He rose on the morrow of his night with Michael, rose from the leaden slumber4 of distress5, to find his hand tremulous, his eyes closed with rheum, his throat parched6, and his digestion7 obviously paralysed. ‘Lord knows it’s not from eating!’ Morris thought; and as he dressed he reconsidered his position under several heads. Nothing will so well depict8 the troubled seas in which he was now voyaging as a review of these various anxieties. I have thrown them (for the reader’s convenience) into a certain order; but in the mind of one poor human equal they whirled together like the dust of hurricanes. With the same obliging preoccupation, I have put a name to each of his distresses9; and it will be observed with pity that every individual item would have graced and commended the cover of a railway novel.
Anxiety the First: Where is the Body? or, The Mystery of Bent10 Pitman. It was now manifestly plain that Bent Pitman (as was to be looked for from his ominous11 appellation) belonged to the darker order of the criminal class. An honest man would not have cashed the bill; a humane12 man would not have accepted in silence the tragic13 contents of the water-butt; a man, who was not already up to the hilts in gore14, would have lacked the means of secretly disposing them. This process of reasoning left a horrid15 image of the monster, Pitman. Doubtless he had long ago disposed of the body — dropping it through a trapdoor in his back kitchen, Morris supposed, with some hazy16 recollection of a picture in a penny dreadful; and doubtless the man now lived in wanton splendour on the proceeds of the bill. So far, all was peace. But with the profligate17 habits of a man like Bent Pitman (who was no doubt a hunchback in the bargain), eight hundred pounds could be easily melted in a week. When they were gone, what would he be likely to do next? A hell-like voice in Morris’s own bosom18 gave the answer: ‘Blackmail19 me.’
Anxiety the Second: The Fraud of the Tontine; or, Is my Uncle dead? This, on which all Morris’s hopes depended, was yet a question. He had tried to bully20 Teena; he had tried to bribe21 her; and nothing came of it. He had his moral conviction still; but you cannot blackmail a sharp lawyer on a moral conviction. And besides, since his interview with Michael, the idea wore a less attractive countenance22. Was Michael the man to be blackmailed23? and was Morris the man to do it? Grave considerations. ‘It’s not that I’m afraid of him,’ Morris so far condescended24 to reassure26 himself; ‘but I must be very certain of my ground, and the deuce of it is, I see no way. How unlike is life to novels! I wouldn’t have even begun this business in a novel, but what I’d have met a dark, slouching fellow in the Oxford27 Road, who’d have become my accomplice28, and known all about how to do it, and probably broken into Michael’s house at night and found nothing but a waxwork29 image; and then blackmailed or murdered me. But here, in real life, I might walk the streets till I dropped dead, and none of the criminal classes would look near me. Though, to be sure, there is always Pitman,’ he added thoughtfully.
Anxiety the Third: The Cottage at Browndean; or, The Underpaid Accomplice. For he had an accomplice, and that accomplice was blooming unseen in a damp cottage in Hampshire with empty pockets. What could be done about that? He really ought to have sent him something; if it was only a post-office order for five bob, enough to prove that he was kept in mind, enough to keep him in hope, beer, and tobacco. ‘But what would you have?’ thought Morris; and ruefully poured into his hand a half-crown, a florin, and eightpence in small change. For a man in Morris’s position, at war with all society, and conducting, with the hand of inexperience, a widely ramified intrigue30, the sum was already a derision. John would have to be doing; no mistake of that. ‘But then,’ asked the hell-like voice, ‘how long is John likely to stand it?’
Anxiety the Fourth: The Leather Business; or, The Shutters31 at Last: a Tale of the City. On this head Morris had no news. He had not yet dared to visit the family concern; yet he knew he must delay no longer, and if anything had been wanted to sharpen this conviction, Michael’s references of the night before rang ambiguously in his ear. Well and good. To visit the city might be indispensable; but what was he to do when he was there? He had no right to sign in his own name; and, with all the will in the world, he seemed to lack the art of signing with his uncle’s. Under these circumstances, Morris could do nothing to procrastinate32 the crash; and, when it came, when prying33 eyes began to be applied34 to every joint35 of his behaviour, two questions could not fail to be addressed, sooner or later, to a speechless and perspiring36 insolvent37. Where is Mr Joseph Finsbury? and how about your visit to the bank? Questions, how easy to put! — ye gods, how impossible to answer! The man to whom they should be addressed went certainly to gaol38, and — eh! what was this? — possibly to the gallows39. Morris was trying to shave when this idea struck him, and he laid the razor down. Here (in Michael’s words) was the total disappearance40 of a valuable uncle; here was a time of inexplicable41 conduct on the part of a nephew who had been in bad blood with the old man any time these seven years; what a chance for a judicial42 blunder! ‘But no,’ thought Morris, ‘they cannot, they dare not, make it murder. Not that. But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man, I don’t see any other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don’t seem somehow to have committed. And yet I’m a perfectly43 respectable man, and wished nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business.’
With this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury descended25 to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven. There was a letter in the box; he knew the handwriting: John at last!
‘Well, I think I might have been spared this,’ he said bitterly, and tore it open.
