classic mystery and detective stories-第47章

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presented　itself　to　me　as　an　adequate　motive。



From　this　you　readily　gather　that　I　am　severely　taciturn　at　a　table

d'hote。　　I　refrain　from　joining　in　the　〃delightful　conversation〃

which　flies　across　the　table；　and　know　that　my　reticence　is

attributed　to　〃insular　pride。〃　　It　is　really　and　truly　nothing　but

impatience　of　commonplace。　　I　thoroughly　enjoy　good　talk；　but；　ask

yourself；　what　are　the　probabilities　of　hearing　that　rare　thing　in

the　casual　assemblage　of　forty　or　fifty　people；　not　brought

together　by　any　natural　affinities　or　interests；　but　thrown

together　by　the　accident　of　being　in　the　same　district；　and　in　the

same　hotel？　　They　are　not　〃forty　feeding　like　one；〃　but　like　forty。

They　have　no　community；　except　the　community　of　commonplace。　　No；

tables　d'hote　are　not　delightful；　and　do　not　gather　interesting

people　together。



Such　has　been　my　extensive　experience。　　But　this　at　Nuremberg　is　a

conspicuous　exception。　　At　that　table　there　was　one　guest　who；　on

various　grounds；　personal　and　incidental；　remains　the　most

memorable　man　I　ever　met。　　From　the　first　he　riveted　my　attention

in　an　unusual　degree。　　He　had　not；　as　yet；　induced　me　to　emerge

from　my　habitual　reserve；　for　in　truth；　although　he　riveted　my

attention；　he　inspired　me　with　a　strange　feeling　of　repulsion。　　I

could　scarcely　keep　my　eyes　from　him；　yet；　except　the　formal　bow　on

sitting　down　and　rising　from　the　table；　I　had　interchanged　no　sign

of　fellowship　with　him。　　He　was　a　young　Russian；　named　Bourgonef；

as　I　at　once　learned；　rather　handsome；　and　peculiarly　arresting　to

the　eye；　partly　from　an　air　of　settled　melancholy；　especially　in

his　smile；　the　amiability　of　which　seemed　breaking　from　under

clouds　of　grief；　and　still　more　so　from　the　mute　appeal　to　sympathy

in　the　empty　sleeve　of　his　right　arm；　which　was　looped　to　the

breast…button　of　his　coat。　　His　eyes　were　large　and　soft。　　He　had

no　beard　or　whisker；　and　only　delicate　moustaches。　　The　sorrow；

quiet　but　profound；　the　amiable　smile　and　the　lost　arm；　were

appealing　details　which　at　once　arrested　attention　and　excited

sympathy。　　But　to　me　this　sympathy　was　mingled　with　a　vague

repulsion；　occasioned　by　a　certain　falseness　in　the　amiable　smile；

and　a　furtiveness　in　the　eyes；　which　I　sawor　fanciedand　which；

with　an　inexplicable　reserve；　forming　as　it　were　the　impregnable

citadel　in　the　center　of　his　outwardly　polite　and　engaging　manner；

gave　me　something　of　that　vague　impression　which　we　express　by　the

words　〃instinctive　antipathy。〃



It　was；　when　calmly　considered；　eminently　absurd。　　To　see　one　so

young；　and　by　his　conversation　so　highly　cultured　and　intelligent；

condemned　to　early　helplessness；　his　food　cut　up　for　him　by　a

servant；　as　if　he　were　a　child；　naturally　engaged　pity；　and；　on　the

first　day；　I　cudgeled　my　brains　during　the　greater　part　of　dinner

in　the　effort　to　account　for　his　lost　arm。　　He　was　obviously　not　a

military　man；　the　unmistakable　look　and　stoop　of　a　student　told

that　plainly　enough。　　Nor　was　the　loss　one　dating　from　early　life：

he　used　his　left　arm　too　awkwardly　for　the　event　not　to　have　had　a

recent　date。　　Had　it　anything　to　do　with　his　melancholy？　　Here　was

a　topic　for　my　vagabond　imagination；　and　endless　were　the　romances

woven　by　it　during　my　silent　dinner。　　For　the　reader　must　be　told

of　one　peculiarity　in　me；　because　to　it　much　of　the　strange

complications　of　my　story　are　due；　complications　into　which　a　mind

less　active　in　weaving　imaginary　hypotheses　to　interpret　casual　and

trifling　facts　would　never　have　been　drawn。　　From　my　childhood　I

