The Palace Hotel, appealing for encouragement mainly to English and American travellers, celebrated1 the opening of its doors, as a matter of course, by the giving of a grand banquet, and the delivery of a long succession of speeches.
Delayed on his journey, Henry Westwick only reached Venice in time to join the guests over their coffee and cigars. Observing the splendour of the reception rooms, and taking note especially of the artful mixture of comfort and luxury in the bedchambers, he began to share the old nurse’s view of the future, and to contemplate2 seriously the coming dividend3 of ten per cent. The hotel was beginning well, at all events. So much interest in the enterprise had been aroused, at home and abroad, by profuse4 advertising5, that the whole accommodation of the building had been secured by travellers of all nations for the opening night. Henry only obtained one of the small rooms on the upper floor, by a lucky accident — the absence of the gentleman who had written to engage it. He was quite satisfied, and was on his way to bed, when another accident altered his prospects6 for the night, and moved him into another and a better room.
Ascending7 on his way to the higher regions as far as the first floor of the hotel, Henry’s attention was attracted by an angry voice protesting, in a strong New England accent, against one of the greatest hardships that can be inflicted8 on a citizen of the United States — the hardship of sending him to bed without gas in his room.
The Americans are not only the most hospitable9 people to be found on the face of the earth — they are (under certain conditions) the most patient and good-tempered people as well. But they are human; and the limit of American endurance is found in the obsolete10 institution of a bedroom candle. The American traveller, in the present case, declined to believe that his bedroom was in a complete finished state without a gas-burner. The manager pointed11 to the fine antique decorations (renewed and regilt) on the walls and the ceiling, and explained that the emanations of burning gas-light would certainly spoil them in the course of a few months. To this the traveller replied that it was possible, but that he did not understand decorations. A bedroom with gas in it was what he was used to, was what he wanted, and was what he was determined12 to have. The compliant13 manager volunteered to ask some other gentleman, housed on the inferior upper storey (which was lit throughout with gas), to change rooms. Hearing this, and being quite willing to exchange a small bedchamber for a large one, Henry volunteered to be the other gentleman. The excellent American shook hands with him on the spot. ‘You are a cultured person, sir,’ he said; ‘and you will no doubt understand the decorations.’
Henry looked at the number of the room on the door as he opened it. The number was Fourteen.
Tired and sleepy, he naturally anticipated a good night’s rest. In the thoroughly14 healthy state of his nervous system, he slept as well in a bed abroad as in a bed at home. Without the slightest assignable reason, however, his just expectations were disappointed. The luxurious15 bed, the well-ventilated room, the delicious tranquillity16 of Venice by night, all were in favour of his sleeping well. He never slept at all. An indescribable sense of depression and discomfort17 kept him waking through darkness and daylight alike. He went down to the coffee-room as soon as the hotel was astir, and ordered some breakfast. Another unaccountable change in himself appeared with the appearance of the meal. He was absolutely without appetite. An excellent omelette, and cutlets cooked to perfection, he sent away untasted — he, whose appetite never failed him, whose digestion18 was still equal to any demands on it!
The day was bright and fine. He sent for a gondola19, and was rowed to the Lido.
Out on the airy Lagoon20, he felt like a new man. He had not left the hotel ten minutes before he was fast asleep in the gondola. Waking, on reaching the landing-place, he crossed the Lido, and enjoyed a morning’s swim in the Adriatic. There was only a poor restaurant on the island, in those days; but his appetite was now ready for anything; he ate whatever was offered to him, like a famished21 man. He could hardly believe, when he reflected on it, that he had sent away untasted his excellent breakfast at the hotel.
Returning to Venice, he spent the rest of the day in the picture-galleries and the churches. Towards six o’clock his gondola took him back, with another fine appetite, to meet some travelling acquaintances with whom he had engaged to dine at the table d’hote.
The dinner was deservedly rewarded with the highest approval by every guest in the hotel but one. To Henry’s astonishment22, the appetite with which he had entered the house mysteriously and completely left him when he sat down to table. He could drink some wine, but he could literally23 eat nothing. ‘What in the world is the matter with you?’ his travelling acquaintances asked. He could honestly answer, ‘I know no more than you do.’
When night came, he gave his comfortable and beautiful bedroom another trial. The result of the second experiment was a repetition of the result of the first. Again he felt the all-pervading sense of depression and discomfort. Again he passed a sleepless24 night. And once more, when he tried to eat his breakfast, his appetite completely failed him!
