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曾经在微博上看到一句话：“人每天必须面对的一件事就是：处理自己的情绪。”对此，小编很是赞同，当你可以有效地管理自己的情绪时，你会发现很多事其实可以一笑置之。正所谓，心态决定状态！
本期“地道英文”，小编给大家奉上英国现代最杰出的幽默大师Jerome K. Jerome的一篇佳作《论情绪低落》，一起来看看作者如何融幽默和哲理于一体，如何用凝练而优美的语言将“情绪低落”这一状态描写得生动而精彩。
杰罗姆•K•杰罗姆（1859—1927），英国小说家、散文家和剧作家，出生于英格兰斯坦福郡，从小受到良好的教育，嗜好阅读。14岁起，他便开始在铁路部门做办事员。此后，他又当过教师、演员和记者。1888年，他出版了幽默小说Three Men in a Boat（《三人同舟》）和散文集Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow（《闲人遐想录》，本文选自此书）两本书，并取得了巨大的成功，其他的代表作品有Diary of a Pilgrimage（《朝圣日记》）、Three Men on the Bummel（《三人同游》）等。
《闲人遐想录》共包括14篇生活小品文，熔漫谈、轶事和哲理于一炉，是世界文学中不可多得的佳作。这些小品文无不妙趣横生、耐人寻味，幽默调侃之余，还穿插了不少细腻的描写，令人读来赏心悦目，忍俊不禁。
——Maisie
I can enjoy feeling melancholy, and there is a good deal of satisfaction about being thoroughly miserable; but nobody likes a 2)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 3)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 4)cold in the head. You become stupid, restless, and irritable; rude to strangers and dangerous toward your friends; clumsy, 5)maudlin, and 6)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 7)trite and 8)commonplace, Dickens is dull and 9)prosy, 10)Thackeray a bore, and 11)Carlyle too sentimental. You throw the book aside and 12)call the author names. Then you “13)shoo” the cat out of the room and kick the door to after her. You think you will write your letters, but after 14)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.
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 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 15)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 16)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 17)deserts in any one particular. You review the whole of your past life, and it is painfully apparent that you have been 18)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 19)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 20)strewn all over the room, blow out the candle, and jump into bed as if you had 21)backed yourself for a heavy 22)wager to do the whole thing against time. There you toss and tumble about for a couple of hours or so, varying the 23)monotony by occasionally jerking the clothes off and getting out and putting them on again. At length you drop into an uneasy and 24)fitful slumber, have bad dreams, and wake up late the next morning.
The symptoms of the 25)infirmity are much the same in every case, but the 26)affliction itself is variously termed. The poet says that “a feeling of sadness comes o’er” him. 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 27)sulk. The roar of the working day drowns the voices of the 28)elfin 29)sprites that are ever singing their low-toned 30)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 we—or rather you—swear and 31)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 32)pathos in real misery, no 33)luxury in real grief. We do not 34)toy with sharp swords nor hug a 35)gnawing fox to our breast for choice. When a man or woman loves to 36)brood over a sorrow and takes care to keep it 37)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. Tears are as sweet as laughter to some natures. The 38)proverbial Englishman, we know from old 39)chronicler 40)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 common-sensed enough for all; we would not have women the same. No, no, ladies dear, be always sentimental and soft-hearted, as you are—be the soothing butter to our 41)coarse dry bread. Why assume that a 42)doubled-up body, a contorted, purple face, and a 43)gaping mouth emitting a series of 44)ear-splitting shrieks point to a state of more intelligent happiness than a 45)pensive face 46)reposing upon a little white hand, and a pair of gentle tear-dimmed eyes looking back through Time’s dark avenue upon a fading past?
I am glad when I see Regret walked with as a friend—glad because I know the saltness has been washed from out the tears, and that the sting must have been 47)plucked from the beautiful face of Sorrow 48)ere we dare press her pale lips to ours. Time has laid his healing hand upon the wound when we can look back upon the pain we once fainted under and no bitterness or despair rises in our hearts. The burden is no longer heavy when we have for our past troubles only the same sweet mingling of pleasure and pity that we feel when 49)Tom and 50)Maggie Tulliver, clasping hands through the mists that have divided them, go down, locked in each other’s arms, beneath the swollen waters of the Floss.
