And sure enough, the next day, there fell a sprinkle even in Albany; but it passed as it came, and was but a reminder6 of what lay before us. I thought of it lightly then, knowing so little as I did of that inclement7 province: the retrospect8 is different; and I wonder at times if some of the horror of there events which I must now rehearse flowed not from the foul9 skies and savage10 winds to which we were exposed, and the agony of cold that we must suffer.
The boat having passed by, I thought at first we should have left the town. But no such matter. My lord continued his stay in Albany where he had no ostensible11 affairs, and kept me by him, far from my due employment, and making a pretence12 of occupation. It is upon this passage I expect, and perhaps deserve, censure13. I was not so dull but what I had my own thoughts. I could not see the Master entrust14 himself into the hands of Harris, and not suspect some underhand contrivance. Harris bore a villainous reputation, and he had been tampered15 with in private by my lord; Mountain, the trader, proved, upon inquiry16, to be another of the same kidney; the errand they were all gone upon being the recovery of ill-gotten treasures, offered in itself a very strong incentive17 to foul play; and the character of the country where they journeyed promised impunity18 to deeds of blood. Well: it is true I had all these thoughts and fears, and guesses of the Master’s fate. But you are to consider I was the same man that sought to dash him from the bulwarks19 of a ship in the mid-sea; the same that, a little before, very impiously but sincerely offered God a bargain, seeking to hire God to be my bravo. It is true again that I had a good deal melted towards our enemy. But this I always thought of as a weakness of the flesh and even culpable20; my mind remaining steady and quite bent21 against him. True, yet again, that it was one thing to assume on my own shoulders the guilt22 and danger of a criminal attempt, and another to stand by and see my lord imperil and besmirch23 himself. But this was the very ground of my inaction. For (should I anyway stir in the business) I might fail indeed to save the Master, but I could not miss to make a byword of my lord.
Thus it was that I did nothing; and upon the same reasons, I am still strong to justify24 my course. We lived meanwhile in Albany, but though alone together in a strange place, had little traffic beyond formal salutations. My lord had carried with him several introductions to chief people of the town and neighbourhood; others he had before encountered in New York: with this consequence, that he went much abroad, and I am sorry to say was altogether too convivial25 in his habits. I was often in bed, but never asleep, when he returned; and there was scarce a night when he did not betray the influence of liquor. By day he would still lay upon me endless tasks, which he showed considerable ingenuity26 to fish up and renew, in the manner of Penelope’s web. I never refused, as I say, for I was hired to do his bidding; but I took no pains to keep my penetration27 under a bushel, and would sometimes smile in his face.
“I think I must be the devil and you Michael Scott,” I said to him one day. “I have bridged Tweed and split the Eildons; and now you set me to the rope of sand.”
“Well, well, my lord,” said I, “your will is my pleasure. I will do this thing for the fourth time; but I would beg of you to invent another task against to-morrow, for by my troth, I am weary of this one.”
“You do not know what you are saying,” returned my lord, putting on his hat and turning his back to me. “It is a strange thing you should take a pleasure to annoy me. A friend—but that is a different affair. It is a strange thing. I am a man that has had ill-fortune all my life through. I am still surrounded by contrivances. I am always treading in plots,” he burst out. “The whole world is banded against me.”
“I would not talk wicked nonsense if I were you,” said I; “but I will tell you what I would do—I would put my head in cold water, for you had more last night than you could carry.”
“Do ye think that?” said he, with a manner of interest highly awakened29. “Would that be good for me? It’s a thing I never tried.”
“I mind the days when you had no call to try, and I wish, my lord, that they were back again,” said I. “But the plain truth is, if you continue to exceed, you will do yourself a mischief30.”
“I don’t appear to carry drink the way I used to,” said my lord. “I get overtaken, Mackellar. But I will be more upon my guard.”
“That is what I would ask of you,” I replied. “You are to bear in mind that you are Mr. Alexander’s father: give the bairn a chance to carry his name with some responsibility.”