This personal experience of the new hotel was too extraordinary to be passed over in silence. Henry mentioned it to his friends in the public room, in the hearing of the manager. The manager, naturally zealous25 in defence of the hotel, was a little hurt at the implied reflection cast on Number Fourteen. He invited the travellers present to judge for themselves whether Mr. Westwick’s bedroom was to blame for Mr. Westwick’s sleepless nights; and he especially appealed to a grey-headed gentleman, a guest at the breakfast-table of an English traveller, to take the lead in the investigation26. ‘This is Doctor Bruno, our first physician in Venice,’ he explained. ‘I appeal to him to say if there are any unhealthy influences in Mr. Westwick’s room.’
Introduced to Number Fourteen, the doctor looked round him with a certain appearance of interest which was noticed by everyone present. ‘The last time I was in this room,’ he said, ‘was on a melancholy27 occasion. It was before the palace was changed into an hotel. I was in professional attendance on an English nobleman who died here.’ One of the persons present inquired the name of the nobleman. Doctor Bruno answered (without the slightest suspicion that he was speaking before a brother of the dead man), ‘Lord Montbarry.’
Henry quietly left the room, without saying a word to anybody.
He was not, in any sense of the term, a superstitious28 man. But he felt, nevertheless, an insurmountable reluctance29 to remaining in the hotel. He decided30 on leaving Venice. To ask for another room would be, as he could plainly see, an offence in the eyes of the manager. To remove to another hotel, would be to openly abandon an establishment in the success of which he had a pecuniary31 interest. Leaving a note for Arthur Barville, on his arrival in Venice, in which he merely mentioned that he had gone to look at the Italian lakes, and that a line addressed to his hotel at Milan would bring him back again, he took the afternoon train to Padua — and dined with his usual appetite, and slept as well as ever that night.
The next day, a gentleman and his wife (perfect strangers to the Montbarry family), returning to England by way of Venice, arrived at the hotel and occupied Number Fourteen.
Still mindful of the slur32 that had been cast on one of his best bedchambers, the manager took occasion to ask the travellers the next morning how they liked their room. They left him to judge for himself how well they were satisfied, by remaining a day longer in Venice than they had originally planned to do, solely33 for the purpose of enjoying the excellent accommodation offered to them by the new hotel. ‘We have met with nothing like it in Italy,’ they said; ‘you may rely on our recommending you to all our friends.’
On the day when Number Fourteen was again vacant, an English lady travelling alone with her maid arrived at the hotel, saw the room, and at once engaged it.
The lady was Mrs. Norbury. She had left Francis Westwick at Milan, occupied in negotiating for the appearance at his theatre of the new dancer at the Scala. Not having heard to the contrary, Mrs. Norbury supposed that Arthur Barville and his wife had already arrived at Venice. She was more interested in meeting the young married couple than in awaiting the result of the hard bargaining which delayed the engagement of the new dancer; and she volunteered to make her brother’s apologies, if his theatrical34 business caused him to be late in keeping his appointment at the honeymoon35 festival.
Mrs. Norbury’s experience of Number Fourteen differed entirely36 from her brother Henry’s experience of the room.
Failing asleep as readily as usual, her repose37 was disturbed by a succession of frightful38 dreams; the central figure in every one of them being the figure of her dead brother, the first Lord Montbarry. She saw him starving in a loathsome39 prison; she saw him pursued by assassins, and dying under their knives; she saw him drowning in immeasurable depths of dark water; she saw him in a bed on fire, burning to death in the flames; she saw him tempted40 by a shadowy creature to drink, and dying of the poisonous draught41. The reiterated42 horror of these dreams had such an effect on her that she rose with the dawn of day, afraid to trust herself again in bed. In the old times, she had been noted43 in the family as the one member of it who lived on affectionate terms with Montbarry. His other sister and his brothers were constantly quarrelling with him. Even his mother owned that her eldest44 son was of all her children the child whom she least liked. Sensible and resolute45 woman as she was, Mrs. Norbury shuddered46 with terror as she sat at the window of her room, watching the sunrise, and thinking of her dreams.
