But of this grievous iteration, and its depressing effect, Bergan, as yet, had no experience. His heart involuntarily grew lighter6 as he went down the long avenue. The old Hall, with its dust-clogged and tradition-darkened atmosphere, its dusky delights and duskier temptations, seemed to fade back again into the unsubstantiality of his childhood's visions. His sojourn7 there was, at best, but a brief, casual episode in an otherwise coherent life. He now recurred8 to the main argument. Not that he could foresee precisely9 how it was to be wrought10 out. But the very uncertainty11 before him was not without its own special and potent12 charm. It gave such unlimited13 scope to hope and imagination; there was in it so much room for sturdy endeavor and noble achievement, for an iron age of progress, and a golden era of fame!
It was still early when he reached the Berganton Hotel. The landlord was in the office; he was also in the midst of a prolonged matutinal stretch and yawn, when Bergan surprised him with a pleasant;—
"Good morning. Have you a vacant room for me?"
"Yes, sir,—that is, I will see," was the somewhat inconclusive reply; its first clause being due to the favorable impression made by Bergan's face and manner, and its last to prudential considerations arising from the quickly recognized facts that this prepossessing young man was on foot, and without baggage. "Do you want it long?"
"I can hardly tell,—some days, perhaps; possibly longer. I wish to see if it be worth my while to locate myself permanently15 here. My name is Bergan Arling. My baggage is to be sent over from Bergan Hall."
"Ah, I see," said the landlord, in a tone which implied that he had suddenly been lifted to a point of observation at once wide and unpromising. And almost immediately he added,—"On the whole, I believe I haven't got an eligible16 room to offer you. The one that I thought of at first is partially17 engaged; I cannot let it go till I know the gentleman's decision."
Bergan was gifted with perceptions too quick and fine not to notice the unfavorable effect produced by his frank explanation of himself. Nor was he slow to divine the cause. No doubt his name had been bruited18 abroad in connection with the disgraceful scenes of yesterday; and, as a natural consequence, in the very place where it would otherwise have been an advantage to him, it would now stand in his way. His heart sank a little to find that he had not left yesterday's acts so completely behind him as he had allowed himself to believe. He had still to endure his inevitable19 term of bondage20 to their evil consequences.
Yet herein, he remembered, was his strongest motive21 for perseverance22 in the path upon which he had entered. He could not leave a tarnished23 reputation behind him in the place founded by his ancestors,—the very dust of which, blowing about the streets, doubtless held many particles closely akin24 to his own earthly substance, and dimly capable of pride or shame on his account. At whatever cost of present pain or ulterior loss, he must stay in Berganton long enough to set himself right in the public eyes.
And loss, it was plain, there might be. Berganton was no longer the busy and prosperous town of his mother's reminiscences. All these years, it had been going backwards25. Looking up and down its long, tame, principal street, with its scant26 and sluggish27 flow of human life, he could discover little field for energy, little scope for ambition. Were it not for the cords of obligation woven around him by yesterday's events, he would scarcely have stayed for a second look. But those cords held him firmly to his purpose.
"Do you know of any respectable family where I should be likely to obtain board, or, at least, lodgings28?" was his next inquiry29.
"I do not. I think they might take you in at the Gregg House, down at the lower end of the street."
The words were spoken carelessly enough, yet Bergan could scarcely fail to detect in them a covert30 insinuation, or to imagine one. His cheek crimsoned31, and his eye flashed. Ere he could speak, however, a gentleman whom he had observed sitting near him, with a newspaper before his face, dropped the printed screen, and came forward.
"Mr. Arling can breakfast here, at any rate," said he, in the tone of a man accustomed to overcome all obstacles; "it will give me pleasure to have him for my vis-à-vis at the early breakfast that I have bespoken32 this morning, in order to gain time for a visit to a far-away patient. And you can at least give him the room of which you speak until it is called for; by that time, we will hope, he may be provided with one even more to his mind."
