When the professor had first come to town he had spoken of the wife who would follow him shortly, from the East. He did not display her picture, he did not talk about her enough so that the town, though it made an honest effort, ever really visualized4 her. She would come—without a doubt she would come—but not just yet. It was only that the East still held her. Gradually, he spoke3 of her less and less often, with a dignified5 reserve that brooked6 no inquiry7, and finally not at all.
The town forgot. It was only when his illness became so serious that all felt someone should be written to, that it was discovered there was no one. The professor, when he was appealed to, said so. Then also, the hospital nurse noticed that at the twilight hour, when he talked quietly to his unseen friends, there was always One who stayed longer than the rest.
But he had been dead two months now, and the undertaker was pressing his bill, and there were other expenses which had been cheerfully borne by friends at the time, and indeed if there had been no other reason, it remains9 that something must become of the personal possessions of a man who leaves neither will nor known heirs. So the professor's effects were appraised10, and a brief local appeared in the daily paper until it had made a dent11 in the memory of the public, apprising12 them that his personal property would be offered at public auction13 at two p.m. of a Thursday, in his rooms on the third floor of the Eureka Block.
It was the merest thread of curiosity that drew me to this sale. I did not want to buy anything. It was a sort of posthumous14 curiosity, and it concerned itself solely15 with the individuality of the dead man. Not having had the opportunity of knowing him well in life, and never having known until I read his obituary16 what I had missed, I took this last chance of trying to evolve the man from his belongings17. All I did know was that he was a teacher of music of the past generation in a Western town which grew so fast that it made a man seem older than he was. More than this, he was a composer, a music master, who took crude young voices, shrill18 with the tension of the Western winds and the electric air, and tamed and trained them till they fell in love with harmony. When he heard a voice he knew it. One of his contraltos is singing now in grand opera across the sea. A tenor19 that he discovered has charmed the world with an "upper note."
All the same, the professor had grown old—a new generation had arisen which knew not Joseph; he failed to advertise, and every young girl who "gave lessons" crowded him closer to the wall. Now and then there would appear in the daily paper—not the next morning, but a few days after the presentation of some opera—a column of musical criticism, keen, delicate, reminiscent—fragrant with the rosemary that is for remembrance. When "Elijah" was given by home talent with soloists20 imported from Chicago, it was the professor who kindly21 wrote, beforehand this time, luminous22 articles full of sympathetic interpretation23 of the great masters. And at rare intervals24 there would appear a communication from him on the beauty of the woods and the fields, the suburbs of the town and the country, as though he were some simple prophet of nature who stood by the wayside. And this was no affectation. Long, solitary25 walks were his recreation.
It was a good deal of a rookery, up the flights of narrow, dirty stairs to the third floor of the Eureka Block. And here the professor had lived and taught. Two rooms were made from one by the sort of partition which does not reach to the ceiling—a ceiling which for some inexplicable26 reason was higher in some places than in others.
The voice of the auctioneer came down that winding27 way in professional cadences28. There were in the room about as many people as might come to a funeral where only friends of the family are invited. It was very still. The auctioneer took an easy conversational29 tone. There was a silent, forlorn sort of dignity about the five pianos standing30 in a row that put professional banter31 and cheap little jokes out of the question. The pianos went without much trouble—a big one of the best make, an old-fashioned cottage piano, a piano with an iron frame. One of the appraisers, himself a musician, became an assistant auctioneer, and kindly played a little—judiciously very little—on each instrument in turn.
Then came the bric-a-brac of personal effects—all the flotsam and jetsam that had floated into these rooms for years. The walls were pockmarked with pictures, big and little. There was no attempt at high art; the professor had bought a picture as a child might buy one—because he thought it was pretty. It was a curious showing of how one artistic32 faculty33 may be dormant34 while another is cultivated to its highest point. But no matter how cheap the picture, it was always conscientiously35 framed. And this was a great help to the auctioneer. Indeed, it was difficult to see how he could have cried the pictures at all without the frames.
By this time the rooms were fuller of people. There were ladies who had come in quietly, just to get some little thing for a remembrance of their old friend and teacher. These mostly went directly over to the corner where the music lay and began looking for something of "his." If it were manuscript music so much the better. But there was little of this. It appeared that with the professor, as with most of us, early and middle manhood had been his most productive time, and that was long enough ago for everything to have been duly published in sheet and book form—long enough, indeed, for the books themselves to have gone out of date.
There they were—long, green notebooks, bearing the familiar names of well known publishers, and with such a hydra-head of title as "The Celestina, or New Sacred Minstrel; a Repository of Music adapted to every variety of taste and grade of capacity, from the million to the amateur or professor."
There were four or five of these. There was sheet music by the pile. There was an opera, "Joseph," the production of which had been a musical event.
