The tasks set before him, to which he gradually became accustomed, seemed almost as unintellectual and mechanical as the ploughing and planting he had forsaken2. The rule of condensation3, compression, continually dinned4 into his ears by his mentors5, robbed his labors6 of all possible charm. To “boil down” columns of narrative8 into a few lines of bald, cold statement; to chronicle day after day in the curtest form, fires, failures, crimes, disasters, deaths, in a wearying chain of uninteresting news notes; to throw remorselessly into the journalistic crucible9 all the work of imagination, of genius, of deep fine thought which came into his hands, together with the wordy dross10 spun11 out by the swarm12 of superficial scribblers, and extract from good and bad alike only the meaningless, miserable13 fact—this was a task against which, in the first weeks of experience, his whole soul revolted.
By the time he had become reconciled to it, and had mastered its tricks, his dream of journalism as the most exalted14 of all departments of activity seemed to him like some far-away fantasy of childhood.
He not only had failed to draw inspiration from his work; it was already ceasing to interest him. Under pleasanter conditions, he felt that he would have at least liked the proof-reading portion of the daily routine; but the printers were so truculent15 and hostile, and seemed so pre-determined to treat him as their natural enemy, that this was irksome, too. There was no relief to the distasteful monotony in other branches of his work. Even the agricultural column, which he had promised himself to so vastly improve, yielded no satisfaction. The floating, valueless stuff from which his predecessors16 had selected their store came so easily and naturally to the scissors that after a week or two he abandoned the idea of preparing original matter: it saved time and labor7, and nobody seemed to know the difference. These words, in fact, came to describe his mental attitude toward all his work. He had no pride in it. If he escaped curses for badly-read proofs, and criticism for missing obvious matters of news, it was enough.
Seth did not arrive at this condition of mind without much inner protest, or without sundry17 efforts to break through the crust of perfunctory drudgery18 which was encasing him. At the start he bestowed19 considerable thought and work upon an effort to brighten and improve, by careful re-working of materials, one of the departments entrusted20 to him, and, just when he expected praise, Tyler told him to stop it. Then he tried to make his religious column a feature by discarding most of the ancient matter which revolved21 so drolly22 in the Obago Evening Mercury, and picking out eloquent23 bits from the sermons of great contemporary preachers; but this elicited24 denominational protest from certain pious25 subscribers, and Mr. Workman commanded a return to the old rut.
But the cruel humiliation26 came when Seth took to Mr. Samboye an editorial paragraph he had written with great care. It was a political paragraph, and Seth felt confident that it was exactly in the Chronicle’s line, and good writing as well. The Editor took it, after regarding the young writer with a stony29, half-surprised stare, and read it over slowly. He delivered judgment30 upon it, in his habitual31 pomposity32 of phrases: “This is markedly comprehensive in scope and clarified in expression, Mr. Fairchild.” Then, as Seth’s heart was warming with a sense of commendation and success, the Editor calmly tore the manuscript in strips, dropped them in his waste-basket, and turned reflectively to his newspaper.
Seth’s breath nearly left him: “Then you can’t use it;” he faltered33. “I thought it might do for an editorial paragraph.”
There was the faintest suggestion of a patronising smile on Mr. Samboye’s broad, ruddy face.
“Oh, I am reminded, Mr. Fairchild,” he answered, with bland34 irrelevance35; “pray do not allow Porte to pass again with a small p, as you did yesterday in the proof of my Turkish article. It should be capitalized invariably.”
The beginner went back to his stall both humiliated36 and angry. The cool insolence37 with which he had been reminded that he was a proof-reader, and warned away from thoughts of the editorial page, enraged38 and depressed39 him. He passed a bitter hour at his table, looking savagely40 through the window at the automatic motions of the printer directly opposite, but thinking evil thoughts of Samboye, and cursing the fate which had led him into newspaper work. So uncomfortable did he make himself by these reflections that it required a real effort to throw off their effects when Watts41 came upstairs, and the two left the office for the day. It was impossible not to relate his grievance42.
Tom did not see its tragic43 side, and refused utterly44 to concede that Seth ought to be cast down by it.
