On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe3. The servants, the doctor, and the inspector4 of police between them, learned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly5 been poisoned by prussic acid. It was also proved that he had been drunk in the House of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, very much against his will, was called upon to testify. That he had destroyed himself there was no doubt — nor was there any doubt as to the cause.
In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. Surviving friends are of course anxious for a verdict of insanity6, as in that case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in their verdicts by any accurately7 ascertained8 facts. If the poor wretch9 has, up to his last days, been apparently10 living a decent life; if he be not hated, or has not in his last moments made himself specially11 obnoxious12 to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven by horrid13 doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw no escape in any other way? Who would not give the benefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted14 her? Who would remit15 to unhallowed earth the body of the once beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might as well go now, finding himself powerless to do further good upon earth? Such, and such like, have of course been temporarily insane, though no touch even of strangeness may have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings with their fellow-mortals. But let a Melmotte be found dead, with a bottle of prussic acid by his side — a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late iniquities16, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has been able to buy and to sell properties without paying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious17 by his ruin to friends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute18 who had got into the House of Commons by false pretences19, and had disgraced the House by being drunk there — and, of course, he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the cross roads, or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed themselves with their wits about them. Just at this moment there was a very strong feeling against Melmotte, owing perhaps as much to his having tumbled over poor Mr Beauchamp in the House of Commons as to the stories of the forgeries20 he had committed, and the virtue21 of the day vindicated22 itself by declaring him to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison. He was felo de se, and therefore carried away to the cross roads — or elsewhere. But it may be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers of endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himself constrained23 to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew all that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. The summons to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him. There were some, among them Croll and Mr Brehgert, who absolutely knew that he had committed forgery24. He had no money for the Longestaffes, and he was well aware what Squercum would do at once. He had assured himself long ago — he had assured himself indeed not very long ago — that he would brave it all like a man. But we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs. Melmotte’s back had been so utterly25 crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to have justified26 a verdict of temporary insanity.
But he was carried away, no one knew whither, and for a week his name was hateful. But after that, a certain amount of whitewashing27 took place, and, in some degree, a restitution28 of fame was made to the manes of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious. Westminster, which had adopted him, never forgave him. But in other districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned against than sinning; and that, but for the jealousy29 of the old stagers in the mercantile world, he would have done very wonderful things. Marylebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with affection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament could his ghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while to talk of the great Financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Marylebone alone that spoke30 of a monument.
Mr Longestaffe came back to his house, taking formal possession of it a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had been no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town; and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour of encountering the dead man’s spirit. But there was very much for Mr Longestaffe to do, and very much also for his son. It was becoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by their connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could not get back the title-deeds of the Pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear that they could not pay that sum unless they were enabled to do so by funds coming out of the Melmotte estate. Dolly, as he sat smoking upon the stool in Mr Squercum’s office, where he now passed a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill-usage.
‘By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There’s nothing else for it; is there, Squercum?’
Squercum suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be out of the Melmotte estate. He had made inquiries31 too about that, and had been assured that there must be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. ‘They say that the things in the square, and the plate, and the carriages and horses, and all that, ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them,’ said Squercum.
‘By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever hear of such a thing; — the very house pulled down — my house; and all done without a word from me in the matter? I don’t suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties were properties.’ Then he uttered sundry32 threats against the Bideawhiles, in reference to whom he declared his intention of ‘making it very hot for them.’
It was an annoyance33 added to the elder Mr Longestaffe that the management of Melmotte’s affairs fell at last almost exclusively into the hands of Mr Brehgert. Now Brehgert, in spite of his many dealings with Melmotte, was an honest man, and, which was perhaps of as much immediate34 consequence, both an energetic and a patient man. But then he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longestaffe, and he was the man to whom Mr Longestaffe had been particularly uncivil. Then there arose necessities for the presence of Mr Brehgert in the house in which Melmotte had lately lived and had died. The dead man’s papers were still there — deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not chosen to destroy; — and these could not be moved quite at once. ‘Mr Brehgert must of course have access to my private room, as long as it is necessary — absolutely necessary,’ said Mr Longestaffe in answer to a message which was brought to him; ‘but he will of course see the expediency35 of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible.’ But he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing after the injuries he had received.
