the idle thoughts of an idle fellow[1].(一个浪子的随想)-第4章
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dark the world was when she snubbed you； as she often did； the little
rogue； just to see you look wretched； how sunny when she smiled！ How
jealous you were of every one about her！ How you hated every man she
shook hands with； every woman she kissedthe maid that did her hair； the
boy that cleaned her shoes； the dog she nursedthough you had to be
respectful to the last…named！ How you looked forward to seeing her； how
stupid you were when you did see her； staring at her without saying a word！
How impossible it was for you to go out at any time of the day or night
without finding yourself eventually opposite her windows！ You hadn't
pluck enough to go in； but you hung about the corner and gazed at the
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
outside。 Oh； if the house had only caught fireit was insured； so it
wouldn't have matteredand you could have rushed in and saved her at the
risk of your life； and have been terribly burned and injured！ Anything to
serve her。 Even in little things that was so sweet。 How you would watch
her； spaniel…like； to anticipate her slightest wish！ How proud you were to
do her bidding！ How delightful it was to be ordered about by her！ To
devote your whole life to her and to never think of yourself seemed such a
simple thing。 You would go without a holiday to lay a humble offering at
her shrine； and felt more than repaid if she only deigned to accept it。 How
precious to you was everything that she had hallowed by her touchher
little glove； the ribbon she had worn； the rose that had nestled in her hair
and whose withered leaves still mark the poems you never care to look at
now。
And oh； how beautiful she was； how wondrous beautiful！ It was as
some angel entering the room； and all else became plain and earthly。 She
was too sacred to be touched。 It seemed almost presumption to gaze at her。
You would as soon have thought of kissing her as of singing comic songs
in a cathedral。 It was desecration enough to kneel and timidly raise the
gracious little hand to your lips。
Ah； those foolish days； those foolish days when we were unselfish and
pure…minded； those foolish days when our simple hearts were full of truth；
and faith； and reverence！ Ah； those foolish days of noble longings and of
noble strivings！ And oh； these wise； clever days when we know that
money is the only prize worth striving for； when we believe in nothing
else but meanness and lies； when we care for no living creature but
ourselves！
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
ON BEING IN THE BLUES。
I can enjoy feeling melancholy； and there is a good deal of satisfaction
about being thoroughly miserable； but nobody likes a fit of the blues。
Nevertheless； everybody has them； notwithstanding which； nobody can
tell why。 There is no accounting for them。 You are just as likely to have
one on the day after you have come into a large fortune as on the day after
you have left your new silk umbrella in the train。 Its effect upon you is
somewhat similar to what would probably be produced by a combined
attack of toothache； indigestion； and cold in the head。 You become stupid；
restless； and irritable； rude to strangers and dangerous toward your friends；
clumsy； maudlin； and quarrelsome； a nuisance to yourself and everybody
about you。
While it is on you can do nothing and think of nothing； though feeling
at the time bound to do something。 You can't sit still so put on your hat and
go for a walk； but before you get to the corner of the street you wish you
hadn't come out and you turn back。 You open a book and try to read； but
you find Shakespeare trite and commonplace； Dickens is dull and prosy；
Thackeray a bore； and Carlyle too sentimental。 You throw the book aside
and call the author names。 Then you 〃shoo〃 the cat out of the room and
kick the door to after her。 You think you will write your letters； but after
sticking at 〃Dearest Auntie： I find I have five minutes to spare； and so
hasten to write to you；〃 for a quarter of an hour； without being able to
think of another sentence； you tumble the paper into the desk； fling the wet
pen down upon the table…cloth； and start up with the resolution of going to
see the Thompsons。 While pulling on your gloves； however； it occurs to
you that the Thompsons are idiots； that they never have supper； and that
you will be expected to jump the baby。 You curse the Thompsons and
decide not to go。
By this time you feel completely crushed。 You bury your face in your
hands and think you would like to die and go to heaven。 You picture to
yourself your own sick…bed； with all your friends and relations standing
round you weeping。 You bless them all； especially the young and pretty
