It was not alone his flowing black hair, and his broad shirt-collars turned down after the ascertained2 manner of the British poets, which stamped him in our humble3 minds as a living brother to “The Corsair,” “The Last of the Suliotes,” and other heroic personages engraved4 in the albums and keepsakes of the period. His face, with its darkling eyes and distinguished5 features, conveyed wherever it went an impression of proudly silent melancholy7. In those days—that is, just before the war—one could not look so convincingly and uniformly sad as Marsena did without raising the general presumption8 of having been crossed in love. We had a respectful feeling, in his case, that the lady ought to have been named I帽ez, or at the very least Oriana.
Although he went to the Presbyterian Church with entire regularity9, was never seen in public save in a long-tailed black coat, and in the winter wore gloves instead of mittens10, the local conscience had always, I think, sundry11 reservations about the moral character of his past. It would not have been reckoned against him, then, that he was obviously poor. We had not learned in those primitive12 times to measure people by dollar-mark standards. Under ordinary conditions, too, the fact that he came from New England—had indeed lived in Boston—must have counted rather in his favor than otherwise. But it was known that he had been an artist, a professional painter of pictures and portraits, and we understood in Octavius that this involved acquaintanceship, if not even familiarity, with all sorts of occult and deleterious phases of city life.
Our village held all vice13, and especially the vice of other and larger places, in stern reprobation15. Yet, though it turned this matter of the newcomer’s previous occupation over a good deal in its mind, Marsena carried himself with such a gentle picturesqueness17 of subdued18 sorrow that these suspicions were disarmed19, or, at the worst, only added to the fascinated interest with which Octavius watched his spare and solitary20 figure upon its streets, and noted21 the progress of his efforts to find a footing for himself in its social economy.
It was taken for granted among us that he possessed22 a fine and well-cultivated mind, to match that thoughtful countenance23 and that dignified24 deportment.
This assumption continued to hold its own in the face of a long series of failures in the attempt to draw him out. Almost everybody who was anybody at one time or another tried to tap Marsena’s mental reservoirs—and all in vain. Beyond the barest commonplaces of civil conversation he could, never be tempted25. Once, indeed, he had volunteered to the Rev6. Mr. Bunce the statement that he regarded Washington Allston as in several respects superior to Copley; but as no one in Octavius knew who these men were, the remark did not help us much. It was quoted frequently, however, as indicating the lofty and recondite26 nature of the thoughts with which Mr. Pulford occupied his intellect. As it became more apparent, too, that his reserve must be the outgrowth of some crushing and incurable27 heart grief, people grew to defer28 to it and to avoid vexing29 his silent moods with talk.
Thus, when he had been a resident and neighbor for over two years, though no one knew him at all well, the whole community regarded him with kindly30 and even respectful emotions, and the girls in particular felt that he was a distinct acquisition to the place.
I have said that Marsena Pulford was poor. Hardly anybody in Octavius ever knew to what pathetic depths his poverty during the second winter descended31. There was a period of several months, in sober truth, during which he fed himself upon six or seven cents a day. As he was too proud to dream of asking credit at the grocer’s and butcher’s, and walked about more primly32 erect33 than ever, meantime, in his frock-coat and gloves, no idea of these privations got abroad. And at the end of this long evil winter there came a remarkable34 spring, which altered in a violent way the fortunes of millions of people—among them Marsena. We have to do with events somewhat subsequent to that even, and with the period of Mr. Pulford’s prosperity.
The last discredited35 strips of snow up in the ravines on the hill-sides were melting away; the robins36 had come again, and were bustling37 busily across between the willows38, already in the leaf, and the budded elms; men were going about the village streets without their overcoats, and boys were telling exciting tales about the suckers in the creek39; our old friend Homer Sage40 had returned from his winter’s sojourn41 in the county poorhouse at Thessaly, and could be seen daily sitting in the sunshine on the broad stoop of the Excelsior Hotel. It was April of 1862.
