Round the mansions2 once your own.
ROWE
A few days after the funeral, the will was opened before proper witnesses, and John was found to be left sole heir to his uncle’s property, which, though originally moderate, had, by his grasping habits, and parsimonious3 life, become very considerable.
As the attorney who read the will concluded, he added, ‘There are some words here, at the corner of the parchment, which do not appear to be part of the will, as they are neither in the form of a codicil4, nor is the signature of the testator affixed5 to them; but, to the best of my belief, they are in the hand-writing of the deceased.’ As he spoke6 he shewed the lines to Melmoth, who immediately recognized his uncle’s hand, (that perpendicular7 and penurious8 hand, that seems determined9 to make the most of the very paper, thriftily10 abridging11 every word, and leaving scarce an atom of margin), and read, not without some emotion, the following words: ‘I enjoin12 my nephew and heir, John Melmoth, to remove, destroy, or cause to be destroyed, the portrait inscribed13 J. Melmoth, 1646, hanging in my closet. I also enjoin him to search for a manuscript, which I think he will find in the third and lowest left-hand drawer of the mahogany chest standing14 under that portrait, — it is among some papers of no value, such as manuscript sermons, and pamphlets on the improvement of Ireland, and such stuff; he will distinguish it by its being tied round with a black tape, and the paper being very mouldy and discoloured. He may read it if he will; — I think he had better not. At all events, I adjure15 him, if there be any power in the adjuration16 of a dying man, to burn it.’
After reading this singular memorandum17, the business of the meeting was again resumed; and as old Melmoth’s will was very clear and legally worded, all was soon settled, the party dispersed18, and John Melmoth was left alone.
We should have mentioned, that his guardians19 appointed by the will (for he was not yet of age) advised him to return to College, and complete his education as soon as proper; but John urged the expediency20 of paying the respect due to his uncle’s memory, by remaining a decent time in the house after his decease. This was not his real motive21. Curiosity, or something that perhaps deserves a better name, the wild and awful pursuit of an indefinite object, had taken strong hold of his mind. His guardians (who were men of respectability and property in the neighbourhood, and in whose eyes John’s consequence had risen rapidly since the reading of the will), pressed him to accept of a temporary residence in their respective houses, till his return to Dublin. This was declined gratefully, but steadily22. They called for their horses, shook hands with the heir, and rode off — Melmoth was left alone.
The remainder of the day was passed in gloomy and anxious deliberation, — in traversing his late uncle’s room, — approaching the door of the closet, and then retreating from it, — in watching the clouds, and listening to the wind, as if the gloom of the one, or the murmurs23 of the other, relieved instead of increasing the weight that pressed on his mind. Finally, towards evening, he summoned the old woman, from whom he expected something like an explanation of the extraordinary circumstances he had witnessed since his arrival at his uncle’s . The old woman, proud of the summons, readily attended, but she had very little to tell, — her communication was nearly in the following words: (We spare the reader her endless circumlocutions, her Irishcisms, and the frequent interruptions arising from her applications to her snuff-box, and to the glass of whiskey punch with which Melmoth took care to have her supplied). The old woman deposed24, ‘That his honor (as she always called the deceased) was always intent upon the little room inside his bed-chamber, and reading there, within the last two years; — that people, knowing his honor had money, and thinking it must be there, had broke into that room, (in other words, there was a robbery attempted there), but finding nothing but some papers, they had retired25; — that he was so frightened, he had bricked up the window; but she thought there was more in it than that, for when his honor missed but a half-penny, he would make the house ring about it, but that, when the closet was bricked up, he never said a word; — that afterwards his