"From that sleep, what dreams may come?"
so might he have said of thought,
From that thought what acts may come?
Now we are afraid that, in the first place, the cook, in spite of himself, uttered some expression concerning Mrs. Lovett of neither an evangelical or a polite character, and with these we need not trouble the reader. They acted as a sort of safety-valve to his feelings, and after consigning13 that fascinating female to a certain warm place, where we may fancy everybody's pie might be cooked on the very shortest notice, he got a little more calm.
"What shall I do?—what shall I do?"
Such was the rather vague question he asked of himself. Alas14! how often are those four simple words linked together, finding but a vain echo in the over-charged heart. What shall I do? Ay, what!—small power had he to do anything, except the quietest thing of all—that one thing which Heaven in its mercy has left for every wretch15 to do if it so pleases him—to die! But, somehow or another, a man upon the up-hill side of life is apt to think he may do something rather than that, and our cook, although he was about as desperate a cook as the world ever saw, did not like yet to say die. Now, in that curious combination of passions, impulses, and prejudices in the mind of this man it would be a hard case if some scheme of action did not present itself, even in circumstances of the greatest possible seeming depression, and so, after a time, the cook did think of something to do.
"Many of these pies," he said to himself, "are not eaten in the shop, ergo they are eaten out of the shop, and possibly at the respective houses of the purchasers—what more feasible mode of disclosing my position, and 'the secrets of my prison-house,' can there be than the enclosing a note in one of Mrs. Lovett's pies?"
After reviewing all the pros16 and cons12 of this scheme, there only appeared a few little difficulties in the way, but, although they were rather serious, they were not insurmountable. In the first place, it was possible enough that the unfortunate pie in which the note might be enclosed might be eaten in the shop, in which event the note might go down the throat of some hungry lawyer's clerk, and it might be handed to Mrs. Lovett, with a "God bless me, ma'am, what's this in the pie?" and then Mrs. Lovett might, by a not very remote possibility, say to herself—"This cook is a scheming, long-headed sort of a cook, and notwithstanding he does his duty by the pies, he shall be sent upon an errand to another and a better world," and in that case the delectable17 scheme of the note could only end in the total destruction of the unfortunate who conceived it. Objection the second was, that, although nothing is so easy as to say—"Oh, write a note all about it," nothing is so difficult as to write a note about anything without paper, ink, and a pen. The cook rubbed his forehead, and cried—
"D——n it!"
This seemed to have the desired effect, for he at once recollected18 that he was supplied with a thin piece of paper for the purpose of laying over the pies if the oven should by chance be over heated, and so subject them to an over-browning process.
"Surely," he thought, "I shall be able to make a substitute for a pen, and as for ink, a little coal and water, or—ah, I have it, black from my lights, of course. Ha—ha! How difficulties vanish when a man has thoroughly19 made up his mind to overcome them. Ha—ha! I write a note—I post it in a pie—some lawyer sends his clerk for a pie, and he gets that pie. He opens it and sees the note—he reads it—he flies to a police-office, and gets a private interview with a magistrate—a couple of Bow-street runners walk down to Bell Yard, and seize Mrs. Lovett—I hear a row in the shop, and cry—'Here I am—I am here—make haste—here I am—here I am!' Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!"
"Are you mad?"
The cook started to his feet—
"I," said Mrs. Lovett, looking through the ingenious little wicket at the top of the door. "What do you mean by that laughing? If you have gone mad, as one cook once did, death will be a relief to you. Only convince me of that fact, and in two hours you sleep the long sleep."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I am not at all mad."
"Then why did you laugh in such a way that it reached even my ears above?"
"Why, ma'am, are you not a widow?"
"Well?"
"Well then, you could not have possibly looked at me as you ought to have done, or you would have seen that I am anything but a bad looking fellow, and as I am decidedly single, what do you say to taking me for better or for worse? The pie business is a thriving one, and, of course, if I had an interest in it, I should say nothing of affairs down below here."
"Fool!"
"Thank you, madam, for the compliment, but I assure you, the idea of such an arrangement made me laugh, and at all events, provided I do my duty, you don't mind my laughing a little at it?"
Mrs. Lovett disdained22 any further conversation with the cook, and closed the little wicket. When she was gone he took himself seriously to task for being so foolish as to utter his thoughts aloud, but yet he did not think he had gone so far as to speak loud enough about the plan of putting the letter in a pie for her to hear that.
"Oh, no—no, I am safe enough. It was the laughing that made her come. I am safe as yet!"
Having satisfied himself fully23 upon this point, he at once set to work to manufacture his note. The paper, as he had said, was ready at hand. To be sure, it was of a thin and flimsy texture24, and decidedly brown, but a man in his situation could be hardly supposed to stand upon punctilios. After some trouble he succeeded in making an apology for a pen by the aid of a piece of stick, and he manufactured some very tolerable ink, at least, as good as the soot25 and water commonly sold in London for the best "japan," and then he set about writing his note. As we have an opportunity of looking over his shoulder, we give the note verbatim.