“Ay, ay,” said he. “Ye’re a very sensible man, Mackellar, and have been long in my employ. But I think, if you have nothing more to say to me I will be stepping. If you have nothing more to say?” he added, with that burning, childish eagerness that was now so common with the man.
“No, my lord, I have nothing more,” said I, dryly enough.
“Then I think I will be stepping,” says my lord, and stood and looked at me fidgeting with his hat, which he had taken off again. “I suppose you will have no errands? No? I am to meet Sir William Johnson, but I will be more upon my guard.” He was silent for a time, and then, smiling: “Do you call to mind a place, Mackellar—it’s a little below Engles—where the burn runs very deep under a wood of rowans. I mind being there when I was a lad—dear, it comes over me like an old song!—I was after the fishing, and I made a bonny cast. Eh, but I was happy. I wonder, Mackellar, why I am never happy now?”
“My lord,” said I, “if you would drink with more moderation you would have the better chance. It is an old byword that the bottle is a false consoler.”
“No doubt,” said he, “no doubt. Well, I think I will be going.”
“Good-morning, my lord,” said I.
“Good-morning, good-morning,” said he, and so got himself at last from the apartment.
I give that for a fair specimen31 of my lord in the morning; and I must have described my patron very ill if the reader does not perceive a notable falling off. To behold32 the man thus fallen: to know him accepted among his companions for a poor, muddled33 toper, welcome (if he were welcome at all) for the bare consideration of his title; and to recall the virtues34 he had once displayed against such odds35 of fortune; was not this a thing at once to rage and to be humbled36 at?
In his cups, he was more excessive. I will give but the one scene, close upon the end, which is strongly marked upon my memory to this day, and at the time affected37 me almost with horror.
I was in bed, lying there awake, when I heard him stumbling on the stair and singing. My lord had no gift of music, his brother had all the graces of the family, so that when I say singing, you are to understand a manner of high, carolling utterance38, which was truly neither speech nor song. Something not unlike is to be heard upon the lips of children, ere they learn shame; from those of a man grown elderly, it had a strange effect. He opened the door with noisy precaution; peered in, shading his candle; conceived me to slumber39; entered, set his light upon the table, and took off his hat. I saw him very plain; a high, feverish40 exultation41 appeared to boil in his veins42, and he stood and smiled and smirked43 upon the candle. Presently he lifted up his arm, snapped his fingers, and fell to undress. As he did so, having once more forgot my presence, he took back to his singing; and now I could hear the words, which were those from the old song of the Twa Corbies endlessly repeated:
“And over his banes when they are bare
The wind sall blaw for evermair!”
I have said there was no music in the man. His strains had no logical succession except in so far as they inclined a little to the minor44 mode; but they exercised a rude potency45 upon the feelings, and followed the words, and signified the feelings of the singer with barbaric fitness. He took it first in the time and manner of a rant46; presently this ill-favoured gleefulness abated47, he began to dwell upon the notes more feelingly, and sank at last into a degree of maudlin48 pathos49 that was to me scarce bearable. By equal steps, the original briskness50 of his acts declined; and when he was stripped to his breeches, he sat on the bedside and fell to whimpering. I know nothing less respectable than the tears of drunkenness, and turned my back impatiently on this poor sight.
But he had started himself (I am to suppose) on that slippery descent of self-pity; on the which, to a man unstrung by old sorrows and recent potations there is no arrest except exhaustion51. His tears continued to flow, and the man to sit there, three parts naked, in the cold air of the chamber. I twitted myself alternately with inhumanity and sentimental52 weakness, now half rising in my bed to interfere53, now reading myself lessons of indifference54 and courting slumber, until, upon a sudden, the quantum mutatus ab illo shot into my mind; and calling to remembrance his old wisdom, constancy, and patience, I was overborne with a pity almost approaching the passionate55, not for my master alone but for the sons of man.
At this I leaped from my place, went over to his side and laid a hand on his bare shoulder, which was cold as stone. He uncovered his face and showed it me all swollen56 and begrutten [10] like a child’s; and at the sight my impatience57 partially58 revived.
