting　it　in　again。　'I　turn　off　here。　I　wish
you　good　night。'

'Good　night！'　said　Clennam。　But　the　Tug；　suddenly　lightened；　and
untrammelled　by　having　any　weight　in　tow；　was　already　puffing　away　into
the　distance。

They　had　crossed　Smithfield　together；　and　Clennam　was　left　alone　at　the
corner　of　Barbican。　He　had　no　intention　of　presenting　himself　in　his
mother's　dismal　room　that　night；　and　could　not　have　felt　more　depressed
and　cast　away　if　he　had　been　in　a　wilderness。　He　turned　slowly　down
Aldersgate　Street；　and　was　pondering　his　way　along　towards　Saint　Paul's；
purposing　to　e　into　one　of　the　great　thoroughfares　for　the　sake　of
their　light　and　life；　when　a　crowd　of　people　flocked　towards　him　on　the
same　pavement；　and　he　stood　aside　against　a　shop　to　let　them　pass。　As
they　came　up；　he　made　out　that　they　were　gathered　around　a　something
that　was　carried　on　men's　shoulders。　He　soon　saw　that　it　was　a　litter；
hastily　made　of　a　shutter　or　some　such　thing；　and　a　recumbent　figure
upon　it；　and　the　scraps　of　conversation　in　the　crowd；　and　a　muddy　bundle
carried　by　one　man；　and　a　muddy　hat　carried　by　another；　informed　him
that　an　accident　had　occurred。　The　litter　stopped　under　a　lamp　before　it
had　passed　him　half…a…dozen　paces；　for　some　readjustment　of　the　burden；
and；　the　crowd　stopping　too；　he　found　himself　in　the　midst　of　the　array。

'An　accident　going　to　the　Hospital？'　he　asked　an　old　man　beside　him；　who
stood　shaking　his　head；　inviting　conversation。

'Yes；'　said　the　man；　'along　of　them　Mails。　They　ought　to　be　prosecuted
and　fined；　them　Mails。　They　e　a　racing　out　of　Lad　Lane　and　Wood
Street　at　twelve　or　fourteen　mile　a　hour；　them　Mails　do。　The　only　wonder
is；　that　people　ain't　killed　oftener　by　them　Mails。'

'This　person　is　not　killed；　I　hope？'

'I　don't　know！'　said　the　man；　'it　an't　for　the　want　of　a　will　in　them
Mails；　if　he　an't。'　The　speaker　having　folded　his　arms；　and　set　in
fortably　to　address　his　depreciation　of　them　Mails　to　any　of　the
bystanders　who　would　listen；　several　voices；　out　of　pure　sympathy　with
the　sufferer；　confirmed　him；　one　voice　saying　to　Clennam；　'They're　a
public　nuisance；　them　Mails；　sir；'　another；　'I　see　one　on　'em　pull　up
within　half　a　inch　of　a　boy；　last　night；'　another；　'I　see　one　on　'em
go　over　a　cat；　sir……and　it　might　have　been　your　own　mother；'　and　all
representing；　by　implication；　that　if　he　happened　to　possess　any　public
influence；　he　could　not　use　it　better　than　against　them　Mails。

'Why；　a　native　Englishman　is　put　to　it　every　night　of　his　life；　to　save
his　life　from　them　Mails；'　argued　the　first　old　man；　'and　he　knows　when
they're　a　ing　round　the　corner；　to　tear　him　limb　from　limb。　What　can
you　expect　from　a　poor　foreigner　who　don't　know　nothing　about　'em！'

'Is　this　a　foreigner？'　said　Clennam；　leaning　forward　to　look。

In　the　midst　of　such　replies　as　'Frenchman；　sir；'　'Porteghee；　sir；'
'Dutchman；　sir；'　'Prooshan；　sir；'　and　other　conflicting　testimony；　he
now　heard　a　feeble　voice　asking；　both　in　Italian　and　in　French；　for
water。　A　general　remark　going　round；　in　reply；　of　'Ah；　poor　fellow；
he　says　he'll　never　get　over　it；　and　no　wonder！'　Clennam　begged　to　be
allowed　to　pass；　as　he　understood　the　poor　creature。　He　was　immediately
handed　to　the　front；　to　speak　to　him。

'First；　he　wants　some　water；'　said　he；　looking　round。　（A　dozen　good
fellows　dispersed　to　get　it。）　'Are　you　badly　hurt；　my　friend？'　he　asked
the　man　on　the　litter；　in　Italian。

'Yes；　sir；　yes；　yes；　yes。　It's　my　leg；　it's　my　leg。　But　it　pleases　me　to
hear　the　old　music；　though　I　am　very　bad。'

