I have a story to tell which will move amidst tragic6 circumstances of too engrossing7 a nature to be disturbed by archaeological interests, and shall not, therefore, minutely describe here what I observed in Nuremberg, although no adequate description of that wonderful city has yet fallen in my way. To readers unacquainted with this antique place, it will be enough to say that in it the old German life seems still to a great extent rescued from the all- devouring8, all-equalizing tendencies of European civilization. The houses are either of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, or are constructed after those ancient models. The citizens have preserved much of the simple manners and customs of their ancestors. The hurrying feet of commerce and curiosity pass rapidly by, leaving it sequestered from the agitations9 and the turmoils10 of metropolitan11 existence. It is as quiet as a village. During my stay there rose in its quiet streets the startled echoes of horror at a crime unparalleled in its annals, which, gathering12 increased horror from the very peacefulness and serenity13 of the scene, arrested the attention and the sympathy in a degree seldom experienced. Before narrating14 that, it will be necessary to go back a little, that my own connection with it may be intelligible15, especially in the fanciful weaving together of remote conjectures17 which strangely involved me in the story.
The table d'hote at the Bayerischer Hof had about thirty visitors— all, with one exception, of that local commonplace which escapes remark. Indeed this may almost always be said of tables d'hote; though there is a current belief, which I cannot share, of a table d'hote being very delightful18—of one being certain to meet pleasant people there." It may be so. For many years I believed it was so. The general verdict received my assent19. I had never met those delightful people, but was always expecting to meet them. Hitherto they had been conspicuous20 by their absence. According to my experience in Spain, France, and Germany, such dinners had been dreary21 or noisy and vapid22. If the guests were English, they were chillingly silent, or surlily monosyllabic: to their neighbors they were frigid23; amongst each other they spoke24 in low undertones. And if the guests were foreigners, they were noisy, clattering25, and chattering26, foolish for the most part, and vivaciously27 commonplace. I don't know which made me feel most dreary. The predominance of my countrymen gave the dinner the gayety of a funeral; the predominance of the Mossoo gave it the fatigue28 of got-up enthusiasm, of trivial expansiveness. To hear strangers imparting the scraps29 of erudition and connoisseurship31 which they had that morning gathered from their valets de place and guide-books, or describing the sights they had just seen, to you, who either saw them yesterday, or would see them to-morrow, could not be permanently32 attractive. My mind refuses to pasture on such food with gusto. I cannot be made to care what the Herr Baron's sentiments about Albert Durer or Lucas Cranach may be. I can digest my rindfleisch without the aid of the commis voyageur's criticisms on Gothic architecture. This may be my misfortune. In spite of the Italian blood which I inherit, I am a shy man—shy as the purest Briton. But, like other shy men, I make up in obstinacy33 what may be deficient34 in expansiveness. I can be frightened into silence, but I won't be dictated35 to. You might as well attempt the persuasive36 effect of your eloquence37 upon a snail38 who has withdrawn39 into his shell at your approach, and will not emerge till his confidence is restored. To be told that I MUST see this, and ought to go there, because my casual neighbor was charme, has never presented itself to me as an adequate motive41.
From this you readily gather that I am severely42 taciturn at a table d'hote. I refrain from joining in the "delightful conversation" which flies across the table, and know that my reticence43 is attributed to "insular44 pride." It is really and truly nothing but impatience45 of commonplace. I thoroughly46 enjoy good talk; but, ask yourself, what are the probabilities of hearing that rare thing in the casual assemblage of forty or fifty people, not brought together by any natural affinities47 or interests, but thrown together by the accident of being in the same district, and in the same hotel? They are not "forty feeding like one," but like forty. They have no community, except the community of commonplace. No, tables d'hote are not delightful, and do not gather interesting people together.
