His father — that iron gentleman — had long ago enthroned himself on the heights of the Disruption Principles. What these are (and in spite of their grim name they are quite innocent) no array of terms would render thinkable to the merely English intelligence; but to the Scot they often prove unctuously6 nourishing, and Mr. Nicholson found in them the milk of lions. About the period when the churches convene7 at Edinburgh in their annual assemblies, he was to be seen descending8 the Mound9 in the company of divers10 red-headed clergymen: these voluble, he only contributing oracular nods, brief negatives, and the austere11 spectacle of his stretched upper lip. The names of Candlish and Begg were frequent in these interviews, and occasionally the talk ran on the Residuary Establishment and the doings of one Lee. A stranger to the tight little theological kingdom of Scotland might have listened and gathered literally12 nothing. And Mr. Nicholson (who was not a dull man) knew this, and raged at it. He knew there was a vast world outside, to whom Disruption Principles were as the chatter13 of tree-top apes; the paper brought him chill whiffs from it; he had met Englishmen who had asked lightly if he did not belong to the Church of Scotland, and then had failed to be much interested by his elucidation14 of that nice point; it was an evil, wild, rebellious15 world, lying sunk in DOZENEDNESS, for nothing short of a Scots word will paint this Scotsman’s feelings. And when he entered into his own house in Randolph Crescent (south side), and shut the door behind him, his heart swelled16 with security. Here, at least, was a citadel17 impregnable by right-hand defections or left-hand extremes. Here was a family where prayers came at the same hour, where the Sabbath literature was unimpeachably18 selected, where the guest who should have leaned to any false opinion was instantly set down, and over which there reigned19 all week, and grew denser20 on Sundays, a silence that was agreeable to his ear, and a gloom that he found comfortable.
Mrs. Nicholson had died about thirty, and left him with three children: a daughter two years, and a son about eight years younger than John; and John himself, the unlucky bearer of a name infamous21 in English history. The daughter, Maria, was a good girl — dutiful, pious22, dull, but so easily startled that to speak to her was quite a perilous23 enterprise. ‘I don’t think I care to talk about that, if you please,’ she would say, and strike the boldest speechless by her unmistakable pain; this upon all topics — dress, pleasure, morality, politics, in which the formula was changed to ‘my papa thinks otherwise,’ and even religion, unless it was approached with a particular whining24 tone of voice. Alexander, the younger brother, was sickly, clever, fond of books and drawing, and full of satirical remarks. In the midst of these, imagine that natural, clumsy, unintelligent, and mirthful animal, John; mighty25 well-behaved in comparison with other lads, although not up to the mark of the house in Randolph Crescent; full of a sort of blundering affection, full of caresses26, which were never very warmly received; full of sudden and loud laughter which rang out in that still house like curses. Mr. Nicholson himself had a great fund of humour, of the Scots order — intellectual, turning on the observation of men; his own character, for instance — if he could have seen it in another — would have been a rare feast to him; but his son’s empty guffaws27 over a broken plate, and empty, almost light-hearted remarks, struck him with pain as the indices of a weak mind.
Outside the family John had early attached himself (much as a dog may follow a marquis) to the steps of Alan Houston, a lad about a year older than himself, idle, a trifle wild, the heir to a good estate which was still in the hands of a rigorous trustee, and so royally content with himself that he took John’s devotion as a thing of course. The intimacy28 was gall29 to Mr. Nicholson; it took his son from the house, and he was a jealous parent; it kept him from the office, and he was a martinet30; lastly, Mr. Nicholson was ambitious for his family (in which, and the Disruption Principles, he entirely31 lived), and he hated to see a son of his play second fiddle32 to an idler. After some hesitation33, he ordered that the friendship should cease — an unfair command, though seemingly inspired by the spirit of prophecy; and John, saying nothing, continued to disobey the order under the rose.
John was nearly nineteen when he was one day dismissed rather earlier than usual from his father’s office, where he was studying the practice of the law. It was Saturday; and except that he had a matter of four hundred pounds in his pocket which it was his duty to hand over to the British Linen34 Company’s Bank, he had the whole afternoon at his disposal. He went by Princes Street enjoying the mild sunshine, and the little thrill of easterly wind that tossed the flags along that terrace of palaces, and tumbled the green trees in the garden. The band was playing down in the valley under the castle; and when it came to the turn of the pipers, he heard their wild sounds with a stirring of the blood. Something distantly martial35 woke in him; and he thought of Miss Mackenzie, whom he was to meet that day at dinner.
Now, it is undeniable that he should have gone directly to the bank, but right in the way stood the billiard-room of the hotel where Alan was almost certain to be found; and the temptation proved too strong. He entered the billiard-room, and was instantly greeted by his friend, cue in hand.
‘Nicholson,’ said he, ‘I want you to lend me a pound or two till Monday.’
‘You’ve come to the right shop, haven’t you?’ returned John. ‘I have twopence.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Alan. ‘You can get some. Go and borrow at your tailor’s; they all do it. Or I’ll tell you what: pop your watch.’
‘Oh, yes, I dare say,’ said John. ‘And how about my father?’
