November 1880.
The scales have turned, my sympathetic Harvard, and the beam that has lifted you up has dropped me again on this terribly hard spot. I’m extremely sorry to have missed you in London, but I received your little note and took due heed1 of your injunction to let you know how I got on. I don’t get on at all, my dear Harvard — I’m consumed with the love of the further shore. I’ve been so long away that I’ve dropped out of my place in this little Boston world and the shallow tides of New England life have closed over it. I’m a stranger here and find it hard to believe I ever was a native. It’s very hard, very cold, very vacant. I think of your warm rich Paris; I think of the Boulevard Saint–Michel on the mild spring evenings; I see the little corner by the window (of the Café de la Jeunesse) where I used to sit: the doors are open, the soft deep breath of the great city comes in. The sense is of a supreme2 splendour and an incomparable arrangement, yet there’s a kind of tone, of body, in the radiance; the mighty3 murmur4 of the ripest civilisation5 in the world comes in; the dear old peuple de Paris, the most interesting people in the world, pass by. I’ve a little book in my pocket; it’s exquisitely6 printed, a modern Elzevir. It consists of a lyric7 cry from the heart of young France and is full of the sentiment of form. There’s no form here, dear Harvard; I had no idea how little form there is. I don’t know what I shall do; I feel so undraped, so uncurtained, so uncushioned; I feel as if I were sitting in the centre of a mighty “reflector.” A terrible crude glare is over everything; the earth looks peeled and excoriated8; the raw heavens seem to bleed with the quick hard light.
I’ve not got back my rooms in West Cedar9 Street; they’re occupied by a mesmeric healer. I’m staying at an hotel and it’s all very dreadful. Nothing for one’s self, nothing for one’s preferences and habits. No one to receive you when you arrive; you push in through a crowd, you edge up to a counter, you write your name in a horrible book where every one may come and stare at it and finger it. A man behind the counter stares at you in silence; his stare seems to say “What the devil do you want?” But after this stare he never looks at you again. He tosses down a key at you; he presses a bell; a savage10 Irishman arrives. “Take him away,” he seems to say to the Irishman; but it’s all done in silence; there’s no answer to your own wild wail11 —“What’s to be done with me, please?” “Wait and you’ll see” the awful silence seems to say. There’s a great crowd round you, but there’s also a great stillness; every now and then you hear some one expectorate. There are a thousand people in this huge and hideous12 structure; they feed together in a big white-walled room. It’s lighted by a thousand gas-jets and heated by cast-iron screens which vomit13 forth14 torrents15 of scorching16 air. The temperature’s terrible; the atmosphere’s more so; the furious light and heat seem to intensify17 the dreadful definiteness. When things are so ugly they shouldn’t be so definite, and they’re terribly ugly here. There’s no mystery in the corners, there’s no light and shade in the types. The people are haggard and joyless; they look as if they had no passions, no tastes, no senses. They sit feeding in silence under the dry hard light; occasionally I hear the high firm note of a child. The servants are black and familiar; their faces shine as they shuffle18 about; there are blue tones in their dark masks. They’ve no manners; they address but don’t answer you; they plant themselves at your elbow (it rubs their clothes as you eat) and watch you as if your proceedings19 were strange. They deluge20 you with iced water; it’s the only thing they’ll bring you; if you look round to summon them they’ve gone for more. If you read the newspaper — which I don’t, gracious heaven, I can’t! — they hang over your shoulder and peruse21 it also. I always fold it up and present it to them; the newspapers here are indeed for an African taste.
