My name is Edward George Eden. I was born at Trentham, in Staffordshire, my father being employed in the gardens there. I lost my mother when I was three years old, and my father when I was five, my uncle, George Eden, then adopting me as his own son. He was a single man, self-educated, and well known in Birmingham as an enterprising journalist; he educated me generously, fired my ambition to succeed in the world, and at his death, which happened four years ago, left me his entire fortune, a matter of about five hundred pounds after all outgoing charges were paid. I was then eighteen. He advised me in his will to expend1 the money in completing my education. I had already chosen the profession of medicine, and through his posthumous2 generosity3, and my good fortune in a scholarship competition, I became a medical student at 87University College, London. At the time of the beginning of my story I lodged4 at 11A University Street, in a little upper room, very shabbily furnished, and draughty, overlooking the back of Shoolbred’s premises6. I used this little room both to live in and sleep in, because I was anxious to eke7 out my means to the very last shillingsworth.
I was taking a pair of shoes to be mended at a shop in the Tottenham Court Road when I first encountered the little old man with the yellow face, with whom my life has now become so inextricably entangled8. He was standing9 on the kerb, and staring at the number on the door in a doubtful way, as I opened it. His eyes—they were dull grey eyes, and reddish under the rims—fell to my face, and his countenance11 immediately assumed an expression of corrugated12 amiability13.
“You come,” he said, “apt to the moment. I had forgotten the number of your house. How do you do, Mr. Eden?”
I was a little astonished at his familiar address, for I had never set eyes on the man before. I was a little annoyed, too, at his catching14 me with my boots under my arm. He noticed my lack of cordiality.
“Wonder who the deuce I am, eh? A friend, let me assure you. I have seen you before, though you haven’t seen me. Is there anywhere where I can talk to you?”
88I hesitated. The shabbiness of my room upstairs was not a matter for every stranger. “Perhaps,” said I, “we might walk down the street. I’m unfortunately prevented—” My gesture explained the sentence before I had spoken it.
“The very thing,” he said, and faced this way and then that. “The street? Which way shall we go?” I slipped my boots down in the passage. “Look here!” he said abruptly17; “this business of mine is a rigmarole. Come and lunch with me, Mr. Eden. I’m an old man, a very old man, and not good at explanations, and what with my piping voice and the clatter18 of the traffic—”
He laid a persuasive19, skinny hand that trembled a little upon my arm.
I was not so old that an old man might not treat me to a lunch. Yet at the same time I was not altogether pleased by this abrupt16 invitation. “I had rather—” I began. “But I had rather,” he said, catching me up, “and a certain civility is surely due to my grey hairs.” And so I consented, and went with him.
He took me to Blavitski’s; I had to walk slowly to accommodate myself to his paces; and over such a lunch as I had never tasted before, he fended20 off my leading questions, and I took a better note of his appearance. His clean-shaven face was lean and wrinkled, his shrivelled lips fell over a set of false teeth, and his white hair was thin and rather long; he seemed small to me,—though, 89indeed, most people seemed small to me,—and his shoulders were rounded and bent21. And watching him, I could not help but observe that he too was taking note of me, running his eyes, with a curious touch of greed in them, over me, from my broad shoulders to my sun-tanned hands, and up to my freckled22 face again. “And now,” said he, as we lit our cigarettes, “I must tell you of the business in hand.
“I must tell you, then, that I am an old man, a very old man.” He paused momentarily. “And it happens that I have money that I must presently be leaving, and never a child have I to leave it to.” I thought of the confidence trick, and resolved I would be on the alert for the vestiges23 of my five hundred pounds. He proceeded to enlarge on his loneliness, and the trouble he had to find a proper disposition24 of his money. “I have weighed this plan and that plan, charities, institutions, and scholarships, and libraries, and I have come to this conclusion at last,”—he fixed25 his eyes on my face,—“that I will find some young fellow, ambitious, pure-minded, and poor, healthy in body and healthy in mind, and, in short, make him my heir, give him all that I have.” He repeated, “Give him all that I have. So that he will suddenly be lifted out of all the trouble and struggle in which his sympathies have been educated, to freedom and influence.”
