Seeing People Off
Seeing People Off by Max Beerbohm I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most difficult things inthe world, and probably seems so to you, too.
To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we arenever called on to perform that small feat. It is only when a friend is going on a longish journey, and will be absent for a longish time, that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend, and the longer the journey, and the longer the likely absence, the earlier do we turn up, and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failureis in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion, and to the depth of our feeling.
In a room or even on a door step, we can make the farewell quite worthily. Wecan express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nor do words fail us. There is no awkwardness, no restraint on either side. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking is an ideal one. Why not, then leave the leave-taking at that? Always, departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway station next morning. Always, we are deaf to these entreaties, knowing them to benot quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides, they really do want to see us again. And that wish isheartily reciprocated. We duly turn up. And then, oh then, what a gulf yawns! Westretch our arms vainly across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at allto say. We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We make conversation -- and such conversation! We know that these friends are the friendsfrom whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not altered. Yet, on thesurface, everything is different; and the tension is such that we only long for theguard to blow his whistle and put an end to the farce.
On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to see off anold friend who was starting for America.
Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness was well mingled with festivity. Years probably wouldelapse before his return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring theshadow of the future, we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to have known our guest as we were grieved to lose him; and both these emotions weremade manifest. It was a perfect farewell.
And now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and framed inthe window of the railway-carriage was the face of our friend; but it was as the faceof a stranger -- a stranger anxious to please, an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. `Have you got everything?' asked one of us, breaking a silence. `Yes,everything,' said our friend, with a pleasant nod. `Everything,' he repeated, with the emphasis of an empty brain. `You'll be able to lunch on the train,' said I, though the prophecy had already been made more than once. `Oh, yes,' he said with conviction.He added that the train went straight through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strikeus as rather odd, We exchanged glances. `Doesn't it stop at Crewe?' asked one of us.`No', said our friend, briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a long pause. One of us, with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller, said `Well!' The nod,the smile and the unmeaning monosyllable were returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumedfit, but it served to pass the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. Therewas no sign of the train's departure. Release--ours, and our friend's, -- was not yet.
My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who was talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next window but one to ours. Hisfine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young lady was evidently American,and he was evidently English; otherwise I should have guessed from his impressiveair that he was her father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure hewas giving the very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gaze was really beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his final injunctions. I could feel something of his magnetism even where I stood. And the magnetism like the profile,was vaguely familiar to me. Where had I experienced it?
In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert Le Ros. But how changed sincelast I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in the Strand. He was then asusual out of an engagement, and borrowed half a crown. It seemed a privilege tolend anything to him. He was always magnetic. And why his magnetism had never made him successful on the London stage was always a mystery to me. He was anexcellent actor, and a man of sober habit. But, like many others of his kind, HubertLe Ros (I do not, of course, give the actual name by which he was known) drifted speedily away into the provinces; and I, like every one else, ceased to remember him.
It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platform of Euston,looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh that he had put on, butalso the clothes, that made him hard to recognize. In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws.But now his costume was a model of rich and somber moderation, drawing, notcalling attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would have been proudto be seen off by him.
`Stand back, please!' The train was about to start, and I waved farewell to myfriend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in both hands the hands of theyoung American. `Stand back, sir, please!' He obeyed, but quickly darted forward again to whisper some final word. I think there were tears in her eyes. Therecertainly were tears in his when, at length, having watched the train out of sight, heturned round. He seemed, nevertheless, delighted to see me. He asked me where Ihad been hiding all these years; and simultaneously repaid me the half-crown asthough it had been borrowed yesterday. He linked his arm in mine, and walked withme slowly along the platform, saying with what pleasure he read my dramatic criticisms every Saturday.
I told him, in return, how much he was missed on the stage. `Ah, yes,' he said, `Inever act on the stage nowadays.' He laid some emphasis on the `stage', and I askedhim where, then, he did act. `On the platform,' he answered. `You mean,' said I, `thatyou recite at concerts?' He smiled. `This,' he whispered, striking his stick on the ground, `is the platform I mean.' Had his mysterious prosperity unhinged him? Helooked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit.
`I suppose,' he said presently, giving me a light for the cigar which he hadoffered me, `you have been seeing a friend off?' I assented. He asked me what Isupposed he had been doing. I said that I had watched him doing the same thing.`No,' he said gravely. `That lady was not a friend of mine. I met her for the first timethis morning, less than half an hour ago, here', and again he struck the platform withhis stick.
I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. `You may,' he said, `have heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau?' I had not. He explained to me that of thethousands of Americans who annually pass through England there are many hundreds who have no English friends. In the old days they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are so inhospitable that these letters are hardly worththe paper they are written on. `Thus,' said Le Ros, `The A.A.S.B. supplies a long-feltwant. Americans are a sociable people, and most of them have plenty of money tospend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with English friends. Fifty per cent of the fees is paid over to the friends. The other fifty is retained by the A.A.S. B. I am not, alas! adirector. If I were, I should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employee. Buteven so I do very well. I am one of the seers-off.'
Again I asked for enlightenment. `Many Americans,' he said, `cannot afford tokeep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen off. the fee is only five pounds. (twenty-five dollars) for a single traveller; and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two or more. They send that in to the Bureau, giving the date of their departure and a description by which the seer-off can identify them on the platform. And then--well, then they are seen off.'
`But is it worth?' I exclaimed. `Of course it is worth it,' said Le Ros. `It prevents them from feeling out of it. It earns them the respect of the guard. It saves themfrom being despised by their fellow-passengers -- the people who are going to be onthe boat. It gives them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides, it is a great pleasurein itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't you think I did it beautifully?' `Beautifully,' I admitted. `I envied you. There was I --' `Yes, I canimagine. There were you, shuffling from head to foot, staring blankly at your friend,trying to make conversation. I know. That's how I used to be myself, before Istudied, and went into the thing professionally. I don't say I'm perfect yet. I'm still amartyr to platform fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all places to actin, as you have discovered for yourself.' `But,' I said with resentment, `I wasn'ttrying to act. I really felt!' `So did I, my boy,' said Le Ros, `You can't act withoutfeeling. What's - his - name, the Frenchman -- Diderot, yes -- said you could; butwhat did he know about it Didn't you see those tears in my eyes when the trainstarted? I hadn't forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you, I dare say. But you couldn't have pumped up a tear to prove it. You can't express your feelings. Inother words, you can't act. At any rate,' he added kindly, `not in a railway station.'`Teach me!' I cried. He looked thoughtfully at me. `Well,' he said at length, `theseeing-off season is practically over. Yes, I'll give you a course. I have a good many pupils on hand already; but yes,' he said, consulting an ornate notebook, `I could give you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays.'
His terms, I confess, are rather high. But I don't grudge the investment.
Notes:
from Waterloo to Vauxhall: 从滑铁卢火车站到沃克斯霍尔
were easy enough: 虚拟语气
But we arenever called on to perform that small feat: 但我们从来都不必去表演那种微不足道的小技
Our failureis in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion, and to the depth of our feeling
we can make the farewell quite worthily: 这一场合越是庄重，我们的感情越深，结果也就越是令人失望
The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped: 我们亲密的纽带没有被折断
what a gulf yawns: 出现了多深的鸿沟啊
Euston: 尤思顿，站名
Not ignoring the shadow of the future, we gaily celebrated the past: 我们正视将来的阴影，因此欢庆过去的好时光
a stranger anxious to please, an appealing stranger: 一个急于取悦的、富有吸引力的陌路人
with the emphasis of an empty brain: 嘴上郑重其事，脑子里却空空如也
Liverpool: 利物浦
Crewe: 克鲁
The nod, the smile and the unmeaning monosyllable were returned conscientiously: 点头，微笑，毫无意义的单音节词都得到了一丝不苟的回报
Release--ours, and our friend's -- was not yet: 解脱的时刻——我们的，朋友的——还未到来
his impressive air: 他那赋予感染力的神态
the strong tenderness of his gaze: 凝视中流露出的拳拳之忱
the Strand: 斯特兰，街名
He was then as usual out of an engagement: 当时没人雇他
a man of sober habit: 一个举止得体的人
drifted speedily away into the provinces: 无精打采地漂泊到了外省
looking so prosperous and solid: 看上去一副发了迹的殷实人派头
In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws: 往昔，仿毛大衣犹如胡子拉渣的下巴一样，是他身上不可或缺的一部分
of rich and somber moderation: 华而不奢、素而有度
how much he was missed on the stage: 观众是多么想念他
On the platform: 在车站月台上
Had his mysterious prosperity unhinged him: 是来路不明的发迹使他精神错乱了吗
supplies a long-felt want: 满足了人们长期所感觉到的不足
Again I asked for enlightenment: 我再次请他说明一下
feeling out of it: 向隅之感，郁郁寡欢
shuffling from head to foot: 拙手笨脚
I'm still amartyr to platform fright: 在站台上，我仍然惊惶不安（套用了stage fright舞台上怯场）
Diderot: 狄德罗
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