a personal record- 第11部分

on。　　What　reward　could　I　expect　from　such　a　life　at　the　end　of　my



years；　either　in　ambition；　honour；　or　conscience？　　An



unanswerable　question。　　But　I　felt　no　longer　crushed。　　Then　our



eyes　met　and　a　genuine　emotion　was　visible　in　his　as　well　as　in



mine。　　The　end　came　all　at　once。　　He　picked　up　the　knapsack



suddenly　and　got　onto　his　feet。







〃You　are　an　incorrigible；　hopeless　Don　Quixote。　　That's　what　you



are。〃







I　was　surprised。　　I　was　only　fifteen　and　did　not　know　what　he



meant　exactly。　　But　I　felt　vaguely　flattered　at　the　name　of　the



immortal　knight　turning　up　in　connection　with　my　own　folly；　as



some　people　would　call　it　to　my　face。　　Alas！　　I　don't　think　there



was　anything　to　be　proud　of。　　Mine　was　not　the　stuff　of



protectors　of　forlorn　damsels；　the　redressers　of　this　world's



wrong　are　made　of；　and　my　tutor　was　the　man　to　know　that　best。　



Therein；　in　his　indignation；　he　was　superior　to　the　barber　and



the　priest　when　he　flung　at　me　an　honoured　name　like　a　reproach。







I　walked　behind　him　for　full　five　minutes；　then　without　looking



back　he　stopped。　　The　shadows　of　distant　peaks　were　lengthening



over　the　Furca　Pass。　　When　I　came　up　to　him　he　turned　to　me　and



in　full　view　of　the　Finster　Aarhorn；　with　his　band　of　giant



brothers　rearing　their　monstrous　heads　against　a　brilliant　sky；



put　his　hand　on　my　shoulder　affectionately。







〃Well！　　That's　enough。　　We　will　have　no　more　of　it。〃







And　indeed　there　was　no　more　question　of　my　mysterious　vocation



between　us。　　There　was　to　be　no　more　question　of　it　at　all；　no



where　or　with　any　one。　　We　began　the　descent　of　the　Furca　Pass



conversing　merrily。







Eleven　years　later；　month　for　month；　I　stood　on　Tower　Hill　on　the



steps　of　the　St。　Katherine's　Dockhouse；　a　master　in　the　British



Merchant　Service。　　But　the　man　who　put　his　hand　on　my　shoulder　at



the　top　of　the　Furca　Pass　was　no　longer　living。







That　very　year　of　our　travels　he　took　his　degree　of　the



Philosophical　Facultyand　only　then　his　true　vocation　declared



itself。　　Obedient　to　the　call；　he　entered　at　once　upon　the



four…year　course　of　the　Medical　Schools。　　A　day　came　when；　on　the



deck　of　a　ship　moored　in　Calcutta；　I　opened　a　letter　telling　me



of　the　end　of　an　enviable　existence。　　He　had　made　for　himself　a



practice　in　some　obscure　little　town　of　Austrian　Galicia。　　And



the　letter　went　on　to　tell　me　how　all　the　bereaved　poor　of　the



district；　Christians　and　Jews　alike；　had　mobbed　the　good　doctor's



coffin　with　sobs　and　lamentations　at　the　very　gate　of　the



cemetery。







How　short　his　years　and　how　clear　his　vision！　　What　greater



reward　in　ambition；　honour；　and　conscience　could　he　have　hoped　to



win　for　himself　when；　on　the　top　of　the　Furca　Pass；　he　bade　me



look　well　to　the　end　of　my　opening　life？











III







The　devouring　in　a　dismal　forest　of　a　luckless　Lithuanian　dog　by



my　granduncle　Nicholas　B。　in　company　of　two　other　military　and



famished　scarecrows；　symbolized；　to　my　childish　imagination；　the



whole　horror　of　the　retreat　from　Moscow；　and　the　immorality　of　a



conqueror's　ambition。　　An　extreme　distaste　for　that　objectionable