I tried to seem disinterested26. With a transparent27 90hypocrisy, I said, “And you want my help, my professional services, maybe, to find that person.”
He smiled, and looked at me over his cigarette, and I laughed at his quiet exposure of my modest pretence28.
“What a career such a man might have!” he said. “It fills me with envy to think how I have accumulated that another man may spend—
“But there are conditions, of course, burdens to be imposed. He must, for instance, take my name. You cannot expect everything without some return. And I must go into all the circumstances of his life before I can accept him. He must be sound. I must know his heredity, how his parents and grandparents died, have the strictest inquiries29 made into his private morals—”
This modified my secret congratulations a little. “And do I understand,” said I, “that I—?”
“Yes,” he said, almost fiercely. “You. You.”
I answered never a word. My imagination was dancing wildly, my innate30 scepticism was useless to modify its transports. There was not a particle of gratitude31 in my mind—I did not know what to say nor how to say it. “But why me in particular?” I said at last.
He had chanced to hear of me from Professor Haslar, he said, as a typically sound and sane32 young man, and he wished, as far as possible, to leave his money where health and integrity were assured.
91That was my first meeting with the little old man. He was mysterious about himself; he would not give his name yet, he said, and after I had answered some questions of his, he left me at the Blavitski portal. I noticed that he drew a handful of gold coins from his pocket when it came to paying for the lunch. His insistence33 upon bodily health was curious. In accordance with an arrangement we had made I applied34 that day for a life policy in the Loyal Insurance Company for a large sum, and I was exhaustively overhauled35 by the medical advisers36 of that company in the subsequent week. Even that did not satisfy him, and he insisted I must be re-examined by the great Dr. Henderson. It was Friday in Whitsun week before he came to a decision. He called me down, quite late in the evening,—nearly nine it was,—from cramming37 chemical equations for my Preliminary Scientific examination. He was standing in the passage under the feeble gas lamp, and his face was a grotesque38 interplay of shadows. He seemed more bowed than when I had first seen him, and his cheeks had sunk in a little.
His voice shook with emotion. “Everything is satisfactory, Mr. Eden,” he said. “Everything is quite, quite satisfactory. And this night of all nights, you must dine with me and celebrate your—accession.” He was interrupted by a cough. “You won’t have long to wait, either,” he said, 92wiping his handkerchief across his lips, and gripping my hand with his long bony claw that was disengaged. “Certainly not very long to wait.”
We went into the street and called a cab. I remember every incident of that drive vividly40, the swift, easy motion, the vivid contrast of gas, and oil, and electric light, the crowds of people in the streets, the place in Regent Street to which we went, and the sumptuous41 dinner we were served there. I was disconcerted at first by the well-dressed waiters’ glances at my rough clothes, bothered by the stones of the olives, but as the champagne42 warmed my blood, my confidence revived. At first the old man talked of himself. He had already told me his name in the cab; he was Egbert Elvesham, the great philosopher, whose name I had known since I was a lad at school. It seemed incredible to me that this man, whose intelligence had so early dominated mine, this great abstraction, should suddenly realise itself as this decrepit43, familiar figure. I daresay every young fellow who has suddenly fallen among celebrities44 has felt something of my disappointment. He told me now of the future that the feeble streams of his life would presently leave dry for me, houses, copyrights, investments; I had never suspected that philosophers were so rich. He watched me drink and eat with a touch of envy. “What a capacity for living you have!” 93he said; and then, with a sigh, a sigh of relief I could have thought it, “It will not be long.”
“Ay,” said I, my head swimming now with champagne; “I have a future perhaps—of a passing agreeable sort, thanks to you. I shall now have the honour of your name. But you have a past. Such a past as is worth all my future.”
He shook his head and smiled, as I thought, with half-sad appreciation45 of my flattering admiration46. “That future,” he said, “would you in truth change it?” The waiter came with liqueurs. “You will not perhaps mind taking my name, taking my position, but would you indeed—willingly—take my years?”