'You　are　a　traveller！　Stay！　See；　the　water！　Let　me　give　you　some。'　They
had　rested　the　litter　on　a　pile　of　paving　stones。　It　was　at　a　convenient
height　from　the　ground；　and　by　stooping　he　could　lightly　raise　the　head
with　one　hand　and　hold　the　glass　to　his　lips　with　the　other。　A　little；
muscular；　brown　man；　with　black　hair　and　white　teeth。　A　lively　face；
apparently。　Earrings　in　his　ears。

'That's　well。　You　are　a　traveller？'

'Surely；　sir。'

'A　stranger　in　this　city？'

'Surely；　surely；　altogether。　I　am　arrived　this　unhappy　evening。'

'From　what　country？'　'Marseilles。'

'Why；　see　there！　I　also！　Almost　as　much　a　stranger　here　as　you；　though
born　here；　I　came　from　Marseilles　a　little　while　ago。　Don't　be　cast
down。'　The　face　looked　up　at　him　imploringly；　as　he　rose　from　wiping　it；
and　gently　replaced　the　coat　that　covered　the　writhing　figure。　'I　won't
leave　you　till　you　shall　be　well　taken　care　of。　Courage！　You　will　be
very　much　better　half　an　hour　hence。'

'Ah！　Altro；　Altro！'　cried　the　poor　little　man；　in　a　faintly　incredulous
tone；　and　as　they　took　him　up；　hung　out　his　right　hand　to　give　the
forefinger　a　back…handed　shake　in　the　air。

Arthur　Clennam　turned；　and　walking　beside　the　litter；　and　saying　an
encouraging　word　now　and　then；　acpanied　it　to　the　neighbouring
hospital　of　Saint　Bartholomew。　None　of　the　crowd　but　the　bearers　and
he　being　admitted；　the　disabled　man　was　soon　laid　on　a　table　in　a　cool；
methodical　way；　and　carefully　examined　by　a　surgeon　who　was　as　near　at
hand；　and　as　ready　to　appear　as　Calamity　herself。　'He　hardly　knows　an
English　word；'　said　Clennam；　'is　he　badly　hurt？'

'Let　us　know　all　about　it　first；'　said　the　surgeon；　continuing　his
examination　with　a　businesslike　delight　in　it；　'before　we　pronounce。'

After　trying　the　leg　with　a　finger；　and　two　fingers；　and　one　hand　and
two　hands；　and　over　and　under；　and　up　and　down；　and　in　this　direction
and　in　that；　and　approvingly　remarking　on　the　points　of　interest　to
another　gentleman　who　joined　him；　the　surgeon　at　last　clapped　the
patient　on　the　shoulder；　and　said；　'He　won't　hurt。　He'll　do　very　well。
It's　difficult　enough；　but　we　shall　not　want　him　to　part　with　his　leg
this　time。'　Which　Clennam　interpreted　to　the　patient；　who　was　full　of
gratitude；　and；　in　his　demonstrative　way；　kissed　both　the　interpreter's
hand　and　the　surgeon's　several　times。

'It's　a　serious　injury；　I　suppose？'　said　Clennam。

'Ye…es；'　replied　the　surgeon；　with　the　thoughtful　pleasure　of　an　artist
contemplating　the　work　upon　his　easel。　'Yes；　it's　enough。　There's　a
pound　fracture　above　the　knee；　and　a　dislocation　below。　They　are
both　of　a　beautiful　kind。'　He　gave　the　patient　a　friendly　clap　on　the
shoulder　again；　as　if　he　really　felt　that　he　was　a　very　good　fellow
indeed；　and　worthy　of　all　mendation　for　having　broken　his　leg　in　a
manner　interesting　to　science。

'He　speaks　French？'　said　the　surgeon。

'Oh　yes；　he　speaks　French。'

'He'll　be　at　no　loss　here；　then。……You　have　only　to　bear　a　little　pain
like　a　brave　fellow；　my　friend；　and　to　be　thankful　that　all　goes　as
well　as　it　does；'　he　added；　in　that　tongue；　'and　you'll　walk　again　to
a　marvel。　Now；　let　us　see　whether　there's　anything　else　the　matter；　and
how　our　ribs　are？'