A whole year had gone by since that sudden and memorable42 turn in Marsena Pulford’s luck. So far from there being signs now of a possible adverse43 change, this new springtide brought such an increase of good fortune, with its attendant responsibilities, that Marsena was unable to bear the halcyon44 burden alone. He took in a partner to help him, and then the firm jointly46 hired a boy. The partner painted a signboard to mark this double event, in bold red letters of independent form upon a yellow ground:=
````PULFORD & SHULL.
```Empire State Portrait Athen忙um and
`````Studio.
```War Likenesses at Peace Prices.=
Marsena discouraged the idea of hanging this out on the street; and, as a compromise, it was finally placed at the end of the operating-room, where for years thereafter it served for the sitters to stare at when their skulls47 had been clasped in the iron headrest and they had been adjured48 to look pleasant. A more modest and conventional announcement of the new firm’s existence was put outside, and Octavius accepted it as proof that the liberal arts were at last established within its borders on a firm and lucrative49 basis.
The head of the firm was not much altered by this great wave of prosperity. He had been drilled by adversity into such careful ways with his wardrobe that he did not need to get any new clothes. Although the villagers, always kindly, sought now with cordial effusiveness50 to make him feel one of themselves, and although he accepted all their invitations and showed himself at every public meeting in his capacity as a representative and even prominent citizen, yet the heart of his mystery remained unplucked. Marsena was too busy in these days to be much upon the streets. When he did appear he still walked alone, slowly and with an air of settled gloom. He saluted51 such passers-by as he knew in stately silence. If they stopped him or joined him in his progress, at the most he would talk sparingly of the weather and the roads.
Neither at the fortnightly sociables of the Ladies’ Church Mite53 Society, given in turn at the more important members’ homes, nor in the more casual social assemblages of the place, did Marsena ever unbend. It was not that he held himself aloof54, as some others did, from the simple amusements of the evening. He never shrank from bearing his part in “pillow,” “clap in and clap out,” “post-office,” or in whatever other game was to be played, and he went through the kissing penalties and rewards involved without apparent aversion. It was also to be noted, in fairness, that, if any one smiled at him full in the face, he instantly smiled in response. But neither smile nor chaste55 salute52 served to lift for even the fleeting56 instant that veil of reserve which hung over him.
Those who thought that by having Marsena Pul-ford take their pictures they would get on more intimate terms with him fell into grievous error. He was more sententious and unapproachable in his studio, as he called it, than anywhere else. In the old days, before the partnership57, when he did everything himself, his manner in the reception-room downstairs, where he showed samples, gave the prices of frames, and took orders, had no equal for formal frigidity—except his subsequent demeanor58 in the operating-room upstairs. The girls used to declare that they always emerged from the gallery with “cold shivers all over them.” This, however, did not deter59 them from going again, repeatedly, after the outbreak of the war had started up the universal notion of being photographed.
When the new partner came in, in this April of 1862, Marsena was able to devote himself exclusively to the technical business of the camera and the dark-room, on the second floor. He signalled this change by wearing now every day an old russet-colored velveteen jacket, which we had never seen before. This made him look even more romantically melancholy and picturesque16 than ever, and revived something of the fascinating curiosity as to his hidden past; but it did nothing toward thawing60 the icebound shell which somehow came at every point between him and the good-fellowship of the community.
The partnership was scarcely a week old when something happened. The new partner, standing61 behind the little show-case in the reception-room, transacted62 some preliminary business with two customers who had come in. Then, while the sound of their ascending63 footsteps was still to be heard on the stairs, he hastily left his post and entered the little work-room at the back of the counter.
“You couldn’t guess in a baker’s dozen of tries who’s gone upstairs,” he said to the boy. Without waiting for even one effort, he added: “It’s the Parmalee girl, and Dwight Ransom64’s with her, and he’s got a Lootenant’s uniform on, and they’re goin’ to be took together!”