Talking of poor Tom and Maggie Tulliver brings to my mind a saying of 51)George Eliot’s in connection with this subject of melancholy. She speaks somewhere of the “sadness of a summer’s evening.” How wonderfully true—like everything that came from that wonderful pen—the observation is! Who has not felt the sorrowful enchantment of those lingering sunsets? The world belongs to Melancholy then, a thoughtful deep-eyed maiden who loves not the glare of day. It is not till “light thickens and the crow wings to the rocky wood” that she steals forth from her groves. Her palace is in twilight land. It is there she meets us. At her shadowy gate she takes our hand in hers and walks beside us through her mystic realm. We see no form, but seem to hear the rustling of her wings…
我能够享受抑郁的感觉。不折不扣的苦痛中也有许多令人满足的东西，但是谁都不喜欢突然地情绪低落。然而，人人都有情绪低落的时候，尽管谁也说不出个中缘由。情绪低落的原因无从解释。即便某天你突然继承了一大笔遗产，你也可能会突然感觉情绪低落，这感觉就像你某天把自己的一把新绸伞忘在了火车上一样。它对你的影响大致等于牙疼、消化不良、伤风头疼一起夹击，你变得愚蠢、不安、易怒、对陌生人很粗鲁，极易得罪朋友；同时又笨拙、容易伤感、好争论；变成一个神憎鬼厌的家伙，连自己都会讨厌自己。
情绪低落时，你虽然感到非做点什么不可，但你还是什么都干不成、什么也理不清。你安定不下来，只好戴上帽子出门散步，可是还没走到街角，你就后悔了，还是不出来好，于是你又转身回去。你打开一本书，试着阅读，但是你却发现莎士比亚的作品语言陈腐且老生常谈；狄更斯的作品语言沉闷乏味；萨克雷的作品令人厌烦；而卡莱尔的作品则过分伤感。你把书扔到一旁，咒骂着那些作者。接着，你“嘘”的一声把猫赶出房间，再飞起一脚关上房门。你打算写几封信，但是，你写下“最亲爱的姑妈：我现在有5分钟空闲时间，所以匆匆给你写这封信。”之后，接下来的15分钟里却怎么也想不到下一句该写什么。
这时，你觉得彻底崩溃了。你双手捂住脸，想到你宁可死了上天国。你想象出一幅自己病榻临终时的情形，所有亲朋好友都围在你的病榻旁哭泣。你祝福他们所有人，尤其是其中又年轻又漂亮的。你告诉自己：你死了以后他们才发现你有多重要，感慨太晚意识到自己蒙受的损失。你假定他们在你死去之后会尊敬你，可如今他们却对你不恭不敬，你为此耿耿于怀。
想到这些，你才觉得稍有快意，但它也只是稍纵即逝，因为接下来你马上就想到：你竟会一时糊涂，想到有谁会因为你出了什么事而感到悲伤。无论你被炸死了、被绞死了、结婚了或是被淹死了，谁会在乎一丝一毫（无论这一丝一毫会有多少分量）呢？没有人会关心你。你从来就没被人真正赏识过，也从来没人给予你应有的赏罚。你回顾自己过去的全部生活，发现自己从摇篮时期开始就不曾被疼惜过，心中好不痛苦。
你沉缅于这些思绪半个小时后变得怒火中烧，对所有人和所有事都怒气冲冲，尤其是对你自己。你没有狠狠踢自己一顿，只是由于你的生理构造而踢不着自己。终于熬到了就寝时间，为免做出什么后果不堪设想的轻率举动，你三步并作两步地上了楼，脱掉外衣，往地上乱甩，吹熄蜡烛，跳到床上，仿佛下了狠狠的赌注要极速完成一切。你在床上辗转反侧了大约两三个钟头，时而踢挪褪掉所有的衣服，时而又下床重新穿上衣服，变换着花样。好不容易最终入睡了，却是不安稳不自在的，时睡时醒，恶梦环生，第二天很晚才醒来。
情绪低落的种种表现症状其实大同小异，只是人们描述起来用词各不相同。诗人会说“一种悲哀感笼罩着他”。至于我自己呢，我每次总是说“今晚我有一种莫名的不安”，而且“想出去走走”。另外，情绪低落往往出现在晚上。大白天的世界欢蹦乱跳，我们无法停下来生气和叹息。那些淘气的小精灵们总是在我们的耳朵里低吟浅唱着哀怨祈怜的旋律，只是工作日的喧嚣淹没了它们的声音。白天里，我们会生气、失望、发怒，但从来不会“情绪低落”，从来不会抑郁消沉。如果上午10点钟有什么事情不对劲，我们（或者说你们）会诅咒，还会乱踢乱推桌椅；然而，若是倒霉事发生在晚上10点钟，我们会读读诗，或是坐在黑暗中，思考着这个世界是何等的空虚。
但一般来说，使我们忧郁的并非麻烦本身，事实本身是无情的，无从伤春悲秋。我们会在一幅图画前流连啜泣，但我们应该把目光从那原画挪开才是。真正的痛苦里没有令人心生怜悯的因素，真正的悲痛中也没有愉悦的情怀。我们不会舞刀弄剑，也不会情愿把一只会咬人的狐狸抱紧在胸口。如果一个男人或女人喜欢品味悲哀，而且小心翼翼地让悲哀在记忆里永葆新鲜，你就可以确信那对他们而言已经不再是痛苦了。尽管最初他们也许饱尝痛苦，但事后对痛苦的回忆已经变成了一种快乐。泪水对一些人而言就像欢笑一样甜蜜。我们从古代那位编年史家傅华萨那里知道：英国男人被公认为是悲哀地承受欢乐；而英国女人则更进一步，她们直接从哀中取乐。
