“Dearest Anna,—I see from the newspaper before me of March 13, that I am reported dead. Before attempting to investigate the origin of this mistake, I hasten to write to you, knowing, dearest, what a shock this must have been to you. It is true that I was in the Makar Akool affair, and was slightly wounded—a mere2 scratch in the arm—but nothing more. I have not written to you for some months past because I have been turning something over in my mind. Anna, dearest, there is no chance of my being in a position to marry for some years yet, and I feel it incumbent3 upon me ...”
This letter, half written, lay on a camp table before a keen-faced young officer. He ceased writing suddenly, and, leaping to his feet, walked to the door of his bungalow4, which was open to the four winds of heaven. In doing this he passed from the range of the lazy punkah flapping somnolently5 over table and bed. It may have been this sudden change to hotter air that caused him to raise his hand to his forehead, which was high and strangely rounded.
“By George!” he said, “suppose I do it that way!”
He walked rapidly backwards6 and forwards with the lithe7 actions of a man of steel, a light weight, of medium height, keen and quick as a monkey. His black eyes flitted from one object to another with such restlessness that it was impossible to say whether he comprehended what he saw or merely looked at things from force of habit.
He was dark of hair with a sallow complexion8 and a long drooping9 nose—the nose of Semitic ancestors. A small mouth, and the chin running almost to a point. A face full of interest, devoid10 of distinct vice—heartless. Here was a man with a future before him—a man whose vices11 were all negative, whose virtues12 depended entirely13 upon expediency14. Here was a man who could be almost anything he liked; as some men can. If expediency prompted he could be a very dep?t of virtues; for his body, with all the warmer failings of that part of humanity, was in perfect control. On the other hand, there was no love of good for goodness' sake—no conscience behind the subtle eyes. All this, and more, was written in the face of Seymour Michael, whose handwriting had dried some moments before on the half-filled sheet of letter-paper.
He returned and stood at the table with slightly bowed legs—not the result of much riding, although he wore top-boots and breeches as if of daily habit—but a racial defect handed down like the nasal brand from remote progenitors16. He looked at letter and newspaper as they lay side by side—not with the doubtfulness of warfare17 between conscience and temptation, but with a calculating thoughtfulness. He was not wondering what was best to do, but what the most expedient18.
Those were troublesome times in India, for the Mutiny was not quelled19, and each mail took home a list of killed, slowly compiled from news that dribbled20 in from outlying stations, forts, and towns. Those were days when men's lives were made or lost in the Eastern Empire, for it seems to be in Fortune's balance that great danger weighs against great gain. No large wealth has ever been acquired without proportionate risk of life or happiness. To the tame and timorous21 city clerk comes small remuneration and a nameless grave, while to more adventurous22 spirits larger stakes bring vaster rewards. The clerk, pure and simple, has, within these later years, found his way to India, sitting side by side with the Baboo, and consequently it is as easy to make a fortune in London as in Calcutta and Madras. The clerk has carried his sordid23 civilisation24 and his love of personal safety with him, sapping at the glorious uncertainty25 from which the earlier pioneers of a hardier27 commerce wrested28 quick-founded fortunes.
Seymour Michael had come into all this with the red coat of a soldier and the keen, ambitious heart of a Jew, at the very nick of time. He saw at once the enormous possibilities hidden in the near future for a man who took this country at its proper value, handling what he secured with coolness and foresight29. He know that he only possessed30 one thing to risk, namely, his life; and true to his racial instinct, he valued this very highly, looking for an extortionate usury31 on his stake.
At this moment he was like Aladdin in the cave of jewels: he did not know which way to turn, which treasure to seize first.
Anna—dearest Anna—to whom this half-completed letter was addressed, was a person for whom he had not the slightest affection. At the outset of his career he had paused, decided32 in haste, and had resolved to make use of the passing opportunity. Anna Hethbridge had therefore been annexed33 en passant. In person she was youthful and rather handsome—her fortune was extremely handsome. So Seymour Michael went out to India engaged to be married to this girl who was unfortunate enough to love him.
In India two things happened. Firstly, Seymour Michael met a second young lady with a fortune twice as large as that of Miss Anna Hethbridge. Secondly34, the Mutiny broke out, and India lay before the ambitious young officer a very land of Ophir. He promptly35 decided to cut the first string of his bow. Anna Hethbridge was now useless—nay, more, she was a burthen. Hence the letter which lay half-written on the table of his bungalow.
He paused before this wrong to a blameless woman, and contemplated36 the perpetration of a greater. He weighed pro15 and con—carefully withholding37 from the balance the casting weight of Right against Wrong. Then he took up the letter and slowly tore it to small pieces. He had decided to leave the report of his death uncontradicted. It was morally certain that five weeks before that day Anna Hethbridge had read the news in the printed column lying before him. He resolved to leave her in ignorance of its falseness. Seymour Michael was not, however, a selfish man. All that he did at this time, and later in life—all the lives that he ruined—the hearts he broke—the men he sacrificed were not offered upon the altar of Self (though the distinction may appear subtle), but sold to his career. Career was this man's god. He wanted to be great, and rich, and powerful; and yet he was conscious of having no definite use for greatness, or riches, or power when acquired.