All minor36 debts were to be paid at once; an arrangement to which Mr Longestaffe cordially agreed, as it included a sum of ￡300 due to him for the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became known that there would certainly be a dividend37 of not less than fifty per cent. payable38 on debts which could be proved to have been owing by Melmotte, and perhaps of more; — an arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly, as it had been already agreed between all the parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied before the father took anything. Mr Longestaffe resolved during these weeks that he remained in town that, as regarded himself and his own family, the house in London should not only not be kept up, but that it should be absolutely sold, with all its belongings39, and that the servants at Caversham should be reduced in number and should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter, which she was instructed to read to her daughters. ‘I have suffered great wrongs,’ said Mr Longestaffe, ‘but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. If our son were different from what he is the sacrifice might probably be made lighter40. His nature I cannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience41.’ From what incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Caversham it might be difficult to say; but the obedience was there. Georgey was for the time broken down; Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial42 prospects43, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat. I think the loss of the hair-powder afflicted44 her most; but she said not a word even about that.
But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story are anticipated. Mr Longestaffe had remained in London actually over the 1st of September, which in Suffolk is the one great festival of the year, before the letter was written to which allusion45 has been made. In the meantime he saw much of Mr Brehgert, and absolutely formed a kind of friendship for that gentleman, in spite of the abomination of his religion — so that on one occasion he even condescended46 to ask Mr Brehgert to dine alone with him in Bruton Street. This, too, was in the early days of the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs, when Mr Longestaffe’s heart had been softened47 by that arrangement with reference to the rent. Mr Brehgert came, and there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr Longestaffe’s old port wine. Hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the connection which had once been proposed, since the day on which the young lady’s father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But in this evening Mr Brehgert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr Longestaffe. The subject was introduced by a reference which Brehgert had made to his own affairs. His loss would be, at any rate, double that which Mr Longestaffe would have to bear; — but he spoke of it in an easy way, as though it did not sit very near his heart. ‘Of course there’s a difference between me and you,’ he said. Mr Longestaffe bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that there was of course a very wide difference. ‘In our affairs,’ continued Brehgert, ‘we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property he expects to get the purchase-money.’
‘Of course he does, Mr Brehgert. That’s what made it so hard.’
‘I can’t even yet quite understand how it was with him, or why he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it, and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It was old Mr Todd that first took to him; — but I was deceived as much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation48 with him outside of our house. The long and short of it is that I shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds.’
‘That’s a large sum of money.’
‘Very large; — so large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter, I considered it to be my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you.’
This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr Longestaffe. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most deserving of censure49; but Mr Longestaffe did not know how to pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the present time so very anxious for Brehgert’s assistance in the arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with the man. But he assumed something more than his normal dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the fact.
‘It was so,’ said Brehgert
‘No doubt;’— and Mr Longestaffe assumed a great deal of dignity.
‘Yes; it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her, that I would maintain a second house when we should be married.’
‘It was impossible,’ said Mr Longestaffe — meaning to assert that such hymeneals were altogether unnatural50 and out of the question.
‘It would have been quite possible as things were when that proposition was made. But looking forward to the loss which I afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I found it to be prudent51 to relinquish52 my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longestaffe.’
‘There were other reasons,’ muttered Mr Longestaffe, in a suppressed voice, almost in a whisper — in a whisper which was intended to convey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence53.
‘There may have been; but in the last letter which Miss Longestaffe did me the honour to write to me — a letter with which I have not the slightest right to find any fault — she seemed to me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason.’
‘Why mention this now, Mr Brehgert; why mention this now? The subject is painful.’
‘Just because it is not painful to me, Mr Longestaffe; and because I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman.’ Mr Longestaffe, in an agony, first shook his head twice, and then bowed it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could from so dubious54 an oracle55. ‘I am sure.’ continued Brehgert, ‘that I behaved like an honest man; and I didn’t quite like that the matter should be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself.’
‘Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended.’
‘I’ve nothing more to say, and I’ve nothing at all to mend.’ Finishing the conversation with this little speech Brehgert arose to take his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use all the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmotte affairs.
As soon as he was gone Mr Longestaffe opened the door and walked about the room and blew out long puffs56 of breath, as though to cleanse57 himself from the impurities58 of his late contact. He told himself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled59! How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how little grateful for the honour which Mr Longestaffe had conferred upon him by asking him to dinner! Yes; — yes! A horrid Jew! Were not all Jews necessarily an abomination? Yet Mr Longestaffe was aware that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with Mr Brehgert.
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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5
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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15
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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16
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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forgeries
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| 伪造( forgery的名词复数 )； 伪造的文件、签名等 | |
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21
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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22
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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25
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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whitewashing
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的现在分词 )； 喷浆 | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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30
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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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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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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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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dividend
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| n.红利，股息；回报，效益 | |
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payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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46
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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48
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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49
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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51
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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52
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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54
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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55
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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56
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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57
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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impurities
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| 不纯( impurity的名词复数 )； 不洁； 淫秽； 杂质 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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