我并没有冷嘲热讽。在这个坚硬冰冷的世界上，我根本不会去嘲笑任何有助于使我们心肠变软的事情。我们男人已经够冷漠，够拘于常理的了，我们不愿让女人也变成这个样子。不，不，亲爱的女士们，你们还是像从前一样总是伤感，总是软心肠吧——做我们粗硬干燥的面包上那令人宽慰的黄油吧。如果说，捧腹大笑，笑得满脸通红，咧开的嘴巴发出一连串震耳欲聋的尖叫声是一种幸福；那纤纤素手托起一张沉思的脸，一双温柔的眼睛泪水盈盈，通过时光的幽暗林荫道回首往事也是一种幸福。谁会说后者不比前者更富有智慧呢？
我愉快地目睹着懊悔女神像密友一样与人们相伴——这是因为我知道咸味已从泪水中被清洗出去，我们尚未亲吻悲哀女神那苍白的双唇以前，已经拔掉了她秀美面庞上的刺。当我们能够回首曾一度使我们昏厥的痛苦时，时间已经愈合了我们的伤口，此时我们心中已经没有苦涩与绝望了。当我们过去的麻烦只引起我们快乐与怜悯参半的感情时，我们心头的负担已经不再沉重。当我们读到汤姆和玛吉•塔列维尔穿过他们之间的浓雾，十指相扣，紧紧相拥，被弗洛斯河的洪水吞噬时，也会产生这种感受。
说到可怜的汤姆和玛吉•塔利维尔，我想到了乔治•艾略特关于感伤的一句话，她曾在什么地方说到过“夏日傍晚的悲伤”。多么真切的观察——她笔下的每一句话皆如此！谁不曾为那缓缓落日的迷人景象而怅然若失？那一刻的世界属于忧郁女神。她是一位眼神深情、富有思想的少女，不喜欢白昼的光芒。只是到了“夜色更浓，乌鸦的翅膀在岩石密布的树林里扇动”的时刻，她才悄然走出自己的小树林。她的宫殿就在昏暗的土地上。她正是在那里和我们谋面。她站在阴影重重的大门边，拉起我们的手，领着我们穿过她那方神秘的领地。我们看不见任何形体，只依稀听见她翅膀发出的沙沙声……
本期“地道英文”，小编给大家奉上英国现代最杰出的幽默大师Jerome K. Jerome的一篇佳作《论情绪低落》，一起来看看作者如何融幽默和哲理于一体，如何用凝练而优美的语言将“情绪低落”这一状态描写得生动而精彩。
杰罗姆•K•杰罗姆（1859—1927），英国小说家、散文家和剧作家，出生于英格兰斯坦福郡，从小受到良好的教育，嗜好阅读。14岁起，他便开始在铁路部门做办事员。此后，他又当过教师、演员和记者。1888年，他出版了幽默小说Three Men in a Boat（《三人同舟》）和散文集Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow（《闲人遐想录》，本文选自此书）两本书，并取得了巨大的成功，其他的代表作品有Diary of a Pilgrimage（《朝圣日记》）、Three Men on the Bummel（《三人同游》）等。
《闲人遐想录》共包括14篇生活小品文，熔漫谈、轶事和哲理于一炉，是世界文学中不可多得的佳作。这些小品文无不妙趣横生、耐人寻味，幽默调侃之余，还穿插了不少细腻的描写，令人读来赏心悦目，忍俊不禁。
——Maisie
I can enjoy feeling melancholy, and there is a good deal of satisfaction about being thoroughly miserable; but nobody likes a 2)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 3)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 4)cold in the head. You become stupid, restless, and irritable; rude to strangers and dangerous toward your friends; clumsy, 5)maudlin, and 6)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 7)trite and 8)commonplace, Dickens is dull and 9)prosy, 10)Thackeray a bore, and 11)Carlyle too sentimental. You throw the book aside and 12)call the author names. Then you “13)shoo” the cat out of the room and kick the door to after her. You think you will write your letters, but after 14)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.
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 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 15)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 16)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 17)deserts in any one particular. You review the whole of your past life, and it is painfully apparent that you have been 18)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 19)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 20)strewn all over the room, blow out the candle, and jump into bed as if you had 21)backed yourself for a heavy 22)wager to do the whole thing against time. There you toss and tumble about for a couple of hours or so, varying the 23)monotony by occasionally jerking the clothes off and getting out and putting them on again. At length you drop into an uneasy and 24)fitful slumber, have bad dreams, and wake up late the next morning.