have　been　the　victim　of　my　constructive　imagination；　which　has　led

me　into　many　mistakes　and　some　scrapes；　because；　instead　of

contenting　myself　with　plain；　obvious　evidence；　I　have　allowed

myself　to　frame　hypothetical　interpretations；　which；　to　acts　simple

in　themselves；　and　explicable　on　ordinary　motives；　render　the

simple…seeming　acts　portentous。　　With　bitter　pangs　of　self…reproach

I　have　at　times　discovered　that　a　long　and　plausible　history

constructed　by　me；　relating　to　personal　friends；　has　crumpled　into

a　ruin　of　absurdity；　by　the　disclosure　of　the　primary　misconception

on　which　the　whole　history　was　based。　　I　have　gone；　let　us　say；　on

the　supposition　that　two　people　were　secretly　lovers；　on　this

supposition　my　imagination　has　constructed　a　whole　scheme　to

explain　certain　acts；　and　one　fine　day　I　have　discovered

indubitably　that　the　supposed　lovers　were　not　lovers；　but

confidants　of　their　passions　in　other　directions；　and；　of　course；

all　my　conjectures　have　been　utterly　false。　　The　secret　flush　of

shame　at　failure　has　not；　however；　prevented　my　falling　into

similar　mistakes　immediately　after。



When；　therefore；　I　hereafter　speak　of　my　〃constructive

imagination；〃　the　reader　will　know　to　what　I　am　alluding。　　It　was

already　busy　with　Bourgonef。　　To　it　must　be　added　that　vague

repulsion；　previously　mentioned。　　This　feeling　abated　on　the　second

day；　but；　although　lessened；　it　remained　powerful　enough　to　prevent

my　speaking　to　him。　　Whether　it　would　have　continued　to　abate　until

it　disappeared；　as　such　antipathies　often　disappear；　under　the

familiarities　of　prolonged　intercourse；　without　any　immediate

appeal　to　my　amour　propre；　I　know　not；　but　every　reflective　mind；

conscious　of　being　accessible　to　antipathies；　will　remember　that

one　certain　method　of　stifling　them　is　for　the　object　to　make　some

appeal　to　our　interest　or　our　vanity：　in　the　engagement　of　these

more　powerful　feelings；　the　antipathy　is　quickly　strangled。　　At　any

rate　it　is　so　in　my　case；　and　was　so　now。



On　the　third　day；　the　conversation　at　table　happening　to　turn；　as

it　often　turned；　upon　St。　Sebald's　Church；　a　young　Frenchman；　who

was　criticising　its　architecture　with　fluent　dogmatism；　drew

Bourgonef　into　the　discussion；　and　thereby　elicited　such　a　display

of　accurate　and　extensive　knowledge；　no　less　than　delicacy　of

appreciation；　that　we　were　all　listening　spellbound。　　In　the　midst

of　this　triumphant　exposition　the　irritated　vanity　of　the　Frenchman

could　do　nothing　to　regain　his　position　but　oppose　a　flat　denial　to

a　historical　statement　made　by　Bourgonef；　backing　his　denial　by　the

confident　assertion　that　〃all　the　competent　authorities〃　held　with

him。　　At　this　point　Bourgonef　appealed　to　me；　and　in　that　tone　of

deference　so　exquisitely　flattering　from　one　we　already　know　to　be

superior　he　requested　my　decision；　observing　that；　from　the　manner

in　which　he　had　seen　me　examine　the　details　of　the　architecture；　he

could　not　be　mistaken　in　his　confidence　that　I　was　a　connoisseur。

All　eyes　were　turned　upon　me。　　As　a　shy　man；　this　made　me　blush；　as

a　vain　man；　the　blush　was　accompanied　with　delight。　　It　might

easily　have　happened　that　such　an　appeal；　acting　at　once　upon

shyness　and　ignorance；　would　have　inflamed　my　wrath；　but　the　appeal

happening　to　be　directed　on　a　point　which　I　had　recently

investigated　and　thoroughly　mastered；　I　was　flattered　at　the

opportunity　of　a　victorious　display。



The　pleasure　of　my　triumph　diffused　itself　over　my　feelings　towards

him　who　had　been　the　occasion　of　it。　　The　Frenchman　was　silenced；

the　general　verdict　of　the　company　was　too　obviously　on　our　side。