"Certainly, doctor," returned the landlord, looking a little crestfallen33. "If I had known the gentleman was a friend of yours—"
"Hardly that yet," interposed the doctor, smiling, "though I trust he may be, in good time. I know your uncle very well," he continued, addressing Bergan, as the landlord moved away,—"indeed, I may say, your two uncles,—if that be any ground of acquaintance. But I have the advantage of you, in that I heard your name just now;—mine is Remy—Felix Remy—very much at your service. Not that this announcement places us on an equal footing; for, while your name puts me at once in possession of your antecedents, to a certain extent, mine tells you nothing about me except that I am of French descent. Are you willing to take the rest on trust, until a fitting time for a fuller explanation?" And the doctor held out his hand.
"Until the end of time," replied Bergan, grasping it warmly. "It would be strange if kindness were not its own sufficient explanation."
Doctor Remy shrugged34 his shoulders with a frank cynicism. "Perhaps so," said he. "Yet I make bold to confess that my own practice is to look kindness a little more closely in the face than its opposite. The latter generally wears its reasons openly on its forehead; but for the complicated motives35 at the bottom of the former, one needs to look long and deep."
"Do they pay for the trouble?" asked Bergan, smiling.
"Not unless you love knowledge for its own sake. As society is constituted, you cannot well act upon it. To apparent kindness, one has to return apparent gratitude36."
"I trust I succeed in making mine 'apparent,'" said Bergan, falling into the doctor's humor.
"Perfectly37. It could not be told from the genuine article."
"The same thing might be said of your kindness."
"Doubtless. But here comes Cato, to show you to your room. I think breakfast will be ready as soon as you are."
A very few moments sufficed for Bergan to remove the traces of his early morning walk, and rejoin his new acquaintance in the breakfast-room. The two gentlemen at once seated themselves on opposite sides of the table. An opportunity was thus afforded them to observe each other at their leisure, of which Bergan was first to avail himself. His interest had been awakened38 by the doctor's peculiar39 style of conversation.
He saw before him a man of medium height and compactly built figure. His locks had been touched by thought or care to a premature40 grayness, for he had scarcely yet entered upon middle age. His features were regular, and would have been handsome had they been less keenly and coldly intellectual,—the physical mould was forgotten in the mental one that made itself so much more manifest. Their expression was one of active intelligence and calm force, embittered41, at the mouth, by a touch of scorn. Yet the face did not absolutely repel42; for many minds, it would possess an inscrutable fascination43. It provoked study; it challenged the imagination and the understanding.
The doctor's conversation was marked by a curious frankness, and an equally curious reserve. He made no scruple44 whatever of opening to the light of day shadowy recesses45 of motive and aim that most men would studiously close, nor of putting himself at odds46 with the world on various points of social or moral ethics47, nor of boldly questioning and criticising much that mankind consents to hold in reverence48. Yet, at the end of an hour's conversation, though he had talked readily and fluently on many subjects, and said something true, or profound, or brilliant, or suggestive, about each, his interested, amused, startled, and bewildered hearer could find almost no residuum of his real opinions about any of them. It was impossible to decide where he had been in jest, and where in earnest; through his most serious argument had run a vein49 of mockery, from under his profoundest thought had peeped forth50 a hidden sarcasm51. His creed52, social, moral, and political, continually slipped through the seeker's fingers in subtle, witty53, or scornful negations and controversions.
Not that Bergan was conscious of this, at the moment,—nor, indeed, until after many days of familiar intercourse54. He recognized in the doctor an intellectual cultivation55 of no ordinary depth and scope; he was interested and well-nigh dazzled by his originality56 of thought, the boldness of his attacks, and the freedom of his speculations57; but the dubious58 aspect of his own affairs continually rose before him to harass59 his mind and distract his attention;—he was himself incapable60 of close observation or continuous thought. After a time, his glance sank upon his plate, or wandered aimlessly out of the window: though he forgot no requirement of courtesy, he was often in a state of semi-abstraction.
Then, in his turn, Doctor Remy fixed61 his eyes upon his companion. It was evident that to subjected him to a far more careful and penetrating62 scrutiny63 than he had sustained himself. He noted64 his looks, he weighed his words, he analyzed65 his turns of thought, in a way to indicate that exceeding "love of knowledge for its own sake," of which he had spoken, or some deeper motive than even his hardy66 frankness would care to divulge67. Whether or no he liked what he saw, no mortal could have told. The doctor's face was a sort of mechanical mask, absolutely under his control; it expressed anything or nothing, according to his will.