Then there are long corridors defended by gusts22 of hot air; down the middle swoops23 a pale little girl on parlour skates. “Get out of my way!” she shrieks24 as she passes; she has ribbons in her hair and frills on her dress; she makes the tour of the immense hotel. I think of Puck, who put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes, and wonder what he said as he flitted by. A black waiter marches past me bearing a tray that he thrusts into my spine25 as he goes. It’s laden26 with large white jugs27; they tinkle28 as he moves, and I recognise the unconsoling fluid. We’re dying of iced water, of hot air, of flaring29 gas. I sit in my room thinking of these things — this room of mine which is a chamber30 of pain. The walls are white and bare, they shine in the rays of a horrible chandelier of imitation bronze which depends from the middle of the ceiling. It flings a patch of shadow on a small table covered with white marble, of which the genial31 surface supports at the present moment the sheet of paper I thus employ for you; and when I go to bed (I like to read in bed, Harvard) it becomes an object of mockery and torment32. It dangles33 at inaccessible34 heights; it stares me in the face; it flings the light on the covers of my book but not upon the page — the little French Elzevir I love so well. I rise and put out the gas — when my room becomes even lighter35 than before. Then a crude illumination from the hall, from the neighbouring room, pours through the glass openings that surmount36 the two doors of my apartment. It covers my bed, where I toss and groan37; it beats in through my closed lids; it’s accompanied by the most vulgar, though the most human, sounds. I spring up to call for some help, some remedy; but there’s no bell and I feel desolate38 and weak. There’s only a strange orifice in the wall, through which the traveller in distress39 may transmit his appeal. I fill it with incoherent sounds, and sounds more incoherent yet come back to me. I gather at last their meaning; they appear to constitute an awful inquiry40. A hollow impersonal41 voice wishes to know what I want, and the very question paralyses me. I want everything — yet I want nothing, nothing this hard impersonality42 can give! I want my little corner of Paris; I want the rich, the deep, the dark Old World; I want to be out of this horrible place. Yet I can’t confide43 all this to that mechanical tube; it would be of no use; a barbarous laugh would come up from the office. Fancy appealing in these sacred, these intimate moments to an “office”; fancy calling out into indifferent space for a candle, for a curtain! I pay incalculable sums in this dreadful house, and yet haven’t a creature to assist me. I fling myself back on my couch and for a long time afterwards the orifice in the wall emits strange murmurs44 and rumblings. It seems unsatisfied and indignant and is evidently scolding me for my vagueness. My vagueness indeed, dear Harvard! I loathe45 their horrible arrangements — isn’t that definite enough?
You asked me to tell you whom I see and what I think of my friends. I haven’t very many; I don’t feel at all en rapport46. The people are very good, very serious, very devoted47 to their work; but there’s a terrible absence of variety of type. Every one’s Mr. Jones, Mr. Brown, and every one looks like Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown. They’re thin, they’re diluted48 in the great tepid49 bath of Democracy! They lack completeness of identity; they’re quite without modelling. No, they’re not beautiful, my poor Harvard; it must be whispered that they’re not beautiful. You may say that they’re as beautiful as the French, as the Germans; but I can’t agree with you there. The French, the Germans, have the greatest beauty of all, the beauty of their ugliness — the beauty of the strange, the grotesque50. These people are not even ugly — they’re only plain. Many of the girls are pretty, but to be only pretty is (to my sense) to be plain. Yet I’ve had some talk. I’ve seen a young woman. She was on the steamer, and I afterwards saw her in New York — a mere51 maiden52 thing, yet a peculiar53 type, a real personality: a great deal of modelling, a great deal of colour, and withal something elusive54 and ambiguous. She was not, however, of this country; she was a compound of far-off things. But she was looking for something here — like me. We found each other, and for a moment that was enough. I’ve lost her now; I’m sorry, because she liked to listen to me. She has passed away; I shall not see her again. She liked to listen to me; she almost understood.
点击收听单词发音
1 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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2 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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3 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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4 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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5 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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6 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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7 lyric | |
n.抒情诗,歌词;adj.抒情的 | |
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8 excoriated | |
v.擦伤( excoriate的过去式和过去分词 );擦破(皮肤);剥(皮);严厉指责 | |
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9 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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10 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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11 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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12 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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13 vomit | |
v.呕吐,作呕;n.呕吐物,吐出物 | |
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14 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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15 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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16 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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17 intensify | |
vt.加强;变强;加剧 | |
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18 shuffle | |
n.拖著脚走,洗纸牌;v.拖曳,慢吞吞地走 | |
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19 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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20 deluge | |
n./vt.洪水,暴雨,使泛滥 | |
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21 peruse | |
v.细读,精读 | |
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22 gusts | |
一阵强风( gust的名词复数 ); (怒、笑等的)爆发; (感情的)迸发; 发作 | |
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23 swoops | |
猛扑,突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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24 shrieks | |
n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25 spine | |
n.脊柱,脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
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26 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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27 jugs | |
(有柄及小口的)水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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28 tinkle | |
vi.叮当作响;n.叮当声 | |
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29 flaring | |
a.火焰摇曳的,过份艳丽的 | |
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30 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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31 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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32 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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33 dangles | |
悬吊着( dangle的第三人称单数 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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34 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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35 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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36 surmount | |
vt.克服;置于…顶上 | |
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37 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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38 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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39 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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40 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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41 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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42 impersonality | |
n.无人情味 | |
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43 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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44 murmurs | |
n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
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45 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
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46 rapport | |
n.和睦,意见一致 | |
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47 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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48 diluted | |
无力的,冲淡的 | |
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49 tepid | |
adj.微温的,温热的,不太热心的 | |
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50 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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51 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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52 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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53 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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54 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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