“That’s only Samboye’s way,” he said, lightly. “He won’t let any of the fellows get on to the page, simply because he’s afraid they’ll outwrite him. He’d rather do it all himself—and he does grind out an immense load of stuff—than encourage any rivals. Besides, he never loses a chance to snub youngsters. Don’t let it worry you for a minute. If he sees that it does, he’ll only pile it on the thicker. In this business you’ve got to have a hide on you like the behemoth of Holy Writ27, or you’ll keep raw all the while.”
Seth found some consolation45 in this view, and more still in Tom’s cheery tone. The two young men spent the evening together—at Bismarck’s.
This came gradually but naturally to be Seth’s habitual evening resort. It represented to him, indeed, all that was friendly and inviting46 in Tecumseh society. He was able to recall dimly some of the notions of coming social distinction he indulged in the farm days—dreams of a handsome young editor who was in great request in the most refined and luxurious47 home circles, who said the most charming things to beautiful young ladies at parties and balls, who wavered in his mind between wedding his employer’s daughter and taking a share in the paper, or choosing some lowlier but more intellectual maid to wife, and leading with her a halcyon48 and exaltedly49 literary career in a cottage—but they were as unreal, as indistinct now as the dreams of night before last. All the social bars seemed drawn50 against him as a matter of course.
This did not impress him as a hardship, because he was only vaguely51 conscious of it, at first, and then grew into the habit of regarding it as a thing to be grateful for. Tom Watts pointed52 out to him frequently the advantage of being a Bohemian, of being free from all the fearsome, undefined routine and responsibility of making calls, of dressing53 up in the evening, and of dangling54 supine attendance upon girls and their mammas. This “social racket,” the city editor said, might please some people; Dent28, for instance, seemed to like it. But for his part it seemed quite the weakest thing a young man could go in for—entirely incompatible55 with the robust56 and masculine character demanded in a successful journalist.
This presented itself to Seth as an extremely sound position, and he made it his own so willingly that very soon he began to take credit to himself in his own eyes for having turned a deaf ear to the social siren, and having deliberately57 rejected the advances of fashionable Tecumseh. He grew, really, to believe that it was by preference, by a wise resolution to preserve his freedom and individuality, that he remained outside the mysterious, impalpable regions which were labelled in his mind as “Society.”
On the other hand, there was no nonsense at Bismarck’s, or at the other similar beer halls to which Tom introduced him. One dressed as one chose, and did as one liked; seven-up or penochle provided just the mental recreation a wearied literary brain demanded; and the fellows one met there were cheerful, companionable young men, who likewise had no nonsense about them, who put on no airs of superiority, and who glided58 swiftly and jovially59 through the grades of acquaintanceship to intimacy60.
Seth was greatly strengthened in his liking61 for this refuge from loneliness in a strange city by what he saw of Arthur Dent, whom Watts had prepared him to regard as the embodiment of the other and strait-laced side.
This young man was not at all uncivil, but he was delicate, almost effeminate in frame, wore eye-glasses, dressed with fastidious neatness, never made any jokes or laughed heartily62 at those of others, and rarely joined the daily lounge and smoke around Tyler’s table after the paper had gone to press—and in all these things he grated upon Seth’s sensitiveness. He was the one member of the staff whom Mr. Workman seemed to like and whom Mr. Samboye never humiliated publicly by his ponderous63 ridicule64, and these were added grievances65. He worked very steadily66 and carefully, and was said to do a good deal of heavy reading at home, evenings, in addition to the slavish routine of high social duties in which Seth indefinitely understood him to be immersed. His chief tasks were the book reviews, the editing of correspondence, and the preparation of minor67 editorial paragraphs in a smaller type than Mr. Samboye’s. Seth thought that his style, though correct and neat, was thin and emasculated, and he came to associate this with his estimate of the writer, and account for it by his habits and associations—which the further confirmed him in his judgment as to the right way to live.