One thing only would have been plain to the observer, that he was puzzled by something which he found, or did not find. After one of his deeply penetrating glances, he suddenly called for a bottle of wine, and, first filling his own glass, passed it across the table.
"I am fortifying68 myself for a harder day's work than usual," said he, as if by way of apology, if apology were needed. "Will you try it? I think I can assure you that it is tolerably good."
"Thank you; I never take wine at breakfast."
"Anything else that you would prefer—" began the doctor, courteously69.
"Nothing whatever, thank you," replied Bergan, with a most conclusive14 wave of the hand.
"Then you do not hold the theory that a little good wine, or other spirits, after a meal, clears the brain, and aids the digestion70?"
"Do I look as if I stood in need of either good office?" asked Bergan, smiling.
The doctor gave him a quick, critical glance.
"No, I cannot see that you do," he answered. "I should say that, in your case, Nature might safely be left to perform her own functions;—I do not think I ever saw human mechanism71 in a sounder condition, or animated72 by a richer vitality73. Still, there can be no great harm in drinking in moderation. Of course, if one cannot do that, it is best to avoid it altogether."
Bergan looked up quickly,—almost angrily,—but there was nothing in the doctor's face or manner to indicate that his general remark was weighted with any ulterior meaning. He was holding his wine up to the light with the air of a connoisseur74, and having sufficiently75 enjoyed its color and bouquet76, he tossed it off with apparent relish77. Yet Bergan could scarcely have failed to notice, had he been less preoccupied78, that he then quietly pushed both glass and bottle aside, and seemed to forget their existence.
"Can I do anything for you, before I set off on my daily treadmill79?" he asked, when the meal was ended.
"Nothing, thank you,—unless you can tell me where I shall be most likely to find lodgings and an office."
"An office, did you say? Do I behold80 in you a brother of the order of the Asclepiad??"
"No, I have not that honor. I am enrolled81 in the ranks of the Law."
"How many pegs82 shall I take myself down, in your estimation, if I proclaim myself a deserter therefrom?"
Bergan could not help looking the astonishment83 that he did not express.
"It is true," said the doctor, answering the look. "I studied law, and practised it for about two years. But it did not suit me."
"Would it be impertinent to ask why?"
"Not at all. It gave too much scope, or too little, to my natural antagonism84 of mind;—too little for mental satisfaction, too much for material advantage. For instance, I was always possessed85 with an insane desire to clear the guilty man, whether he were my client, or no."
"Yet you deny to yourself the credit of generous impulses!"
"Stay a little. I was often assailed86 with an equally insane desire to convict the innocent one—when he was not my client. Do not look so horrified87, for the same motive was at the bottom of both. It was because I saw so clearly that, with an exchange of circumstances,—inherited traits, education, temptation, and so forth,—there would also be an exchange of persons."
"In that case, it would seem that neither should be convicted."
"Exactly. But it was Society that needed to be convicted and punished. There was a real satisfaction in reversing its unrighteous judgments88."
Bergan felt that he was sinking in a kind of mental quicksand. "But," he objected, catching89 hold of the first twig90 of support that offered itself, "you count the man's will for nothing."
"With most men, it does count for nothing. Where one man performs either a good or a bad action deliberately91, looking behind and before him, nine hundred and ninety-nine do it because of the pressure of outward circumstance."
"You think, then," said Bergan, after a moment's consideration, "that when a man wilfully92 embarks93 on the current which tends toward the Niagara cataract94, it is his misfortune, and not his fault, if he finally finds himself at a point where the pressure of outward circumstance must needs carry him over the fall."
"In that case," said the doctor, "the responsibility shifts back to the power that made the current and the fall, and put them in his way."
Bergan saw the wide labyrinth95 of controversy96 opening before him, and tacitly declined to set foot in it. He was in no mood for polemics97. He merely asked,—
"And in what way—if the question is admissible—do you find medicine more to your taste than the law?"
