Once More in London.
I am not one of those who touch the posts by Temple Bar with that rare delight which betrays the true-blue Londoner. Foreign scenes are ever a safer tonic1 to me than any fret2 and striving of our own cities; and gladly as I turn to London sometimes, it is rarely that I do not quit her shadows with a greater pleasure. Perhaps I am conscious of a subtle change creeping upon her, and destroying much of her charm. To me she seems as the great growing child which has lost its strength in the act. Vast beyond all belief, her energies are perceptibly weakening. She is no longer an example to the provinces; they do not imitate her fashions, and are ready to scoff3 at her pretensions4. The old London of the gloomy theatres, the narrow, dirty streets, the London of Simpson’s and Evans’, and the decent supper rooms, was a thousand times more romantic a city in my eyes than this County Council Babylon, with its raucous5 prophets and its perpetual cant6 of moralities. Let the blame be on my head which dares to think such treason. I am lonely in wide streets, and the gospel of modernity depresses me.
Unrepentant, I write these lines, and yet they can conjure7 up for me a vision of London so desired that all the years will never blot8 it from my memory. I had been in England two months then. A littered writing table in my private sitting-room9 at a great Strand10 hotel bore witness to my activities—an untasted elixir11 in a wineglass by my side spoke12 of a woman’s anxieties and of her devotion. Certainly my dear sister Harriet had sufficiently13 impressed upon these people the necessity of treating all carpets and curtains by an antiseptic process, and the profound wisdom of warming the interiors of those hats which subsequently were to adorn14 the heads of males. Her debates with a German Prince in command, neither understanding the tongue of the other, were a little protracted15, and not always without heat. She was determined16 that I should not cut my finger-nails with unaired scissors, and convinced that the only way of saving me from the troubles which beset17 the path of my indifference18 lay in the frequent administration of advertised tonics19, and a just sampling of the whole of them. I suffered her and was happy. Is it not something that there should be one woman in all the world who lives for us a life so wholly unselfish that no thought of her own needs ever enters into it?
To my dear sister, then, be this well-earned tribute paid. Doubly fortunate, I might write down another name and spare no encomiums. Joan Fordibras, my little Joan of Dieppe and the sunshine, was with us in the hotel, and no less a slave of mine than the other. Every day, when I came down to breakfast, it was Joan who had been across to Covent Garden for the flowers I like best to have about me—it was Joan’s clever fingers which delved21 amidst the mass of littered papers and unfailingly extracted therefrom the erring22 document; Joan who told me at night what had happened during the day in this dismal23 world of politics and art—the world in which we amuse ourselves by calling those who differ from us knaves24 and decrying25 all merit save that which makes its own appeal to us. Rarely did I find her in that merry mood of girlhood in which I caught her—how long ago it seemed!—at the Fête at Kensington. If her face betrayed the sea’s dower of heightened colour and eyes unspeakably blue, she had become less the child and more the woman, and she lived as one tortured between two rivers of doubt—knowing the past and fearing the future, but unconscious of the present. Between us there stood the impassable barrier of the truce26 we arrived at upon the deck of my yacht, White Wings. I was never again to tell her what she was and must be to me—never to speak of a man’s love prevailing27 above all else, more precious to him than all else under God’s fair sky; never to speak of it until I could carry the secret to her and say—“This is your birthright, such were the days of your childhood.” I had pledged my word, and the bond was of honour. Time might redeem28 it or time might bring the ultimate misfortune upon me—I knew not nor had the courage to prophesy29.
So London became the city of my desire, and in London my work began. I saw Joan every day, heard the music of her laughter, and was conscious of her presence about me as man is ever aware of the spirit of happiness which hovers30 so rarely about a busy life. The littered table in my private room bore witness to my activities, and the animation31 with which I had pursued them. Many ambitions have I set before me to worship in the years of the old time, but never such a task as this; whose achievement must bring a reward beyond price; whose failure, I was aware, would separate me finally and for ever from the woman I love.
To say that I laboured at it incessantly32, indeed, is to do little justice to actuality. The mystery went with me wherever I turned. I wrestled33 with it through nights of bitter dreaming; it followed me to the streets, to the theatres, to the houses of my friends. It prevailed above every other occupation; it would start up even in the blue eyes which daily asked the unspoken question; it would envelop34 little Joan herself as a veil which hid her true self from me; it would stand out black and clear upon every page that I wrote—a sentence irrevocable, a very torture of the doubt. The secret, or the years of darkness, said the voice. I hid myself from the light and still I heard its message. It spoke to me above the city’s clamour and the hum of throngs35. The secret, or the night! What an alternative was that!
I was to go to Joan and to say to her—You are the daughter of this man or that, but not of General Fordibras. I was to tell her that none of hers had part or lot in the great conspiracy36 of crime whose fringe I had touched, whose arch-priest I had named. Here was the task in a nutshell, so simple seemingly that any dunce might have entered upon it with confidence or any child sat down to master it. Yet, witness the uncertain steps I had followed, and judge then what kind of a task it was and what the peculiar37 nature of my difficulties. Judge then if I misrepresent the circumstance or claim for myself that which truth has not justified38.
We had made a fair passage home from the Azores and come straight to London. Losing none of the precious hours, I went immediately to Scotland Yard, and from Scotland Yard to a friendly Minister’s room at Whitehall, and there I told this story as it is written in this book, and as time has not changed it. If I met with incredulity, I blame no one. My cables home had warned the police of much that I would tell them, and more that remained mere39 surmise40. Murray himself—my old friend Murray, whose suppositions had sent me upon an errand as strange as any in his calendar—Murray assured me that the police of France, of Germany, of America, and of Portugal were already advised of that which had been done, and of the evidence upon which it was being done. But even he had begun to lose faith.