“What of it?” asked the unimaginative boy. He was bending over a crock of nitric acid, transferring from it one by one to a tub of water a lot of spoiled glass plates. The sickening fumes65 from the jar, and the sting of the acid on his cracked skin, still further diminished his interest in contemporary sociology. “Well, what of it?” he repeated, sulkily.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the new partner, in a listless, disappointed way. “It seemed kind o’ curious, that’s all. Holdin’ her head up as high in the air as she does, you wouldn’t think she’d so much as look at an ordinary fellow like Dwight Ransom.”
“I suppose this is a free country,” remarked the boy, rising to rest his back.
“Oh, my, yes,” returned the other; “if she’s pleased, I’m quite agreeable. And—I don’t know, too—I dare say she’s gettin’ pretty well along. Maybe she thinks they ain’t any too much time to lose, and is making a grab at what comes handiest. Still, I should ’a’ thought she could ’a’ done better than Dwight. I worked with him for a spell once, you know.”
There seemed to be very few people with whom Newton Shull had not at one time or another worked. Apparently there was no craft or calling which he did not know something about. The old phrase, “Jack of all trades,” must surely have been coined in prophecy for him. He had turned up in Octavius originally, some years before, as the general manager of a “Whaler’s Life on the Rolling Deep” show, which was specially14 adapted for moral exhibitions in connection with church fairs. Calamity66, however, had long marked this enterprise for its own, and at our village its career culminated67 under the auspices68 of a sheriff’s officer. The boat, the harpoons69, the panorama70 sheet and rollers, the whale’s jaw71, the music-box with its nautical72 tunes—these were sold and dispersed73. Newton Shull remained, and began work as a mender of clocks. Incidentally, he cut out stencil-plates for farmers to label their cheese-boxes with, and painted or gilded74 ornamental75 designs on chair-backs through perforated paper patterns. For a time he was a maker76 of children’s sleds. In slack seasons he got jobs to help the druggist, the tinsmith, the dentist, or the Town Clerk, and was equally at home with each. He was one of the founders77 of the Octavius Philharmonics, and offered to play any instrument they liked, though his preference was for what he called the bull fiddle78. He spoke79 often of having travelled as a bandsman with a circus. We boys believed that he was quite capable of riding a horse bareback as well.
When Marsena Pulford, then, decided80 that he must have some help, Newton Shull was obviously the man. How the arrangement came to take the form of a partnership was never explained, save on the conservative village theory that Marsena must have reasoned that a partner would be safer with the cash-box downstairs, while he was taking pictures upstairs, than a mere81 hired man. More likely it grew out of their temperamental affinity82. Shull was also a man of grave and depressed83 moods (as, indeed, is the case with all who play the bass84 viol), only his melancholy differed from Marsena’s in being of a tirelessly garrulous85 character. This was not always an advantage. When customers came in, in the afternoon, it was his friendly impulse to engage them in conversation at such length that frequently the light would fail altogether before they got upstairs. He recognized this tendency as a fault, and manfully combated it—leaving the reception-room with abruptness86 at the earliest possible moment, and talking to the boy in the work-room instead.
Mr. Shull was a short, round man, with a beard which was beginning to show gray under the lip. His reception-room manners were urbane87 and persuasive88 to a degree, and he particularly excelled in convincing people that the portraits of themselves, which Marsena had sent down to him in the dummy89 to be dried and varnished90, and which they hated vehemently91 at first sight, were really unique and precious works of art. He had also much success in inducing country folks to despise the cheap ferrotype which they had intended to have made, and to venture upon the costlier92 ambrotype, daguerreotype93, or even photograph instead. If they did not go away with a family album or an assortment94 of frames that would come in handy as well, it was no fault of his.
He made these frames himself, on a bench which he had fitted up in the work-room. Here he constructed show-cases, too, cut out mats and mounts, and did many other things as adjuncts to the business, which honest Marsena had never dreamed of.
