ON the day after Lord Harry1’s description of the state of his mind reached London, a gentleman presented himself at the publishing office of Messrs. Boldside Brothers, and asked for the senior partner, Mr. Peter Boldside. When he sent in his card, it bore the name of “Mr. Vimpany.”
“To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted, sir, for the honour of your visit?” the senior partner inquired. His ingratiating manners, his genial2 smile, his roundly resonant3 voice, were personal advantages of which he made a merciless use. The literary customer who entered the office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own expense, generally decided4 to pay the penalty when he encountered Mr. Peter Boldside.
“I want to inquire about the sale of my work,” Mr. Vimpany replied.
“Ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. You must go to my brother.”
Mr. Vimpany protested. “You mentioned the terms when I first applied5 to you,” he said, “and you signed the agreement.”
“That is in my department,” the senior partner gently explained. “And I shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits shall fall due. But our sales of works are in the department of my brother, Mr. Paul Boldside.” He rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and received his instructions: “Mr. Paul. Good-morning, doctor.”
Mr. Paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated — without the deep voice, and without the genial smile. Conducted to the office of the junior partner, Mr. Vimpany found himself in the presence of a stranger, occupied in turning over the pages of a newspaper. When his name was announced, the publisher started, and handed his newspaper to the doctor.
“This is a coincidence,” he said. “I was looking, sir, for your name in the pages which I have just put into your hand. Surely the editor can’t have refused to publish your letter?”
Mr. Vimpany was sober, and therefore sad, and therefore (again) not to be trifled with by a mystifying reception. “I don’t understand you,” he answered gruffly. “What do you mean?”
“Is it possible that you have not seen last week’s number of the paper?” Mr. Paul asked. “And you a literary man!” He forthwith produced the last week’s number, and opened it at the right place. “Read that, sir,” he said, with something in his manner which looked like virtuous6 indignation.
Mr. Vimpany found himself confronted by a letter addressed to the editor. It was signed by an eminent7 physician, whose portrait had appeared in the first serial8 part of the new work — accompanied by a brief memoir9 of his life, which purported10 to be written by himself. Not one line of the autobiography11 (this celebrated12 person declared) had proceeded from his pen. Mr. Vimpany had impudently13 published an imaginary memoir, full of false reports and scandalous inventions — and this after he had been referred to a trustworthy source for the necessary particulars. Stating these facts, the indignant physician cautioned readers to beware of purchasing a work which, so far as he was concerned, was nothing less than a fraud on the public.
“If you can answer that letter, sir,” Mr. Paul Boldside resumed, “the better it will be, I can tell you, for the sale of your publication.”
Mr. Vimpany made a reckless reply: “I want to know how the thing sells. Never mind the letter.”
“Never mind the letter?” the junior partner repeated. “A positive charge of fraud is advanced by a man at the head of his profession against a work which we have published — and you say, Never mind the letter.”
The rough customer of the Boldsides struck his fist on the table. “Bother the letter! I insist on knowing what the sale is.”
Still preserving his dignity, Mr. Paul (like Mr. Peter) rang for the clerk, and briefly14 gave an order. “Mr. Vimpany’s account,” he said — and proceeded to admonish15 Mr. Vimpany himself.
“You appear, sir, to have no defence of your conduct to offer. Our firm has a reputation to preserve. When I have consulted with my brother, we shall be under the disagreeable necessity —”
Here (as he afterwards told his brother) the publisher was brutally16 interrupted by the author:
“If you will have it,” said this rude man, “here it is in two words. The doctor’s portrait is the likeness17 of an ass18. As he couldn’t do it himself, I wanted materials for writing his life. He referred me to the year of his birth, the year of his marriage, the year of this, that, and the other. Who cares about dates? The public likes to be tickled19 by personal statements. Very well — I tickled the public. There you have it in a nutshell.”
The clerk appeared at that auspicious20 moment, with the author’s account neatly21 exhibited under two sides: a Debtor22 side, which represented the expenditure23 of Hugh Mountjoy’s money; and a Creditor24 side, which represented (so far) Mr. Vimpany’s profits. Amount of these last: 3l. 14s. 10d.
Mr. Vimpany tore up the account, threw the pieces in the face of Mr. Paul, and expressed his sentiments in one opprobrious25 word: “Swindlers!”
The publisher said: “You shall hear of us, sir, through our lawyer.”
And the author answered: “Go to the devil!”
Once out in the streets again, the first open door at which Mr. Vimpany stopped was the door of a tavern26. He ordered a glass of brandy and water, and a cigar.
It was then the hour of the afternoon, between the time of luncheon27 and the time of dinner, when the business of a tavern is generally in a state of suspense28. The dining-room was empty when Mr. Vimpany entered it: and the waiter’s unoccupied attention was in want of an object. Having nothing else to notice, he looked at the person who had just come in. The deluded29 stranger was drinking fiery30 potato-brandy, and smoking (at the foreign price) an English cigar. Would his taste tell him the melancholy31 truth? No: it seemed to matter nothing to him what he was drinking or what he was smoking. Now he looked angry, and now he looked puzzled; and now he took a long letter from his pocket, and read it in places, and marked the places with a pencil. “Up to some mischief,” was the waiter’s interpretation32 of these signs. The stranger ordered a second glass of grog, and drank it in gulps33, and fell into such deep thought that he let his cigar go out. Evidently, a man in search of an idea. And, to all appearance, he found what he wanted on a sudden. In a hurry he paid his reckoning, and left his small change and his unfinished cigar on the table, and was off before the waiter could say, “Thank you.”
The next place at which he stopped was a fine house in a spacious34 square. A carriage was waiting at the door. The servant who opened the door knew him.
“Sir James is going out again, sir, in two minutes,” the man said. Mr. Vimpany answered: “I won’t keep him two minutes.”
A bell rang from the room on the ground floor; and a gentleman came out, as Mr. Vimpany was shown in. Sir James’s stethoscope was still in his hand; his latest medical fee lay on the table. “Some other day, Vimpany,” the great surgeon said; “I have no time to give you now.”
“Will you give me a minute?” the humble35 doctor asked.
“Very well. What is it?”
“I am down in the world now, Sir James, as you know — and I am trying to pick myself up again.”
“Very creditable, my good fellow. How can I help you? Come, come — out with it. You want something?”
“I want your great name to do me a great service. I am going to France. A letter of introduction, from you, will open doors which might be closed to an unknown man like myself.”
“What doors do you mean?” Sir James asked.
“The doors of the hospitals in Paris.”
“Wait a minute, Vimpany. Have you any particular object in view?”
“A professional object, of course,” the ready doctor answered. “I have got an idea for a new treatment of diseases of the lungs; and I want to see if the French have made any recent discoveries in that direction.”
Sir James took up his pen — and hesitated. His ill-starred medical colleague had been his fellow-student and his friend, in the days when they were both young men. They had seen but little of each other since they had gone their different ways — one of them, on the high road which leads to success, the other down the byways which end in failure. The famous surgeon felt a passing doubt of the use which his needy36 and vagabond inferior might make of his name. For a moment his pen was held suspended over the paper. But the man of great reputation was also a man of great heart. Old associations pleaded with him, and won their cause. His companion of former times left the house provided with a letter of introduction to the chief surgeon at the Hotel Dieu, in Paris.
Mr. Vimpany’s next, and last, proceeding37 for that day, was to stop at a telegraph-office, and to communicate economically with Lord Harry in three words:
“Expect me to-morrow.”
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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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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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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impudently
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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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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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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