Presently the auctioneer came that way. He had just sold a large oleograph, framed, one of those gorgeous historical pictures which are an apotheosis36 of good clothes. He approached an engraving37 of an old-fashioned lady in voluminous muslin draperies, with her hair looped away from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style.
"He liked that," murmured a lady.
"What do I hear!" cries the auctioneer, softly. "Oh, such a little bid as that—I can't see it at all in this dark corner. Suppose we throw these peaches in—awfully pretty thing for dining room—and this flower piece—shall we group these three?—now, how much for all? Ah, there they go!"
"Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a gold-headed cane38 which was presented to the deceased by his admiring friends. It is pure gold—you know they would not give him anything else. How much for this? How much? No—his name is not engraved39 on it—so much the better—what do I hear?"
"Look at this telescope, gentlemen—a good one—you know the professor was quite an astronomer40 in his way—and this telescope is all right—sound and in good condition"—the auctioneer had officiated at a stock sale the day before. "You can look right into futurity through this tube. Five dollars' worth of futurity? Five—five and a half? Case and all complete."
There was a pocketful of odds41 and ends; gold pens, lead pencils, some odd pocket knives; these inconsiderable trifles brought more in proportion than articles of greater intrinsic value. Evidently this was an auction of memories, of emotion, of sentiment.
There was a bit of the beam of the barn that was burned down when the cow kicked over the historic lamp that inaugurated the Chicago fire—no less than three persons were ready to testify to their belief in the genuineness of the relic42, had anyone been disposed to question it. But no one was. Nearly all the people in the room were the dead music teacher's personal friends; they had heard the story of all these things; they knew who had sent him the stuffed brown prairie chicken that perched like a raven43 above the door—the little old-fashioned decanter and wine glasses of gilded44 glass—the artificial begonias—that clever imitation that goes far toward making one forswear begonias forevermore. There were lamps of various shapes and sizes, there was a kit45 of burglarious looking tools for piano tuning46, there was a little globe—"Who wants the earth?" said the auctioneer. "You all want it."
There was a metronome, which, set to go, began to count time in a metallic47 whisper for some invisible pupil. Over in the corner just beyond the music were the professor's books. Now we shall find him out, for what a man reads he is, or wishes to be. There was a good deal of spiritualistic literature of the better sort. There was a "History of Christianity and Paganism by the Roman Emperor Julian," a copy of "She," a long shelf full of North American Reviews, a dozen or so of almanacs, a copy of Bluebeard. There were none of the "popular" magazines, and if there had been newspapers—those vagrants48 of literature—they had gone their way. There was a manuscript play for parlor49 presentation, with each part written out in legible script, entitled, "The Winning Card."
All these and many more things which only the patient appraisers can fully8 know were sold or set aside as unsalable, until all was done. And then those who had known and loved him and those who had not known or cared for him came down the stairs together.
Fate stood on the landing. As always, Fate ran true to form. She was a woman; a little tired, as a woman might well be who had come a thousand miles; a little out of breath from the two flights of stairs. Her old-fashioned draperies clung about her; her hair was looped away from her face in a "Book of Beauty" style. The man who stood aside to let her pass was talking. "Of course," he was saying, "he was a side-tracked man. But I believe he stands the biggest chance of being remembered of any man in Iowa."
Swift protest at his first words clouded her face; sheer gratitude50 for his last words illumined it. She bent51 forward a little and went on up the stairs alone.
She faltered52 in the doorway53, her hand fumbling54 at her throat. One of the men who had been talking below hastened to her side.
"It's all over," he said, then added, at the dumb misery55 that grayed her face: "—the auction."
"I—I—didn't come for that," the apathy56 in her voice holding it steady. "I—I am his wife. His last letter—he sent for me." A sob57 broke her speech. "It came last week—two months too late."
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
solace
|
|
| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
visualized
|
|
| 直观的，直视的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
brooked
|
|
| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
appraised
|
|
| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
dent
|
|
| n.凹痕，凹坑；初步进展 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
apprising
|
|
| v.告知，通知( apprise的现在分词 )；评价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
13
auction
|
|
| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
posthumous
|
|
| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
solely
|
|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
obituary
|
|
| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
belongings
|
|
| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
tenor
|
|
| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
soloists
|
|
| n.独唱者，独奏者，单飞者( soloist的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
luminous
|
|
| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
interpretation
|
|
| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
intervals
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
inexplicable
|
|
| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
cadences
|
|
| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
conversational
|
|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
banter
|
|
| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
dormant
|
|
| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
conscientiously
|
|
| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
apotheosis
|
|
| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
engraving
|
|
| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
cane
|
|
| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
engraved
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
astronomer
|
|
| n.天文学家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
odds
|
|
| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
relic
|
|
| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
raven
|
|
| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
gilded
|
|
| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
kit
|
|
| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
tuning
|
|
| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
metallic
|
|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
vagrants
|
|
| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
faltered
|
|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
fumbling
|
|
| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
apathy
|
|
| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |