classic mystery and detective stories-第42部分

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shook　at　first；　but　the　moldering　canvas　appeared　to　assist　him　in

the　effort。　　He　tore　it　from　the　frame　with　a　cry　half　terrific；

half　triumphant；it　fell　at　his　feet；　and　he　shuddered　as　it　fell。

He　expected　to　hear　some　fearful　sounds；　some　unimaginable

breathings　of　prophetic　horror；　follow　this　act　of　sacrilege；　for

such　he　felt　it；　to　tear　the　portrait　of　his　ancestor　from　his

native　walls。　　He　paused　and　listened：〃There　was　no　voice；　nor

any　that　answered；〃but　as　the　wrinkled　and　torn　canvas　fell　to

the　floor；　its　undulations　gave　the　portrait　the　appearance　of

smiling。　　Melmoth　felt　horror　indescribable　at　this　transient　and

imaginary　resuscitation　of　the　figure。　　He　caught　it　up；　rushed

into　the　next　room；　tore；　cut；　and　hacked　it　in　every　direction；

and　eagerly　watched　the　fragments　that　burned　like　tinder　in　the

turf　fire　which　had　been　lit　in　his　room。　　As　Melmoth　saw　the　last

blaze；　he　threw　himself　into　bed；　in　hope　of　a　deep　and　intense

sleep。　　He　had　done　what　was　required　of　him；　and　felt　exhausted

both　in　mind　and　body；　but　his　slumber　was　not　so　sound　as　he　had

hoped　for。　　The　sullen　light　of　the　turf　fire；　burning　but　never

blazing；　disturbed　him　every　moment。　　He　turned　and　turned；　but

still　there　was　the　same　red　light　glaring　on；　but　not

illuminating；　the　dusky　furniture　of　the　apartment。　　The　wind　was

high　that　night；　and　as　the　creaking　door　swung　on　its　hinges；

every　noise　seemed　like　the　sound　of　a　hand　struggling　with　the

lock；　or　of　a　foot　pausing　on　the　threshold。　　But　（for　Melmoth

never　could　decide）　was　it　in　a　dream　or　not；　that　he　saw　the

figure　of　his　ancestor　appear　at　the　door？hesitatingly　as　he　saw

him　at　first　on　the　night　of　his　uncle's　death；saw　him　enter　the

room；　approach　his　bed；　and　heard　him　whisper；　〃You　have　burned　me；

then；　but　those　are　flames　I　can　survive。I　am　alive；I　am　beside

you。〃　　Melmoth　started；　sprung　from　his　bed；it　was　broad

daylight。　　He　looked　round；there　was　no　human　being　in　the　room

but　himself。　　He　felt　a　slight　pain　in　the　wrist　of　his　right　arm。

He　looked　at　it；　it　was　black　and　blue；　as　from　the　recent　gripe　of

a　strong　hand。





Balzac's　tale；　Melmoth　Reconciled；　in　Vol。　IV。；　furnishes　a

solution　to　the　terrible　problem　which　Maturin　has　stated　in　this

story。EDITOR'S　NOTE。







Introduction　to　〃A　Mystery　with　a　Moral〃





The　next　Mystery　Story　is　like　no　other　in　these　volumes。　　The

editor's　defense　lies　in　the　plea　that　Laurence　Sterne　is　not　like

other　writers　of　English。　　He　is　certainly　one　of　the　very

greatest。　　Yet　nowadays　he　is　generally　unknown。　　His　rollicking

frankness；　his　audacious　unconventionality；　are　enough　to　account

for　the　neglect。　　Even　the　easy　mannered　England　of　1760　opened　its

eyes　in　horror　when　〃Tristram　Shandy〃　appeared。　　〃A　most　unclerical

clergyman；〃　the　public　pronounced　the　rector　of　Sutton　and

prebendary　of　York。



Besides；　his　style　was　rambling　to　the　last　degree。　　Plot　concerned

him　least　of　all　authors　of　fiction。



For　instance；　it　is　more　than　doubtful　that　the　whimsical　parson

really　INTENDED　a　moral　to　be　read　into　the　adventures　of　his

〃Sentimental　Journey〃　that　follow　in　these　pages。　　He　used　to

declare　that　he　never　intended　anythinghe　never　knew　whither　his

pen　was　leadingthe　rash　implement；　once　in　hand；　was　likely　to

fly　with　him　from　Yorkshire　to　Italyor　to　Parisor　across　the

road　to　Uncle　Toby's；　and　what　could　the　helpless　author　do　but

improve　each　occasion？



So　here　is　one　such　〃occasion〃　thus　〃improved〃　by　disjointed

sequelsheedless；　one　would　say；　and　yet　glittering　with　the

unreturnable　thrust　of　subtle　wit；　or　softening　with　simple

emotion；　like　a　thousand　immortal　passages　of　this　random

philosopher。



Even　the　slightest　turns　of　Sterne's　pen　bear　inspiration。　　No　less

a　critic　than　the　severe　Hazlitt　was　satisfied　that　〃his　works

consist　only　of　brilliant　passages。〃



And　because　the　editors　of　the　present　volumes　found　added　to　〃The

Mystery〃　not　only　a　〃Solution〃　but　an　〃Application〃　of　worldly

wisdom；　and　a　〃Contrast〃　in　Sterne's　best　vein　of　quiet　happiness

they　have　felt　emboldened　to　ascribe　the　passage　〃A　Mystery　with　a

Moral。〃



As　regards　the　〃Application〃：　Sterne　knew　whereof　he　wrote。　　He

sought　the　South　of　France　for　health　in　1762；　and　was　run　after

and　feted　by　the　most　brilliant　circles　of　Parisian　litterateurs。

This　foreign　sojourn　failed　to　cure　his　lung　complaint；　but

suggested　the　idea　to　him　of　the　rambling　and　charming　〃Sentimental

Journey。〃　　Only　three　weeks　after　its　publication；　on　March　18；

1768；　Sterne　died　alone　in　his　London　lodgings。



Spite　of　all　that　marred　his　genius；　his　work　has　lived　and　wil1

live；　if　only　for　the　exquisite　literary　art　which　ever　made　great

things　out　of　little。The　EDITOR。







Laurence　Sterne





A　Mystery　with　a　Moral



Parisian　Experience　of　Parson　Yorick；　on　his　〃Sentimental　Journey〃





A　RIDDLE





I　remained　at　the　gate　of　the　hotel　for　some　time；　looking　at

everyone　who　passed　by；　and　forming　conjectures　upon　them；　till　my

attention　got　fixed　upon　a　single　object；　which　confounded　all　kind

of　reasoning　upon　him。



It　was　a　tall　figure　of　a　philosophic；　serious　adult　look；　which

passed　and　repassed　sedately　along　the　street；　making　a　turn　of

about　sixty　paces　on　each　side　of　the　gate　of　the　hotel。　　The　man

was　about　fifty…two；　had　a　small　cane　under　his　arm；　was　dressed　in

a　dark　drab…colored　coat；　waistcoat；　and　breeches；　which　seemed　to

have　seen　some　years'　service。　　They　were　still　clean；　and　there

was　a　little　air　of　frugal　propriete　throughout　him。　　By　his

pulling　off　his　hat；　and　his　attitude　of　accosting　a　good　many　in

his　way；　I　saw　he　was　asking　charity；　so　I　got　a　sous　or　two　out　of

my　pocket；　ready　to　give　him　as　he　took　me　in　his　turn。　　He　passed

by　me　without　asking　anything；　and　yet　he　did　not　go　five　steps

farther　before　he　asked　charity　of　a　little　woman。　　I　was　much　more

likely　to　have　given　of　the　two。　　He　had　scarce　done　with　the

woman；　when　he　pulled　his　hat　off　to　another　who　was　coming　the

same　way。　　An　ancient　gentleman　came　slowly；　and　after　him　a　young

smart　one。　　He　let　them　both　pass　and　asked　nothing。　　I　stood

observing　him　half　an　hour；　in　which　time　he　had　made　a　dozen　turns

backward　and　forward；　and　found　that　he　invariably　pursued　the　same

plan。



There　were　two　things　very　singular　in　this　which　set　my　brain　to

work；　and　to　no　purpose；　the　first　was；　why　the　man　should　only

tell　his　story　to　the　sex；　and　secondly；　what　kind　of　a　story　it