honor used to lock himself up in his own room, and though he was never fond of reading, was always found, when his dinner was brought him, hanging over a paper, which he hid the moment any one came into the room, and once there was a great bustle26 about a picture that he tried to conceal27; — that knowing there was an odd story in the family, she did her best to come at it, and even went to Biddy Brannigan’s, (the medical Sybil before mentioned), to find out the rights of it; but Biddy only shook her head, filled her pipe, uttered some words she did not understand, and smoked on; — that it was but two evenings before his honor was struck, (i.e. took ill), she was standing at the door of the court, (which had once been surrounded by stables, pigeon-house, and all the usual etceteras of a gentleman’s residence, but now presented only a ruinous range of dismantled28 out-offices, thatched with thistles, and tenanted by pigs), when his honor called to her to lock the door, (his honor was always keen about locking the doors early); she was hastening to do so, when he snatched the key from her, swearing at her, (for he was always very keen about locking the doors, though the locks were so bad, and the keys so rusty29, that it was always like the cry of the dead in the house when the keys were turned); — that she stood aside for a minute, seeing he was angry, and gave him the key, when she heard him utter a scream, and saw him fall across the door-way; — that she hurried to raise him, hoping it was a fit; — that she found him stiff and stretched out, and called for help to lift him up; — that then people came from the kitchen to assist; — that she was so bewildered and terrified, she hardly knew what was done or said; but with all her terror remembered, that as they raised him up, the first sign of life he gave was lifting up his arm, and pointing it towards the court, and at that moment she saw the figure of a tall man cross the court, and go out of the court, she knew not where or how, for the outer gate was locked, and had not been opened for years, and they were all gathered round his honor at the other door; — she saw the figure, — she saw the shadow on the wall, — she saw him walk slowly through the court, and in her terror cried, ‘Stop him,’ but nobody minded her, all being busy about her master; and when he was brought to his room, nobody thought but of getting him to himself again. And further she could not tell. His honor (young Melmoth) knew as much as she, — he had witnessed his last illness, had heard his last words, he saw him die, — how could she know more than his honor.’
‘True,’ said Melmoth, ‘I certainly saw him die; but — you say there was an odd story in the family, do you know any thing about it?’ ‘Not a word, it was long before my time, as old as I am.’ ‘Certainly it must have been so; but, was my uncle ever superstitious30, fanciful?’ — and Melmoth was compelled to use many synonymous expressions, before he could make himself understood. When he did, the answer was plain and decisive, ‘No, never, never. When his honor sat in the kitchen in winter, to save a fire in his own room, he could never bear the talk of the old women that came in to light their pipes betimes, (from time to time). He used to shew such impatience31 of their superstitious nonsense, that they were fain to smoke them in silence, without the consolatory32 accompaniment of one whisper about a child that the evil eye had looked on, or another, that though apparently33 a mewling, peevish34, crippled brat35 all day, went regularly out at night to dance with the good people on the top of a neighbouring mountain, summoned thereto by the sound of a bag-pipe, which was unfailingly heard at the cabin door every night.’ Melmoth’s thoughts began to take somewhat of a darker hue36 at this account. If his uncle was not superstitious, might he not have been guilty, and might not his strange and sudden death, and even the terrible visitation that preceded it, have been owing to some wrong that his rapacity37 had done the widow and the fatherless. He questioned the old woman indirectly38 and cautiously on the subject, — her answer completely justified39 the deceased. ‘He was a man,’ she said, ‘of a hard hand, and a hard heart, but he was as jealous of another’s right as of his own. He would have starved all the world, but he would not have wronged it of a farthing.’
