Seeing People Off
Max Beerbohm
I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most
difficult things in the world， and probably seems so to you， too.
To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we are never 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 failure is 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. We can 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 be not 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 is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn up. And then， oh then， what a gulf yawns！ We stretch our arms vainly across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to 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 friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not altered. Yet， on the surface， everything is different； and the tension is such that we only long for the guard 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 an old friend who was starting for America. Overnight， we had given him a farewell dinner， in which sadness was well mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow 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 were made manifest. It was a perfect farewell.
And now， here we were， stiff and self-conscious on the platform； and framed in the window of the railway-carriage was the face of our friend； but it was as the face of 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. “Youll 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 strike us as rather odd. We exchanged glances.“Doesnt 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 assumed fit， but it served to pass the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of the trains departure. Release—ours， and our friends， —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. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young lady was evidently American， and he was evidently English； otherwise I should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was 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 since last I saw him！ That was seven or eight years ago， in the Strand. He was then as usual out of an engagement， and borrowed half a crown. It seemed a privilege to lend 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 an excellent actor， and a man of sober habit. But， like many others of his kind， Hubert Le 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， but also 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 sombre moderation， drawing， not calling attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would have been proud to be seen off by him.
“Stand back， please！” The train was about to start， and I waved farewell to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in both hands the hands of the young 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. There certainly were tears in his when， at length， having watched the train out of sight， he turned round. He seemed， nevertheless， delighted to see me. He asked me where I had been hiding all these years； and simultaneously repaid me the half-crown as though it had been borrowed yesterday. He linked his arm in mine， and walked with me 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， “I never act on the stage nowadays.” He laid some emphasis on the “stage，” and I asked him where， then， he did act. “On the platform，”he answered. “You mean，” said I， “that you 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？ He looked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit.
“I suppose，” he said presently， giving me a light for the cigar which he had offered me， “you have been seeing a friend off？” I assented. He asked me what I supposed 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 time this morning， less than half an hour ago， here”， and again he struck the platform with his 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 the thousands 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 worth the paper they are written on. “Thus，” said Le Ros， “The A.A.S.B. supplies a long-felt want. Americans are a sociable people， and most of them have plenty of money to spend. 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！ a director. If I were， I should be a very rich man indeed. I am only an employee. But even so I do very well. I am one of the seers-off.”
Again I asked for enlightenment. “Many Americans，” he said， “cannot afford to keep 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 it？” 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 them from being despised by their fellow-passengers—the people who are going to be on the boat. It gives them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides， it is a great pleasure in itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didnt you think I did it beautifully？” “Beautifully，” I admitted. “I envied you. There was I—” “Yes， I can imagine. There were you， shuffling from head to foot， staring blankly at your friend， trying to make conversation. I know. Thats how I used to be myself， before I studied， and went into the thing professionally. I dont say Im perfect yet. Im still a martyr to platform fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all places to act in， as you have discovered for yourself.” “But，” I said with resentment， “I wasnt trying to act. I really felt！” “So did I， my boy，” said Le Ros， “You cant act without feeling. Whats —his—name， the Frenchman—Diderot， yes—said you could； but what did he know about it？ Didnt you see those tears in my eyes when the train started？ I hadnt forced them. I tell you I was moved. So were you， I dare say. But you couldnt have pumped up a tear to prove it. You cant express your feelings. In other words， you cant 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， “the seeing-off season is practically over. Yes， Ill 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 dont grudge the investment.學习任务
1. Explain the following words and expressions （highlighted in blue） in English.
（1） feat， lamentably （Para. 2）
（2） farce （Para. 3）
（3） assumed （Para. 5）
（4） integral （Para. 8）
（5） at length （Para. 9）
（6） unhinge （Para. 10）
（7） footing， pump up （Para. 14）
2. Look up the underlined words in your dictionary， examining their multiple meanings. （Note down the meaning of each word in the context， and another meaning that the word often expresses.）
（1） ... with a fit of coughing… （Para. 5）
（2） His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me… （Para. 6）
（3） “I suppose，” he said presently… （Para. 11）
3. Why is bidding farewell at the railway station more “difficult” than doing that at a farewell party？八期答案
1. Explain the following words and expressions （highlighted in blue） in English.
（1） benignant （Para. 1）
a） benignant： characterised by kindness and warmth
（2） meagre， thrust （Para. 2）
a） meagre： very small or not enough
b） thrust： If you thrust something or someone somewhere， you push or move them there quickly with a lot of force.
（3） zigzag， circumspection （Para. 3）
a） zigzag： to move forward by going at an angle first to one side then to the other
b） circumspection： cautious behaviour and a refusal to take risks（4） agitate （Para. 5）
a） agitate： If you agitate something， you shake it so that it moves about.
2. Look up the underlined words in your dictionary， examining their multiple meanings. （Note down the meaning of each word in the context， and another meaning that the word often expresses.）
（1） The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window… （Para. 1）
If you score a surface with something sharp， you cut a line or a number of lines in it. “Score” also means to gain a goal or point in a sport or game.
（2） It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties… （Para. 4）
If something flashes through or into your mind， you suddenly think about it. In many other cases， if a light flashes or if you flash a light， it shines with a sudden bright light， especially as quick， regular flashes of light.
（3） … meaning to help him to right himself… （Para. 4）
If you say that someone meant to do something， you are saying that they did it deliberately. In many other cases， if you ask someone what they mean， you are asking them to explain exactly what or who they are referring to or what they are intending to say.
八期答案
（4） … moved one strangely. （Para. 5）
Here “move” does not mean to change the position of something. It means to have an effect on ones emotions and to cause him or her to feel sadness or sympathy for another person.
（5） … so great a force over so mean an antagonist… （Para. 5）
Here “mean” does not mean to refer to or intend to say something， or to do something deliberately. Here it is an adjective， meaning unkind.
3. How do you understand “a moths part in life？” What do you think it symbolises？
To understand a moths part in life， one first needs to decipher what it means by “life.” If life refers to all the living things in entire nature， a moths part will be its short span of life as it exists as a form of life. If life means the meaning of life as is constructed by what one does， a moths part will be the spirit of existence the moth demonstrates as it struggles near death.篇章講解赏析
本文有鲜明的印象主义色彩。叙述的结构不像古典主义时期那样严密，情感的表现也不像浪漫主义时期那样细腻。但全篇充满了各种“光”和“色”，因此同样触动心弦，给读者带来丰富的美的体验。欣赏这篇散文之时，不妨更多关注作者的语言给人带来的色彩上的印象和体验——对景色的光影描摹、对动作的浓淡描绘、对情绪的质感描写。总之，本文所能带来的视觉印象是非常值得充分感知、体验、回味的。
谈到本文的主旨，就要看读者首先有过什么样的色彩体验了。对印象主义色彩浓厚的作品来说，主旨已经具有一定的流动性，它同时体现了文本的建构性和意义的不确定性。因此，如何理解“关键”概念和“核心”思想，根本上是对个人体验的表达过程，而非对文本的逻辑分析和解读过程。严格地讲，我们甚至很难探究写一只飞蛾的“死状”有何意义。如果将本文主旨简单地“升华”为弱小个体的抗争精神，恐怕就太过“浮夸”，更像是为了寻求某种结构化的意义而“断章取义”。作为有印象主义倾向的作品，本文很难循“章”展“义”，因为“义”由“象”生，“象”由“印”来。