"Sir—(or Madam)—I am a prisoner beneath the shop of Mrs. Lovett, the pie female, in Bell Yard. I am threatened with death if I attempt to escape from my now enforced employment. Moreover, I am convinced that there is some dreadful secret connected with the pies, which I can hardly trust my imagination to dwell upon, much less here set it down. Pray instantly, upon receipt of this, go to the nearest police-office and procure26 me immediate27 aid, or I shall soon be numbered with the dead. In the sacred names of justice and humanity, I charge you to do this."
The cook did not, for fear of accidents, put his name to this epistle. It was sufficient, he thought, that he designated his condition, and pointed28 out where he was. This note he folded into a close flat shape, and pressed it with his hands, so that it would take up a very small portion of room in a pie, and yet, from its size and nature, if the pie fell into the hands of some gourmand29 who commenced eating it violently, he could not fail to feel that there was a something in his mouth more indigestible than the delicate mutton or veal30 and the flaky crust of which Mrs. Lovett's delicacies31 were composed. Having proceeded thus far, he concluded that the only real risk he ran was, that the pie might be eaten in the shop, and the enclosure, without examination, handed over to Mrs. Lovett merely as a piece of paper which had insinuated33 itself where it had no right to be. But as no design whatever can be carried out without some risk or another, he was not disposed to give up his, because some contingency34 of that character was attached to it. The prospect35 of deliverance from the horrible condition to which he was reduced, now spread over his mind a pleasing calm, and he set about the manufacture of a batch of pies, so as to have it ready for the oven when the bell should ring.—Into one of them he carefully introduced his note. Oh, what an eye he kept upon that individual pie. How often he carefully lifted the upper crust, to have a peep at the little missive which was about to go upon an errand of life or death.—How he tried to picture to his mind's eye the sort of person into whose hands it might fall, and then how he thought he would listen for any sounds during the next few hours, which should be indicative of the arrest of Mrs. Lovett, and the presence of the police in the place. He thought, then, that if his laugh had been sufficiently36 loud when merely uttered to himself, to reach the ears of Mrs. Lovett, surely his shout to the police would be heard above all other sounds, and at once bring them to his aid. Tingle37! tingle! tingle! went a bell. It was the signal for him to get a batch of pies ready for the oven.
"Good," he said, "it is done."
He waited until the signal was given to him to put them in to be cooked, and then, after casting one more look at the pie that contained his note, in went the batch to the hot air of the oven, which came out upon his face like the breath of some giant in a highly febrile state.
"'Tis done," he said. "'Tis done, and I am saved!"
He sat down and covered his face with his hands, while delicious dreamy thoughts of freedom came across his brain. Green fields, trees, meadows and uplands, and the sweet blue sky, all appeared before him in bright and beautiful array.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I shall see them all once again.—Once again I shall look, perchance, upon the bounding deep blue sea. Once again I shall feel the sun of a happier clime than this fanning my cheek. Oh, liberty, liberty, what a precious boon38 art thou!"
Tingle! tingle! tingle! He started from his dream of joy. The pies are wanted; Mrs. Lovett knew well enough how long they took in doing, and that by this time they should be ready to be placed upon the ascending39 trap. Down it came. Open went the oven door, and in another minute the note was in the shop. The cook placed his hand upon his heart to still its tumultuous beating as he listened intently. He could hear the sound of feet above—only dimly though, through that double roof. Once he thought he heard high words, but all died away again, and nothing came of it.—All was profoundly still. The batch of pies surely were sold now, and in a paper bag he told himself his pie, par21 excellence40, had gone perhaps to the chambers41 of some attorney, who would be rejoiced to have a finger in it; or to some briefless barrister, who would be rejoiced to get his name in the papers, even if it were only connected with a story of a pie. Yes, the dream of freedom still clung to the imagination of the cook, and he waited, with every nerve thrilling with expectation, the result of his plan. One, two, three hours had passed away, and nothing came of the pie or the letter. All was as quiet and as calm as though the malignant42 fates had determined43 that there he was to spend his days for ever, and gradually as in a frigid44 situation the narrow column of mercury in a thermometer will sink, sank his spirits—down—down—down!
"No—no," he said. "No hope. Timidity or incredulity has consigned45 my letter to the flames, perhaps, or some wide-mouthed, stupid idiot has actually swallowed it. Oh that it had choked him by the way. Oh that it had actually stuck in his throat.—It is over, I have lost hope again. This horrible place will be my charnel-house—my family vault46! Curses!—No—no. What is the use of swearing? My despair is past that—far past that—"
"Cook!" said a voice.
He sprang up, and looked to the wicket. There was Mrs. Lovett gazing in at him.
"Cook!"
"Well—well.—Fiend in female shape, what would you with me? Did you not expect to find me dead?"
