But when they were face to face Allonby’s jovial1 countenance2 showed no sign of embarrassment3. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned across his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician.
Granice broke out at once: “That detective you sent me the other day — ”
Allonby raised a deprecating hand.
“ — I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?”
The other’s face did not lose its composure. “Because I looked up your story first — and there’s nothing in it.”
“Nothing in it?” Granice furiously interposed.
“Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don’t you bring me proofs? I know you’ve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and to that little ferret McCarren of the Explorer. Have any of them been able to make out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?”
Granice’s lips began to tremble. “Why did you play me that trick?”
“About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it’s part of my business. Stell is a detective, if you come to that — every doctor is.”
The trembling of Granice’s lips increased, communicating itself in a long quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry throat. “Well — and what did he detect?”
“In you? Oh, he thinks it’s overwork — overwork and too much smoking. If you look in on him some day at his office he’ll show you the record of hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. It’s one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the same.”
“But, Allonby, I killed that man!”
The District Attorney’s large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office.
“Sorry, my dear fellow — lot of people waiting. drop in on Stell some morning,” Allonby said, shaking hands.
McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the alibi4. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped back into a deeper isolation5. For a day or two after his visit to Allonby he continued to live in dread6 of Dr. Stell. Why might not Allonby have deceived him as to the alienist’s diagnosis7? What if he were really being shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the truth out, he suddenly determined8 to call on Dr. Stell.
The physician received him kindly9, and reverted10 without embarrassment to the conditions of their previous meeting. “We have to do that occasionally, Mr. Granice; it’s one of our methods. And you had given Allonby a fright.”
Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt11, to produce the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last talk with the physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken for a symptom of derangement12, and he affected13 to smile away Dr. Stell’s allusion14.
“You think, then, it’s a case of brain-fag — nothing more?”
“Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a good deal, don’t you?”
He developed his treatment, recommending massage15, gymnastics, travel, or any form of diversion that did not — that in short —
Granice interrupted him impatiently. “Oh, I loathe16 all that — and I’m sick of travelling.”
“H’m. Then some larger interest — politics, reform, philanthropy? Something to take you out of yourself.”
“Yes. I understand,” said Granice wearily.
“Above all, don’t lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours,” the doctor added cheerfully from the threshold.
On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like his — the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a play: the great alienist who couldn’t read a man’s mind any better than that!
Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type.
But as he walked away, his fears dispelled17, the sense of listlessness returned on him. For the first time since his avowal18 to Peter Ascham he found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. Now his life had once more become a stagnant19 backwater, and as he stood on the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked himself despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in the sluggish20 circle of his consciousness.
The thought of self-destruction recurred21 to him; but again his flesh recoiled22. He yearned23 for death from other hands, but he could never take it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance24, another motive25 restrained him. He was possessed26 by the dogged desire to establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as an irresponsible dreamer — even if he had to kill himself in the end, he would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death from it.
He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had been published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled27 by a brief statement from the District Attorney’s office, and the rest of his communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged him to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of his delusion28; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives29, began to dread the reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the words he kept back engendered30 others and still others in his brain. His inner self became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long hours reciting and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, which he constantly retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity languished31 under the lack of an audience, the sense of being buried beneath deepening drifts of indifference32. In a passion of resentment33 he swore that he would prove himself a murderer, even if he had to commit another crime to do it; and for a sleepless34 night or two the thought flamed red on his darkness. But daylight dispelled it. The determining impulse was lacking and he hated too promiscuously35 to choose his victim . . . So he was thrown back on the unavailing struggle to impose the truth of his story. As fast as one channel closed on him he tried to pierce another through the sliding sands of incredulity. But every issue seemed blocked, and the whole human race leagued together to cheat one man of the right to die.
Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous36 that he lost his last shred37 of self-restraint in contemplating38 it. What if he were really the victim of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of holiday-makers jeering39 at a poor creature in its blind dashes against the solid walls of consciousness? But, no — men were not so uniformly cruel: there were flaws in the close surface of their indifference, cracks of weakness and pity here and there . . .
Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to persons more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible conformities40 of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce secret deviation41. The general tendency was to take for the whole of life the slit42 seen between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista43 Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to follow his whole orbit his story would be more intelligible44: it would be easier to convince a chance idler in the street than the trained intelligence hampered45 by a sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up in him with the tropic luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he began to walk the streets, and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses and bars in his search for the impartial46 stranger to whom he should disclose himself.
At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that his first choice should be decisive. He dreaded47 stupidity, timidity, intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed48 brow, were what he sought. He must reveal himself only to a heart versed49 in the tortuous50 motions of the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence51 of the average face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively52, he made a beginning — once sitting down at a man’s side in a basement chop-house, another day approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf53. But in both cases the premonition of failure checked him on the brink54 of avowal. His dread of being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed55 idea gave him an unnatural56 keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and he had provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, trap-doors of evasion57 from the first dart58 of ridicule59 or suspicion.
He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at irregular hours, dreading60 the silence and orderliness of his apartment, and the critical scrutiny61 of Flint. His real life was spent in a world so remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the mysterious sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive62 passage from one identity to another — yet the other as unescapably himself!
One humiliation63 he was spared: the desire to live never revived in him. Not for a moment was he tempted64 to a shabby pact65 with existing conditions. He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire which alone attains66 its end. And still the end eluded67 him! It would not always, of course — he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. And he could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently68 and indefatigably69, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull brains, till at last it kindled70 a spark, and some one of the careless millions paused, listened, believed . . .
It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side docks, looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his eagerness no longer made rash darts71 and awkward recoils72. He knew now the face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and not till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward73 through the shabby reeking74 streets he had a premonition that he should find it that morning. Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air — certainly he felt calmer than for many days . . .
He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely75, and walked up University Place. Its heterogeneous76 passers always allured77 him — they were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face.
At union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a votary78 who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, after all, he should never find his face . . . The air was languid, and he felt tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted trees, making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a girl sat alone, and something as definite as the twitch79 of a cord made him stop before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a girl, had hardly looked at the women’s faces as they passed. His case was man’s work: how could a woman help him? But this girl’s face was extraordinary — quiet and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a hundred images of space, distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as a boy, quietly berthed80 by a familiar wharf, but with the breath of far seas and strange harbours in their shrouds81 . . . Certainly this girl would understand. He went up to her quietly, lifting his hat, observing the forms — wishing her to see at once that he was “a gentleman.”
“I am a stranger to you,” he began, sitting down beside her, “but your face is so extremely intelligent that I feel . . . I feel it is the face I’ve waited for . . . looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you — ”
The girl’s eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him!
In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by the arm.
“Here — wait — listen! Oh, don’t scream, you fool!” he shouted out.
He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard within him was loosened and ran to tears.
“Ah, you know — you know I’m guilty!”
He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl’s frightened face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It was the policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, the crowd at his heels . . .
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收听单词发音
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1
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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10
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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15
massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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16
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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40
conformities
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| n.符合（conformity的复数形式） | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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42
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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43
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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44
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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47
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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48
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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50
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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51
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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52
allusively
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| adj.暗指的，影射，间接提到 | |
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53
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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54
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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55
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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56
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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57
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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58
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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61
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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63
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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64
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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65
pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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66
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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67
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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68
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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70
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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71
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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72
recoils
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| n.（尤指枪炮的）反冲，后坐力( recoil的名词复数 )v.畏缩( recoil的第三人称单数 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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73
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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74
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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76
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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77
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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79
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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80
berthed
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| v.停泊( berth的过去式和过去分词 )；占铺位 | |
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81
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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