Ah Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they might tell us
What and where they be.
—Tennyson, Maud (1855)
Private Inquiry1 Office, Patronized by the Aristocracy, and under the sole direction of Mr. Pollaky himself. Relations with both the British and the Foreign Detective Police.
DELICATE AND CONFIDENTIAL2 INQUIRIES3 INSTITUTED WITH SECRECY4 AND DISPATCH IN ENGLAND, THE CONTINENT AND THE COLONIES. EVIDENCE COLLECTED FOR CASES IN THE DIVORCE COURT, &C.
—Mid-Victorian advertisement
A week might pass, two, but then she would stand before him . . . The third week begins, and she has not stood before him. Charles cannot be faulted; he has been here, there, everywhere.
He had achieved this ubiquity by hiring four detectives— whether they were under the sole direction of Mr. Pollaky, I am not sure, but they worked hard. They had to, for they were a very new profession, a mere5 eleven years old, and held in general contempt. A gentleman in 1866 who stabbed one to death was considered to have done a very proper thing. “If people go about got up as garrotters,” warned Punch, “they must take the consequences.”
Charles’s men had first tried the governess agencies, with-out success; they had tried the Educational Boards of all the denominations6 that ran Church schools. Hiring a carriage, he had himself spent fruitless hours patrolling, a pair of intent eyes that scanned each younger female face that passed, the genteel-poor districts of London. In one such Sarah must be lodging7: in Peckham, in Pentonville, in Putney; in a dozen similar districts of neat new roads and one-domestic houses he searched. He also helped his men to investigate the boom-ing new female clerical agencies. A generalized hostility8 to Adam was already evident in them, since they had to bear the full brunt of masculine prejudice and were to become among the most important seedbeds of the emancipation9 movement. I think these experiences, though fruitless in the one matter he cared about, were not all wasted on Charles. Slowly he began to understand one aspect of Sarah better: her feeling of resentment10, of an unfair because remediable bias11 in society.
One morning he had woken to find himself very depressed12. The dreadful possibility of prostitution, that fate she had once hinted at, became a certainty. That evening he went in a state of panic to the same Haymarket area he visited earlier. What the driver imagined, I cannot suppose; but he must certainly have thought his fare the most fastidious man who ever existed. They drove up and down those streets for two hours. Only once did they stop; the driver saw a red-haired prostitute under a gaslight. But almost at once two taps bade him drive on again.
Other consequences of his choice of freedom had mean-while not waited to exact their toll13. To his finally achieved letter to Mr. Freeman he received no answer for ten days. But then he had to sign for one, delivered ominously14 by hand, from Mr. Freeman’s solicitors16.
Sir,
In re Miss Ernestina Freeman
We are instructed by Mr. Ernest Freeman, father of the above-mentioned Miss Ernestina Freeman, to request you to attend at these chambers17 at 3 o’clock this coming Friday. Your failure to attend will be regarded as an acknowledgment of our client’s right to proceed.
Aubrey & Baggott
Charles took the letter to his own solicitors. They had handled the Smithson family affairs since the eighteenth cen-tury. And the present younger Montague, facing whose desk the confessed sinner now shamefacedly sat, was only a little older than Charles himself. The two men had been at Win-chester together; and without being close friends, knew and liked each other well enough.
“Well, what does it mean, Harry18?”
“It means, my dear boy, that you have the devil’s own luck. They have cold feet.”
“Then why should they want to see me?”
“They won’t let you off altogether, Charles. That is asking too much. My guess is that you will be asked to make a confessio delicti.”
“Just so. I am afraid you must anticipate an ugly document. But I can only advise you to sign it. You have no case.”
On that Friday afternoon Charles and Montague were ushered20 into a funereal21 waiting room in one of the Inns of Court. Charles felt it was something like a duel22; Montague was his second. They were made to cool their heels until a quarter past three. But since this preliminary penance23 had been predicted by Montague, they bore it with a certain nervous amusement.
At last they were summoned. A short and choleric24 old man rose from behind a large desk. A little behind him stood Mr. Freeman. He had no eyes but for Charles, and they were very cold eyes indeed; all amusement vanished. Charles bowed to him, but no acknowledgment was made. The two solicitors shook hands curtly25. There was a fifth person present: a tall, thin, balding man with penetrating26 dark eyes, at the sight of whom Montague imperceptibly flinched27.
“You know Mr. Serjeant Murphy?”
“By reputation only.”
A serjeant-at-law was in Victorian times a top counsel; and Serjeant Murphy was a killer28, the most feared man of his day.
Mr. Aubrey peremptorily29 indicated the chairs the two visitors were to take, then sat down himself again. Mr. Freeman remained implacably standing30. Mr. Aubrey shuffled31 papers, which gave Charles time he did not want to absorb the usual intimidating32 atmosphere of such places: the learned volumes, the rolls of sheepskin bound in green ferret, the mournful box-files of dead cases ranged high around the room like the urns33 of an overpopulated columbarium.
The old solicitor15 looked severely34 up.
“I think, Mr. Montague, that the facts of this abominable35 breach36 of engagement are not in dispute. I do not know what construction your client has put upon his conduct to you. But he has himself provided abundant evidence of his own guilt in this letter to Mr. Freeman, though I note that with the usual impudence37 of his kind he has sought to—“
“Mr. Aubrey, such language in these circumstances—“
Serjeant Murphy pounced38, “Would you prefer to hear the language I should use, Mr. Montague—and in open court?”
Montague took a breath and looked down. Old Aubrey stared at him with a massive disapproval39. “Montague, I knew your late grandfather well. I fancy he would have thought twice before acting40 for such a client as yours—but let that pass for the nonce. I consider this letter . . .” and he held it up, as if with tongs41 “... I consider this disgraceful letter adds most impertinent insult to an already gross injury, both by its shameless attempt at self-exoneration and the complete ab-sence from it of any reference to the criminal and sordid42 liaison43 that the writer well knows is the blackest aspect of his crime.” He glowered44 at Charles. “You may, sir, have thought Mr. Freeman not to be fully45 cognizant of your amours. You are wrong. We know the name of the female with whom you have entered into such base conversation. We have a witness to circumstances I find too disgusting to name.”
Charles flushed red. Mr. Freeman’s eyes bored into him. He could only lower his head; and curse Sam. Montague spoke46.
“My client did not come here to defend his conduct.”
“Then you would not defend an action?”
“A person of your eminence47 in our profession must know that I cannot answer that question.”
Serjeant Murphy intervened again. “You would not defend an action if one were brought?”
“With respect, sir, I must reserve judgment48 on that mat-ter.”
A vulpine smile distorted the serjeant-at-law’s lips.
“The judgment is not at issue, Mr. Montague.”
“May we proceed, Mr. Aubrey?”
Mr. Aubrey glanced at the Serjeant, who nodded grim assent49.
“This is not an occasion, Mr. Montague, when I should advise too much standing upon plea.” He shuffled papers again. “I will be brief. My advice to Mr. Freeman has been clear. In my long experience, my very long experience, this is the vilest50 example of dishonorable behavior I have ever had under my survey. Even did not your client merit the harsh judgment he would inevitably52 receive, I believe firmly that such vicious conduct should be exhibited as a warning to others.” He left a long silence, then, for the words to sink deep. Charles wished he could control the blood in his cheeks. Mr. Freeman at least was now looking down; but Serjeant Murphy knew very well how to use a flushing witness. He put on what admiring junior counsel called his basilisk quiz, in which irony53 and sadism were nicely promi-nent.
Mr. Aubrey, in a somber54 new key, went on. “However, for reasons I shall not go into, Mr. Freeman has elected to show a mercy the case in no way warrants. He does not, upon conditions, immediately have it in mind to proceed.”
Charles swallowed, and glanced at Montague.
“I am sure my client is grateful to yours.”
“I have, with esteemed55 advice . . .” Mr. Aubrey bowed briefly56 towards the serjeant, who bobbed his head without taking his eyes off the wretched Charles “... prepared an admission of guilt. I should instruct you that Mr. Freeman’s decision not to proceed immediately is most strictly57 con-tingent upon your client’s signing, on this occasion and in our presence, and witnessed by all present, this document.”
And he handed it to Montague, who glanced at it, then looked up.
“May I request five minutes’ discussion in private with my client?”
“I am most surprised you should find discussion neces-sary.” He puffed58 up a little, but Montague stood firm. “Then very well, very well. If you must.”
So Harry Montague and Charles found themselves back in the funereal waiting room. Montague read the document, then handed it drily to Charles.
“Well, here’s your medicine. You’ve got to take it, dear boy.”
And while Montague stared out at the window, Charles read the admission of guilt.
I, Charles Algernon Henry Smithson, do fully, freely and not upon any consideration but my desire to declare the truth, admit that:
1. I contracted to marry Miss Ernestina Freeman;
2. I was given no cause whatsoever59 by the innocent party (the said Miss Ernestina Freeman) to break my solemn contract with her;
3. I was fully and exactly apprised60 of her rank in society, her character, her marriage portion and future prospects61 before my engagement to her hand and that nothing I learned subsequently of the aforesaid Miss Ernestina Freeman in any way contradicted or denied what I had been told;
4. I did break that contract without just cause or any justifica-tion whatsoever beyond my own criminal selfishness and faithless-ness;
5. I entered upon a clandestine62 liaison with a person named Sarah Emily Woodruff, resident at Lyme Regis and Exeter, and I did attempt to conceal63 this liaison;
6. My conduct throughout this matter has been dishonorable, and by it I have forever forfeited64 the right to be considered a gentleman.
Furthermore, I acknowledge the right of the injured party to proceed against me sine die and without term or condition.
Furthermore, I acknowledge that the injured party may make whatsoever use she desires of this document.
Furthermore, my signature hereto appended is given of my own free will, in full understanding of the conditions herein, in full con-fession of my conduct, and under no duress65 whatsoever, upon no prior or posterior consideration whatsoever and no right of re-dress, rebuttal, demurral or denial in any particular, now and henceforth under all the abovementioned terms.
“Have you no comment on it?”
“I fancy that there must have been a dispute over the drafting. No lawyer would happily put in that sixth clause. If it came to court, one might well argue that no gentleman, however foolish he had been, would make such an admission except under duress. A counsel could make quite a lot of that. It is really in our favor. I’m surprised Aubrey and Murphy have allowed it. My guess is that it is Papa’s clause. He wants you to eat humble66 pie.”
He looked for a moment as if he would tear it to pieces.
Montague gently took it from him. “The law is not con-cerned with truth, Charles. You should know that by now.”
“And that ‘may make whatsoever use she desires’—what in heaven’s name does that mean?”
“It could mean that the document is inserted in The Times. I seem to recall something similar was done some years ago. But I have a feeling old Freeman wants to keep this matter quiet. He would have had you in court if he wanted to put you in the stocks.”
“So I must sign.”
“If you like I can go back and argue for different phrases— some form that would reserve to you the right to plead extenuating67 circumstances if it came to trial. But I strongly advise against. The very harshness of this as it stands would argue far better for you. It pays us best to pay their price. Then if needs be we can argue the bill was a deuced sight too stiff.”
Charles nodded, and they stood.
“There’s one thing, Harry. I wish I knew how Ernestina is. I cannot ask him.”
“I’ll see if I can have a word with old Aubrey afterwards.
He’s not such a bad old stick. He has to play it up for Papa.”
So they returned; and the admission was signed, first by Charles, then by each of the others in turn. All remained standing. There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then at last Mr. Freeman spoke.
“And now, you blackguard, never darken my life again. I wish I were a younger man. If—“
“My dear Mr. Freeman!”
Old Aubrey’s sharp voice silenced his client. Charles hesi-tated, bowed to the two lawyers, then left followed by Mon-tague.
But outside Montague said, “Wait in the carriage for me.”
A minute or two later he climbed in beside Charles.
“She is as well as can be expected. Those are his words. He also gave me to understand what Freeman intends to do if you go in for the marriage game again. Charles, he will show what you have just signed to the next father-in-law to be. He means you to remain a bachelor all your life.”
“I had guessed as much.”
“Old Aubrey also told me, by the way, to whom you owe your release on parole.”
“To her? That too I had guessed.”
“He would have had his pound of flesh. But the young lady evidently rules that household.”
The carriage rolled on for a hundred yards before Charles spoke.
“I am defiled68 to the end of my life.”
“My dear Charles, if you play the Muslim in a world of Puritans, you can expect no other treatment. I am as fond as the next man of a pretty ankle. I don’t blame you. But don’t tell me that the price is not fairly marked.”
The carriage rolled on. Charles stared gloomily out at the sunny street.
“I wish I were dead.”
“Then let us go to Verrey’s and demolish69 a lobster70 or two. And you shall tell me about the mysterious Miss Woodruff before you die.”
That humiliating interview depressed Charles for days. He wanted desperately71 to go abroad, never to see England again. His club, his acquaintances, he could not face them; he gave strict instructions—he was at home to no one. He threw himself into the search for Sarah. One day the detective of-fice turned up a Miss Woodbury, newly employed at a girls’ academy in Stoke Newington. She had auburn hair, she seemed to fit the description he had supplied. He spent an ag-onizing hour one afternoon outside the school. Miss Woodbury came out, at the head of a crocodile of young ladies. She bore only the faintest resemblance to Sarah.
June came, an exceptionally fine one. Charles saw it out, but towards the end of it he stopped searching. The detective office remained optimistic, but they had their fees to con-sider. Exeter was searched as London had been; a man was even sent to make discreet72 inquiries at Lyme and Char-mouth; and all in vain. One evening Charles asked Montague to have dinner with him at the Kensington house, and frankly73, miserably74, placed himself in his hands. What should he do? Montague did not hesitate to tell him. He should go abroad.
“But what can her purpose have been? To give herself to me—and then to dismiss me as if I were nothing to her.”
“The strong presumption—forgive me—is that that latter possibility is the truth. Could not that doctor have been right? Are you sure her motive75 was not one of vindictive76 destruc-tion? To ruin your prospects ... to reduce you to what you are, Charles?”
“I cannot believe it.”
“But prima facie you must believe it.”
“Beneath all her stories and deceptions77 she had a candor78 ... an honesty. Perhaps she has died. She has no money. No family.”
“Then let me send a clerk to look at the Register of Death.”
Charles took this sensible advice almost as if it were an insult. But the next day he followed it; and no Sarah Wood-ruff’s death was recorded.
He dallied79 another week. Then abruptly80, one evening, he decided81 to go abroad.
收听单词发音 |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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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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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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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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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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peremptorily
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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duress
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| n.胁迫 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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67
extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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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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69
demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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70
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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71
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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72
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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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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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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77
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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