“Think shame to yourself,” said I. “This is bairnly conduct. I might have been snivelling myself, if I had cared to swill59 my belly60 with wine. But I went to my bed sober like a man. Come: get into yours, and have done with this pitiable exhibition.”
“Oh, Mackellar,” said he, “my heart is wae!”
“Wae?” cried I. “For a good cause, I think. What words were these you sang as you came in? Show pity to others, we then can talk of pity to yourself. You can be the one thing or the other, but I will be no party to half-way houses. If you’re a striker, strike, and if you’re a bleater62, bleat61!”
“Cry!” cries he, with a burst, “that’s it—strike! that’s talking! Man, I’ve stood it all too long. But when they laid a hand upon the child, when the child’s threatened”—his momentary63 vigour64 whimpering off—“my child, my Alexander!”—and he was at his tears again.
I took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Alexander!” said I. “Do you even think of him? Not you! Look yourself in the face like a brave man, and you’ll find you’re but a self-deceiver. The wife, the friend, the child, they’re all equally forgot, and you sunk in a mere65 log of selfishness.”
“Mackellar,” said he, with a wonderful return to his old manner and appearance, “you may say what you will of me, but one thing I never was—I was never selfish.”
“I will open your eyes in your despite,” said I. “How long have we been here? and how often have you written to your family? I think this is the first time you were ever separate: have you written at all? Do they know if you are dead or living?”
I had caught him here too openly; it braced66 his better nature; there was no more weeping, he thanked me very penitently67, got to bed and was soon fast asleep; and the first thing he did the next morning was to sit down and begin a letter to my lady: a very tender letter it was too, though it was never finished. Indeed all communication with New York was transacted68 by myself; and it will be judged I had a thankless task of it. What to tell my lady and in what words, and how far to be false and how far cruel, was a thing that kept me often from my slumber.
All this while, no doubt, my lord waited with growing impatiency for news of his accomplices69. Harris, it is to be thought, had promised a high degree of expedition; the time was already overpast when word was to be looked for; and suspense71 was a very evil counsellor to a man of an impaired72 intelligence. My lord’s mind throughout this interval73 dwelled almost wholly in the Wilderness74, following that party with whose deeds he had so much concern. He continually conjured75 up their camps and progresses, the fashion of the country, the perpetration in a thousand different manners of the same horrid76 fact, and that consequent spectacle of the Master’s bones lying scattered77 in the wind. These private, guilty considerations I would continually observe to peep forth78 in the man’s talk, like rabbits from a hill. And it is the less wonder if the scene of his meditations79 began to draw him bodily.
It is well known what pretext80 he took. Sir William Johnson had a diplomatic errand in these parts; and my lord and I (from curiosity, as was given out) went in his company. Sir William was well attended and liberally supplied. Hunters brought us venison, fish was taken for us daily in the streams, and brandy ran like water. We proceeded by day and encamped by night in the military style; sentinels were set and changed; every man had his named duty; and Sir William was the spring of all. There was much in this that might at times have entertained me; but for our misfortune, the weather was extremely harsh, the days were in the beginning open, but the nights frosty from the first. A painful keen wind blew most of the time, so that we sat in the boat with blue fingers, and at night, as we scorched81 our faces at the fire, the clothes upon our back appeared to be of paper. A dreadful solitude82 surrounded our steps; the land was quite dispeopled, there was no smoke of fires, and save for a single boat of merchants on the second day, we met no travellers. The season was indeed late, but this desertion of the waterways impressed Sir William himself; and I have heard him more than once express a sense of intimidation83. “I have come too late, I fear; they must have dug up the hatchet;” he said; and the future proved how justly he had reasoned.
