A STRANGE and perturbing1 girl!... He had not believed, he wished not to believe, what she had told him—that one could be fool and dreamer and yet make terms with Chicago.
But in the course of a few weeks it began to seem as if she were right.
Felix’s other letter of introduction was to Mr. Clive Bangs, editorial writer on the Evening Chronicle. Very diffidently, after having made futile2 inquires at other newspapers during the week, he went one afternoon to present the letter.
Some one in the front office said, “Back there under the mezzanine—the first office to the right.” He found a little built-in coop, and opened the door. The space inside was crowded with desks and tables, the floor littered with papers, the air filled with cigarette smoke. Through the windows, facing on an alley3 overhung by tall buildings, no sunlight came, and electric lamps on the desks pierced holes of light through the twilight4 atmosphere. At one of the desks a plump man lounged, smoking a cigarette. A long, lean man in shirt-sleeves was pounding a typewriter. A surly-looking young man with a careless Windsor tie, and a lock of hair that fell over one eye, sat at a third desk, reading a book.
The plump man looked up with a good-humoured smile, and Felix approached him, saying, “Mr. Bangs?” The plump man waved a hand towards the surly-looking youth. “That’s Mr. Bangs,” he said.
Mr. Bangs looked up, frowned at Felix, and said, “You want to see me?” He jumped up, and indicated a chair vaguely5. “Wait a minute,” he said, and taking up a typewritten 38sheet from his desk went hurriedly out of the office.
Felix looked at the chair. It was piled high with exchanges, so he remained standing6. The plump man continued to smoke dreamily. The long, lean man thoughtfully wrote on. Felix waited. Mr. Bangs did not return.
It was, Felix felt uncomfortably, just what he had expected—it was silly to have come here with that letter.
He glanced down at the desk, saw the book which Mr. Bangs had been reading, noted7 the name on the cover, and picked it up with a sudden interest. He looked at the title page, the date; and then turned the leaves, tenderly, affectionately....
He had quite forgotten Mr. Bangs, and the nature of his errand.
Mr. Clive Bangs, having handed the typewritten sheet to the foreman of the composing-room, walked back slowly. He knew very well who his visitor was. Helen’s letter announcing his arrival was in his pocket. “He is,” Helen had written him, “just as crazy as you are, Clive!” But he distrusted Helen’s judgment8.... It was one thing to welcome to Chicago one more of the too few sophisticated spirits of the mid-west; it was another to have on his hands some pale, gawky, helpless youth who had been falsely encouraged by country librarians in the notion that he could write! What seemed a prodigy9 out in Iowa might be merely one of the army of unemployed10 and unemployable here in Chicago. Clive had tried to help these prodigies11 before; and he knew that a painful addiction12 to the style of Ruskin, combined with egotism and a total lack of ideas, was no easy malady13 to cure. He rather flinched14 from the prospect15 of taking Helen’s protégé in hand.... But, still—“crazy as you are”—Helen might know what she was talking about.
Stopping in the doorway16, Clive looked at his problem in person. He had picked up that book—that H. G. Wells book.... Those were the days just before “Tono-Bungay,” and the name of H. G. Wells was as yet cherished by only a few enthusiasts17. Besides, this was the least known of H. G. Wells’ writings, and one who might have heard of Wells as 39a writer of pseudo-scientific yarns18 would be puzzled by it. Clive stood for a moment trying to gauge19 the quality of Felix Fay’s response to the volume in his hand; then he went up to him.
Felix awoke to find Mr. Bangs standing beside him, and looking at him quizzically.
“I see you’re looking at my latest Wells find,” said Mr. Bangs.
“The first English edition! Where did you pick it up?” Felix asked. “In a second-hand20 store?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bangs. “Forty cents! At Downer’s.”
Felix laid the book down reverently21. “I wonder,” he said, “if they have any other Wells’ things there. There’s one of his books I’ve never been able to come across anywhere—‘The Island of Doctor Moreau.’ Do you know it?”
“I have the only copy I’ve ever seen in Chicago,” said Clive Bangs. “I’ll lend it to you.”
“I wish you would,” Felix said gratefully. “I found ‘The Time Machine’ in an old junk-shop in Port Royal last summer, and that made ‘The Island of Doctor Moreau’ the only thing of Wells’ I hadn’t read—I suppose you know ‘Kipps’? And ‘Love and Mr. Lewisham’?”
Mr. Bangs nodded. “This book,” he said, indicating the volume on the desk, “isn’t so well known as it might be.” He took a cigarette and passed Felix the box with an unconscious gesture.
Clive Bangs had ceased to judge this young man. He had accepted him. After all, how many people were there in Chicago who had read “First and Last Things”? So it was, once upon a time, when two men met who had both read an obscure book of poems about Wine and Death by one Edward Fitzgerald.
