From romance to the commonplace is seldom a long trudge8. On this occasion a quite commonplace letter determined9 my destiny. There was nothing of any gravity in the letter itself. It was a mere10 invitation to meet some friends. Most people would stare vacantly were I to show it to them. They would stare still more vacantly were I to say that it enabled me to write this terrible story. Bear in mind, however, that a lever, insignificant11 in itself, switches an express train off one track on to another. In a like manner a very insignificant letter switched me off from the tracks of an ordinary work-a-day mortal into those of the companion and biographer of a Nero.
Some two years before the time of which I write I had returned to London, having completed a series of adventurous12 travels in Africa and South-West Asia. My foregoing career is easily briefed. Left an orphan13 of very tender years, I had grown up under the ?gis of a bachelor uncle, one of those singularly good-hearted men who rescue humanity from the cynics. He had always treated me as his own son, had given me the advantages of a sterling14 3education, and had finally crowned his benevolence15 by adopting me as his heir. An inveterate16 politician, he had early initiated17 me into the mysteries of his cult18, and it is probably to his guidance that I owed much of my later enthusiasm for reform. As a youngster of twenty-three I could not, however, be expected to abandon myself to blue-books and statistics, and was indeed much more intent on amusement than anything else. Among my chief passions was that of travel, a pursuit which gratified both the acquired interests of culture and the natural lust19 of adventure. Of the raptures20 of the rambler I accordingly drank my fill, forwarding, in dutiful fashion, long accounts of my tours to my indulgent relative. Altogether I spent three or four years harvesting rich experience in this manner. I was preparing for a journey through Syria when I received a telegram from my uncle’s doctor urging me immediately to return. Being then at Alexandria I made all haste to comply with it, only, however, to discover the appeal too well grounded, and the goal of my journey a death-bed. I mourned for my uncle’s loss sincerely, and my natural regrets were sharpened when his will was read. With the exception of a few insignificant bequests22, he had transferred his entire property to me.
4The period of mourning over, I was free to indulge my whims24 to the utmost, and might well have been regarded as full of schemes for a life of wild adventure. Delay, however, had created novel interests; some papers I had published had been warmly welcomed by critics; and a new world—the literary and political—spread itself out seductively before me. Further, I had by this time seen “many cities and men,” and the hydra-headed problem of civilization began to appeal to me with commanding interest. The teachings also of my uncle had duly yielded their harvest, and ere long I threw myself into politics with the same zeal25 which had carried me through the African forests, and over the dreary26 burning sands of Araby. I became, first a radical27 of my uncle’s school, then a labour advocate and socialist28, and lastly had aspired29 to the eminence30 of parliamentary candidate for Stepney. A word on the political situation.
Things had been looking very black in the closing years of the last century, but the pessimists31 of that epoch32 were the optimists33 of ours. London even in the old days was a bloated, unwieldy city, an abode34 of smoke and dreariness35 startled from time to time by the angry murmurs36 of labour. In 1920 this Colossus of cities held nigh six million souls, and the 5social problems of the past were intensified37. The circle of competence38 was wider, but beyond it stretched a restless and dreaded39 democracy. Commerce had received a sharp check after the late Continental40 wars, and the depression was severely41 felt. That bad times were coming was the settled conviction of the middle classes, and to this belief was due the Coalition42 Government that held sway during the year in which my story opens. In many quarters a severe reaction had set in against Liberalism, and a stronger executive and repressive laws were urgently clamoured for. At the opposite extreme flew the red flag, and a social revolution was eagerly mooted43.
I myself, though a socialist, was averse44 to barricades45. “Not revolution, but evolution” was the watchword of my section. Dumont has said that “the only period when one can undertake great legislative46 reforms is that in which the public passions are calm and in which the Government enjoys the greatest stability.” Of the importance of this truth I was firmly convinced. What was socialism? The nationalization of land and capital, of the means of production and distribution, in the interests of a vast industrial army. And how were the details of this vast change to be grappled with amid the throes of 6revolution? How deliberate with streets slippery with blood, the vilest47 passions unchained, stores, factories, and workshops wrecked48, and perhaps a starving populace to conciliate? What man or convention could beat out a workable constitution in the turmoil49? What guarantee had we against a reaction and a military saviour50? By all means, I argued, have a revolution if a revolution is both a necessary and safe prelude51 of reform. But was it really necessary or even safe?