He smiled again. “Kummel—both,” he said to the waiter, and turned his attention to a little paper packet he had taken from his pocket. “This hour,” said he, “this after-dinner hour is the hour of small things. Here is a scrap48 of my unpublished wisdom.” He opened the packet with his shaking yellow fingers, and showed a little pinkish powder on the paper. “This,” said he—“well, you must guess what it is. But Kummel—put but a dash of this powder in it—is Himmel.” His large greyish eyes watched mine with an inscrutable expression.
It was a bit of a shock to me to find this great teacher gave his mind to the flavour of liqueurs. 94However, I feigned49 a great interest in his weakness, for I was drunk enough for such small sycophancy50.
He parted the powder between the little glasses, and, rising suddenly, with a strange, unexpected dignity, held out his hand towards me. I imitated his action, and the glasses rang. “To a quick succession,” said he, and raised his glass towards his lips.
“Not that,” I said hastily. “Not that.”
He paused, with the liqueur at the level of his chin, and his eyes blazing into mine.
“To a long life,” said I.
He hesitated. “To a long life,” said he, with a sudden bark of laughter, and with eyes fixed on one another we tilted51 the little glasses. His eyes looked straight into mine, and as I drained the stuff off, I felt a curiously52 intense sensation. The first touch of it set my brain in a furious tumult53; I seemed to feel an actual physical stirring in my skull54, and a seething55 humming filled my ears. I did not notice the flavour in my mouth, the aroma56 that filled my throat; I saw only the grey intensity57 of his gaze that burnt into mine. The draught5, the mental confusion, the noise and stirring in my head, seemed to last an interminable time. Curious vague impressions of half-forgotten things danced and vanished on the edge of my consciousness. At last he broke the spell. With a sudden explosive sigh he put down his glass.
95“Well?” he said.
“It’s glorious,” said I, though I had not tasted the stuff.
My head was spinning. I sat down. My brain was chaos58. Then my perception grew clear and minute as though I saw things in a concave mirror. His manner seemed to have changed into something nervous and hasty. He pulled out his watch and grimaced60 at it. “Eleven-seven! And to-night I must—Seven—twenty-five. Waterloo! I must go at once.” He called for the bill, and struggled with his coat. Officious waiters came to our assistance. In another moment I was wishing him good-bye, over the apron61 of a cab, and still with an absurd feeling of minute distinctness, as though—how can I express it?—I not only saw but felt through an inverted62 opera-glass.
“That stuff,” he said. He put his hand to his forehead. “I ought not to have given it to you. It will make your head split to-morrow. Wait a minute. Here.” He handed me out a little flat thing like a seidlitz-powder. “Take that in water as you are going to bed. The other thing was a drug. Not till you’re ready to go to bed, mind. It will clear your head. That’s all. One more shake—Futurus!”
I gripped his shrivelled claw. “Good-bye,” he said, and by the droop63 of his eyelids64 I judged he too was a little under the influence of that brain-twisting cordial.
96He recollected65 something else with a start, felt in his breast-pocket, and produced another packet, this time a cylinder66 the size and shape of a shaving-stick. “Here,” said he. “I’d almost forgotten. Don’t open this until I come to-morrow—but take it now.”
It was so heavy that I well-nigh dropped it. “All ri’!” said I, and he grinned at me through the cab-window as the cabman flicked67 his horse into wakefulness. It was a white packet he had given me, with red seals at either end and along its edge. “If this isn’t money,” said I, “it’s platinum68 or lead.”