“We have searched the houses you named in Paris,” he said, “and there are half a dozen men under lock and key. They have arrested five in Berlin, and the world has read the story of the coup41 made in New York. To be frank with you, that is all we can do. This Jew of yours appears in none of these successes. He is not named anywhere. There is no trace of him—not a word, or a letter, or a trinket. The Governor of the Island of Santa Maria declares that the mines there are just what they pretend to be; that he has been over them with General Fordibras, and that he finds the General a very simple, soldierly gentleman. As to your Diamond Ship—they will believe in that when she comes to port. I have traced the various steamers you have named to me, and their papers are in all cases correct. To be candid42, Dr. Fabos, if the Jew himself had come to this office, I should have had no evidence to offer against him. There is only one of his company threatened so far by your revelations, and she is Miss Fordibras.”
We laughed together, and I showed him at once that I was not disappointed.
“You are face to face with a master,” I exclaimed, “and you expect to find childs’ toys in his hands. If Valentine Imroth is to be hanged by any thieves’ den20 in Germany or in Paris—to say nothing of London—then he is a hundred miles from being the man I met at Santa Maria, or that brother Jew who commands the Diamond Ship. Do not believe it, Murray. The success of this organisation43 is a success of delegation44. Nine out of ten men in Imroth’s employ have never heard his name, never seen him, or become aware of his existence. The greater rogues45, who form his cabinet, are as little likely to be taken in any café des assassins as the Jew himself is likely to make a speech at Westminster. We have touched the fringe of a splendid fabric46, but threads of it only are in our hands. To-day, at the Admiralty, Sir James Freeman tells me that a second cruiser will be despatched to the South Atlantic next week. If they discover the derelict, I shall be astounded47. Ask me for a reason and I can give you none. It is mere premonition. Sitting here in London I can depict48 that sagging49 hulk as clearly as if I watched her from the deck of my own yacht. She is drifting there, peopled by devils, a ship of blood and death—drifting God knows where, without hope, or idea, or haven50. She may so drift to the Day of Judgment51, but man will never discover her. That is my belief. I have no reason for it—I admit freely that it is ridiculous.”
Murray did not quarrel with my point of view, but assuredly he could not help me. No trace of Imroth had been discovered; Fordibras had not been arrested, nor had any news of him come from Santa Maria. The house there, I understood, was shut up, and the so-called miners had left many weeks ago in a steamer for Europe. The most diligent52 search had revealed none of those caverns53 of treasure which I believed (and still believe) to exist. There were implements54 for drilling and blasting, forges, cranes, and cartridges55, but of secret habitation, none. The Valley House was declared to be an American’s whim56, the mountain passage one of old existence, and perfectly57 well known to every inhabitant. Such simplicity58 I judged to have been bought at a handsome price. Gold alone could have set these people’s tongues wagging so pleasantly.
“They are bought to a man, Murray,” I said; “and unless we care to pay a higher price, we may trouble them no more. In my view they are not the only recipients59 of this man’s oily bounty60. I would venture to say that he has friends enough in some of the South American republics to save an army from the gallows61. We will take it at that and leave it there. If the Park Lane people do not care to carry it further, I have no interest. You cannot arrest this man, you say, because there is no evidence against him. That must be told him when we meet—it shall be part of the price I pay for his secret. Such a secret I am determined to force from him if I lose my life in the venture. Nothing else concerns me now, Murray. Let a thousand criminals go down to the sea in ships, and I am unmoved. His secret—my task begins and ends with that.”
He did not understand me wholly, nor would I unbosom myself to him. The partial failure of my voyage could not but result in such incredulity as I met everywhere at home. Nor might I blame a shrewd officer for saying frankly62 that there was at present no evidence that could be read in court against Valentine Imroth. His treasure had been successfully hidden from every human eye. A friendly Government sheltered him; his dupes seemed unable to betray him. The spell that he cast had been powerful to protect him even in his absence. I saw more plainly than ever that the final scene must be between the arch-rogue and myself—even at the peril63 of my life.
And how should this be, you ask? How might I draw from the shadows a man fearing the light; one for whom the police of five nations were supposed to be seeking—a man who would as soon come to England, you might say, as venture into the jaws64 of hell? Let the circumstance answer me. I had a letter from the Jew himself three days after Murray assured me that all the talent of Europe could not discover him. Twenty-four hours later one of the fastest steam launches on the River Thames carried me from London Bridge to a house which should give all or deny me all before another dawn had broken. These were the truths, and they need no ornament65 of mine. I was going to the Jew’s house, and Okyada, my little Jap, alone went with me. Let the circumstance speak, I say, for it is worth a thousand guesses. The greatest criminal alive, as I believed this man to be, had asked me to go to him, and I had answered “yes.” So shall the record stand—even, as it would seem, this surpassing folly66—for a woman’s sake, as so much folly and wisdom have been since man’s world began.
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1
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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2
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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3
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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10
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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12
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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13
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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14
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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16
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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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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19
tonics
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| n.滋补品( tonic的名词复数 )；主音；奎宁水；浊音 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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21
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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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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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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25
decrying
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| v.公开反对，谴责( decry的现在分词 ) | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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28
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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30
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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35
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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37
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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39
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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40
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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41
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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42
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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43
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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44
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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45
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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46
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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47
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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48
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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49
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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50
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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51
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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52
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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53
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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54
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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55
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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56
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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59
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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60
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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61
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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62
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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63
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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64
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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65
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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66
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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