hard times(艰难时世)-第19节
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think it comes from father； or from Mr Sleary about father。 Mr
Sleary promised to write as soon as ever father should be heard of；
and I trust to him to keep his word。”
“Do look sharp for old Bounderby； Loo！” said Tom； with an
impatient whistle。 “He’ll be off if you don’t look sharp！”
After this； whenever Sissy dropped a curtsey to Mr Gradgrind
in the presence of his family； and said in a faltering way； “I beg
your pardon； sir； for being troublesome—but—have you had any
letter yet about me？” Louisa would suspend the occupation of the
moment； whatever it was； and look for the reply as earnestly as
Sissy did。 And when Mr Gradgrind regularly answered； “No； Jupe；
nothing of the sort；” the trembling of Sissy’s lip would be repeated
in Louisa’s face； and her eyes would follow Sissy with compassion
to the door。 Mr Gradgrind usually improved these occasions by
remarking； when she was gone； that if Jupe had been properly
trained from an early age she would have demonstrated to herself
on sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes。 Yet
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it did seem （though not to him； for he saw nothing of it） as if
fantastic hope could take as strong a hold as Fact。
This observation must be limited exclusively to his daughter。 As
to Tom； he was becoming that not unprecedented triumph of
calculation which is usually at work on number one。 As to Mrs
Gradgrind； if she said anything on the subject； she would come a
little way out of her wrappers； like a feminine dormouse； and say：
“Good gracious bless me； how my poor head is vexed and
worried by that girl Jupe’s so perseveringly asking； over and over
again； about her tiresome letters！ Upon my word and honour I
seem to be fated； and destined； and ordained； to live in the midst
of things that I am never to hear the last of。 It really is a most
extraordinary circumstance that it appears as if I never were to
hear the last of anything！”
At about this point； Mr Gradgrind’s eye would fall upon her；
and under the influence of that wintry piece of fact； she would
become torpid again。
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Hard Times 85
Chapter 10
Stephen Blackpool
entertain a weak idea that the English people are as hard
worked as any people upon whom the sun shines。 I
Iacknowledge to this ridiculous idiosyncrasy； as a reason why I
would give them a little more play。
In the hardest working part of Coketown； in the innermost
fortifications of that ugly citadel； where Nature was as strongly
bricked out as killing airs and gases were bricked in； at the heart
of the labyrinth of narrow courts upon courts； and close streets
upon streets； which had come into existence piecemeal； every
piece in a violent hurry for some one man’s purpose； and the
whole an unnatural family； shouldering； and trampling； and
pressing one another to death； in the last close nook of this great
exhausted receiver； where the chimneys； for want of air to make a
draught； were built an immense variety of stunted and crooked
shapes； as though every house put out a sign of the kind of people
who might be expected to be born in it； among the multitude of
Coketown； generically called “the Hands；”—a race who would
have found more favour with some people； if Providence had seen
fit to make them only hands； or； like the lower creatures of the sea…
shore； only hands and stomachs—lived a certain Stephen
Blackpool； forty years of age。
Stephen looked older； but he had had a hard life。 It is said that
every life has its roses and thorns； there seemed； however； to have
been a misadventure or mistake in Stephen’s case； whereby
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somebody else had become possessed of his roses and he had
become possessed of the same somebody else’s thorns in addition
to his own。 He had known； to use his words； a peck of trouble。 He
was usually called Old Stephen； in a kind of rough homage to the
fact。
A rather stooping man； with a knitted brow； a pondering
expression of face； and a hard…looking head sufficiently capacious；
on which his iron…grey hair lay long and thin； Old Stephen might
have passed for a particularly intelligent man in his condition。 Yet
he was not。 He took no place among those remarkable “Hands；”
who； piecing together their broken intervals of leisure through
many years； had mastered difficult sciences； and acquired a
knowledge of most unlikely things。 He held no station among the
Hands who could make speeches and carry on debates。 Thousands
of his compeers could talk much better than he； at any time。 He
was a good power…loom weaver； and a man of perfect integrity。
What more he was； or what else he had in him； if anything； let him
show for himself。
The lights in the great factories； which looked； when they were
illuminated； like Fairy palaces—or the travellers by express…train
said so—were all extinguished； and the bells had rung for
knocking off for the night； and had ceased again； and the Hands；
men and women； boy and girl； were clattering home。 Old Stephen
was standing in the street； with the odd sensation upon him which
the stoppage of the machinery always produced—the sensation of
its having worked and stopped in his own head。
“Yet I don’t see Rachael； still！” said he。
It was a wet night； and many groups of young women passed
him； with their shawls drawn over their bare heads and held close
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under their chins to keep the rain out。 He knew Rachael well； for a
glance at any one of these groups was sufficient to show him that
she was not there。 At last； there was no more to come； and then he
turned away； saying in a tone of disappointment； “Why； then； I ha’
missed her！”
But； he had not gone the length of three streets； when he saw
another of the shawled figures in advance of him； at which he
looked so keenly that perhaps its mere shadow indistinctly
reflected on the wet pavement—if he could have seen it without
the figure itself moving along from lamp to lamp； brightening and
fading as it went—would have been enough to tell him who was
there。 Making his pace at once much quicker and much softer； he
darted on until he was very near this figure； then fell into his
former walk； and called “Rachael！”
She turned； being then in the brightness of a lamp； and raising
her hood a little； showed a quite oval face； dark and rather
delicate； irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes； and further set off
by the perfect order of her shining black hair。 It was not a face in
its first bloom； she was a woman five and thirty years of age。
“Ah； lad！ ’Tis thou？” When she had said this； with a smile
which would have been quite expressed； though nothing of her
had been seen but her pleasant eyes； she replaced her hood again；
and they went on together。
“I thought thou wast ahind me； Rachael？”
“No。”
“Early t’night； lass？”
“’Times I’m a little early； Stephen； ’times a little late。 I’m never
to be counted on； going home。”
“Nor going t’other way； neither； ’t seems to me； Rachael