episode　has　tinged　the　views　I　hold　as　to　the　character　and



achievements　of　Napoleon　the　Great。　　I　need　not　say　that　these



are　unfavourable。　　It　was　morally　reprehensible　for　that　great



captain　to　induce　a　simple…minded　Polish　gentleman　to　eat　dog　by



raising　in　his　breast　a　false　hope　of　national　independence。　　It



has　been　the　fate　of　that　credulous　nation　to　starve　for　upward



of　a　hundred　years　on　a　diet　of　false　hopes　andwelldog。　　It



is；　when　one　thinks　of　it；　a　singularly　poisonous　regimen。　　Some



pride　in　the　national　constitution　which　has　survived　a　long



course　of　such　dishes　is　really　excusable。







But　enough　of　generalizing。　　Returning　to　particulars；　Mr。



Nicholas　B。　confided　to　his　sister…in…law　（my　grandmother）　in　his



misanthropically　laconic　manner　that　this　supper　in　the　woods　had



been　nearly　〃the　death　of　him。〃　　This　is　not　surprising。　　What



surprises　me　is　that　the　story　was　ever　heard　of；　for　granduncle



Nicholas　differed　in　this　from　the　generality　of　military　men　of



Napoleon's　time　（and　perhaps　of　all　time）　that　he　did　not　like　to



talk　of　his　campaigns；　which　began　at　Friedland　and　ended　some



where　in　the　neighbourhood　of　Bar…le…Duc。　　His　admiration　of　the



great　Emperor　was　unreserved　in　everything　but　expression。　　Like



the　religion　of　earnest　men；　it　was　too　profound　a　sentiment　to



be　displayed　before　a　world　of　little　faith。　　Apart　from　that　he



seemed　as　completely　devoid　of　military　anecdotes　as　though　he



had　hardly　ever　seen　a　soldier　in　his　life。　　Proud　of　his



decorations　earned　before　he　was　twenty…five；　he　refused　to　wear



the　ribbons　at　the　buttonhole　in　the　manner　practised　to　this　day



in　Europe　and　even　was　unwilling　to　display　the　insignia　on



festive　occasions；　as　though　he　wished　to　conceal　them　in　the



fear　of　appearing　boastful。







〃It　is　enough　that　I　have　them；〃　he　used　to　mutter。　　In　the



course　of　thirty　years　they　were　seen　on　his　breast　only



twiceat　an　auspicious　marriage　in　the　family　and　at　the　funeral



of　an　old　friend。　　That　the　wedding　which　was　thus　honoured　was



not　the　wedding　of　my　mother　I　learned　only　late　in　life；　too



late　to　bear　a　grudge　against　Mr。　Nicholas　B。；　who　made　amends　at



my　birth　by　a　long　letter　of　congratulation　containing　the



following　prophecy：　〃He　will　see　better　times。〃　　Even　in　his



embittered　heart　there　lived　a　hope。　　But　he　was　not　a　true　



prophet。







He　was　a　man　of　strange　contradictions。　　Living　for　many　years　in



his　brother's　house；　the　home　of　many　children；　a　house　full　of



life；　of　animation；　noisy　with　a　constant　coming　and　going　of



many　guests；　he　kept　his　habits　of　solitude　and　silence。　



Considered　as　obstinately　secretive　in　all　his　purposes；　he　was



in　reality　the　victim　of　a　most　painful　irresolution　in　all



matters　of　civil　life。　　Under　his　taciturn；　phlegmatic　behaviour



was　hidden　a　faculty　of　short…lived　passionate　anger。　　I　suspect



he　had　no　talent　for　narrative；　but　it　seemed　to　afford　him



sombre　satisfaction　to　declare　that　he　was　the　last　man　to　ride



over　the　bridge　of　the　river　Elster　after　the　battle　of　Leipsic。　