Feeling ran high in this dispute. Many a time was I attacked for my “lukewarmness” of conviction by socialists52, but never did I hear my objections fairly met. Though on good terms with the advanced party as a whole, I was opposed at Stepney by an extremist as well as by the sitting Conservative member. My chances of election were poor, but victorious53 or not I meant to battle vigorously for principle. To a certain extent my perseverance54 bore good fruit. During the last month I had been honoured with the representation of an important body at a forthcoming Paris Convention, and was in fact on the eve of starting on my journey. There was no immediate21 call for departure, but the prospect55 of a pleasant holiday in France proved overwhelmingly seductive. The Socialist Congress was fixed56 7for October 20th, and I proposed to enjoy the interval57 in true sybaritic fashion. Perhaps my eagerness to start was not unconnected with a tenderer subject than either rambling58 or politics. Happily or unhappily, however, these dispositions59 were about to receive short shrift.
It was a raw dismal60 afternoon, the grim fog-robed buildings, the dripping vehicles, and the dusky pedestrians61 below reminding one forcibly of the “City of Dreadful Night.” Memories of Schopenhauer and Thomson floated slowly across my mind, and the gathering62 shadows around seemed fraught63 with a gentle melancholy64. Having some two hours before me, I drew my chair to the window and abandoned myself wholly to thought. What my meditations65 were matters very little, but I remember being vigorously recalled to reality by a smart blow on the shoulder.
“No, Stanley, my boy, it’s no use—she won’t look your way.”
I looked up with a laugh. A stalwart individual with a thick black beard and singularly resolute66 face had broken upon my solitude67.
This worthy68, whose acquaintance we shall improve hereafter, was no other than John Burnett, journalist 8and agitator69, a man of the most advanced revolutionary opinions, in fact an apostle of what is generally known as anarchical communism. No law, no force, reference of all social energies to voluntary association of individuals, were his substitutes for the all-regulating executive of the socialists. He made no secret of his intentions—he meant to wage war in every effective mode, violent or otherwise, against the existing social system. Though strongly opposed to the theories, I was not a little attached to the theorist. He talked loudly, but, so far as I knew, his hands had never been stained with any actual crime. Further, he was most sincere, resolute, and unflinching—he had, moreover, once saved me from drowning at great risk to himself, and, like so many other persons of strong character, had contracted a warm affection for his debtor70.
That his visits to me were always welcome I cannot indeed say. Many rumours71 of revolutions and risings were in the air, and some terrible anarchist72 outrages73 reported from Berlin had made the authorities unusually wary75. Burnett, in consequence, was a marked man, and his friends and acquaintances shone with a borrowed glory. Moderate as were my own views, they might conceivably be a blind, and this possibility had of late been officially 9recognized. It was wonderful what a visiting list I had, and still more wonderful that my callers so often chose hours when I was out. However, as they found that I was guiltless of harbouring explosives and had no correspondence worth noting, their attentions were slowly becoming infrequent. Burnett, too, had been holding aloof76 of late, indeed I had not been treated to his propaganda for some weeks. To what was the honour of this unexpected visit due? “Off to Paris, I hear,” he continued. “Well, I thought I might do worse than look in. I have something to tell you too.”
A VISIT FROM BURNETT.
10“My dear fellow,” I cried, “you choose your time oddly. I must leave this place in a trice. Meanwhile, however, tell me where you’ve been of late, and what this latest wrinkle is.”
“I? Well, out of London. If you had not been rushing off at short notice I might have spoken more to the point. You can’t stay a couple of days longer, can you? Say yes, and I will engage to open your eyes a bit.”
“No, I fear I can’t: the Congress is not till the 20th, but meantime I want rest. I am positively77 done up. Time enough, however, later on.”
Burnett laughed. “It is worth while sometimes to take time by the forelock. Look here, I am bound hand and foot at present, but this I will say, your congresses and your socialism—evolutionary, revolutionary, or what not—are played out.”
“I think I have heard that remark before,” I somewhat coldly rejoined; “still, say what you like, you will find that we hold the reins78. I won’t say anything more of the practicability of anarchism, we have talked the matter over ad nauseam. But this I will say. Compared with us you are a handful of people, politically speaking of no account, and 11perhaps on the whole best left to the attention of the police. Forgive my bluntness, but to my mind, your crusade, when not absurd, appears only criminal.”