‘How is he to know? He doesn’t wind it up for you at night, does he?’ inquired Alan, at which John guffawed36. ‘No, seriously; I am in a fix,’ continued the tempter. ‘I have lost some money to a man here. I’ll give it you to-night, and you can get the heir-loom out again on Monday. Come; it’s a small service, after all. I would do a good deal more for you.’
Whereupon John went forth37, and pawned38 his gold watch under the assumed name of John Froggs, 85 Pleasance. But the nervousness that assailed39 him at the door of that inglorious haunt — a pawnshop — and the effort necessary to invent the pseudonym40 (which, somehow, seemed to him a necessary part of the procedure), had taken more time than he imagined: and when he returned to the billiard-room with the spoils, the bank had already closed its doors.
This was a shrewd knock. ‘A piece of business had been neglected.’ He heard these words in his father’s trenchant41 voice, and trembled, and then dodged42 the thought. After all, who was to know? He must carry four hundred pounds about with him till Monday, when the neglect could be surreptitiously repaired; and meanwhile, he was free to pass the afternoon on the encircling divan43 of the billiard-room, smoking his pipe, sipping44 a pint45 of ale, and enjoying to the masthead the modest pleasures of admiration46.
None can admire like a young man. Of all youth’s passions and pleasures, this is the most common and least alloyed; and every flash of Alan’s black eyes; every aspect of his curly head; every graceful47 reach, every easy, stand-off attitude of waiting; ay, and down to his shirt-sleeves and wrist-links, were seen by John through a luxurious48 glory. He valued himself by the possession of that royal friend, hugged himself upon the thought, and swam in warm azure49; his own defects, like vanquished50 difficulties, becoming things on which to plume51 himself. Only when he thought of Miss Mackenzie there fell upon his mind a shadow of regret; that young lady was worthy52 of better things than plain John Nicholson, still known among schoolmates by the derisive53 name of ‘Fatty’; and he felt, if he could chalk a cue, or stand at ease, with such a careless grace as Alan, he could approach the object of his sentiments with a less crushing sense of inferiority.
Before they parted, Alan made a proposal that was startling in the extreme. He would be at Colette’s that night about twelve, he said. Why should not John come there and get the money? To go to Colette’s was to see life, indeed; it was wrong; it was against the laws; it partook, in a very dingy54 manner, of adventure. Were it known, it was the sort of exploit that disconsidered a young man for good with the more serious classes, but gave him a standing55 with the riotous56. And yet Colette’s was not a hell; it could not come, without vaulting57 hyperbole, under the rubric of a gilded58 saloon; and, if it was a sin to go there, the sin was merely local and municipal. Colette (whose name I do not know how to spell, for I was never in epistolary communication with that hospitable59 outlaw) was simply an unlicensed publican, who gave suppers after eleven at night, the Edinburgh hour of closing. If you belonged to a club, you could get a much better supper at the same hour, and lose not a jot60 in public esteem61. But if you lacked that qualification, and were an hungered, or inclined toward conviviality62 at unlawful hours, Colette’s was your only port. You were very ill-supplied. The company was not recruited from the Senate or the Church, though the Bar was very well represented on the only occasion on which I flew in the face of my country’s laws, and, taking my reputation in my hand, penetrated63 into that grim supper — house. And Colette’s frequenters, thrillingly conscious of wrong-doing and ‘that two-handed engine (the policeman) at the door,’ were perhaps inclined to somewhat feverish64 excess. But the place was in no sense a very bad one; and it is somewhat strange to me, at this distance of time, how it had acquired its dangerous repute.
In precisely65 the same spirit as a man may debate a project to ascend66 the Matterhorn or to cross Africa, John considered Alan’s proposal, and, greatly daring, accepted it. As he walked home, the thoughts of this excursion out of the safe places of life into the wild and arduous67, stirred and struggled in his imagination with the image of Miss Mackenzie — incongruous and yet kindred thoughts, for did not each imply unusual tightening68 of the pegs69 of resolution? did not each woo him forth and warn him back again into himself?
Between these two considerations, at least, he was more than usually moved; and when he got to Randolph Crescent, he quite forgot the four hundred pounds in the inner pocket of his greatcoat, hung up the coat, with its rich freight, upon his particular pin of the hatstand; and in the very action sealed his doom70.
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1
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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2
lauding
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的现在分词 ) | |
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3
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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5
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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7
convene
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| v.集合，召集，召唤，聚集，集合 | |
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8
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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9
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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10
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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11
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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12
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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13
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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14
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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15
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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16
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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17
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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18
unimpeachably
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| adv.无可怀疑地，可靠地；无可指责地 | |
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19
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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20
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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21
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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22
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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23
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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24
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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25
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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26
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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27
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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29
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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30
martinet
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| n.要求严格服从纪律的人 | |
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31
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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32
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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33
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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34
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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35
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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36
guffawed
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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38
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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39
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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40
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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41
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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42
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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43
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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44
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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45
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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46
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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47
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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48
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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49
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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50
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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51
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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54
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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55
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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56
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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57
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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58
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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59
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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60
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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61
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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62
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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63
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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64
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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65
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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66
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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67
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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68
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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69
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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70
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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