"Certainly not. Here is a letter for you."
"A—a—letter?"
"Yes. Perhaps it is an answer to the one you sent in the pie, you know."
The unfortunate grasped his head, and gave a yell of despair. The letter—for indeed Mrs. Lovett had one—was dropped upon the ground floor from the opening through which she conversed47 with her prisoner, and then, without another word, she withdrew from the little orifice, and left him to his meditation48.
"Lost!—lost!—lost!" he cried. "All is lost. God, is this enchantment49? Or am I mad, and the inmate50 of some cell in an abode51 of lunacy, and all this about pies and letters merely the delusion52 of my overwrought fancy? Is there really a pie—a Mrs. Lovett—a Bell Yard—a letter—a—a—a—damn it, is there such a wretch as I myself, in this vast bustling53 world, or is all a wild and fathomless54 delusion?"
He cast himself upon the ground, as though from that moment he gave up all hope and desire to save himself. It seemed as though he could have said—
"Let death come in any shape he may, he will find me an unresisting victim. I have fought with fate, and am, like thousands who have preceded me in such a contest—beaten!"
A kind of stupor55 came over him, and there he lay for more than two hours; but youth will overcome much, and the mind, like some depressed56 spring, will, in the spring of life, soon recover its rebound57; so it was with the unhappy cook. After a time he rose and looked about him.
"No," he said, "it is no dream. It is no dream!"
He then saw the letter lying upon the ground, which Mrs. Lovett had with such irony58 cast unto him.
"Surely," he said, "she might have been content to tell me she had discovered my plans, without adding this practical sneer59 to it."
He lifted the letter from the floor, and found it was addressed "To Mrs. Lovett's Cook, Bell Yard, Temple Bar;" and what made it all the more provoking was, that it seemed to have come regularly through the post, for there were the official seal and blue stamp upon it. Curiosity tempted60 him to open it, and he read as follows:—
"Sir—Having, in a most delicious pie, received the extraordinary communication which you inserted in it, I take the earliest opportunity of replying to you. The character of a highly respectable and pious61 woman is not, sir, to be whispered away in a pie by a cook. When the whole bench of bishops63 were proved, in black and white, to be the greatest thieves and speculators in the known world, it was their character that saved them, for, as people justly enough reasoned, bishops should be pious and just—therefore, a bishop62 cannot be a thief and a liar64! Now, sir, apply this little mandate65 to Mrs. Lovett, and assure yourself; but no one will believe anything you can allege66 against a female with so fascinating a smile, and who attends to her religious duties so regularly. Reflect, young man, on the evil that you have tried to do, and for the future learn to be satisfied with the excellent situation you have. The pie was very good."
I am, you bad young man,
A Parishioner of St. Dunstan's,
Sweeney Todd."
"Now was there ever such a piece of cool rascality67 as this?" cried the cook, "Sweeney Todd—Todd—Todd. Who the devil is he? This is some scheme of Mrs. Lovett's to drive me mad."
He dashed the letter upon the floor.
"Not another pie will I make! No—no—no. Welcome death—welcome that dissolution which may be my lot, rather than the continued endurance of this terrible imprisonment68. Am I, at my time of life, to be made the slave of such a demon69 in human shape as this woman? Am I to grow old and grey here, a mere32 pie machine? No—no, death a thousand times rather!"
Tears! yes, bitter scalding tears came to his relief, and he wept abundantly, but those tears were blessed, for as they flowed, the worst bitterness of his heart flowed with them, and he suddenly looked up, saying—
"I am only twenty-four."
There was magic in the sound of those words. They seemed in themselves to contain a volume of philosophy. Only twenty-four. Should he, at that green and unripe70 age, get rid of hope? Should he, at twenty-four only, lie down and say—"Let me die!" just because things had gone a little adverse71, and he was the enforced cook of Mrs. Lovett?
"No—no," he said. "No, I will endure much, and I will hope much. Hitherto, it is true, I have been unsuccessful in what I have attempted for my release, but the diabolical72 cunning, even of this woman, may fail her at some moment, and I may have my time of revenge. No—no, I need not ask for revenge, justice will do—common justice. I will keep myself alive. Hope shall be my guiding star. They shall not subdue73 the proud spirit they have succeeded in caging, quite so easily, I will not give up, I live and have youthful blood in my veins74, I will not despair. Despair? No—Hence, fiend!—I am as yet only twenty-four. Ha—ha! Only twenty-four."
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收听单词发音
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1
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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5
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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7
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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8
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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10
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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11
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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12
cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13
consigning
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的现在分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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gourmand
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| n.嗜食者 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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41
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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43
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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45
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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46
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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47
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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48
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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49
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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50
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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51
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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52
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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53
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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54
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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55
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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56
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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57
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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58
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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59
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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60
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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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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62
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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63
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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64
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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65
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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66
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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67
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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68
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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69
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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70
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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71
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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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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