The Convalescent
A pretty severe fit of indisposition which, under the name of a nervous fever, has made a prisoner of me for some weeks past, and is but slowly leaving me, has reduced me to an incapacity of reflecting upon any topic foreign to itself. Expect no healthy conclusions from me this month, reader; I can offer you only sick men's dreams.
And truly the whole state of sickness is such; for what else is it but a magnificent dream for a man to lie a-bed (=to lie on bed), and draw day-light curtains about him; and, shutting out the sun, to induce a total oblivion of all the works which are going on under it? To become insensible to all the operations of life, except the beatings of one feeble pulse?
If there be a regal solitude, it is a sick bed. How the patient lords, it there! What caprices he acts without control! How kinglike he sways his pillow — tumbling, and tossing, and shifting, and lowering, and thumping, and flatting, and moulding it, to the ever varying requisitions of his throbbing temples.
He changes sides oftener than a politician. Now he lies full length, then half length, obliquely, transversely, head and feet quite across the bed; and none accuses him of tergiversation. Within the four curtains he is absolute. They are his Mare Clausum.
How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! He is his own exclusive object. Supreme selfishness is inculcated upon him as his only duty. 'Tis the Two Tables of the Law to him. He has nothing to think of but how to get well. What passes out of doors, or within them, so he hear not the jarring of them, affects him not.
A little while ago he was greatly concerned in the event of a law-suit, which was to be the making or the marring of his dearest friend. He was to be seen trudging about upon this man's errand to fifty quarters of the town at once, jogging this witness, refreshing that solicitor. The cause was to come on yesterday. He is absolutely as indifferent to the decision, as if it were a question to be tried at Pekin (=Peking). Peradventure from some whispering, going on about the house, not intended for his hearing, he picks up enough to make him understand, that things went cross-grained in the Court yesterday, and his friend is ruined. But the word "friend," and the word "ruin," disturb him no more than so much jargon. He is not to think of any thing but how to get better.
What a world of foreign cares are merged in that absorbing consideration!
He has put on the strong armour of sickness, he is wrapped in the callous hide of suffering; he keeps his sympathy, like some curious vintage, under trusty lock and key, for his own use only.
He lies pitying himself, honing and moaning to himself; he yearneth over himself; his bowels are even melted within him, to think what he suffers; he is not ashamed to weep over himself.
He is for ever plotting how to do some good to himself; studying little stratagems and artificial alleviations.
He makes the most of himself; dividing himself, by an allowable fiction, into as many distinct individuals, as he hath sore and sorrowing members. Sometimes he meditates — as of a thing apart from him — upon his poor aching head, and that dull pain which, dozing or waking, lay in it all the past night like a log, or palpable substance of pain, not to he removed without opening the very scull, as it seemed, to take it thence. Or he pities his long, clammy, attenuated fingers. He compassionates himself all over; and his bed is a very discipline of humanity, and tender heart.
He is his own sympathizer; and instinctively feels that none can so well perform that office for him. Only that punctual face of the old nurse pleases him, that announces his broths, and his cordials. He likes it because it is so unmoved, and because he can pour forth his feverish ejaculations before it as unreservedly as to his bed-post.
To the world's business he is dead. He understands not what the callings and occupations of mortals are; only he has a glimmering conceit of some such thing, when the doctor makes his daily call: and even in the lines of that busy face he reads no multiplicity of patients, but solely conceives of himself as the sick man. To what other uneasy couch the good man is hastening, when he slips out of his chamber, folding up his thin douceur so carefully for fear of rustling — is no speculation which he can at present entertain. He thinks only of the regular return of the same phenomenon at the same hour tomorrow.
Household rumours touch him not. Some faint murmur, indicative of life going on within the house, soothes him, while he knows not distinctly what it is. He is not to know any thing, not to think of any thing. Servants gliding up or down the distant staircase, treading as upon velvet, gently keep his ear awake, so long as he troubles not himself further than with some feeble guess at their errands. Exacter knowledge would be a burthen (=burden) to him: he can just endure the pressure of conjecture. He opens his eye faintly at the dull stroke of the muffled knocker, and closes it again without asking "who was it?” He is flattered by a general notion that inquiries are making after him, but he cares not to know the name of the inquirer. In the general stillness, and awful hush of the house, he lies in state, and feels his sovereignty.
