It was his luck to meet a young man in what is technically6 called a ‘dive,’ and thanks to his monthly wages, to extricate7 this new acquaintance from a position of present disgrace and possible danger in the future. This young man was the nephew of one of the Nob Hill magnates, who run the San Francisco Stock Exchange, much as more humble8 adventurers, in the corner of some public park at home, may be seen to perform the simple artifice9 of pea and thimble: for their own profit, that is to say, and the discouragement of public gambling10. It was thus in his power — and, as he was of grateful temper, it was among the things that he desired — to put John in the way of growing rich; and thus, without thought or industry, or so much as even understanding the game at which he played, but by simply buying and selling what he was told to buy and sell, that plaything of fortune was presently at the head of between eleven and twelve thousand pounds, or, as he reckoned it, of upward of sixty thousand dollars.
How he had come to deserve this wealth, any more than how he had formerly12 earned disgrace at home, was a problem beyond the reach of his philosophy. It was true that he had been industrious13 at the bank, but no more so than the cashier, who had seven small children and was visibly sinking in decline. Nor was the step which had determined14 his advance — a visit to a dive with a month’s wages in his pocket — an act of such transcendent virtue15, or even wisdom, as to seem to merit the favour of the gods. From some sense of this, and of the dizzy see-saw — heaven-high, hell-deep — on which men sit clutching; or perhaps fearing that the sources of his fortune might be insidiously16 traced to some root in the field of petty cash; he stuck to his work, said not a word of his new circumstances, and kept his account with a bank in a different quarter of the town. The concealment17, innocent as it seems, was the first step in the second tragicomedy of John’s existence.
Meanwhile, he had never written home. Whether from diffidence or shame, or a touch of anger, or mere18 procrastination19, or because (as we have seen) he had no skill in literary arts, or because (as I am sometimes tempted20 to suppose) there is a law in human nature that prevents young men — not otherwise beasts — from the performance of this simple act of piety21 — months and years had gone by, and John had never written. The habit of not writing, indeed, was already fixed22 before he had begun to come into his fortune; and it was only the difficulty of breaking this long silence that withheld23 him from an instant restitution24 of the money he had stolen or (as he preferred to call it) borrowed. In vain he sat before paper, attending on inspiration; that heavenly nymph, beyond suggesting the words ‘my dear father,’ remained obstinately25 silent; and presently John would crumple26 up the sheet and decide, as soon as he had ‘a good chance,’ to carry the money home in person. And this delay, which is indefensible, was his second step into the snares27 of fortune.
Ten years had passed, and John was drawing near to thirty. He had kept the promise of his boyhood, and was now of a lusty frame, verging28 toward corpulence; good features, good eyes, a genial29 manner, a ready laugh, a long pair of sandy whiskers, a dash of an American accent, a close familiarity with the great American joke, and a certain likeness30 to a R— y-l P-rs-n-ge, who shall remain nameless for me, made up the man’s externals as he could be viewed in society. Inwardly, in spite of his gross body and highly masculine whiskers, he was more like a maiden31 lady than a man of twenty-nine.
It chanced one day, as he was strolling down Market Street on the eve of his fortnight’s holiday, that his eye was caught by certain railway bills, and in very idleness of mind he calculated that he might be home for Christmas if he started on the morrow. The fancy thrilled him with desire, and in one moment he decided32 he would go.
There was much to be done: his portmanteau to be packed, a credit to be got from the bank where he was a wealthy customer, and certain offices to be transacted33 for that other bank in which he was an humble clerk; and it chanced, in conformity34 with human nature, that out of all this business it was the last that came to be neglected. Night found him, not only equipped with money of his own, but once more (as on that former occasion) saddled with a considerable sum of other people’s.
