There is mystery connected with the incidents which I am about to relate. Looked at from one point of view, the whole affair is mysterious—eminently so; yet, regarded from another point of view, it is not so mysterious as it seems. Whatever my reader may think about it as he goes along, I entreat1 him to suspend his judgment2 until he has reached the conclusion of my narrative3. My only reason for bringing this mysterious matter before the public is, that, in addition to filling me with unutterable surprise, it had the effect of quenching4 one of my strongest desires, and effectually prevented my becoming a sailor.
This, I freely admit, is not in itself a sufficient reason to justify5 my rushing into print. But when I regard the matter from what may be termed a negative point of view, I do feel that it is not absolutely presumptuous6 in me to claim public attention. Suppose that Sir John Franklin had never gone to sea; what a life of adventure and discovery would have been lost to the world! what deeds of heroism7 undone8, and, therefore, untold9! I venture to think, that if that great navigator had not gone to sea, it would have been a matter of interest, (knowing what we now know), to have been told that such was the case. In this view of the matter I repeat it, as being of possible future interest, that the incident I am about to relate prevented my becoming a sailor.
I am said to be a soft boy—that is to say, I was said to be soft. I’m a man now, but, of course, I was a boy once. I merely mention this to prove that I make no pretension10 whatever to unusual wisdom; quite the reverse. I hate sailing under false colours—not that I ever did sail under any colours, never having become a sailor—and yet I shouldn’t say that, either, for that’s the very point round which all the mystery hangs. I did go to sea! I’m rather apt to wander, I find, from my point, and to confuse my own mind, (I trust not the reader’s). Perhaps the shortest way to let you understand how it was is to tell you all about it.
My name is Robert Smith—not an unusual name, I am given to understand. It was of little use to me during the period of my boyhood, for I never got any other name than Bob—sometimes soft was added. I had a father. He loved me. As a natural consequence, I loved him. He was old, partially11 bald, silver-haired, kind, affectionate, good, five feet six, and wore spectacles. I, at the time I write of; was young, stout12, well-grown, active, and had a long nose—much too long a nose: it was the only point in regard to which I was sensitive. It was owing to the length of this member, I believe, that I once went by the name of Mozambique. You see, I conceal13 nothing. The remarkable—the mysterious—the every way astonishing incidents I am about to relate, require that I should be more than usually careful and particular in stating things precisely14 as I saw them and understood them at the time.
In this view of the matter I should remark that the softness with which I was charged did not refer to my muscles—they were hard and well developed—but to my intellect. I take this opportunity of stating that I think the charge unjust. But, to conclude my description of myself; I am romantic. One of my dearest companions used to say that my nose was the same, minus the tic! What he meant by that I never could make out. I doubt if he himself knew.
My chief delight in my leisure hours was to retire to my bedroom and immerse myself in books of travel and adventure. This was my mania15. No one can conceive the delight I experienced in following heroes of every name over the pathless deep and through the trackless forests of every clime. My heart swelled16 within me, and the blood rushed through my veins17 like liquid fire, as I read of chasing lions, tigers, elephants, in Africa; white bears and walrus18 in the Polar regions; and deer and bisons on the American prairies. I struggled long to suppress the flame that consumed me, but I could not. It grew hotter and hotter. At last, it burst forth—and this brings me to the point.
I thought—one dark, dismal19 night in the middle of November—I thought, (mind, I don’t say I determined20; no, but I thought), of running away from home and going to sea!
I confess it with shame. The image of my dear father rose before me with a kind and sorrowful look. I repented21; started to my feet, and seized the book I was reading with the intention of tossing it into the fire. In doing so, I accidentally turned over a leaf. There was an illustration on the page. I looked at it. An African savage22 firing the whole contents of a six-barrelled revolver down the throat of a Bengal tiger, without, apparently23, doing it any harm! I thought not of the incongruous combination. My soul was fired anew. Once again I thought of running away from home and going to sea—not by any means with the intention of remaining at sea, but for the purpose of reaching foreign—if possible—unknown lands.
Having conceived the thought, I rose calmly, shut the book carefully, but with decision, thrust my hands firmly into my pockets, knitted my brows, and went out in search of my bosom24 friend John Brown—also a commonplace name, I believe—at least, so it is said.
Jack25, as I used to call him, had a mother, but no father—his father died when Jack was an infant. I’ve often fancied that there was a delicate bond of union between us here. He had a mother, but no father. I had a father, but no mother. Strange coincidence! I think the fact helped to draw us together. I may be wrong, but I think so. Jack was on a visit to us at the time, so I had only to cross the passage to reach his room.
“Come in,” he cried, as I knocked.
“Jack, come to my room. It’s more comfortable than yours. I want your advice.”
He rose, in some surprise, and followed me.
If John Brown’s name was commonplace his person was certainly not so. He looked like a young lord. He was a noble fellow, by nature if not by birth. A clear, sunny face, masculine chin and nose, sweet, firm mouth, the eye of an eagle, and the soft, curly, golden hair of a child. Tall, broad-shouldered, elegant, bold as a lion, gentle and kind as a lamb—such was my best, my dearest friend, Jack.
“Jack,” said I, “I’m going to run away!”
My friend fell into a chair, put both legs straight out, and looked at me in speechless amazement26 for a second; then he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Jack,” I repeated, “I’m going to run away.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said he.
“And,” I continued, regardless of his remark, “I mean that you shall run away with me.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he replied. “But come, Bob, my boy, you’re joking. Surely this is not the object for which you called me out of my room.”
“Indeed it is. Listen to me, Jack.” (I looked at him impressively. He returned the look, for Jack was earnest as well as gay.) “You know that my dear father positively27 refused to let me go abroad, although I have entreated28 him to do so again and again. Now I think that’s hard, you know. I love my dear father very much, but—”
“You love yourself better. Is that it?”
“Well, put it so if you choose. I don’t care. I’m going to run away, and if you won’t go with me you can stay at home—that’s all.”
“But I do; and I’m sure I don’t see what it is that prevents you from going too,” said I, testily30.
“H’m! well, there is a small matter, a sort of moral idea, so to speak, that prevents.”
“And what is that?”
“Respect for my mother! Bob, my boy, I’ve been too deeply imbued31 with that in my babyhood to shake it off now, even if I wished to do so; but I don’t, Bob, I don’t. I’m proud of my mother, and, moreover, I remember her teachings. There’s one little verse I used to repeat to her every Sunday night, along with the rest of the ten commandments, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother,’ etcetera. It seems to me that running away is rather flying in the face of that. Doesn’t it strike you in that light, Bob?”
I was silent. I felt that I had no argument against such reasoning. Jack rose.
“It’s late, Bob; we are to start on our fishing expedition to-morrow morning at six, so it behoves us to get into bed. Good-night! and think over it!”
I seized his hand and pressed it warmly.
“Good-night, Jack, I will!”
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1
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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6
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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9
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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11
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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15
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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16
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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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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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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31
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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