The symptoms of the 25)infirmity are much the same in every case, but the 26)affliction itself is variously termed. The poet says that “a feeling of sadness comes o’er” him. 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 27)sulk. The roar of the working day drowns the voices of the 28)elfin 29)sprites that are ever singing their low-toned 30)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 we—or rather you—swear and 31)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 32)pathos in real misery, no 33)luxury in real grief. We do not 34)toy with sharp swords nor hug a 35)gnawing fox to our breast for choice. When a man or woman loves to 36)brood over a sorrow and takes care to keep it 37)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. Tears are as sweet as laughter to some natures. The 38)proverbial Englishman, we know from old 39)chronicler 40)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 common-sensed enough for all; we would not have women the same. No, no, ladies dear, be always sentimental and soft-hearted, as you are—be the soothing butter to our 41)coarse dry bread. Why assume that a 42)doubled-up body, a contorted, purple face, and a 43)gaping mouth emitting a series of 44)ear-splitting shrieks point to a state of more intelligent happiness than a 45)pensive face 46)reposing upon a little white hand, and a pair of gentle tear-dimmed eyes looking back through Time’s dark avenue upon a fading past?
I am glad when I see Regret walked with as a friend—glad because I know the saltness has been washed from out the tears, and that the sting must have been 47)plucked from the beautiful face of Sorrow 48)ere we dare press her pale lips to ours. Time has laid his healing hand upon the wound when we can look back upon the pain we once fainted under and no bitterness or despair rises in our hearts. The burden is no longer heavy when we have for our past troubles only the same sweet mingling of pleasure and pity that we feel when 49)Tom and 50)Maggie Tulliver, clasping hands through the mists that have divided them, go down, locked in each other’s arms, beneath the swollen waters of the Floss.
