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Tales and Fantasies-Part13_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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in the black hours before the winter dawn by the unclean and

desperate interlopers who supplied the table. He would open



the door to these men, since infamous throughout the land.

He would help them with their tragic burden, pay them their



sordid price, and remain alone, when they were gone, with the

unfriendly relics of humanity. From such a scene he would



return to snatch another hour or two of slumber, to repair

the abuses of the night, and refresh himself for the labours



of the day.

Few lads could have been more insensible to the impressions



of a life thus passed among the ensigns of mortality. His

mind was closed against all general considerations. He was



incapable of interest in the fate and fortunes of another,

the slave of his own desires and low ambitions. Cold, light,



and selfish in the last resort, he had that modicum of

prudence, miscalled morality, which keeps a man from



inconvenient drunkenness or punishable theft. He coveted,

besides, a measure of consideration from his masters and his



fellow-pupils, and he had no desire to fail conspicuously in

the external parts of life. Thus he made it his pleasure to



gain some distinction in his studies, and day after day

rendered unimpeachable eye-service to his employer, Mr. K-.



For his day of work he indemnified himself by nights of

roaring, blackguardly enjoyment; and when that balance had



been struck, the organ that he called his conscience declared

itself content.



The supply of subjects was a continual trouble to him as well

as to his master. In that large and busy class, the raw



material of the anatomists kept perpetually running out; and

the business thus rendered necessary was not only unpleasant



in itself, but threatened dangerous consequences to all who

were concerned. It was the policy of Mr. K- to ask no



questions in his dealings with the trade. 'They bring the

body, and we pay the price,' he used to say, dwelling on the



alliteration - 'QUID PRO QUO.' And, again, and somewhat

profanely, 'Ask no questions,' he would tell his assistants,



'for conscience' sake.' There was no understanding that the

subjects were provided by the crime of murder. Had that idea



been broached to him in words, he would have recoiled in

horror; but the lightness of his speech upon so grave a



matter was, in itself, an offence against good manners, and a

temptation to the men with whom he dealt. Fettes, for



instance, had often remarked to himself upon the singular

freshness of the bodies. He had been struck again and again



by the hang-dog, abominable looks of the ruffians who came to

him before the dawn; and putting things together clearly in



his private thoughts, he perhaps attributed a meaning too

immoral and too categorical to the unguarded counsels of his



master. He understood his duty, in short, to have three

branches: to take what was brought, to pay the price, and to



avert the eye from any evidence of crime.

One November morning this policy of silence was put sharply



to the test. He had been awake all night with a racking

toothache - pacing his room like a caged beast or throwing



himself in fury on his bed - and had fallen at last into that

profound, uneasyslumber that so often follows on a night of



pain, when he was awakened by the third or fourth angry

repetition of the concerted signal. There was a thin, bright



moonshine; it was bitter cold, windy, and frosty; the town

had not yet awakened, but an indefinable stir already



preluded the noise and business of the day. The ghouls had

come later than usual, and they seemed more than usually



eager to be gone. Fettes, sick with sleep, lighted them

upstairs. He heard their grumbling Irish voices through a



dream; and as they stripped the sack from their sad

merchandise he leaned dozing, with his shoulder propped



against the wall; he had to shake himself to find the men

their money. As he did so his eyes lighted on the dead face.



He started; he took two steps nearer, with the candle raised.

'God Almighty!' he cried. 'That is Jane Galbraith!'



The men answered nothing, but they shuffled nearer the door.

'I know her, I tell you,' he continued. 'She was alive and






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