There　was　nothing　else　the　matter；　and　our　ribs　were　sound。　Clennam
remained　until　everything　possible　to　be　done　had　been　skilfully　and
promptly　done……the　poor　belated　wanderer　in　a　strange　land　movingly
besought　that　favour　of　him……and　lingered　by　the　bed　to　which　he　was　in
due　time　removed；　until　he　had　fallen　into　a　doze。　Even　then　he　wrote　a
few　words　for　him　on　his　card；　with　a　promise　to　return　to…morrow；　and
left　it　to　be　given　to　him　when　he　should　awake。　All　these　proceedings
occupied　so　long　that　it　struck　eleven　o'clock　at　night　as　he　came　out
at　the　Hospital　Gate。　He　had　hired　a　lodging　for　the　present　in　Covent
Garden；　and　he　took　the　nearest　way　to　that　quarter；　by　Snow　Hill　and
Holborn。

Left　to　himself　again；　after　the　solicitude　and　passion　of　his　last
adventure；　he　was　naturally　in　a　thoughtful　mood。　As　naturally；　he
could　not　walk　on　thinking　for　ten　minutes　without　recalling　Flora。
She　necessarily　recalled　to　him　his　life；　with　all　its　misdirection　and
little　happiness。

When　he　got　to　his　lodging；　he　sat　down　before　the　dying　fire；　as　he
had　stood　at　the　window　of　his　old　room　looking　out　upon　the　blackened
forest　of　chimneys；　and　turned　his　gaze　back　upon　the　gloomy　vista　by
which　he　had　e　to　that　stage　in　his　existence。　So　long；　so　bare；
so　blank。　No　childhood；　no　youth；　except　for　one　remembrance；　that　one
remembrance　proved；　only　that　day；　to　be　a　piece　of　folly。

It　was　a　misfortune　to　him；　trifle　as　it　might　have　been　to　another。
For；　while　all　that　was　hard　and　stern　in　his　recollection；　remained
Reality　on　being　proved……was　obdurate　to　the　sight　and　touch；　and
relaxed　nothing　of　its　old　indomitable　grimness……the　one　tender
recollection　of　his　experience　would　not　bear　the　same　test；　and　melted
away。　He　had　foreseen　this；　on　the　former　night；　when　he　had　dreamed
with　waking　eyes；　but　he　had　not　felt　it　then；　and　he　had　now。

He　was　a　dreamer　in　such　wise；　because　he　was　a　man　who　had；　deep…rooted
in　his　nature；　a　belief　in　all　the　gentle　and　good　things　his　life　had
been　without。　Bred　in　meanness　and　hard　dealing；　this　had　rescued　him
to　be　a　man　of　honourable　mind　and　open　hand。　Bred　in　coldness　and
severity；　this　had　rescued　him　to　have　a　warm　and　sympathetic　heart。
Bred　in　a　creed　too　darkly　audacious　to　pursue；　through　its　process　of
reserving　the　making　of　man　in　the　image　of　his　Creator　to　the　making　of
his　Creator　in　the　image　of　an　erring　man；　this　had　rescued　him　to　judge
not；　and　in　humility　to　be　merciful；　and　have　hope　and　charity。

And　this　saved　him　still　from　the　whimpering　weakness　and　cruel
selfishness　of　holding　that　because　such　a　happiness　or　such　a　virtue
had　not　e　into　his　little　path；　or　worked　well　for　him；　therefore
it　was　not　in　the　great　scheme；　but　was　reducible；　when　found　in
appearance；　to　the　basest　elements。　A　disappointed　mind　he　had；　but　a
mind　too　firm　and　healthy　for　such　unwholesome　air。　Leaving　himself　in
the　dark；　it　could　rise　into　the　light；　seeing　it　shine　on　others　and
hailing　it。

Therefore；　he　sat　before　his　dying　fire；　sorrowful　to　think　upon　the　way
by　which　he　had　e　to　that　night；　yet　not　strewing　poison　on　the　way
by　which　other　men　had　e　to　it。　That　he　should　have　missed　so　much；
and　at　his　time　of　life　should　look　so　far　about　him　for　any　staff　to
bear　him　pany　upon　his　downward　journey　and　cheer　it；　was　a　just
regret。　He　looked　at　the　fire　from　which　the　blaze　departed；　from　which
the　afterglow　subsided；　in　which　the　ashes　turned　grey；　from　which　they
dropped　to　dust；　and　thought；　'How　soon　I　too　shall　pass　through　such
changes；　and　be　gone！'

To　review　his　life　was　like　descending　a　green　tree　in　fruit　and　flower；
and　seeing　all　the　branches　wither　and　drop　off；　one　by　one；　as　he　came
down　towards　them。

'From　the　unhappy　suppression　of　my　youngest　days；　through　the　rigid　and
unloving　home　that　followed　them；　through　my　departure；　my　long　exile；
my　return；　my　mother's　wele；　my　intercourse　with　her　since；　down　t