Talking of poor Tom and Maggie Tulliver brings to my mind a saying of 51)George Eliot’s in connection with this subject of melancholy. She speaks somewhere of the “sadness of a summer’s evening.” How wonderfully true—like everything that came from that wonderful pen—the observation is! Who has not felt the sorrowful enchantment of those lingering sunsets? The world belongs to Melancholy then, a thoughtful deep-eyed maiden who loves not the glare of day. It is not till “light thickens and the crow wings to the rocky wood” that she steals forth from her groves. Her palace is in twilight land. It is there she meets us. At her shadowy gate she takes our hand in hers and walks beside us through her mystic realm. We see no form, but seem to hear the rustling of her wings…
我能够享受抑郁的感觉。不折不扣的苦痛中也有许多令人满足的东西，但是谁都不喜欢突然地情绪低落。然而，人人都有情绪低落的时候，尽管谁也说不出个中缘由。情绪低落的原因无从解释。即便某天你突然继承了一大笔遗产，你也可能会突然感觉情绪低落，这感觉就像你某天把自己的一把新绸伞忘在了火车上一样。它对你的影响大致等于牙疼、消化不良、伤风头疼一起夹击，你变得愚蠢、不安、易怒、对陌生人很粗鲁，极易得罪朋友；同时又笨拙、容易伤感、好争论；变成一个神憎鬼厌的家伙，连自己都会讨厌自己。
情绪低落时，你虽然感到非做点什么不可，但你还是什么都干不成、什么也理不清。你安定不下来，只好戴上帽子出门散步，可是还没走到街角，你就后悔了，还是不出来好，于是你又转身回去。你打开一本书，试着阅读，但是你却发现莎士比亚的作品语言陈腐且老生常谈；狄更斯的作品语言沉闷乏味；萨克雷的作品令人厌烦；而卡莱尔的作品则过分伤感。你把书扔到一旁，咒骂着那些作者。接着，你“嘘”的一声把猫赶出房间，再飞起一脚关上房门。你打算写几封信，但是，你写下“最亲爱的姑妈：我现在有5分钟空闲时间，所以匆匆给你写这封信。”之后，接下来的15分钟里却怎么也想不到下一句该写什么。
这时，你觉得彻底崩溃了。你双手捂住脸，想到你宁可死了上天国。你想象出一幅自己病榻临终时的情形，所有亲朋好友都围在你的病榻旁哭泣。你祝福他们所有人，尤其是其中又年轻又漂亮的。你告诉自己：你死了以后他们才发现你有多重要，感慨太晚意识到自己蒙受的损失。你假定他们在你死去之后会尊敬你，可如今他们却对你不恭不敬，你为此耿耿于怀。
想到这些，你才觉得稍有快意，但它也只是稍纵即逝，因为接下来你马上就想到：你竟会一时糊涂，想到有谁会因为你出了什么事而感到悲伤。无论你被炸死了、被绞死了、结婚了或是被淹死了，谁会在乎一丝一毫（无论这一丝一毫会有多少分量）呢？没有人会关心你。你从来就没被人真正赏识过，也从来没人给予你应有的赏罚。你回顾自己过去的全部生活，发现自己从摇篮时期开始就不曾被疼惜过，心中好不痛苦。