Melmoth’s last resource was to send for Biddy Brannigan, who was still in the house, and from whom he at least hoped to hear the odd story that the old woman confessed was in the family. She came, and, on her introduction to Melmoth, it was curious to observe the mingled40 look of servility and command, the result of the habits of her life, which was alternately one of abject41 mendicity, and of arrogant42 but clever imposture43. When she first appeared, she stood at the door, awed45 and curtseying in the presence, and muttering sounds which, possibly intended for blessings46, had, from the harsh tone and witch-like look of the speaker, every appearance of malediction47; but when interrogated48 on the subject of the story, she rose at once into consequence, — her figure seemed frightfully dilated49, like that of Virgil’s Alecto, who exchanges in a moment the appearance of a feeble old woman for that of a menacing fury.’ She walked deliberately50 across the room, seated, or rather squatted51 herself on the hearth-stone like a hare in her form, spread her bony and withered52 hands towards the blaze, and rocked for a considerable time in silence before she commenced her tale. When she had finished it, Melmoth remained in astonishment53 at the state of mind to which the late singular circumstances had reduced him, — at finding himself listening with varying and increasing emotions of interest, curiosity, and terror, to a tale so wild, so improbable, nay54, so actually incredible, that he at least blushed for the folly55 he could not conquer. The result of these impressions was, a resolution to visit the closet, and examine the manuscript that very night.
This resolution he found it impossible to execute immediately, for, on inquiring for lights, the gouvernante confessed the very last had been burnt at his honor’s wake; and a bare-footed boy was charged to run for life and death to the neighbouring village for candles; and if you could borry a couple of candlesticks, added the housekeeper56. ‘Are there no candlesticks in the house?’ said Melmoth. ‘There are, honey, plinty, but it’s no time to be opening the old chest, for the plated ones, in regard of their being at the bottom of it, and the brass57 ones that’s in it (in the house), one of them has no socket58, and the other has no bottom.’ ‘And how did you make shift yourself,’ said Melmoth. ‘I stuck it in a potatoe,’ quoth the housekeeper. So the gossoon ran for life and death, and Melmoth, towards the close of the evening, was left alone to meditate59.
It was an evening apt for meditation60, and Melmoth had his fill of it before the messenger returned. The weather was cold and gloomy; heavy clouds betokened61 a long and dreary62 continuance of autumnal rains; cloud after cloud came sweeping63 on like the dark banners of an approaching host, whose march is for desolation. As Melmoth leaned against the window, whose dismantled frame, and pieced and shattered panes64, shook with every gust65 of wind, his eye encountered nothing but that most cheerless of all prospects66, a miser’s garden, — walls broken down, grass-grown walks whose grass was not even green, dwarfish67, doddered, leafless trees, and a luxuriant crop of nettles68 and weeds rearing their unlovely heads where there had once been flowers, all waving and bending in capricious and unsightly forms, as the wind sighed over them. It was the verdure of the church-yard, the garden of death. He turned for relief to the room, but no relief was there, — the wainscotting dark with dirt, and in many places cracked and starting from the walls, — the rusty grate, so long unconscious of a fire, that nothing but a sullen69 smoke could be coaxed70 to issue from between its dingy71 bars, — the crazy chairs, their torn bottoms of rush drooping72 inwards, and the great leathern seat displaying the stuffing round the worn edges, while the nails, though they kept their places, had failed to keep the covering they once fastened, — the chimney-piece, which, tarnished73 more by time than by smoke, displayed for its garniture half a pair of snuffers, a tattered74 almanack of 1750, a time-keeper dumb for want of repair, and a rusty fowling-piece without a lock. — No wonder the spectacle of desolation drove Melmoth back to his own thoughts, restless and uncomfortable as they were. He recapitulated75 the Sybil’s story word by word, with the air of a man who is cross-examining an evidence, and trying to make him contradict himself.
‘The first of the Melmoths, she says, who settled in Ireland, was an officer in Cromwell’s army, who obtained a grant of lands, the confiscated76 property of an Irish family attached to the royal cause. The elder brother of this man was one who had travelled abroad, and resided so long on the Continent, that his family had lost all recollection of him. Their memory was not stimulated77 by their affection, for there were strange reports concerning the traveller. He was said to be (like the ‘damned magician, great Glendower,’) ‘a gentleman profited in strange concealments.’