Such has been my extensive experience. But this at Nuremberg is a conspicuous exception. At that table there was one guest who, on various grounds, personal and incidental, remains48 the most memorable49 man I ever met. From the first he riveted50 my attention in an unusual degree. He had not, as yet, induced me to emerge from my habitual51 reserve, for in truth, although he riveted my attention, he inspired me with a strange feeling of repulsion. I could scarcely keep my eyes from him; yet, except the formal bow on sitting down and rising from the table, I had interchanged no sign of fellowship with him. He was a young Russian, named Bourgonef, as I at once learned; rather handsome, and peculiarly arresting to the eye, partly from an air of settled melancholy52, especially in his smile, the amiability53 of which seemed breaking from under clouds of grief, and still more so from the mute appeal to sympathy in the empty sleeve of his right arm, which was looped to the breast-button of his coat. His eyes were large and soft. He had no beard or whisker, and only delicate moustaches. The sorrow, quiet but profound, the amiable54 smile and the lost arm, were appealing details which at once arrested attention and excited sympathy. But to me this sympathy was mingled55 with a vague repulsion, occasioned by a certain falseness in the amiable smile, and a furtiveness56 in the eyes, which I saw—or fancied—and which, with an inexplicable57 reserve, forming as it were the impregnable citadel58 in the center of his outwardly polite and engaging manner, gave me something of that vague impression which we express by the words "instinctive59 antipathy60."
It was, when calmly considered, eminently61 absurd. To see one so young, and by his conversation so highly cultured and intelligent, condemned62 to early helplessness, his food cut up for him by a servant, as if he were a child, naturally engaged pity, and, on the first day, I cudgeled my brains during the greater part of dinner in the effort to account for his lost arm. He was obviously not a military man; the unmistakable look and stoop of a student told that plainly enough. Nor was the loss one dating from early life: he used his left arm too awkwardly for the event not to have had a recent date. Had it anything to do with his melancholy? Here was a topic for my vagabond imagination, and endless were the romances woven by it during my silent dinner. For the reader must be told of one peculiarity63 in me, because to it much of the strange complications of my story are due; complications into which a mind less active in weaving imaginary hypotheses to interpret casual and trifling64 facts would never have been drawn40. From my childhood I have been the victim of my constructive65 imagination, which has led me into many mistakes and some scrapes; because, instead of contenting myself with plain, obvious evidence, I have allowed myself to frame hypothetical interpretations66, which, to acts simple in themselves, and explicable on ordinary motives67, render the simple-seeming acts portentous68. With bitter pangs69 of self-reproach I have at times discovered that a long and plausible70 history constructed by me, relating to personal friends, has crumpled71 into a ruin of absurdity72, by the disclosure of the primary misconception on which the whole history was based. I have gone, let us say, on the supposition that two people were secretly lovers; on this supposition my imagination has constructed a whole scheme to explain certain acts, and one fine day I have discovered indubitably that the supposed lovers were not lovers, but confidants of their passions in other directions, and, of course, all my conjectures have been utterly73 false. The secret flush of shame at failure has not, however, prevented my falling into similar mistakes immediately after.
When, therefore, I hereafter speak of my "constructive imagination," the reader will know to what I am alluding75. It was already busy with Bourgonef. To it must be added that vague repulsion, previously76 mentioned. This feeling abated78 on the second day; but, although lessened79, it remained powerful enough to prevent my speaking to him. Whether it would have continued to abate77 until it disappeared, as such antipathies80 often disappear, under the familiarities of prolonged intercourse81, without any immediate74 appeal to my amour propre, I know not; but every reflective mind, conscious of being accessible to antipathies, will remember that one certain method of stifling82 them is for the object to make some appeal to our interest or our vanity: in the engagement of these more powerful feelings, the antipathy is quickly strangled. At any rate it is so in my case, and was so now.
On the third day, the conversation at table happening to turn, as it often turned, upon St. Sebald's Church, a young Frenchman, who was criticising its architecture with fluent dogmatism, drew Bourgonef into the discussion, and thereby83 elicited84 such a display of accurate and extensive knowledge, no less than delicacy85 of appreciation86, that we were all listening spellbound. In the midst of this triumphant87 exposition the irritated vanity of the Frenchman could do nothing to regain88 his position but oppose a flat denial to a historical statement made by Bourgonef, backing his denial by the confident assertion that "all the competent authorities" held with him. At this point Bourgonef appealed to me, and in that tone of deference89 so exquisitely90 flattering from one we already know to be superior he requested my decision; observing that, from the manner in which he had seen me examine the details of the architecture, he could not be mistaken in his confidence that I was a connoisseur30. All eyes were turned upon me. As a shy man, this made me blush; as a vain man, the blush was accompanied with delight. It might easily have happened that such an appeal, acting91 at once upon shyness and ignorance, would have inflamed92 my wrath93; but the appeal happening to be directed on a point which I had recently investigated and thoroughly mastered, I was flattered at the opportunity of a victorious94 display.
The pleasure of my triumph diffused95 itself over my feelings towards him who had been the occasion of it. The Frenchman was silenced; the general verdict of the company was too obviously on our side. From this time the conversation continued between Bourgonef and myself; and he not only succeeded in entirely96 dissipating my absurd antipathy—which I now saw to have been founded on purely97 imaginary grounds, for neither the falseness nor the furtiveness could now be detected—but he succeeded in captivating all my sympathy. Long after dinner was over, and the salle empty, we sat smoking our cigars, and discussing politics, literature, and art in that suggestive desultory98 manner which often gives a charm to casual acquaintances.
It was a stirring epoch99, that of February, 1848. The Revolution, at first so hopeful, and soon to manifest itself in failure so disastrous100, was hurrying to an outburst. France had been for many months agitated101 by cries of electoral reform, and by indignation at the corruption102 and scandals in high places. The Praslin murder, and the dishonor of M. Teste, terminated by suicide, had been interpreted as signs of the coming destruction. The political banquets given in various important cities had been occasions for inflaming103 the public mind, and to the far-seeing, these banquets were interpreted as the sounds of the tocsin. Louis Philippe had become odious104 to France, and contemptible105 to Europe. Guizot and Duchatel, the ministers of that day, although backed by a parliamentary majority on which they blindly relied, were unpopular, and were regarded as infatuated even by their admirers in Europe. The Spanish marriages had all but led to a war with England. The Opposition106, headed by Thiers and Odillon Barrot, was strengthened by united action with the republican party, headed by Ledru Rollin, Marrast, Flocon, and Louis Blanc.
Bourgonef was an ardent107 republican. So was I; but my color was of a different shade from his. He belonged to the Reds. My own dominant108 tendencies being artistic109 and literary, my dream was of a republic in which intelligence would be the archon or ruler; and, of course, in such a republic, art and literature, as the highest manifestation110 of mind, would have the supreme111 direction. Do you smile, reader? I smile now; but it was serious earnest with me then. It is unnecessary to say more on this point. I have said so much to render intelligible the stray link of communion which riveted the charm of my new acquaintance's conversation; there was both agreement enough and difference enough in our views to render our society mutually fascinating.
On retiring to my room that afternoon I could not help laughing at my absurd antipathy against Bourgonef. All his remarks had disclosed a generous, ardent, and refined nature. While my antipathy had specially16 fastened upon a certain falseness in his smile—a falseness the more poignantly112 hideous113 if it were falseness, because hidden amidst the wreaths of amiability—my delight in his conversation had specially justified114 itself by the truthfulness115 of his mode of looking at things. He seemed to be sincerity116 itself. There was, indeed, a certain central reserve; but that might only he an integrity of pride; or it might be connected with painful circumstances in his history, of which the melancholy in his face was the outward sign.
That very evening my constructive imagination was furnished with a detail on which it was soon to be actively117 set to work. I had been rambling118 about the old fortifications, and was returning at nightfall through the old archway near Albert Durer's house, when a man passed by me. We looked at each other in that automatic way in which men look when they meet in narrow places, and I felt, so to speak, a start of recognition in the eyes of the man who passed. Nothing else, in features or gestures, betrayed recognition or surprise. But although there was only that, it flashed from his eyes to mine like an electric shock. He passed. I looked back. He continued his way without turning. The face was certainly known to me; but it floated in a mist of confused memories.
I walked on slowly, pestering119 my memory with fruitless calls upon it, hopelessly trying to recover the place where I could have seen the stranger before. In vain memory traveled over Europe in concert-rooms, theaters, shops, and railway carriages. I could not recall the occasion on which those eyes had previously met mine. That they had met them I had no doubt. I went to bed with the riddle120 undiscovered.
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1
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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5
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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8
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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turmoils
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| n.混乱( turmoil的名词复数 )；焦虑 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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24
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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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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connoisseurship
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| n.鉴赏家（或鉴定家、行家）身份，鉴赏（或鉴定）力 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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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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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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38
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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43
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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45
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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46
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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47
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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48
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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50
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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51
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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52
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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53
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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54
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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55
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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56
furtiveness
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| 偷偷摸摸，鬼鬼祟祟 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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58
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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59
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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70
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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71
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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72
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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73
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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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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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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103
inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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poignantly
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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114
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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115
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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118
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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119
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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