你沉缅于这些思绪半个小时后变得怒火中烧，对所有人和所有事都怒气冲冲，尤其是对你自己。你没有狠狠踢自己一顿，只是由于你的生理构造而踢不着自己。终于熬到了就寝时间，为免做出什么后果不堪设想的轻率举动，你三步并作两步地上了楼，脱掉外衣，往地上乱甩，吹熄蜡烛，跳到床上，仿佛下了狠狠的赌注要极速完成一切。你在床上辗转反侧了大约两三个钟头，时而踢挪褪掉所有的衣服，时而又下床重新穿上衣服，变换着花样。好不容易最终入睡了，却是不安稳不自在的，时睡时醒，恶梦环生，第二天很晚才醒来。
情绪低落的种种表现症状其实大同小异，只是人们描述起来用词各不相同。诗人会说“一种悲哀感笼罩着他”。至于我自己呢，我每次总是说“今晚我有一种莫名的不安”，而且“想出去走走”。另外，情绪低落往往出现在晚上。大白天的世界欢蹦乱跳，我们无法停下来生气和叹息。那些淘气的小精灵们总是在我们的耳朵里低吟浅唱着哀怨祈怜的旋律，只是工作日的喧嚣淹没了它们的声音。白天里，我们会生气、失望、发怒，但从来不会“情绪低落”，从来不会抑郁消沉。如果上午10点钟有什么事情不对劲，我们（或者说你们）会诅咒，还会乱踢乱推桌椅；然而，若是倒霉事发生在晚上10点钟，我们会读读诗，或是坐在黑暗中，思考着这个世界是何等的空虚。
但一般来说，使我们忧郁的并非麻烦本身，事实本身是无情的，无从伤春悲秋。我们会在一幅图画前流连啜泣，但我们应该把目光从那原画挪开才是。真正的痛苦里没有令人心生怜悯的因素，真正的悲痛中也没有愉悦的情怀。我们不会舞刀弄剑，也不会情愿把一只会咬人的狐狸抱紧在胸口。如果一个男人或女人喜欢品味悲哀，而且小心翼翼地让悲哀在记忆里永葆新鲜，你就可以确信那对他们而言已经不再是痛苦了。尽管最初他们也许饱尝痛苦，但事后对痛苦的回忆已经变成了一种快乐。泪水对一些人而言就像欢笑一样甜蜜。我们从古代那位编年史家傅华萨那里知道：英国男人被公认为是悲哀地承受欢乐；而英国女人则更进一步，她们直接从哀中取乐。
我并没有冷嘲热讽。在这个坚硬冰冷的世界上，我根本不会去嘲笑任何有助于使我们心肠变软的事情。我们男人已经够冷漠，够拘于常理的了，我们不愿让女人也变成这个样子。不，不，亲爱的女士们，你们还是像从前一样总是伤感，总是软心肠吧——做我们粗硬干燥的面包上那令人宽慰的黄油吧。如果说，捧腹大笑，笑得满脸通红，咧开的嘴巴发出一连串震耳欲聋的尖叫声是一种幸福；那纤纤素手托起一张沉思的脸，一双温柔的眼睛泪水盈盈，通过时光的幽暗林荫道回首往事也是一种幸福。谁会说后者不比前者更富有智慧呢？
我愉快地目睹着懊悔女神像密友一样与人们相伴——这是因为我知道咸味已从泪水中被清洗出去，我们尚未亲吻悲哀女神那苍白的双唇以前，已经拔掉了她秀美面庞上的刺。当我们能够回首曾一度使我们昏厥的痛苦时，时间已经愈合了我们的伤口，此时我们心中已经没有苦涩与绝望了。当我们过去的麻烦只引起我们快乐与怜悯参半的感情时，我们心头的负担已经不再沉重。当我们读到汤姆和玛吉•塔列维尔穿过他们之间的浓雾，十指相扣，紧紧相拥，被弗洛斯河的洪水吞噬时，也会产生这种感受。
说到可怜的汤姆和玛吉•塔利维尔，我想到了乔治•艾略特关于感伤的一句话，她曾在什么地方说到过“夏日傍晚的悲伤”。多么真切的观察——她笔下的每一句话皆如此！谁不曾为那缓缓落日的迷人景象而怅然若失？那一刻的世界属于忧郁女神。她是一位眼神深情、富有思想的少女，不喜欢白昼的光芒。只是到了“夜色更浓，乌鸦的翅膀在岩石密布的树林里扇动”的时刻，她才悄然走出自己的小树林。她的宫殿就在昏暗的土地上。她正是在那里和我们谋面。她站在阴影重重的大门边，拉起我们的手，领着我们穿过她那方神秘的领地。我们看不见任何形体，只依稀听见她翅膀发出的沙沙声……