I stuck it with elaborate care into my pocket, and with a whirling brain walked home through the Regent Street loiterers and the dark back streets beyond Portland Road. I remember the sensations of that walk very vividly, strange as they were. I was still so far myself that I could notice my strange mental state, and wonder whether this stuff I had had was opium—a drug beyond my experience. It is hard now to describe the peculiarity69 of my mental strangeness—mental doubling vaguely70 expresses it. As I was walking up Regent Street I found in my mind a queer persuasion71 that it was Waterloo station, and had an odd impulse to get into the Polytechnic72 as a man might get into a train. I put a knuckle73 in my eye, and it was Regent Street. How can I express it? You see a skilful74 actor looking 97quietly at you, he pulls a grimace59, and lo!—another person. Is it too extravagant75 if I tell you that it seemed to me as if Regent Street had, for the moment, done that? Then, being persuaded it was Regent Street again, I was oddly muddled76 about some fantastic reminiscences that cropped up. “Thirty years ago,” thought I, “it was here that I quarrelled with my brother.” Then I burst out laughing, to the astonishment77 and encouragement of a group of night prowlers. Thirty years ago I did not exist, and never in my life had I boasted a brother. The stuff was surely liquid folly78, for the poignant79 regret for that lost brother still clung to me. Along Portland Road the madness took another turn. I began to recall vanished shops, and to compare the street with what it used to be. Confused, troubled thinking is comprehensible enough after the drink I had taken, but what puzzled me were these curiously vivid phantasm memories that had crept into my mind, and not only the memories that had crept in, but also the memories that had slipped out. I stopped opposite Stevens’, the natural history dealer’s, and cudgelled my brains to think what he had to do with me. A ‘bus went by, and sounded exactly like the rumbling80 of a train. I seemed to be dipped into some dark, remote pit for the recollection. “Of course,” said I, at last, “he has promised me three frogs to-morrow. Odd I should have forgotten.”
98Do they still show children dissolving views? In those I remember one view would begin like a faint ghost, and grow and oust81 another. In just that way it seemed to me that a ghostly set of new sensations was struggling with those of my ordinary self.
I went on through Euston Road to Tottenham Court Road, puzzled, and a little frightened, and scarcely noticed the unusual way I was taking, for commonly I used to cut through the intervening network of back streets. I turned into University Street, to discover that I had forgotten my number. Only by a strong effort did I recall 11A, and even then it seemed to me that it was a thing some forgotten person had told me. I tried to steady my mind by recalling the incidents of the dinner, and for the life of me I could conjure82 up no picture of my host’s face; I saw him only as a shadowy outline, as one might see oneself reflected in a window through which one was looking. In his place, however, I had a curious exterior83 vision of myself sitting at a table, flushed, bright-eyed, and talkative.
“I must take this other powder,” said I. “This is getting impossible.”
I tried the wrong side of the hall for my candle and the matches, and had a doubt of which landing my room might be on. “I’m drunk,” I said, “that’s certain,” and blundered needlessly on the staircase to sustain the proposition.
99At the first glance my room seemed unfamiliar84. “What rot!” I said, and stared about me. I seemed to bring myself back by the effort, and the odd phantasmal quality passed into the concrete familiar. There was the old glass still, with my notes on the albumens stuck in the corner of the frame, my old everyday suit of clothes pitched about the floor. And yet it was not so real after all. I felt an idiotic85 persuasion trying to creep into my mind, as it were, that I was in a railway carriage in a train just stopping, that I was peering out of the window at some unknown station. I gripped the bed-rail firmly to reassure86 myself. “It’s clairvoyance87, perhaps,” I said. “I must write to the Psychical88 Research Society.”
I put the rouleau on my dressing89-table, sat on my bed and began to take off my boots. It was as if the picture of my present sensations was painted over some other picture that was trying to show through. “Curse it!” said I; “my wits are going, or am I in two places at once?” Half-undressed, I tossed the powder into a glass and drank it off. It effervesced90, and became a fluorescent91 amber92 colour. Before I was in bed my mind was already tranquillised. I felt the pillow at my cheek, and thereupon I must have fallen asleep.
I awoke abruptly out of a dream of strange beasts, and found myself lying on my back. Probably every one knows that dismal93, emotional 100dream from which one escapes, awake indeed, but strangely cowed. There was a curious taste in my mouth, a tired feeling in my limbs, a sense of cutaneous discomfort94. I lay with my head motionless on my pillow, expecting that my feeling of strangeness and terror would probably pass away, and that I should then doze95 off again to sleep. But instead of that, my uncanny sensations increased. At first I could perceive nothing wrong about me. There was a faint light in the room, so faint that it was the very next thing to darkness, and the furniture stood out in it as vague blots96 of absolute darkness. I stared with my eyes just over the bedclothes.