Now it chanced there lived in the same boarding-house a fellow-clerk of his, an honest fellow, with what is called a weakness for drink — though it might, in this case, have been called a strength, for the victim had been drunk for weeks together without the briefest intermission. To this unfortunate John intrusted a letter with an inclosure of bonds, addressed to the bank manager. Even as he did so he thought he perceived a certain haziness35 of eye and speech in his trustee; but he was too hopeful to be stayed, silenced the voice of warning in his bosom36, and with one and the same gesture committed the money to the clerk, and himself into the hands of destiny.
I dwell, even at the risk of tedium37, on John’s minutest errors, his case being so perplexing to the moralist; but we have done with them now, the roll is closed, the reader has the worst of our poor hero, and I leave him to judge for himself whether he or John has been the less deserving. Henceforth we have to follow the spectacle of a man who was a mere whip-top for calamity38; on whose unmerited misadventures not even the humourist can look without pity, and not even the philosopher without alarm.
That same night the clerk entered upon a bout4 of drunkenness so consistent as to surprise even his intimate acquaintance. He was speedily ejected from the boarding-house; deposited his portmanteau with a perfect stranger, who did not even catch his name; wandered he knew not where, and was at last hove-to, all standing11, in a hospital at Sacramento. There, under the impenetrable ALIAS39 of the number of his bed, the crapulous being lay for some more days unconscious of all things, and of one thing in particular: that the police were after him. Two months had come and gone before the convalescent in the Sacramento hospital was identified with Kirkman, the absconding40 San Francisco clerk; even then, there must elapse nearly a fortnight more till the perfect stranger could be hunted up, the portmanteau recovered, and John’s letter carried at length to its destination, the seal still unbroken, the inclosure still intact.
Meanwhile, John had gone upon his holidays without a word, which was irregular; and there had disappeared with him a certain sum of money, which was out of all bounds of palliation. But he was known to be careless, and believed to be honest; the manager besides had a regard for him; and little was said, although something was no doubt thought, until the fortnight was finally at an end, and the time had come for John to reappear. Then, indeed, the affair began to look black; and when inquiries41 were made, and the penniless clerk was found to have amassed42 thousands of dollars, and kept them secretly in a rival establishment, the stoutest43 of his friends abandoned him, the books were overhauled44 for traces of ancient and artful fraud, and though none were found, there still prevailed a general impression of loss. The telegraph was set in motion; and the correspondent of the bank in Edinburgh, for which place it was understood that John had armed himself with extensive credits, was warned to communicate with the police.
Now this correspondent was a friend of Mr. Nicholson’s; he was well acquainted with the tale of John’s calamitous45 disappearance46 from Edinburgh; and putting one thing with another, hasted with the first word of this scandal, not to the police, but to his friend. The old gentleman had long regarded his son as one dead; John’s place had been taken, the memory of his faults had already fallen to be one of those old aches, which awaken47 again indeed upon occasion, but which we can always vanquish48 by an effort of the will; and to have the long lost resuscitated49 in a fresh disgrace was doubly bitter.
‘Macewen,’ said the old man, ‘this must be hushed up, if possible. If I give you a cheek for this sum, about which they are certain, could you take it on yourself to let the matter rest?’
‘I will,’ said Macewen. ‘I will take the risk of it.’
‘You understand,’ resumed Mr. Nicholson, speaking precisely50, but with ashen51 lips, ‘I do this for my family, not for that unhappy young man. If it should turn out that these suspicions are correct, and he has embezzled52 large sums, he must lie on his bed as he has made it.’ And then looking up at Macewen with a nod, and one of his strange smiles: ‘Good — bye,’ said he, and Macewen, perceiving the case to be too grave for consolation53, took himself off, and blessed God on his way home that he was childless.
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1
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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behooves
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| n.利益，好处( behoof的名词复数 )v.适宜( behoove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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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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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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absconding
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| v.（尤指逃避逮捕）潜逃，逃跑( abscond的现在分词 ) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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resuscitated
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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52
embezzled
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| v.贪污，盗用（公款）( embezzle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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