“Yes,” he went on now, “I carried a chain for Dwight the best part o’ one whole summer, when he was layin’ levels for that Nedahma Valley Railroad they were figurin’ on buildin’. Guess they ruther let him in over that job—though he paid me fair enough. It ain’t much of a business, that surveyin’. You spend about half your time in findin’ out for people the way they could do things if they only had the money to do ’em, and the other half in settlin’ miserable95 farmers’ squabbles about the boundaries of their land. You’ve got to pay a man day’s wages for totin’ round your chain and axe96 and stakes—and, as like as not, you never get even that money back, let alone any pay for yourself. I know something about a good many trades, and I say surveyin’ is pretty nigh the poorest of ’em all.”
“George Washington was a surveyor,” commented the boy, stooping down to his task once more.
“Yes,” admitted Mr. Shull; “so he was, for a fact. But then he had influence enough to get government jobs. I don’t say there ain’t money in that. If Dwight, now, could get a berth97 on the canal, say, it ’ud be a horse of another color. They say, there’s some places there that pay as much as $3 a day. That’s how George Washington got his start, and, besides, he owned his own house and lot to begin with. But you’ll take notice that he dropped surveyin’ like a hot potato the minute there was any soldierin’ to do. He knew which side his bread was buttered on!”
“Well,” said the boy, slapping the last plates sharply into the tub, “that’s just what Dwight’s doin’ too, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” Mr. Shull conceded; “but it ain’t the same thing. You won’t find Dwight Ransom get-tin’ to be general, or much of anything else. He’s a nice fellow enough, in his way, of course; but, somehow, after it’s all said and done, there ain’t much to him. I always sort o’ felt, when I was out with him, that by good rights I ought to be working the level and him hammerin’ in the stakes.”
The boy sniffed98 audibly as he bore away the acid-jar.
Mr. Shull went over to the bench, and took up a chisel99 with a meditative100 air. After a moment he lifted his head and listened, with aroused interest written all over his face.
There had been audible from the floor above, at intervals101, the customary noises of the camera being wheeled about to different points under the skylight. There came echoing downward now quite other and most unfamiliar102 sounds—the clatter103 of animated104, even gay, conversation, punctuated105 by frank outbursts of laughter. Newton Shull could hardly believe his ears: but they certainly did tell him that there were three parties to that merriment overhead. It was so strange that he laid aside the chisel, and tiptoed out into the reception-room, with a notion of listening at the stair door. Then he even more hurriedly ran back again. They were coming downstairs.
It might have been a whole wedding-party that trooped down the resounding106 stairway, the voices rising above the clump107 of Dwight’s artillery108 boots and sword on step after step, and overflowed109 into the stuffy110 little reception-room with a cheerful tumult111 of babble112. The new partner and the boy looked at each other, then directed a joint45 stare of bewilderment toward the door.
Julia Parmalee had pushed her way behind the show-case, and stood in the entrance to the workroom, peering about her with an affectation of excited curiosity which she may have thought pretty and playful, but which the boy, at least, held to be absurd.
She had been talking thirteen to the dozen all the time. “Oh, I really must see everything!” she rattled113 on now. “If I could be trusted alone in the dark-room with you, Mr. Pulford, I surely may be allowed to explore all these minor114 mysteries. Oh, I see,” she added, glancing round, and incidentally looking quite through Mr. Shull and the boy, as if they had been transparent115: “here’s where the frames and the washing are done. How interesting!”
What really was interesting was the face of Marsena Pulford, discernible in the shadow over her shoulder. No one in Octavius had ever seen such a beaming smile on his saturnine116 countenance before.
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1
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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picturesqueness
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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45
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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48
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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49
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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50
effusiveness
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| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
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51
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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52
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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53
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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54
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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56
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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57
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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58
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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59
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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60
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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66
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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harpoons
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| n.鱼镖，鱼叉( harpoon的名词复数 )v.鱼镖，鱼叉( harpoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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70
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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costlier
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的比较级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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101
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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102
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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103
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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107
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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108
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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109
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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110
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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111
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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112
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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113
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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114
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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115
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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116
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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