It came into my mind that some one had entered the room to rob me of my rouleau of money, but after lying for some moments, breathing regularly to simulate sleep, I realised this was mere97 fancy. Nevertheless, the uneasy assurance of something wrong kept fast hold of me. With an effort I raised my head from the pillow, and peered about me at the dark. What it was I could not conceive. I looked at the dim shapes around me, the greater and lesser98 darknesses that indicated curtains, table, fireplace, bookshelves, and so forth99. Then I began to perceive something unfamiliar in the forms of the darkness. Had the bed turned round? Yonder should be the bookshelves, and something shrouded100 and pallid101 rose there, something that would not answer to 101the bookshelves, however I looked at it. It was far too big to be my shirt thrown on a chair.
Overcoming a childish terror, I threw back the bedclothes and thrust my leg out of bed. Instead of coming out of my truckle-bed upon the floor, I found my foot scarcely reached the edge of the mattress102. I made another step, as it were, and sat up on the edge of the bed. By the side of my bed should be the candle, and the matches upon the broken chair. I put out my hand and touched—nothing. I waved my hand in the darkness, and it came against some heavy hanging, soft and thick in texture103, which gave a rustling104 noise at my touch. I grasped this and pulled it; it appeared to be a curtain suspended over the head of my bed.
I was now thoroughly105 awake, and beginning to realise that I was in a strange room. I was puzzled. I tried to recall the overnight circumstances, and I found them now, curiously enough, vivid in my memory: the supper, my reception of the little packages, my wonder whether I was intoxicated106, my slow undressing, the coolness to my flushed face of my pillow. I felt a sudden distrust. Was that last night, or the night before? At any rate, this room was strange to me, and I could not imagine how I had got into it. The dim, pallid outline was growing paler, and I perceived it was a window, with the dark shape of an oval toilet-glass against the weak intimation of the 102dawn that filtered through the blind. I stood up, and was surprised by a curious feeling of weakness and unsteadiness. With trembling hands outstretched, I walked slowly towards the window, getting, nevertheless, a bruise107 on the knee from a chair by the way. I fumbled108 round the glass, which was large, with handsome brass109 sconces, to find the blind-cord. I could not find any. By chance I took hold of the tassel110, and with the click of a spring the blind ran up.
I found myself looking out upon a scene that was altogether strange to me. The night was overcast111, and through the flocculent grey of the heaped clouds there filtered a faint half-light of dawn. Just at the edge of the sky, the cloud-canopy had a blood-red rim10. Below, everything was dark and indistinct, dim hills in the distance, a vague mass of buildings running up into pinnacles112, trees like spilt ink, and below the window a tracery of black bushes and pale grey paths. It was so unfamiliar that for the moment I thought myself still dreaming. I felt the toilet-table; it appeared to be made of some polished wood, and was rather elaborately furnished—there were little cut-glass bottles and a brush upon it. There was also a queer little object, horse-shoe-shaped it felt, with smooth, hard projections113, lying in a saucer. I could find no matches nor candlestick.
I turned my eyes to the room again. Now the blind was up, faint spectres of its furnishing came 103out of the darkness. There was a huge curtained bed, and the fireplace at its foot had a large white mantel with something of the shimmer114 of marble.
I leant against the toilet-table, shut my eyes and opened them again, and tried to think. The whole thing was far too real for dreaming. I was inclined to imagine there was still some hiatus in my memory, as a consequence of my draught of that strange liqueur; that I had come into my inheritance perhaps, and suddenly lost my recollection of everything since my good fortune had been announced. Perhaps if I waited a little, things would be clearer to me again. Yet my dinner with old Elvesham was now singularly vivid and recent. The champagne, the observant waiters, the powder, and the liqueurs—I could have staked my soul it all happened a few hours ago.
And then occurred a thing so trivial and yet so terrible to me that I shiver now to think of that moment. I spoke15 aloud. I said, “How the devil did I get here?”—And the voice was not my own.
It was not my own, it was thin, the articulation115 was slurred116, the resonance117 of my facial bones was different. Then, to reassure myself, I ran one hand over the other, and felt loose folds of skin, the bony laxity of age. “Surely,” I said, in that horrible voice that had somehow established itself in my throat, “surely this thing is a dream!” 104Almost as quickly as if I did it involuntarily, I thrust my fingers into my mouth. My teeth had gone. My finger-tips ran on the flaccid surface of an even row of shrivelled gums. I was sick with dismay and disgust.