I could never depict84 the blackness of my soul upon this journey. I have none of those minds that are in love with the unusual: to see the winter coming and to lie in the field so far from any house, oppressed me like a nightmare; it seemed, indeed, a kind of awful braving of God’s power; and this thought, which I daresay only writes me down a coward, was greatly exaggerated by my private knowledge of the errand we were come upon. I was besides encumbered85 by my duties to Sir William, whom it fell upon me to entertain; for my lord was quite sunk into a state bordering on pervigilium, watching the woods with a rapt eye, sleeping scarce at all, and speaking sometimes not twenty words in a whole day. That which he said was still coherent; but it turned almost invariably upon the party for whom he kept his crazy lookout86. He would tell Sir William often, and always as if it were a new communication, that he had “a brother somewhere in the woods,” and beg that the sentinels should be directed “to inquire for him.” “I am anxious for news of my brother,” he would say. And sometimes, when we were under way, he would fancy he spied a canoe far off upon the water or a camp on the shore, and exhibit painful agitation87. It was impossible but Sir William should be struck with these singularities; and at last he led me aside, and hinted his uneasiness. I touched my head and shook it; quite rejoiced to prepare a little testimony88 against possible disclosures.
“But in that case,” cries Sir William, “is it wise to let him go at large?”
“Those that know him best,” said I, “are persuaded that he should be humoured.”
“Well, well,” replied Sir William, “it is none of my affairs. But if I had understood, you would never have been here.”
Our advance into this savage country had thus uneventfully proceeded for about a week, when we encamped for a night at a place where the river ran among considerable mountains clothed in wood. The fires were lighted on a level space at the water’s edge; and we supped and lay down to sleep in the customary fashion. It chanced the night fell murderously cold; the stringency89 of the frost seized and bit me through my coverings so that pain kept me wakeful; and I was afoot again before the peep of day, crouching90 by the fires or trotting91 to and fro at the stream’s edge, to combat the aching of my limbs. At last dawn began to break upon hoar woods and mountains, the sleepers92 rolled in their robes, and the boisterous93 river dashing among spears of ice. I stood looking about me, swaddled in my stiff coat of a bull’s fur, and the breath smoking from my scorched nostrils94, when, upon a sudden, a singular, eager cry rang from the borders of the wood. The sentries95 answered it, the sleepers sprang to their feet; one pointed96, the rest followed his direction with their eyes, and there, upon the edge of the forest and betwixt two trees, we beheld97 the figure of a man reaching forth his hands like one in ecstasy98. The next moment he ran forward, fell on his knees at the side of the camp, and burst in tears.
This was John Mountain, the trader, escaped from the most horrid perils99; and his first word, when he got speech, was to ask if we had seen Secundra Dass.
“Seen what?” cries Sir William.
“No,” said I, “we have seen nothing of him. Why?”
“Nothing?” says Mountain. “Then I was right after all.” With that he struck his palm upon his brow. “But what takes him back?” he cried. “What takes the man back among dead bodies. There is some damned mystery here.”
This was a word which highly aroused our curiosity, but I shall be more perspicacious100, if I narrate101 these incidents in their true order. Here follows a narrative102 which I have compiled out of three sources, not very consistent in all points:
First, a written statement by Mountain, in which everything criminal is cleverly smuggled103 out of view;
Second, two conversations with Secundra Dass; and
Third, many conversations with Mountain himself, in which he was pleased to be entirely104 plain; for the truth is he regarded me as an accomplice70.
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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prating
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的现在分词 ) | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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besmirch
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| v.污，糟蹋 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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specimen
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behold
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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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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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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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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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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swill
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| v.冲洗；痛饮；n.泔脚饲料；猪食；（谈话或写作中的）无意义的话 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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bleater
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| 拍打器； 敲打者； 助猎者； （狩猎中）使猎物从掩蔽处惊起的人 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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66
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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penitently
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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71
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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74
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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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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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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81
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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83
intimidation
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| n.恐吓，威胁 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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87
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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88
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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89
stringency
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| n.严格，紧迫，说服力；严格性；强度 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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98
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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99
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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100
perspicacious
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| adj.聪颖的，敏锐的 | |
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101
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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102
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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103
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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104
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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