Dear Morris [it ran], what the dickens do you mean by it? I’m in an awful hole down here; I have to go on tick, and the parties on the spot don’t cotton to the idea; they couldn’t, because it is so plain I’m in a stait of Destitution44. I’ve got no bedclothes, think of that, I must have coins, the hole thing’s a Mockry, I wont45 stand it, nobody would. I would have come away before, only I have no money for the railway fare. Don’t be a lunatic, Morris, you don’t seem to understand my dredful situation. I have to get the stamp on tick. A fact. — Ever your affte. Brother, J. Finsbury
‘Can’t even spell!’ Morris reflected, as he crammed46 the letter in his pocket, and left the house. ‘What can I do for him? I have to go to the expense of a barber, I’m so shattered! How can I send anybody coins? It’s hard lines, I daresay; but does he think I’m living on hot muffins? One comfort,’ was his grim reflection, ‘he can’t cut and run — he’s got to stay; he’s as helpless as the dead.’ And then he broke forth47 again: ‘Complains, does he? and he’s never even heard of Bent Pitman! If he had what I have on my mind, he might complain with a good grace.’
But these were not honest arguments, or not wholly honest; there was a struggle in the mind of Morris; he could not disguise from himself that his brother John was miserably48 situated49 at Browndean, without news, without money, without bedclothes, without society or any entertainment; and by the time he had been shaved and picked a hasty breakfast at a coffee tavern50, Morris had arrived at a compromise.
‘Poor Johnny,’ he said to himself, ‘he’s in an awful box! I can’t send him coins, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll send him the Pink Un — it’ll cheer John up; and besides, it’ll do his credit good getting anything by post.’
Accordingly, on his way to the leather business, whither he proceeded (according to his thrifty51 habit) on foot, Morris purchased and dispatched a single copy of that enlivening periodical, to which (in a sudden pang52 of remorse) he added at random53 the Athenaeum, the Revivalist, and the Penny Pictorial54 Weekly. So there was John set up with literature, and Morris had laid balm upon his conscience.
As if to reward him, he was received in his place of business with good news. Orders were pouring in; there was a run on some of the back stock, and the figure had gone up. Even the manager appeared elated. As for Morris, who had almost forgotten the meaning of good news, he longed to sob55 like a little child; he could have caught the manager (a pallid56 man with startled eyebrows) to his bosom; he could have found it in his generosity57 to give a cheque (for a small sum) to every clerk in the counting-house. As he sat and opened his letters a chorus of airy vocalists sang in his brain, to most exquisite58 music, ‘This whole concern may be profitable yet, profitable yet, profitable yet.’
To him, in this sunny moment of relief, enter a Mr Rodgerson, a creditor59, but not one who was expected to be pressing, for his connection with the firm was old and regular.
‘O, Finsbury,’ said he, not without embarrassment60, ‘it’s of course only fair to let you know — the fact is, money is a trifle tight — I have some paper out — for that matter, every one’s complaining — and in short —’
‘It has never been our habit, Rodgerson,’ said Morris, turning pale. ‘But give me time to turn round, and I’ll see what I can do; I daresay we can let you have something to account.’
‘Well, that’s just where is,’ replied Rodgerson. ‘I was tempted61; I’ve let the credit out of my hands.’
‘Out of your hands?’ repeated Morris. ‘That’s playing rather fast and loose with us, Mr Rodgerson.’
‘Well, I got cent. for cent. for it,’ said the other, ‘on the nail, in a certified62 cheque.’
‘Cent. for cent.!’ cried Morris. ‘Why, that’s something like thirty per cent. bonus; a singular thing! Who’s the party?’
‘Don’t know the man,’ was the reply. ‘Name of Moss63.’
‘A Jew,’ Morris reflected, when his visitor was gone. And what could a Jew want with a claim of — he verified the amount in the books — a claim of three five eight, nineteen, ten, against the house of Finsbury? And why should he pay cent. for cent.? The figure proved the loyalty64 of Rodgerson — even Morris admitted that. But it proved unfortunately something else — the eagerness of Moss. The claim must have been wanted instantly, for that day, for that morning even. Why? The mystery of Moss promised to be a fit pendant to the mystery of Pitman. ‘And just when all was looking well too!’ cried Morris, smiting65 his hand upon the desk. And almost at the same moment Mr Moss was announced.
Mr Moss was a radiant Hebrew, brutally66 handsome, and offensively polite. He was acting67, it appeared, for a third party; he understood nothing of the circumstances; his client desired to have his position regularized; but he would accept an antedated68 cheque — antedated by two months, if Mr Finsbury chose.
‘But I don’t understand this,’ said Morris. ‘What made you pay cent. per cent. for it today?’
Mr Moss had no idea; only his orders.
‘The whole thing is thoroughly69 irregular,’ said Morris. ‘It is not the custom of the trade to settle at this time of the year. What are your instructions if I refuse?’
‘I am to see Mr Joseph Finsbury, the head of the firm,’ said Mr Moss. ‘I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no status here — the expressions are not mine.’
‘You cannot see Mr Joseph; he is unwell,’ said Morris.