It must be remembered, that at this period, and even to a later, the belief in astrology and witchcraft78 was very general. Even so late as the reign79 of Charles II. Dryden calculated the nativity of his son Charles, the ridiculous books of Glanville were in general circulation, and Delrio and Wierus were so popular, that even a dramatic writer (Shadwell) quoted copiously80 from them, in the notes subjoined to his curious comedy of the Lancashire witches. It was said, that during the life-time of Melmoth, the traveller paid him a visit; and though he must have then been considerably81 advanced in life, to the astonishment of his family, he did not betray the slightest trace of being a year older than when they last beheld82 him. His visit was short, he said nothing of the past or the future, nor did his family question him. It was said that they did not feel themselves perfectly83 at ease in his presence. On his departure he left them his picture, (the same which Melmoth saw in the closet, bearing date 1646), and they saw him no more. Some years after, a person arrived from England, directed to Melmoth’s house, in pursuit of the traveller, and exhibiting the most marvellous and unappeasable solicitude84 to obtain some intelligence of him. The family could give him none, and after some days of restless inquiry85 and agitation86, he departed, leaving behind him, either through negligence87 or intention, a manuscript, containing an extraordinary account of the circumstances under which he had met John Melmoth the Traveller (as he was called).
The manuscript and portrait were both preserved, and of the original a report spread that he was still alive, and had been frequently seen in Ireland even to the present century, — but that he was never known to appear but on the approaching death of one of the family, nor even then, unless when the evil passions or habits of the individual had cast a shade of gloomy and fearful interest over their dying hour.
It was therefore judged no favourable88 augury89 for the spiritual destination of the last Melmoth, that this extraordinary person had visited, or been imagined to visit, the house previous to his decease.’
Such was the account given by Biddy Brannigan, to which she added her own solemnly-attested belief, that John Melmoth the Traveller was still without a hair on his head changed, or a muscle in his frame contracted; — that she had seen those that had seen him, and would confirm their evidence by oath if necessary; — that he was never heard to speak, seen to partake of food, or known to enter any dwelling90 but that of his family; — and, finally, that she herself believed that his late appearance boded91 no good either to the living or the dead.
John was still musing92 on these things when the lights were procured93, and, disregarding the pallid94 countenances95 and monitory whispers of the attendants, he resolutely96 entered the closet, shut the door, and proceeded to search for the manuscript. It was soon found, for the directions of old Melmoth were forcibly written, and strongly remembered. The manuscript, old, tattered, and discoloured, was taken from the very drawer in which it was mentioned to be laid. Melmoth’s hands felt as cold as those of his dead uncle, when he drew the blotted97 pages from their nook. He sat down to read, — there was a dead silence through the house. Melmoth looked wistfully at the candles, snuffed them, and still thought they looked dim, (perchance he thought they burned blue, but such thought he kept to himself.) Certain it is, he often changed his posture44, and would have changed his chair, had there been more than one in the apartment.
He sunk for a few moments into a fit of gloomy abstraction, till the sound of the clock striking twelve made him start, — it was the only sound he had heard for some hours, and the sounds produced by inanimate things, while all living beings around are as dead, have at such an hour an effect indescribably awful. John looked at his manuscript with some reluctance98, opened it, paused over the first lines, and as the wind sighed round the desolate99 apartment, and the rain pattered with a mournful sound against the dismantled window, wished — what did he wish for? — he wished the sound of the wind less dismal100, and the dash of the rain less monotonous101. — He may be forgiven, it was past midnight, and there was not a human being awake but himself within ten miles when he began to read.
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1
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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2
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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4
codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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5
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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6
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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7
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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thriftily
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| 节俭地； 繁茂地； 繁荣的 | |
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abridging
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| 节略( abridge的现在分词 )； 减少； 缩短； 剥夺（某人的）权利（或特权等） | |
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12
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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13
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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14
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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15
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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18
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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24
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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25
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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27
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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28
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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36
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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39
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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40
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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41
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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42
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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43
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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44
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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45
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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47
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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48
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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49
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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51
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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52
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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53
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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54
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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55
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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56
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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57
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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58
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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59
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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recapitulated
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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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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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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