I felt then a passionate119 desire to see myself, to realise at once in its full horror the ghastly change that had come upon me. I tottered120 to the mantel, and felt along it for matches. As I did so, a barking cough sprang up in my throat, and I clutched the thick flannel121 nightdress I found about me. There were no matches there, and I suddenly realised that my extremities122 were cold. Sniffing123 and coughing, whimpering, a little, perhaps, I fumbled back to bed. “It is surely a dream,” I whimpered to myself as I clambered back, “surely a dream.” It was a senile repetition. I pulled the bedclothes over my shoulders, over my ears, I thrust my withered124 hand under the pillow, and determined125 to compose myself to sleep. Of course it was a dream. In the morning the dream would be over, and I should wake up strong and vigorous again to my youth and studies. I shut my eyes, breathed regularly, and, finding myself wakeful, began to count slowly through the powers of three.
But the thing I desired would not come. I could not get to sleep. And the persuasion of the inexorable reality of the change that had happened to me grew steadily126. Presently I found 105myself with my eyes wide open, the powers of three forgotten, and my skinny fingers upon my shrivelled gums. I was, indeed, suddenly and abruptly, an old man. I had in some unaccountable manner fallen through my life and come to old age, in some way I had been cheated of all the best of my life, of love, of struggle, of strength, and hope. I grovelled127 into the pillow and tried to persuade myself that such hallucination was possible. Imperceptibly, steadily, the dawn grew clearer.
At last, despairing of further sleep, I sat up in bed and looked about me. A chill twilight128 rendered the whole chamber129 visible. It was spacious130 and well-furnished, better furnished than any room I had ever slept in before. A candle and matches became dimly visible upon a little pedestal in a recess131. I threw back the bedclothes, and, shivering with the rawness of the early morning, albeit132 it was summer-time, I got out and lit the candle. Then, trembling horribly, so that the extinguisher rattled133 on its spike134, I tottered to the glass and saw—Elvesham’s face! It was none the less horrible because I had already dimly feared as much. He had already seemed physically135 weak and pitiful to me, but seen now, dressed only in a coarse flannel nightdress that fell apart and showed the stringy neck, seen now as my own body, I cannot describe its desolate136 decrepitude137. The hollow cheeks, the straggling tail of dirty grey hair, the rheumy bleared eyes, the quivering, 106shrivelled lips, the lower displaying a gleam of the pink interior lining138, and those horrible dark gums showing. You who are mind and body together, at your natural years, cannot imagine what this fiendish imprisonment139 meant to me. To be young and full of the desire and energy of youth, and to be caught, and presently to be crushed in this tottering140 ruin of a body....
But I wander from the course of my story. For some time I must have been stunned141 at this change that had come upon me. It was daylight when I did so far gather myself together as to think. In some inexplicable142 way I had been changed, though how, short of magic, the thing had been done, I could not say. And as I thought, the diabolical143 ingenuity144 of Elvesham came home to me. It seemed plain to me that as I found myself in his, so he must be in possession of my body, of my strength, that is, and my future. But how to prove it? Then, as I thought, the thing became so incredible, even to me, that my mind reeled, and I had to pinch myself, to feel my toothless gums, to see myself in the glass, and touch the things about me, before I could steady myself to face the facts again. Was all life hallucination? Was I indeed Elvesham, and he me? Had I been dreaming of Eden overnight? Was there any Eden? But if I was Elvesham, I should remember where I was on the previous morning, the name of the town in which I lived, what happened 107before the dream began. I struggled with my thoughts. I recalled the queer doubleness of my memories overnight. But now my mind was clear. Not the ghost of any memories but those proper to Eden could I raise.
“This way lies insanity145!” I cried in my piping voice. I staggered to my feet, dragged my feeble, heavy limbs to the washhand-stand, and plunged146 my grey head into a basin of cold water. Then, towelling myself, I tried again. It was no good. I felt beyond all question that I was indeed Eden, not Elvesham. But Eden in Elvesham’s body.