‘In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. Let me see,’ said Mr Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspicious care, at the right place —‘Yes — of Mr Michael Finsbury. A relation, perhaps? In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantly arranged.’
To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck his colours. A cheque at two months was nothing, after all. In two months he would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate. He bade the manager give Mr Moss a chair and the paper. ‘I’m going over to get a cheque signed by Mr Finsbury,’ said he, ‘who is lying ill at John Street.’
A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital! He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr Moss he would be left with twelvepence-halfpenny in the world. What was even worse, he had now been forced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. ‘No use for poor Johnny in Hampshire now,’ he reflected. ‘And how the farce70 is to be kept up completely passes me. At Browndean it was just possible; in Bloomsbury it seems beyond human ingenuity71 — though I suppose it’s what Michael does. But then he has accomplices72 — that Scotsman and the whole gang. Ah, if I had accomplices!’
Necessity is the mother of the arts. Under a spur so immediate73, Morris surprised himself by the neatness and dispatch of his new forgery74, and within three-fourths of an hour had handed it to Mr Moss.
‘That is very satisfactory,’ observed that gentleman, rising. ‘I was to tell you it will not be presented, but you had better take care.’
The room swam round Morris. ‘What — what’s that?’ he cried, grasping the table. He was miserably conscious the next moment of his shrill75 tongue and ashen76 face. ‘What do you mean — it will not be presented? Why am I to take care? What is all this mummery?’
‘I have no idea, Mr Finsbury,’ replied the smiling Hebrew. ‘It was a message I was to deliver. The expressions were put into my mouth.’
‘What is your client’s name?’ asked Morris.
‘That is a secret for the moment,’ answered Mr Moss. Morris bent toward him. ‘It’s not the bank?’ he asked hoarsely77.
‘I have no authority to say more, Mr Finsbury,’ returned Mr Moss. ‘I will wish you a good morning, if you please.’
‘Wish me a good morning!’ thought Morris; and the next moment, seizing his hat, he fled from his place of business like a madman. Three streets away he stopped and groaned78. ‘Lord! I should have borrowed from the manager!’ he cried. ‘But it’s too late now; it would look dicky to go back; I’m penniless — simply penniless — like the unemployed79.’
He went home and sat in the dismantled80 dining-room with his head in his hands. Newton never thought harder than this victim of circumstances, and yet no clearness came. ‘It may be a defect in my intelligence,’ he cried, rising to his feet, ‘but I cannot see that I am fairly used. The bad luck I’ve had is a thing to write to The Times about; it’s enough to breed a revolution. And the plain English of the whole thing is that I must have money at once. I’m done with all morality now; I’m long past that stage; money I must have, and the only chance I see is Bent Pitman. Bent Pitman is a criminal, and therefore his position’s weak. He must have some of that eight hundred left; if he has I’ll force him to go shares; and even if he hasn’t, I’ll tell him the tontine affair, and with a desperate man like Pitman at my back, it’ll be strange if I don’t succeed.’
Well and good. But how to lay hands upon Bent Pitman, except by advertisement, was not so clear. And even so, in what terms to ask a meeting? on what grounds? and where? Not at John Street, for it would never do to let a man like Bent Pitman know your real address; nor yet at Pitman’s house, some dreadful place in Holloway, with a trapdoor in the back kitchen; a house which you might enter in a light summer overcoat and varnished81 boots, to come forth again piecemeal82 in a market-basket. That was the drawback of a really efficient accomplice, Morris felt, not without a shudder83. ‘I never dreamed I should come to actually covet84 such society,’ he thought. And then a brilliant idea struck him. Waterloo Station, a public place, yet at certain hours of the day a solitary85; a place, besides, the very name of which must knock upon the heart of Pitman, and at once suggest a knowledge of the latest of his guilty secrets. Morris took a piece of paper and sketched86 his advertisement.
William Bent Pitman, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear of something to his advantage on the far end of the main line departure platform, Waterloo Station, 2 to 4 p.m., Sunday next.
Morris reperused this literary trifle with approbation87. ‘Terse,’ he reflected. ‘Something to his advantage is not strictly88 true; but it’s taking and original, and a man is not on oath in an advertisement. All that I require now is the ready cash for my own meals and for the advertisement, and — no, I can’t lavish89 money upon John, but I’ll give him some more papers. How to raise the wind?’
He approached his cabinet of signets, and the collector suddenly revolted in his blood. ‘I will not!’ he cried; ‘nothing shall induce me to massacre90 my collection — rather theft!’ And dashing upstairs to the drawing-room, he helped himself to a few of his uncle’s curiosities: a pair of Turkish babooshes, a Smyrna fan, a water-cooler, a musket91 guaranteed to have been seized from an Ephesian bandit, and a pocketful of curious but incomplete seashells.
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1
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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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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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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procrastinate
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| v.耽搁，拖延 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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50
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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51
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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52
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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53
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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54
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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55
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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57
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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58
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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59
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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63
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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65
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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66
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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67
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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68
antedated
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的过去式和过去分词 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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70
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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71
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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72
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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73
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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75
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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78
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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79
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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80
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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82
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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83
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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84
covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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85
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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86
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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87
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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89
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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90
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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