Felix lighted his cigarette from Clive Bangs’ match. “I brought my copy to Chicago with me,” he said. “It’s the only book I did bring.”
Clive Bangs looked at his watch and picked up his hat. Suddenly Felix remembered, and put his hand, embarrassedly, in his pocket for his letter of introduction.
40Clive Bangs laughed. “Never mind!” he said. “I know who you are. Come on, let’s have a drink.”
A few minutes later they were sitting in a barroom called “The Tavern,” ordering ale with bitters, which Clive Bangs recommended as the specialty22 of the place.
“So you are Helen’s wild young man from Iowa!” said Clive. “I wish Helen were here, and we three would get drunk together.”
Felix was startled at the idea of Helen, the beautiful and condescending23 goddess of the library-shrine of his youth, getting drunk....
Clive laughed. “Oh,” he said, “I mean on ideas. Though for my part, after a hard day’s work, it takes a little alcohol to put the practical part of my mind asleep and set free my imagination. My mind is disposed in layers. After the first drink I cease to be interested in politics and social reform. After the second I forget the girl about whom I happen to be worrying at the time. And with the third drink, I enter the realm of pure theory.”
The tall glasses of ale were set before them.
“Here’s to Utopia!” said Clive.
2
It was only when Felix had warmly parted from his new friend, and agreed to come over the next noon for lunch and a visit to Downer’s, that he realized—with some chagrin—that he had failed to say anything to Mr. Clive Bangs about getting a job as a reporter on the Evening Chronicle.
In fact, he had fallen very neatly24 into the trap prepared for him by his own fatal temperament25. He had given himself away at the very start. And Bangs, who appeared to indulge some theoretical and visionary traits as a relaxation26 to the sober work of helping27 get out a great daily newspaper, had enjoyed his moon-calfishness: but to what end?
Going back to his room at Community House, Felix gravely and dispassionately considered the question of what impression he had made. “On the one hand,” he said to himself, “it is doubtless true that Mr. Bangs must enjoy 41coming across another person who shares his own literary tastes. But, on the other hand, these tastes are in the nature of an avocation28 for him, and my possession of them proves nothing whatever as to my fitness for a newspaper job. Suppose he had happened to be enthusiastic about Japanese prints; suppose he had just bought a Kiyonaga, and I had looked at it and praised it; he would have been pleased to find some one who knew the difference between a Kiyonaga and a Kunisada—but would he have thought that a reason for helping me to get a newspaper job? I’m afraid not.”
Felix was pleased with the coolness of his reasoning under circumstances where another person might have built up vain hopes. And in any event, Clive Bangs was a friend; and friendship had a value of its own. He would not embarrass Clive Bangs with any requests for help; he would take what their friendship had to give, and be glad of it.
Accordingly, it was without any ulterior motive29 that he went to lunch with Bangs next day. Again they talked literature and ideas; they explored Downer’s together, and Felix picked up a second volume to complete his Muses’ Library edition of the poems of John Donne: and they strolled back to the office of the Chronicle, where Felix became acquainted with the other editorial writers.
The long, lean man was a New Englander named Hosmer Flint; he corresponded very much to Felix’s idea of what the editorial writer of a great daily newspaper should be, for he had a mind incredibly stored with statistics of all kinds. The other was the chief editorial writer—a man of fifty, plump and dimpled, with a childlike charm of manner which made it natural for every one to call him “Willie”—his other name being Smith.
Willie Smith genially30 expressed to Felix the hope that there might be something for him on the Chronicle, and when the managing editor happened in he introduced Felix to him casually31 as a young man who was looking for a newspaper job; but Felix understood that this was simply Willie’s good nature, and refused to take the possibility seriously. He 42found his new acquaintances agreeable to talk to, however, and fell into the habit of dropping into the editorial office in the slack part of the afternoon, for a half-hour’s talk. Having no economic reason for pretending to be anything but himself in their presence, he talked about the things that really interested him—socialism and anarchism and life and art.
He permitted himself these idle pleasures only after hours dutifully spent in annoying the editors of five or six other papers with a brisk and efficient presentation of his usefulness. He had to appear so preternaturally capable and alert on these occasions that it was a relief to be able to throw off the disguise and loaf and invite his soul in the editorial room of the Evening Chronicle. It was, as he sometimes reproachfully told himself, a concession32 to his inborn33 weakness, and just so much time lost from his task of getting a newspaper job.
3
But one could not look for a job all the time. It was with only slight compunction that he fell into the custom of spending his evenings in the company of Rose-Ann—sometimes talking in her room, sometimes in Paul’s watching him invent his beautiful and fantastic toy-scenery, and again in the tiny Community Theatre, helping them make costumes and build stage-sets.