"In medicine, there is always a distinct and a legitimate98 foe99 to combat—disease. When one engages in a hand-to-hand fight with a fever, there are no side issues. Nor does it matter in the least, whether battle is to be done over the body of an incarnate100 demon101 or an angel unfledged,—in both cases, the treatment is identical, the physician's duty the same."
"I think I understand you," said Bergan, after a pause, during which he had been trying to reconcile these curious and half conflicting statements with some underlying102 principles, and finding it, at last, in his own heart, rather than in the doctor's words;—"a physician's professional and abstract duty are never at variance103, while a lawyer must often be puzzled to decide if he is justified104 in using his legal skill to save a criminal from merited punishment."
"It is a question that puzzles few of them," remarked the doctor, dryly. "But in regard to this office, in posse, of yours;—I rent my own from a very respectable widow lady, whose house is much too large for the narrow income to which she found herself restricted, at her husband's death. I think she has another room, that she would be glad to let to an eligible tenant105. Shall we go and see? It is quite in my way; I must visit my office before I set out on my rounds."
The house won Bergan's liking106, at a glance. It stood on a corner; it was large and airy; double piazzas107 surrounded it on three sides; over it a hale old live-oak and half-a-dozen gray, decrepit108 china-trees flung their pleasant shade. In the rear, was a tempting109 thicket110 of a garden, which Art had first planted, and then handed over to Nature, to be taken care of at her leisure,—the result being an altogether admirable and Eden-like wilderness111 of boughs112 and vines, and, in their season, flowers and fruits, such as can be seen nowhere but at the South. The interior of the dwelling113 wore a most attractive look of neatness, comfort, and refinement114, notwithstanding its extreme plainness of finish and furniture. Crossing its threshold, he felt that a true home had received him into its beneficent shadow. Nothing could be better for him, he thought, than to find an abiding115 place therein.
Nor was there any difficulty in the way. The doctor's magical touch arranged the preliminaries. Then, Mrs. Lyte,—a pale, sweet, fragile-looking woman, with the gentle gravity of manner that comes of sorrow at once incurable116 and resigned—yielded at once to the magnetism117 of Bergan's address,—the involuntary softening118 of tone wherewith he recognized the claim of her black garments upon his sympathies, the manifest deference119 which he paid to her loneliness, her bereavement120, her sorrow. Since it was needful to sacrifice something of the home seclusion121 and sacredness to the necessity of daily bread, she could not hope for a more desirable tenant. The negotiations122 were quickly concluded. Not only was an office secured, but a lodging-room in its rear was also placed at his disposal; and he was to take his meals at the hotel.
Returning thither123, and finding that his baggage had duly arrived from the Hall, Bergan's active temperament124 would not let him rest until he had transported it to his new quarters, and gotten them in tolerable order. In this business he consumed the greater part of the day. The sun was low in the horizon, when, by way of a finishing touch, he nailed a tin plate, bearing in gilt125 letters the words,—"BERGAN ARLING, ATTORNEY AT LAW," to his office window.
With the act, came a thrill of strange enjoyment126. It was like the first breath of a new and invigorating atmosphere. That little sign imparted an element of solidity to his plans and aims, hitherto lacking. It marked an epoch127 in his life. Now, first, he flung himself, with all his strength and energy, into the great struggle of mankind.
To this pleasantly excited mood, motion was still desirable, weariness unfelt. He decided128 to pay a visit to his second, and yet unknown, uncle,—Godfrey Bergan. He quitted the village with the last, red sunbeams.
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1
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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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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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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bruited
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| v.传播（传说或谣言）( bruit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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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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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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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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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bespoken
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| v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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motives
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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49
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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52
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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53
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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55
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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56
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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57
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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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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harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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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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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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79
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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embarks
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| 乘船( embark的第三人称单数 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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polemics
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| n.辩论术，辩论法；争论( polemic的名词复数 )；辩论；辩论术；辩论法 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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102
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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107
piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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111
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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113
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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114
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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115
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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116
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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117
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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118
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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119
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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120
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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122
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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123
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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124
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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125
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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126
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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127
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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128
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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