“As you like,” said Burnett doggedly79; “the world has had enough barking—the time for biting has come. Restrain your eloquence80 for a season, and I’ll promise you a wonderful change of convictions.”
“What, have your Continental friends more wrecking81 in hand? What idiocy82 is this wretched campaign! It converts no one, strengthens the hands of the reactionaries83, and, what is more, destroys useful capital. Why, I say, injure society thus aimlessly?”
“Curse society!”—and a heavy fist struck my writing-table—“I detest84 both society as it is and society as you hope it will be. To-day the capitalist wolves and a slavish multitude; to-morrow a corrupt85 officialism and the same slavish multitude, only with new masters. But about our numbers, my friend, you think that we must be politically impotent because we are relatively86 so few. We count only our thousands where you tot up your millions of supporters. Obviously we could hardly venture to beard you after the established orthodox fashion. But suppose, suppose, I say, our people had some incalculable 12force behind them. Suppose, for instance, that the leaders of these few thousands came to possess some novel invention—something that—that made them virtual dictators to their kind”—and looking very hard at me he seemed to await my answer with interest.
“Suppositions of this sort are best kept for novels. Besides, I see no scope even for such an invention—it is part of the furniture of Utopia. But, stay! was not this invention the dream of that saintly dynamiter87 Hartmann also? Hartmann! Now there’s a typical case of genius wasted on anarchy88. A pretty story is that of your last martyr—tries to blow up a prince and destroys an arch and an applewoman. For the life of me I can’t see light here!”
“All men bungle89 sometimes,” growled90 the revolutionist, ignoring the first part of my reply; “Hartmann with the rest—ten years ago was it? Ah! he was young then. But mark me, my friend, don’t call people martyrs91 prematurely92. You think Hartmann went down with that vessel—permit me to express a doubt.”
“Well,” I responded, “it matters little to me anyhow, but, anarchy apart, how that poor old mother of his would relish93 a glimpse of him, if what you hint at is true!”
13He nodded, and involuntarily my thoughts ran back to the days of 1910, when my uncle read me, then a mere boy, the account of Hartmann’s outrage74.
As Hartmann’s first crime is notorious I run some risk of purveying94 stale news. But for a younger generation it will suffice to mention the attempt of this enthusiast95 to blow up the German Crown Prince and suite96 when driving over Westminster Bridge on the occasion of their 1910 visit. Revenge for the severe measures taken against Berlin anarchists97 was the motive98, but by some mischance the mine exploded just after the carriages had passed, wreaking99, however, terrible havoc100 in the process. My sneer101 about the applewoman must not be taken too seriously, for though it is quite true that one such unfortunate perished, yet fifty to sixty victims fell with her in the crash of a rent arch. There was a terrible burst of indignation from all parts of the civilized102 world and the usual medley103 of useless arrests; the real culprits, Hartmann and his so-called “shadow” Michael Schwartz, escaping to sea in a cargo-boat bound for Holland. The boat went down in a storm, and, failing further news, it was believed that all on board had gone down with her. Hartmann was known to have possessed104 large funds, and these also presumably lined the sea-bottom. Such was the official belief, 14and most people had agreed that the official belief was the right one.
I should add that among Hartmann’s victims must, in a sense, be classed his mother. At the time of which I am now writing she was leading a very retired105 but useful life in Islington, where she spent her days in district-visiting and other charitable work. She still wore deep mourning, and had never, so it seemed, got over the shock caused by the appalling106 crime and early death of her son. Burnett knew her very well indeed, though she scarcely appreciated his visits. I was myself on excellent terms with the old lady, but had not seen her for some weeks previous to the conversation here recorded.
My time running fine, Burnett shortly rose to go.
“Be sure,” he said, “and look me up early on your return. Mischief107, I tell you, is brewing108, and how soon I shall have to pitch my camp elsewhere I hardly know.”
He was moving to the door when my landlady109 entered with a note. She had probably been listening to the conversation, for she glanced rather timorously110 at my guest before depositing her charge.
“Wait one moment, Burnett, and I’ll see you out,” said I, as I hastily broke the envelope. Yes, there was no mistaking the hand, the missive was really 15from my old friend, Mrs. Northerton. Its contents were fated to upset my programme. Only two days back I had arranged to meet the family in Paris at the express invitation of her husband, a genial111 old Liberal who took a lively interest in my work. This arrangement now received its death-blow.