To be sick is to enjoy monarchal prerogatives. Compare the silent tread, and quiet ministry, almost by the eye only, with which he is served -- with the careless demeanour, the unceremonious goings in and out (slapping of doors, or leaving them open) of the very same attendants, when he is getting a little better -- and you will confess, that from the bed of sickness (throne let me rather call it) to the elbow chair of convalescence, is a fall from dignity, amounting to a deposition.
How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! Where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye? The scene of his regalities, his sick room, which was his presence chamber, where he lay and acted his despotic fancies -- how is it reduced to a common bed-room! The trimness of the very bed has something petty and unmeaning about it. How unlike to that wavy, many-furrowed, oceanic surface, which it presented so short a time since, when to make it was a service not to be thought of at oftener than three or four day revolutions, when the patient was with pain and grief to be lifted for a little while out of it, to submit to the encroachments of unwelcome neatness, and decencies which his shaken frame deprecated; then to be lifted into it again, for another three or four days' respite, to flounder it out of shape again, while every fresh furrow was a historical record of some shifting posture, some uneasy turning, some seeking for a little ease; and the shrunken skin scarce told a truer story than the crumpled coverlid.
Hushed are those mysterious sighs — those groans — so much more awful, while we knew not from what caverns of vast hidden suffering they proceeded. The Lernean pangs are quenched. The riddle of sickness is solved; and Philoctetes is become an ordinary personage.
Perhaps some relic of the sick man's dream of greatness survives in the still lingering visitations of the medical attendant. But how is he too changed with every thing else! Can this be he — this man of news — of chat — of anecdote — of every thing but physic can this be he, who so lately came between the patient and his cruel enemy, as on some solemn embassy from Nature, erecting herself into a high mediating party? -- Pshaw! 'Tis some old woman.
Farewell with him all that made sickness pompous — the spell that hushed the household — the desert-like stillness, felt throughout its inmost chambers — the mute attendance — the inquiry by looks — the still softer delicacies of self-attention — the sole and single eye of distemper alonely fixed upon itself — world-thoughts excluded — the man a world unto himself — his own theatre:
What a speck is he dwindled into!
In this flat swamp of convalescence, left by the ebb of sickness, yet far enough from the terra firma of established health, your note, dear Editor, reached me, requesting — an article. In Articulo Mortis, thought I; but it is something hard — and the quibble, wretched as it was, relieved me. The summons, unseasonable as it appeared, seemed to link me on again to the petty businesses of life, which I had lost sight of; a gentle call to activity, however trivial a wholesome weaning from that preposterous dream of self-absorption — the puffy state of sickness — in which I confess to have lain so long, insensible to the magazines and monarchies of the world alike; to its laws, and to its literature. The hypochondriac flatus is subsiding; the acres, which in imagination I had spread over — for the sick man swells in the sole contemplation of his single sufferings, till he becomes a Tityus to himself — are wasting to a span; and for the giant of self-importance, which I was so lately, you have me once again in my natural pretensions — the lean and meagre figure of your insignificant Essayist.