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
ones。 They will value you when you are gone； so you say to yourself； and
learn too late what they have lost； and you bitterly contrast their presumed
regard for you then with their decided want of veneration now。
These reflections make you feel a little more cheerful； but only for a
brief period； for the next moment you think what a fool you must be to
imagine for an instant that anybody would be sorry at anything that might
happen to you。 Who would care two straws （whatever precise amount of
care two straws may represent） whether you are blown up； or hung up； or
married； or drowned？ Nobody cares for you。 You never have been
properly appreciated； never met with your due deserts in any one
particular。 You review the whole of your past life； and it is painfully
apparent that you have been ill…used from your cradle。
Half an hour's indulgence in these considerations works you up into a
state of savage fury against everybody and everything； especially yourself；
whom anatomical reasons alone prevent your kicking。 Bed…time at last
comes； to save you from doing something rash； and you spring upstairs；
throw off your clothes； leaving them strewn all over the room； blow out
the candle； and jump into bed as if you had backed yourself for a heavy
wager to do the whole thing against time。 There you toss and tumble about
for a couple of hours or so； varying the monotony by occasionally jerking
the clothes off and getting out and putting them on again。 At length you
drop into an uneasy and fitful slumber； have bad dreams； and wake up late
the next morning。
At least； this is all we poor single men can do under the circumstances。
Married men bully their wives； grumble at the dinner； and insist on the
children's going to bed。 All of which； creating； as it does； a good deal of
disturbance in the house； must be a great relief to the feelings of a man in
the blues； rows being the only form of amusement in which he can take
any interest。
The symptoms of the infirmity are much the same in every case； but
the affliction itself is variously termed。 The poet says that 〃a feeling of
sadness comes o'er him。〃 'Arry refers to the heavings of his wayward heart
by confiding to Jimee that he has 〃got the blooming hump。〃 Your sister
doesn't know what is the matter with her to…night。 She feels out of sorts
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
altogether and hopes nothing is going to happen。 The every…day young
man is 〃so awful glad to meet you； old fellow；〃 for he does 〃feel so jolly
miserable this evening。〃 As for myself； I generally say that 〃I have a
strange； unsettled feeling to…night〃 and 〃think I'll go out。〃
By the way； it never does come except in the evening。 In the sun…time；
when the world is bounding forward full of life； we cannot stay to sigh and
sulk。 The roar of the working day drowns the voices of the elfin sprites
that are ever singing their low…toned _miserere_ in our ears。 In the day we
are angry； disappointed； or indignant； but never 〃in the blues〃 and never
melancholy。 When things go wrong at ten o'clock in the morning weor
rather youswear and knock the furniture about； but if the misfortune
comes at ten P。M。； we read poetry or sit in the dark and think what a
hollow world this is。
But； as a rule； it is not trouble that makes us melancholy。 The actuality
is too stern a thing for sentiment。 We linger to weep over a picture； but
from the original we should quickly turn our eyes away。 There is no pathos
in real misery： no luxury in real grief。 We do not toy with sharp swords
nor hug a gnawing fox to our breast for choice。 When a man or woman
loves to brood over a sorrow and takes care to keep it green in their
memory； you may be sure it is no longer a pain to them。 However they
may have suffered from it at first； the recollection has become by then a
pleasure。 Many dear old ladies who daily look at tiny shoes lying in
lavender…scented drawers； and weep as they think of the tiny feet whose
toddling march is done； and sweet…faced young ones who place each night
beneath their pillow some lock that once curled on a boyish head that the
salt waves have kissed to death； will call me a nasty cynical brute and say
I'm talking nonsense； but I believe； nevertheless； that if they will ask
themselves truthfully whether they find it unpleasant to dwell thus on their
sorrow； they will be compelled to answer 〃No。〃 Tears are as sweet as
laughter to some natures。 The proverbial Englishman； we know from old
chronicler Froissart； takes his pleasures sadly； and the Englishwoman goes
a step further and takes her pleasures in sadness itself。
I am not sneering。 I would not for a moment sneer at anything that
helps to keep hearts tender in this hard old world。 We men are cold and