She made the first excuse that occurred to her, when her maid came in at the usual hour, and noticed how ill she looked. The woman was of so superstitious a temperament47 that it would have been in the last degree indiscreet to trust her with the truth. Mrs. Norbury merely remarked that she had not found the bed quite to her liking48, on account of the large size of it. She was accustomed at home, as her maid knew, to sleep in a small bed. Informed of this objection later in the day, the manager regretted that he could only offer to the lady the choice of one other bedchamber, numbered Thirty-eight, and situated49 immediately over the bedchamber which she desired to leave. Mrs. Norbury accepted the proposed change of quarters. She was now about to pass her second night in the room occupied in the old days of the palace by Baron50 Rivar.
Once more, she fell asleep as usual. And, once more, the frightful dreams of the first night terrified her, following each other in the same succession. This time her nerves, already shaken, were not equal to the renewed torture of terror inflicted on them. She threw on her dressing-gown, and rushed out of her room in the middle of the night. The porter, alarmed by the banging of the door, met her hurrying headlong down the stairs, in search of the first human being she could find to keep her company. Considerably51 surprised at this last new manifestation52 of the famous ‘English eccentricity,’ the man looked at the hotel register, and led the lady upstairs again to the room occupied by her maid. The maid was not asleep, and, more wonderful still, was not even undressed. She received her mistress quietly. When they were alone, and when Mrs. Norbury had, as a matter of necessity, taken her attendant into her confidence, the woman made a very strange reply.
‘I have been asking about the hotel, at the servants’ supper to-night,’ she said. ‘The valet of one of the gentlemen staying here has heard that the late Lord Montbarry was the last person who lived in the palace, before it was made into an hotel. The room he died in, ma’am, was the room you slept in last night. Your room tonight is the room just above it. I said nothing for fear of frightening you. For my own part, I have passed the night as you see, keeping my light on, and reading my Bible. In my opinion, no member of your family can hope to be happy or comfortable in this house.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Please to let me explain myself, ma’am. When Mr. Henry Westwick was here (I have this from the valet, too) he occupied the room his brother died in (without knowing it), like you. For two nights he never closed his eyes. Without any reason for it (the valet heard him tell the gentlemen in the coffee-room) he could not sleep; he felt so low and so wretched in himself. And what is more, when daytime came, he couldn’t even eat while he was under this roof You may laugh at me, ma’am — but even a servant may draw her own conclusions. It’s my conclusion that something happened to my lord, which we none of us know about, when he died in this house. His ghost walks in torment53 until he can tell it — and the living persons related to him are the persons who feel he is near them. Those persons may yet see him in the time to come. Don’t, pray don’t stay any longer in this dreadful place! I wouldn’t stay another night here myself — no, not for anything that could be offered me!’
Mrs. Norbury at once set her servant’s mind at ease on this last point.
‘I don’t think about it as you do,’ she said gravely. ‘But I should like to speak to my brother of what has happened. We will go back to Milan.’
Some hours necessarily elapsed before they could leave the hotel, by the first train in the forenoon.
In that interval54, Mrs. Norbury’s maid found an opportunity of confidentially55 informing the valet of what had passed between her mistress and herself. The valet had other friends to whom he related the circumstances in his turn. In due course of time, the narrative56, passing from mouth to mouth, reached the ears of the manager. He instantly saw that the credit of the hotel was in danger, unless something was done to retrieve57 the character of the room numbered Fourteen. English travellers, well acquainted with the peerage of their native country, informed him that Henry Westwick and Mrs. Norbury were by no means the only members of the Montbarry family. Curiosity might bring more of them to the hotel, after hearing what had happened. The manager’s ingenuity58 easily hit on the obvious means of misleading them, in this case. The numbers of all the rooms were enamelled in blue, on white china plates, screwed to the doors. He ordered a new plate to be prepared, bearing the number, ‘13 A’; and he kept the room empty, after its tenant59 for the time being had gone away, until the plate was ready. He then re-numbered the room; placing the removed Number Fourteen on the door of his own room (on the second floor), which, not being to let, had not previously60 been numbered at all. By this device, Number Fourteen disappeared at once and for ever from the books of the hotel, as the number of a bedroom to let.
Having warned the servants to beware of gossiping with travellers, on the subject of the changed numbers, under penalty of being dismissed, the manager composed his mind with the reflection that he had done his duty to his employers. ‘Now,’ he thought to himself, with an excusable sense of triumph, ‘let the whole family come here if they like! The hotel is a match for them.’
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1
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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15
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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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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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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48
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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52
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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53
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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54
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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55
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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56
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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57
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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58
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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59
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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