But there was something more than this. The first few days after his return from his vacation, Dent had tried to be courteous68 and helpful to the newcomer from the country, in his shy, undemonstrative way, and Seth, despite his preconceived prejudice, had gone a little way on the road to friendship. Then one night, as he and Watts were returning arm-in-arm to their joint69 lodgings70 from Bismarck’s, a trifle unsteadily perhaps, they had encountered Dent walking with a young lady, and Tom had pleasantly accosted71 them—at least it seemed pleasantly to Seth—but Dent had not taken it in the right spirit at the time, and had been decidedly cool to Seth ever since. This was so unreasonable72 that the country boy resented it deeply, and the two barely spoke73 to each other.
His relations with the others were less strained, but scarcely more valuable in the way of companionship. Mr. Tyler did not seem to care much for his company, and never asked him to go to the “Roast Beef”—a sort of combination of club and saloon where he spent most of his evenings, where poker74 was the chief amusement and whisky the principal drink. From all Seth could learn, it was as well for him that he was not invited there. As for Murtagh, all his associations outside the office seemed to be with young men of his own race, who formed a coterie75 by themselves, and frequented distinctively76 Irish resorts. Like most other American cities Tecumseh had its large Irish and German elements, and in nothing were ethnographic lines drawn so clearly as in the matter of amusements. There were enough young Americans holding aloof77 from both these foreign circles to constitute a small constituency for the “Roast Beef,” but a far greater number had developed a liking for the German places of resort, and drank beer and ate cheese and rye bread as if to the manner born. Seth found himself in this class on his first step over the threshold of city life; he enjoyed it, and he saw very little of the others.
The two most important men on the Chronicle, Mr. Workman and Mr. Samboye, were far removed from the plane upon which all these Bohemian divisions were traced. They belonged to the Club—the Tuscarora Club. Seth knew where the club house was—but he felt that this was all he was ever likely to know about it. The first few days in Tecumseh had taught him the hopelessness of his dream of associating with his employer. Socially they were leagues apart at the outset, and if the distance did not increase as weeks grew into months, at least Seth’s perception of it did, which amounted to the same thing.
He did not so readily abandon the idea of being made a companion by Samboye, but at last that vanished too. The Editor held himself very high, and if he occasionally came down off his mountain top, his return to those heights only served to emphasize their altitude. There were conflicting stories about his salary. Among the lesser78 lights of the editorial room it was commonly estimated at forty-five dollars a week, but some of the printers had information that it was at least fifty—which fatigued79 the imagination. Seth himself received nine dollars, which his brother supplemented by five, and he found that he was regarded as doing remarkably80 well for a beginner. But between this condition and the state of Samboye with his great income, his fine house on one of the best streets, his influential81 position in the city, and his luxurious amusements at the Club, an impassable gulf82 yawned.
There is no pleasure in following further the details of the country boy’s new life. He lost sight of his disappointment in the consolations83 of a phase of city existence which does not show to advantage in polite-pages. He did not become vicious or depraved.
The relentless84 treadmill85 of a daily paper forbade his becoming indolent. By sheer force of contact his mind expanded, too, more than even he suspected. But it was a formless, unprofitable expansion, which did not help him to get out of the rut. He performed his work acceptably—at least he rarely heard any criticisms upon it—lived a trifle ahead of his small income, and ceased to even speculate on the chance of promotion86.
When, thirteen months after his advent87 in Tecumseh, the news came to him from the farm that his father was dying, he obtained leave to go home. Mr. Workman remarked to Mr. Samboye that afternoon:
“I shan’t mind much if Fairchild doesn’t come back.”
“Is that so? He seems to get through his work decently and inoffensively enough. He will never set the North River ablaze88, of course, but he is civil and all that.”
“Yes, but I can’t see that there’s anything in him. Beside, I don’t like his influence on Watts. I’m told you can find them together at Bismarck’s every night in the week.”
“Of course, that makes it bad,” said Mr. Samboye.
Then the proprietor89 and the editor locked up their desks, went over to the Club, and played pyramid pool till midnight.
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1
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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dinned
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| vt.喧闹（din的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mentors
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| n.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的名词复数 )v.（无经验之人的）有经验可信赖的顾问( mentor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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13
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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dent
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| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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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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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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exaltedly
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| 得意忘形地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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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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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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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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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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84
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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85
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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