Lest　some　construction　favourable　to　his　valour　should　be　put　on



the　fact　he　condescended　to　explain　how　it　came　to　pass。　　It



seems　that　shortly　after　the　retreat　began　he　was　sent　back　to



the　town　where　some　divisions　of　the　French　army　（and　among　them



the　Polish　corps　of　Prince　Joseph　Poniatowski）；　jammed　hopelessly



in　the　streets；　were　being　simply　exterminated　by　the　troops　of



the　Allied　Powers。　　When　asked　what　it　was　like　in　there；　Mr。



Nicholas　B。　muttered　only　the　word　〃Shambles。〃　　Having　delivered



his　message　to　the　Prince　he　hastened　away　at　once　to　render　an



account　of　his　mission　to　the　superior　who　had　sent　him。　　By　that



time　the　advance　of　the　enemy　had　enveloped　the　town；　and　he　was



shot　at　from　houses　and　chased　all　the　way　to　the　river…bank　by　a



disorderly　mob　of　Austrian　Dragoons　and　Prussian　Hussars。　　The



bridge　had　been　mined　early　in　the　morning；　and　his　opinion　was



that　the　sight　of　the　horsemen　converging　from　many　sides　in　the



pursuit　of　his　person　alarmed　the　officer　in　command　of　the



sappers　and　caused　the　premature　firing　of　the　charges。　　He　had



not　gone　more　than　two　hundred　yards　on　the　other　side　when　he



heard　the　sound　of　the　fatal　explosions。　　Mr。　Nicholas　B。



concluded　his　bald　narrative　with　the　word　〃Imbecile；〃　uttered



with　the　utmost　deliberation。　　It　testified　to　his　indignation　at



the　loss　of　so　many　thousands　of　lives。　　But　his　phlegmatic



physiognomy　lighted　up　when　he　spoke　of　his　only　wound；　with



something　resembling　satisfaction。　　You　will　see　that　there　was



some　reason　for　it　when　you　learn　that　he　was　wounded　in　the



heel。　　〃Like　his　Majesty　the　Emperor　Napoleon　himself；〃　he



reminded　his　hearers；　with　assumed　indifference。　　There　can　be　no



doubt　that　the　indifference　was　assumed；　if　one　thinks　what　a



very　distinguished　sort　of　wound　it　was。　　In　all　the　history　of



warfare　there　are；　I　believe；　only　three　warriors　publicly　known



to　have　been　wounded　in　the　heelAchilles　and　Napoleondemigods



indeedto　whom　the　familial　piety　of　an　unworthy　descendant　adds



the　name　of　the　simple　mortal；　Nicholas　B。







The　Hundred　Days　found　Mr。　Nicholas　B。　staying　with　a　distant



relative　of　ours；　owner　of　a　small　estate　in　Galicia。　　How　he　got



there　across　the　breadth　of　an　armed　Europe；　and　after　what



adventures；　I　am　afraid　will　never　be　known　now。　　All　his　papers



were　destroyed　shortly　before　his　death；　but　if　there　was　among



them；　as　he　affirmed；　a　concise　record　of　his　life；　then　I　am



pretty　sure　it　did　not　take　up　more　than　a　half　sheet　of　foolscap



or　so。　　This　relative　of　ours　happened　to　be　an　Austrian　officer



who　had　left　the　service　after　the　battle　of　Austerlitz。　　Unlike



Mr。　Nicholas　B。；　who　concealed　his　decorations；　he　liked　to



display　his　honourable　discharge　in　which　he　was　mentioned　as　un



schreckbar　（fearless）　before　the　enemy。　　No　conjunction　could



seem　more　unpromising；　yet　it　stands　in　the　family　tradition　that



these　two　got　on　very　well　together　in　their　rural　solitude。







When　asked　whether　he　had　not　been　sorely　tempted　during　the



Hundred　Days　to　make　his　way　again　to　France　and　join　the