was　and　what　species　of　eloquence　it　could　be　which　softened　the

hearts　of　the　women　which　he　knew　it　was　to　no　purpose　to　practice

upon　the　men。



There　were　two　other　circumstances　which　entangled　this　mystery。

The　one　was；　he　told　every　woman　what　he　had　to　say　in　her　ear；　and

in　a　way　which　had　much　more　the　air　of　a　secret　than　a　petition；

the　other　was；　it　was　always　successfulhe　never　stopped　a　woman

but　she　pulled　out　her　purse　and　immediately　gave　him　something。



I　could　form　no　system　to　explain　the　phenomenon。



I　had　got　a　riddle　to　amuse　me　for　the　rest　of　the　evening；　so　I

walked　upstairs　to　my　chamber。





OVERHEARD





The　man　who　either　disdains　or　fears　to　walk　up　a　dark　entry　may　be

an　excellent；　good　man；　and　fit　for　a　hundred　things；　but　he　will

not　do　to　make　a　sentimental　traveler。　　I　count　little　of　the　many

things　I　see　pass　at　broad　noonday；　in　large　and　open　streets；

Nature　is　shy；　and　hates　to　act　before　spectators；　but　in　such　an

unobservable　corner　you　sometimes　see　a　single　short　scene　of　hers

worth　all　the　sentiments　of　a　dozen　French　plays　compounded

together；　and　yet　they　are　ABSOLUTELY　fine；　and　whenever　I　have　a

more　brilliant　affair　upon　my　hands　than　common；　as　they　suit　a

preacher　just　as　well　as　a　hero；　I　generally　make　my　sermon　out　of

them；　and　for　the　text；　〃Cappadocia；　Pontus　and　Asia；　Phrygia　and

Pamphilia；〃　is　as　good　as　anyone　in　the　Bible。



There　is　a　long；　dark　passage　issuing　out　from　the　Opera　Comique

into　a　narrow　street。　　It　is　trod　by　a　few　who　humbly　wait　for　a

fiacre*　or　wish　to　get　off　quietly　o'　foot　when　the　opera　is　done。

At　the　end　of　it；　toward　the　theater；　'tis　lighted　by　a　small

candle；　the　light　of　which　is　almost　lost　before　you　get　halfway

down；　but　near　the　doorit　is　more　for　ornament　than　useyou　see

it　as　a　fixed　star　of　the　least　magnitude；　it　burns；　but　does

little　good　to　the　world　that　we　know　of。





*Hackney　coach。





In　returning　＇from　the　opera＇　along　this　passage；　I　discerned；　as　I

approached　within　five　or　six　paces　of　the　door；　two　ladies

standing　arm　in　arm　with　their　backs　against　the　wall；　waiting；　as

I　imagined；　for　a　fiacre。　　As　they　were　next　the　door；　I　thought

they　had　a　prior　right；　so　I　edged　myself　up　within　a　yard　or

little　more　of　them；　and　quietly　took　my　stand。　　I　was　in　black　and

scarce　seen。



The　lady　next　me　was　a　tall；　lean　figure　of　a　woman　of　about

thirty…six；　the　other；　of　the　same　size　and　make　of　about　forty。

There　was　no　mark　of　wife　or　widow　in　any　one　part　of　either　of

them。　　They　seemed　to　be　two　upright　vestal　sisters；　unsapped　by

caresses；　unbroke　in　upon　by　tender　salutations。　　I　could　have

wished　to　have　made　them　happy。　　Their　happiness　was　destined；　that

night；　to　come　from　another　quarter。



A　low　voice　with　a　good　turn　of　expression　and　sweet　cadence　at　the

end　of　it；　begged　for　a　twelve…sous　piece　between　them　for　the　love

of　heaven。　　I　thought　it　singular　that　a　beggar　should　fix　the

quota　of　an　alms；　and　that　the　sum　should　be　twelve　times　as　much

as　what　is　usually　given　in　the　dark。　　They　both　seemed　astonished

at　it　as　much　as　myself。　　〃Twelve　sous；〃　said　one。　　〃A　twelve…sous

piece；〃　said　the　other；　and　made　no　reply。



The　poor　man　said　he　knew　not　how　to　ask　less　of　ladies　of　their

rank；　and