“3, Carshalton Terrace, Bayswater.
“Dear Mr. Stanley,
“We have just returned from Paris, where we had, as you know, intended to stay some time. Old Mr. Matthews, whom you will recollect112, died about a fortnight ago, leaving the Colonel one of his executors. As the estate is in rather a muddled113 condition, a good deal of attention may be necessary, so we made up our minds to forego the rest of our trip for the present. I shall be ‘at home’ to-morrow afternoon, when we shall be delighted to see you. With best wishes from all.
“Always yours sincerely,
“Maude C. Northerton.
“P.S.—Lena comes in for a bequest23 of ￡5000 in Mr. Matthews’s will.”
Lena in London! This was quite decisive.
“Excuse me, Burnett,” I said, turning to my neglected 16friend; “but this letter is most important. A nice business pickle114 I am in, I can tell you.”
“What nicely-scented note-paper your business correspondents use. You have my deep sympathies. Well, farewell for the present.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” I said; “I am afraid I must postpone115 this Continental trip after all. Business is business, whoever one’s informant may be. No, I must really knock a few days off my rest.”
Burnett stared, and concluded that something really serious was on hand.
“So you will be available for two or three days longer. That being so, I shall expect to see you at the old place about eight o’clock to-morrow evening. Be sure and come, for I have a guest with me of peculiar116 interest to both of us. His name? Oh! don’t be impatient. It is a fixture117, then? All right. No, I can’t stay. Good-night.”
I laughed heartily118 after I had seen him out. What a chequered life, what curious connections were mine—now a jostle with fashion, now with fanatics119 of anarchy like Burnett. Travelling, it is said, planes away social prejudices, and certainly in combination with Karl Marx it had done so in my case. Many friends used to rally me about my liking120 for the haunts of luxury, and some even went so far as to 17say it was of a piece with my other “lukewarm” doctrines121. The answer, however, was ready. I hated revolution, and I equally hated the pettiness of a sordid122 socialism. We must not, I contended, see the graces of high life, art and culture, fouled123 by the mob, but the mob elevated into a possession and appreciation124 of the graces. It was just because I believed some approach to this ideal to be possible that I fought under the banners of my party, and forewent travel and independence in the interests of the wage-slave. That I was no Orator125 Puff126 I yearned127 for some opportunity to show. Cavillers would have then found that my money, my repute, and, if needful, my life, were all alike subservient128 to the cause I had at heart.
That night, however, lighter129 visions were to beguile130 my thoughts. When I dwelt upon once more meeting Miss Northerton, even Burnett’s sombre hints lost their power to interest me. And when later on I did find time to sift131 them, they received short shrift at my hands. Bluster132 in large part, no doubt, was my verdict as I turned into bed that night. However, to-morrow I should be in a better position to judge. The interview would, at any rate, prove interesting, for Burnett’s anarchist friends, however desperate, would furnish material in plenty for a study of human nature.
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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shambles
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| n.混乱之处；废墟 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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varied
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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trudge
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mere
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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adventurous
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orphan
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sterling
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benevolence
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inveterate
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initiated
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cult
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lust
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raptures
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immediate
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bequests
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bequest
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WHIMS
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zeal
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dreary
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radical
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socialist
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aspired
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eminence
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pessimists
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epoch
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optimists
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abode
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dreariness
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murmurs
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competence
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dreaded
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continental
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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coalition
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mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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legislative
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vilest
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wrecked
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turmoil
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saviour
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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61
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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62
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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63
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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64
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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65
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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66
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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67
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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68
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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69
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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70
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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71
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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72
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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73
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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75
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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76
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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77
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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78
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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81
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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82
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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83
reactionaries
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| n.反动分子，反动派( reactionary的名词复数 ) | |
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84
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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85
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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86
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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87
dynamiter
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| n.炸药使用者（尤指革命者） | |
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88
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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89
bungle
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| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
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90
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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91
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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93
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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94
purveying
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| v.提供，供应( purvey的现在分词 ) | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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98
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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99
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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100
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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101
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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102
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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103
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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104
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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105
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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106
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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107
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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108
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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109
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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110
timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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111
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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112
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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113
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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114
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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115
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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116
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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117
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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118
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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119
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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120
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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121
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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122
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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123
fouled
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| v.使污秽( foul的过去式和过去分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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124
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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125
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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126
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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127
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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129
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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130
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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131
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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132
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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