Had I been a man of any other age, I might have given myself up to my fate as one enchanted147. But in these sceptical days miracles do not pass current. Here was some trick of psychology148. What a drug and a steady stare could do, a drug and a steady stare, or some similar treatment, could surely undo149. Men have lost their memories before. But to exchange memories as one does umbrellas! I laughed. Alas150! not a healthy laugh, but a wheezing151, senile titter. I could have fancied old Elvesham laughing at my plight152, and a gust118 of petulant153 anger, unusual to me, swept across my feelings. I began dressing eagerly in the clothes I found lying about on the floor, and only realised when I was dressed that it was an evening suit I had assumed. I opened the wardrobe and found some more ordinary clothes, a pair of plaid trousers, and an old-fashioned dressing-gown. I put 108a venerable smoking-cap on my venerable head, and, coughing a little from my exertions154, tottered out upon the landing.
It was then, perhaps, a quarter to six, and the blinds were closely drawn155 and the house quite silent. The landing was a spacious one, a broad, richly-carpeted staircase went down into the darkness of the hall below, and before me a door ajar showed me a writing-desk, a revolving156 bookcase, the back of a study chair, and a fine array of bound books, shelf upon shelf.
“My study,” I mumbled157, and walked across the landing. Then at the sound of my voice a thought struck me, and I went back to the bedroom and put in the set of false teeth. They slipped in with the ease of old habit. “That’s better,” said I, gnashing them, and so returned to the study.
The drawers of the writing-desk were locked. Its revolving top was also locked. I could see no indications of the keys, and there were none in the pockets of my trousers. I shuffled158 back at once to the bedroom, and went through the dress suit, and afterwards the pockets of all the garments I could find. I was very eager, and one might have imagined that burglars had been at work, to see my room when I had done. Not only were there no keys to be found, but not a coin, nor a scrap of paper—save only the receipted bill of the overnight dinner.
A curious weariness asserted itself. I sat down 109and stared at the garments flung here and there, their pockets turned inside out. My first frenzy159 had already flickered160 out. Every moment I was beginning to realise the immense intelligence of the plans of my enemy, to see more and more clearly the hopelessness of my position. With an effort I rose and hurried hobbling into the study again. On the staircase was a housemaid pulling up the blinds. She stared, I think, at the expression of my face. I shut the door of the study behind me, and, seizing a poker161, began an attack upon the desk. That is how they found me. The cover of the desk was split, the lock smashed, the letters torn out of the pigeon-holes and tossed about the room. In my senile rage I had flung about the pens and other such light stationery162, and overturned the ink. Moreover, a large vase upon the mantel had got broken—I do not know how. I could find no cheque-book, no money, no indications of the slightest use for the recovery of my body. I was battering163 madly at the drawers, when the butler, backed by two women-servants, intruded164 upon me.
That simply is the story of my change. No one will believe my frantic165 assertions. I am treated as one demented, and even at this moment I am under restraint. But I am sane, absolutely sane, and to prove it I have sat down to write this story minutely as the things happened to me. I appeal 110to the reader, whether there is any trace of insanity in the style or method of the story he has been reading. I am a young man locked away in an old man’s body. But the clear fact is incredible to every one. Naturally I appear demented to those who will not believe this, naturally I do not know the names of my secretaries, of the doctors who come to see me, of my servants and neighbours, of this town (wherever it is) where I find myself. Naturally I lose myself in my own house, and suffer inconveniences of every sort. Naturally I ask the oddest questions. Naturally I weep and cry out, and have paroxysms of despair. I have no money and no cheque-book. The bank will not recognise my signature, for I suppose that, allowing for the feeble muscles I now have, my handwriting is still Eden’s. These people about me will not let me go to the bank personally. It seems, indeed, that there is no bank in this town, and that I have an account in some part of London. It seems that Elvesham kept the name of his solicitor166 secret from all his household—I can ascertain167 nothing. Elvesham was, of course, a profound student of mental science, and all my declarations of the facts of the case merely confirm the theory that my insanity is the outcome of overmuch brooding upon psychology. Dreams of the personal identity indeed! Two days ago I was a healthy youngster, with all life before me; now I am a furious old man, unkempt, and desperate, 111and miserable168, prowling about a great luxurious169 strange house, watched, feared, and avoided as a lunatic by every one about me. And in London is Elvesham beginning life again in a vigorous body, and with all the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of threescore and ten. He has stolen my life.