Here again was the taint26 of the blood that ran in his veins38. The curse had reached him—in addition to the long, sad nose and the bandy legs. The sense of enjoyment39 was never to be his. The greed of gain—gain of any sort—filled his heart, and ennui40 secretly nestling in his soul said: “Thou shalt possess, but not enjoy.”
He was conscious of this voice, but did not understand it then. He only burned to possess; looking to possession to provide enjoyment. In this he was not quite alone—with him in his error are all men and women. And so we talk of Love coming after marriage—and so women marry without Love, believing that it will follow. God help them! That which comes afterwards is not even the ghost of Love, it is only Custom. This was the spirit of Seymour Michael. He had already acquired one or two objects of a vague ambition; and, possessing them, had only learnt to be accustomed to them—not to value them.
There was no elation41 in the thought that he was freed from the encumbrance42 of Anna Hethbridge by a chance misprint. Neither was there hesitation43 in turning accident ruthlessly to his own advantage. There was only a steady pressing forward—an unceasing, unwearying attention to his own gain.
In those days news travelled slowly, and the personal had not yet taken precedence in journalism44. In the anxiety for the State, the Individual was apt to be overlooked. Seymour Michael counted on six months of oblivion at the least—he hoped for more, but with characteristic caution acted always in anticipation45 of the worst.
He had scarcely thrown the newspaper aside when a comrade entered the bungalow carrying another copy of the same journal.
“I say, Michael,” exclaimed this man, “do you see that you're put in among the killed?”
“Yes,” replied Seymour Michael, without haste, without hesitation. “I have already written to contradict it. Not that there is any one to care whether I am dead or alive. But it might do me harm in Leadenhall Street. I can't afford to be dead even for a week when so much promotion46 is going forward.”
This was artistic47. Most of us forget to preserve our own characteristics in diverging48 from the truth. The tangled49 web is only woven when first we practise to deceive. Later on the facility is greater, the handling superior, and the web runs smooth and straight. Seymour Michael was apparently50 no novice51 at this sort of thing. He was even at that moment making mental note of the fact that up-country mails were in a state of disorganisation, and a letter which was never written may easily be made to have miscarried later on.
But even he could not foresee everything—no one can. Not even the righteous man, much less the liar52.
“Do you mean to say,” pursued the newcomer, “that you are not writing to your family about it—only to the Company?”
“That is all.”
“Not at all. The simple fact is that I have no one to write to. I only possess one or two distant relatives, and they would probably be rather sorry than otherwise to have the report contradicted.”
The younger officer—a mere boy—with a beardless, happy face, walked to the door of the bungalow.
“Of course there is always this in it,” he said carelessly. “By the time the contradiction reaches home the news may be true.”
Seymour Michael laughed lamely54. A joke of this description made him feel rather sick, for a Jew never makes a soldier or a sailor, and they are rarely found in those positions unless great gain is holden up.
With this pleasantry the youth departed, leaving Michael to write the letter which he had advised as written. As he drew the writing materials towards him he cursed his brother officer quietly and politely for a meddling55 young fool. He wrote a formal letter to the Company—the old East India Company which administered an empire with ledger56 and daybook—calling their attention to the mistake in the newspaper, and begging them not to trouble to give the matter publicity57, as he had already advised his friends.
This done, he proceeded with the ordinary routine of his daily life. Such men as this are case-hardened. They carry with them a conscience like the floor of an Augean stable, but they know how to walk thereon. Moreover, he was one of those who assign to their dealings with men quite a different code of morals to that reserved for women. His was the code of “not being found out.” Men are more suspicious—they find out sooner: ergo the morals to be observed vis à vis to them are of a stricter order. Railway companies and women are by many looked upon as fair game for deception58. Consciences tender in many other respects have a subtle contempt for these two exceptions. Many a so-called honest man travels gaily59 in a first-class carriage with a second-class ticket, and lies to a woman at each end of his journey without so much as casting a shadow upon his conscience.
Seymour Michael carried this code to the farthest limit of safety. All through the months that followed he went about his business with a clear conscience and a heart slightly relieved by the removal of Anna Hethbridge from his path to prosperity. He served his country and the Company with a keenness of foresight and a soldierly exposure of the lives of others which did not fail, in the course of time, to bring him in a harvest of honours and rewards. Neither did he put his candle under a bushel, but set it in the very highest candlestick available.
But, as has been previously60 stated, he could not foresee everything. He did not know, for instance, that his cheroot-smoking subaltern—a youth as guileless as he was indiscreet, for the two usually go together—possessed a memory like a dry-plate. He did not foresee that a passing conversation in an Indian bungalow might perchance photograph itself on the somewhat sparsely61 covered tablets of a man's mind, to be reproduced at the wrong moment with a result lying twenty-six years ahead in the womb of time.
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1
premiers
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| n.总理，首相( premier的名词复数 )；首席官员， | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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somnolently
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| adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地；催眠地 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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7
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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8
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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9
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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10
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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11
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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12
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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13
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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14
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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15
pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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16
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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17
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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18
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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19
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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21
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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23
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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24
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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27
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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28
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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29
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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30
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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31
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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32
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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33
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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34
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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35
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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36
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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37
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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38
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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39
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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40
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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41
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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42
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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43
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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44
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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45
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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46
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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47
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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48
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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49
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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51
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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52
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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53
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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54
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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55
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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56
ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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57
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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58
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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59
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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60
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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61
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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