From　this　time　the　conversation　continued　between　Bourgonef　and

myself；　and　he　not　only　succeeded　in　entirely　dissipating　my　absurd

antipathywhich　I　now　saw　to　have　been　founded　on　purely　imaginary

grounds；　for　neither　the　falseness　nor　the　furtiveness　could　now　be

detectedbut　he　succeeded　in　captivating　all　my　sympathy。　　Long

after　dinner　was　over；　and　the　salle　empty；　we　sat　smoking　our

cigars；　and　discussing　politics；　literature；　and　art　in　that

suggestive　desultory　manner　which　often　gives　a　charm　to　casual

acquaintances。



It　was　a　stirring　epoch；　that　of　February；　1848。　　The　Revolution；

at　first　so　hopeful；　and　soon　to　manifest　itself　in　failure　so

disastrous；　was　hurrying　to　an　outburst。　　France　had　been　for　many

months　agitated　by　cries　of　electoral　reform；　and　by　indignation　at

the　corruption　and　scandals　in　high　places。　　The　Praslin　murder；

and　the　dishonor　of　M。　Teste；　terminated　by　suicide；　had　been

interpreted　as　signs　of　the　coming　destruction。　　The　political

banquets　given　in　various　important　cities　had　been　occasions　for

inflaming　the　public　mind；　and　to　the　far…seeing；　these　banquets

were　interpreted　as　the　sounds　of　the　tocsin。　　Louis　Philippe　had

become　odious　to　France；　and　contemptible　to　Europe。　　Guizot　and

Duchatel；　the　ministers　of　that　day；　although　backed　by　a

parliamentary　majority　on　which　they　blindly　relied；　were

unpopular；　and　were　regarded　as　infatuated　even　by　their　admirers

in　Europe。　　The　Spanish　marriages　had　all　but　led　to　a　war　with

England。　　The　Opposition；　headed　by　Thiers　and　Odillon　Barrot；　was

strengthened　by　united　action　with　the　republican　party；　headed　by

Ledru　Rollin；　Marrast；　Flocon；　and　Louis　Blanc。



Bourgonef　was　an　ardent　republican。　　So　was　I；　but　my　color　was　of

a　different　shade　from　his。　　He　belonged　to　the　Reds。　　My　own

dominant　tendencies　being　artistic　and　literary；　my　dream　was　of　a

republic　in　which　intelligence　would　be　the　archon　or　ruler；　and；

of　course；　in　such　a　republic；　art　and　literature；　as　the　highest

manifestation　of　mind；　would　have　the　supreme　direction。　　Do　you

smile；　reader？　　I　smile　now；　but　it　was　serious　earnest　with　me

then。　　It　is　unnecessary　to　say　more　on　this　point。　　I　have　said　so

much　to　render　intelligible　the　stray　link　of　communion　which

riveted　the　charm　of　my　new　acquaintance's　conversation；　there　was

both　agreement　enough　and　difference　enough　in　our　views　to　render

our　society　mutually　fascinating。



On　retiring　to　my　room　that　afternoon　I　could　not　help　laughing　at

my　absurd　antipathy　against　Bourgonef。　　All　his　remarks　had

disclosed　a　generous；　ardent；　and　refined　nature。　　While　my

antipathy　had　specially　fastened　upon　a　certain　falseness　in　his

smilea　falseness　the　more　poignantly　hideous　if　it　were

falseness；　because　hidden　amidst　the　wreaths　of　amiabilitymy

delight　in　his　conversation　had　specially　justified　itself　by　the

truthfulness　of　his　mode　of　looking　at　things。　　He　seemed　to　be

sincerity　itself。　　There　was；　indeed；　a　certain　central　reserve；

but　that　might　only　he　an　integrity　of　pride；　or　it　might　be

connected　with　painful　circumstances　in　his　history；　of　which　the

melancholy　in　his　face　was　the　outward　sign。



That　very　evening　my　constructive　imagination　was　furnished　with　a

detail　on　which　it　was　soon　to　be　actively　set　to　work。　　I　had　been

rambling　about　the　old　fortifications；　and　was　returning　at

nightfall　through　the　old　archway　near　Albert　Durer's　house；　when　a

man　passed　by　me。　　We　looked　at　each　other　in　that　automatic　way　in

which　men　look　when　they　meet　in　narrow　places；　and　I　felt；　so　to

speak；　a　start　of　recognition　in　the　eyes　of　the　man　who　passed。

Nothing　else；　in　features