What has happened I do not clearly know. In the study are volumes of manuscript notes referring chiefly to the psychology of memory, and parts of what may be either calculations or ciphers170 in symbols absolutely strange to me. In some passages there are indications that he was also occupied with the philosophy of mathematics. I take it he has transferred the whole of his memories, the accumulation that makes up his personality, from this old withered brain of his to mine, and, similarly, that he has transferred mine to his discarded tenement171. Practically, that is, he has changed bodies. But how such a change may be possible is without the range of my philosophy. I have been a materialist172 for all my thinking life, but here, suddenly, is a clear case of man’s detachability from matter.
One desperate experiment I am about to try. I sit writing here before putting the matter to issue. This morning, with the help of a table-knife that I had secreted173 at breakfast, I succeeded in breaking open a fairly obvious secret drawer in this wrecked174 writing-desk. I discovered nothing 112save a little green glass phial containing a white powder. Round the neck of the phial was a label, and thereon was written this one word, “Release.” This may be—is most probably, poison. I can understand Elvesham placing poison in my way, and I should be sure that it was his intention so to get rid of the only living witness against him, were it not for this careful concealment175. The man has practically solved the problem of immortality176. Save for the spite of chance, he will live in my body until it has aged39, and then, again, throwing that aside, he will assume some other victim’s youth and strength. When one remembers his heartlessness, it is terrible to think of the ever-growing experience, that—How long has he been leaping from body to body? But I tire of writing. The powder appears to be soluble177 in water. The taste is not unpleasant.
There the narrative178 found upon Mr. Elvesham’s desk ends. His dead body lay between the desk and the chair. The latter had been pushed back, probably by his last convulsions. The story was written in pencil, and in a crazy hand, quite unlike his usual minute characters. There remain only two curious facts to record. Indisputably there was some connection between Eden and Elvesham, since the whole of Elvesham’s property was bequeathed to the young man. But he never 113inherited. When Elvesham committed suicide, Eden was, strangely enough, already dead. Twenty-four hours before, he had been knocked down by a cab and killed instantly, at the crowded crossing at the intersection179 of Gower Street and Euston Road. So that the only human being who could have thrown light upon this fantastic narrative is beyond the reach of questions. Without further comment I leave this extraordinary matter to the reader’s individual judgment180.
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1
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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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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corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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fended
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的过去式和过去分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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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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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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33
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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41
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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42
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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43
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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45
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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46
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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47
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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48
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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49
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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50
sycophancy
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| n.拍马屁，奉承，谄媚；吮痈舐痔 | |
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51
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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52
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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53
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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54
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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55
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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56
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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57
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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58
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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59
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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62
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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64
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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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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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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polytechnic
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| adj.各种工艺的，综合技术的；n.工艺(专科)学校；理工(专科)学校 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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76
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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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81
oust
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| vt.剥夺，取代，驱逐 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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clairvoyance
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| n.超人的洞察力 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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effervesced
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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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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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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102
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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103
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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104
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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105
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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106
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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107
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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108
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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109
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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110
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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111
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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112
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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113
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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114
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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115
articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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116
slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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117
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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118
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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119
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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120
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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121
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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122
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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123
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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124
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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125
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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126
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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127
grovelled
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
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128
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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129
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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130
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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131
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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132
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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133
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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134
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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135
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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136
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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137
decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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138
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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139
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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140
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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141
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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142
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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143
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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144
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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145
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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146
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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147
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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148
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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149
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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150
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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151
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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152
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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153
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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154
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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155
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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156
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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157
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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159
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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160
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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162
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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163
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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164
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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165
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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166
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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167
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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168
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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169
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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170
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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171
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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172
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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173
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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174
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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175
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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176
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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177
soluble
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| adj.可溶的；可以解决的 | |
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178
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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179
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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180
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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