Notes:
any topic foreign to itself: 于此毫不相干的话题
draw day-light curtains about him: 拉上窗帘，挡住强光
a regal solitude: 帝王之幽居
to the ever varying requisitions of his throbbing temples: 按着“怦怦”跳动的太阳穴上不断变换的要求
tergiversation: 变节行为
Mare Clausum: 领海
He is his own exclusive object: 他心中唯有他自己
the Two Tables of the Law: 此处用了《圣经·旧约》中的典故。在《出埃及记》中，摩西从塞纳山上下来，手中拿着两块石板，上刻耶和华授予犹太人的十诫。
so he hear not the jarring of them: 只要他听不见门的“吱嘎”声，so=provided that
which was to be the making or the marring of his dearest friend: 此事关系到他最亲密的朋友的成败
upon this man's errand: 为此人跑腿
jogging this witness, refreshing that solicitor: 一会儿提醒这个旁证，一会儿又帮助那个律师振奋精神
cause: 诉讼，案件
Peradventure: 或者，可能
things went cross-grained: 情况不妙
But the word "friend," and the word "ruin," disturb him no more than so much jargon: 不过，“朋友”和“毁了”这两个词除了本意之外，对他的心情毫无影响
curious vintage: 佳酿
honing: 抱怨，咕噜
he yearneth over himself: 他顾影自怜
artificial alleviations: 解痛药
by an allowable fiction: 可能范围内的凭空想象
members: 肢体，器官
attenuated fingers: 消瘦的手指
He compassionates himself all over: 他对自己全身上下无一处不表示怜悯
his bed is a very discipline of humanity, and tender heart: 他的床榻完全是修身养性之地
none can so well perform that office for him: 这方面谁也不会做得比他更好
cordials: 补药
He likes it: it指old nurse的脸
callings: 行业
conceit:想象
even in the lines of that busy face he reads no multiplicity of patients: 即使在那张忙忙碌碌、爬满皱纹的脸上他也看不到病人之众多
uneasy couch: 病人的卧榻
douceur: 小费赏钱
muffled knocker: 蒙布的门环
he lies in state: 他堂而皇之，高卧榻上
To be sick is to enjoy monarchal prerogatives: 患病在身无异于享有军权
quiet ministry: 一声不响的服侍
from the bed of sickness (throne let me rather call it) to the elbow chair of convalescence, is a fall from dignity, amounting to a deposition: 从病榻（不如叫宝座更合适）到病人的扶手椅真好比罢官免职，降了一级
How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature: 康复使人又恢复到了原来的状况
The scene of his regalities: 他王权管辖的范围
How unlike to that wavy, many-furrowed, oceanic surface, which it presented so short a time since, when to make it was a service not to be thought of at oftener than three or four day revolutions, when the patient was with pain and grief to be lifted for a little while out of it, to submit to the encroachments of unwelcome neatness, and decencies which his shaken frame deprecated: 床铺跟不久前那副大海一般波浪起伏、纵横交错的模样相比看起来何等不同。那时，床三四天才铺一次，病人要忍着疼痛和悲伤被人从床上抬走一会儿，顺从地让不受欢迎的洁净和他那颤抖的身体所讨厌的体面人入侵他的领地
the shrunken skin scarce told a truer story than the crumpled coverlid: 皱巴巴的皮肤并不见得比皱巴巴的床罩更说明真实情况
The Lernean pangs: 勒拿湖，希腊神话中九头蛇海德拉（Hydra）居所
Philoctetes: 菲罗克忒忒斯，希腊传说中的英雄，由于它帮助杀死了帕里斯而使特洛伊城陷落
Can this be he — this man of news — of chat — of anecdote — of every thing but physic can this be he, who so lately came between the patient and his cruel enemy, as on some solemn embassy from Nature, erecting herself into a high mediating party: 他受大自然郑重其事的派遣，前不久来到病人和残忍的敌人之间，居间调停，从中斡旋，这能是他吗？
'Tis some old woman: 简直是个老太婆
the still softer delicacies of self-attention: 对自身的眷顾要比上文中屋内的静谧、别人的关心照顾更令人感到温柔体贴
the sole and single eye of distemper alonely fixed upon itself: 郁郁不乐的目光只是一味地向内盯着它自己
the man a world unto himself — his own theatre: 人进入自我的世界、自我的剧场
What a speck is he dwindled into: 他变得多么渺小
terra firma: 大地、陆地
Articulo Mortis: 临终末刻
puffy: 虚荣的，孤芳自赏
insensible to the magazines and monarchies, of the world alike: 一切与我无关痛痒，书籍杂志也好，君主政体也好，都是一样
hypochondriac flatus: 疑病症肠胃胀气（或屁）
the acres, which in imagination I had spread over — for the sick man swells in the sole contemplation of his single sufferings, till he becomes a Tityus to himself — are wasting to a span: 在我的想象中所扩展的广阔地盘——因为病人一味想着自己的痛苦而自我膨胀起来，直至自己变得就像一个泰提乌斯般的巨人——现在已缩小成弹丸之地
for the giant of self-importance, which I was so lately, you have me once again in my natural pretensions: 近来我成了这个自命不凡的巨人，可正是因为你，使我又回到了本相中来了
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