hard times(艰难时世)-第86节
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“but now you mention it； I should think it highly probable。”
“Then suppose you try； ma’am；” said Bounderby laying an
envelope with a cheque in it； in her little basket。 “You can take
your own time for going； ma’am； but perhaps in the meanwhile； it
will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind； to eat her
meals by herself； and not to be intruded upon。 I really ought to
apologise to you—being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown—for
having stood in your light so long。”
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“Pray don’t name it； sir；” returned Mrs Sparsit。 “If that portrait
could speak； sir；—but it has the advantage over the original of not
possessing the power of committing itself and disgusting others；—
it would testify； that a long period has elapsed since I first
habitually addressed it as the picture of a Noodle。 Nothing that a
Noodle does； can awaken surprise or indignation； the proceedings
of a Noodle can only inspire contempt。”
Thus saying； Mrs Sparsit； with her Roman features like a medal
struck to commemorate her scorn of Mr Bounderby； surveyed him
fixedly from head to foot； swept disdainfully past him； and
ascended the staircase。 Mr Bounderby closed the door； and stood
before the fire； projecting himself after his old explosive manner
into his portrait—and into futurity。
Into how much of futurity？ He saw Mrs Sparsit fighting out a
daily fight； at the points of all the weapons in the female armoury；
with the grudging； smarting； peevish； tormenting Lady Scadgers；
still laid up in bed with her mysterious leg； and gobbling her
insufficient income down by about the middle of every quarter； in
a mean little airless lodging； a mere closet for one； a mere crib for
two； but did he see more？ Did he catch any glimpse of himself
making a show of Bitzer to strangers； as the rising young man； so
devoted to his master’s great merits； who had won young Tom’s
place； and had almost captured young Tom himself； in the times
when by various rascals he was spirited away？ Did he see any
faint reflection of his own image making a vain…glorious will；
whereby five…and…twenty Humbugs； past five and fifty years of age；
each taking upon himself the name； Josiah Bounderby of
Coketown； should for ever dine in Bounderby Hall； for ever lodge
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in Bounderby Buildings； for ever attend a Bounderby chapel； for
ever go to sleep under a Bounderby chaplain； for ever be
supported out of a Bounderby estate； and for ever nauseate all
healthy stomachs； with a vast amount of Bounderby balderdash
and bluster？ Had he any prescience of the day； five years to come；
when Josiah Bounderby of Coketown was to die of a fit in the
Coketown street and this same precious will was to begin its long
career of quibble； plunder； false pretences； vile example； little
service and much law？ Probably not。 Yet the portrait was to see it
all out。
Here was Mr Gradgrind on the same day； and in the same hour；
sitting thoughtful in his own room。 How much of futurity did he
see？ Did he see himself； a white…haired decrepit man； bending his
hitherto inflexible theories to appointed circumstances； making
his facts and figures subservient to Faith； Hope； and Charity； and
no longer trying to grind that Heavenly trio in his dusty little
mills？ Did he catch sight of himself； therefore much despised by
his late political associates？ Did he see them； in the era of its being
quite settled that the national dustmen have only to do with one
another； and owe no duty to an abstraction called a People；
“taunting the honourable gentleman” with this and with that and
with what not； five nights a…week； until the small hours of the
morning？ Probably he had that much fore…knowledge； knowing
his men。
Here was Louisa on the night of the same day； watching the fire
as in days of yore； though with a gentler and a humbler face。 How
much of the future might arise before her vision？ Broadsides in
the streets； signed with her father’s name； exonerating the late
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Stephen Blackpool； weaver； from misplaced suspicion； and
publishing the guilt of his own son； with such extenuation as his
years and temptation （he could not bring himself to add； his
education） might beseech； were of the Present。 So； Stephen
Blackpool’s tombstone； with her father’s record of his death； was
almost of the Present； for she knew it was to be。 These things she
could plainly see。 But； how much of the Future？
A working woman； christened Rachael； after a long illness once
again appearing at the ringing of the Factory bell； and passing to
and fro at the set hours； among the Coketown Hands； a woman of
a pensive beauty； always dressed in black； but sweet…tempered
and serene； and even cheerful； who； of all the people in the place；
alone appeared to have compassion on a degraded； drunken
wretch of her own sex； who was sometimes seen in the town
secretly begging of her； and crying to her； a woman working； ever
working； but content to do it； and preferring to do it as her natural
lot； until she should be too old to labour any more？ Did Louisa see
this？ Such a thing was to be。
A lonely brother； many thousands of miles away； writing； on
paper blotted with tears； that her words had too soon come true；
and that all the treasures in the world would be cheaply bartered
for a sight of her dear face？ At length this brother coming nearer
home； with hope of seeing her； and being delayed by illness； and
then a letter； in a strange hand； saying “he died in hospital； of
fever； such a day； and died in penitence and love of you： his last
word being your name？” Did Louisa see these things？ Such things
were to be。
Herself again a wife—a mother—lovingly watchful of her
children； ever careful that they should have a childhood of the
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mind no less than a childhood of the body； as knowing it to be
even a more beautiful thing； and a possession； any hoarded scrap
of which； is a blessing and happiness to the wisest？ Did Louisa see
this？ Such a thing was never to be。
But； happy Sissy’s happy children loving her； all children loving
her； she； grown learned in childish love； thinking no innocent and
pretty fancy ever to be despised； trying hard to know her humbler
fellow creatures； and beautify their lives of machinery and reality
with those imaginative graces and delights； without which the
heart of infancy will wither up； the sturdiest physical manhood
will be morally stark death； and the plainest national prosperity
figures can show； will be the Writing on the Wall—she holding this
course as part of no fantastic vow； or bond； or brotherhood； or
sisterhood； or pledge； or covenant； or fancy dress； or fancy fair； but
simply as a duty to be done；—Did Louisa see these things of
herself？ These things were to be。
Dear reader！ It rests with you and me； whether； in our two
fields of action； similar things shall be or not。 Let them be！ We
shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth； to see the ashes of our
fires turn grey and cold。
The End
Charles Dic