It was, it seemed, to the fascination34 of the tiny theater itself, as much as to Rose-Ann’s persuasions35, that he presently succumbed36, and found himself writing a little play for a group of children—a play about the further adventures of the Pied Piper and the boys and girls who followed him into the mountain.... He felt rather like one of those children himself, lured37 by some irresistible38 music away from the daylit world of ambition into the hollow hill of fantasy.... Rose-Ann approved the play enthusiastically, and the children of her group, assigning the parts among themselves, began spontaneously to learn it by heart.
Meantime, rehearsals39 of a sort were going on for the 43“Prince and Pauper40.” Rose-Ann had her own way of teaching. She became, it seemed, herself a child, and was accepted by the others as such; they quarreled and made up with her, kissed her and made faces at her and petted her, exactly as if she were one of themselves; and Felix, watching these scenes, wished that he, too, had that capacity for childlikeness, so that he could join in the fun on such terms of innocent intimacy41. But he felt dreadfully grown-up and awkward, and Rose-Ann, on her knees amid her playmates, laughing and talking and acting42 one part or another with the utter abandon of childhood’s “pretending”—she was the youngest of them all; indeed, she seemed more than anything else a delightful43 doll—a marvellous talking and laughing doll of gold and ivory.
Mrs. Perkins—big, fat, comfortable Mrs. Perkins, still young-looking though reputed to be a grandmother, who lived in the neighborhood and came to the theater to sew costumes for them, and whom everybody, without any disrespect, called “Perk44”—beckoned him over one day to her corner as he stood admiring Rose-Ann with her children, and whispered to him:
“You just feel like putting her in your pocket and carrying her off, don’t you?”
Felix grinned at her. “How do you know?” he whispered back. Yes, she was a wonderful little toy-girl, less and more than human, that one wanted to hold and touch and play with, and take home to keep! But how did she, old Granny Perk, know how a young man felt about it!
“Oh, I know!” and Perk smiled her comfortable smile. “I was a girl myself once. Little Miss Rosy-Posy knows just how nice she looks to you, and don’t you doubt it!”
Yes, perhaps Rose-Ann did like to be looked at and enjoyed by some one who was not a child. She seemed to be teasing him with her presence—to be saying, “Don’t you want to come and play with me, too?”
He had tried to tell Clive about Rose-Ann, but his first words, “a girl over at Community House,” had apparently45 evoked46 in Clive’s mind the picture of a misguided spinster of 44forty whose repressed maternal47 instincts were finding satisfaction in the running of other people’s lives—a creature against whom he proceeded to warn Felix in humorous terms. “She will manage you, Felix,” he said, “—for your own good. Now it’s all right to be managed by a woman, so long as it is for her benefit. You can at least complain about it. But when you’re managed for your own good, you are helpless.”
Felix objected to this notion of Rose-Ann, but Clive asked her age. And Felix said he didn’t know, but that she was a little older than himself.
“A little older than you. I thought so,” said Clive. “Beware!” There was no use talking to Clive about girls, anyway; it was a subject upon which he was frequently bitter and always absurd. Felix had told Rose-Ann a little about him, and she had said, “He’s been hurt by some girl.” Doubtless that was true. And Felix felt a certain satisfaction in the inward comparison of this creature of Clive’s distorted fancy with the real and delightful Rose-Ann—whom even as Clive talked he could see in memory, with himself standing by and caressing48 with his gaze every swift movement of that delicate and supple49 doll-body of hers.
“You’re all wrong,” he said to Clive. “She’s a pagan.”
“Yes,” said Clive scornfully, “one of those settlement-house pagans.”
Felix only laughed.
All this, however, was not getting a job. By desperate economies, as his money dwindled50, he was managing to hold out. But he could not hold out forever. Clive had asked him one day if he needed money, and he had answered evasively. There was no use starting that sort of thing.
He had to get a job.
But it looked as though he were not going to get a job. There seemed to be no use trying to impress city editors with his efficiency. There had been a vacancy51 on a morning paper, and another young man—with, so far as Felix could tell, no better qualifications than his own—had been selected. That discouraged him. Doubtless these city editors could see through his pretences52....
45
4
And then one afternoon when he dropped in at the Chronicle office, Clive asked him if he was ready to go to work Monday morning: he had been taken on as a reporter.... He would get, Clive told him, twenty dollars a week to start with. Clive told him this in a pleased but casual way, as though it were something long arranged between Felix and himself which had just been ratified53 by the higher powers. So Clive had been working for him all along!
“Go and tell Harris you’ll be on deck,” said Clive. Harris was the city editor. “And better speak to the Old Man, too.” The Old Man was the managing editor, Mr. Devoe. Felix had never supposed for a moment that these personages had him under consideration.
He presented himself before both of them, not knowing what to say. Apparently it was not necessary to say anything. Both of them were busy—too busy, Felix hoped, for them to notice how dazed he was.
“All right, Fay, you’ll be here Monday morning at eight o’clock,” said the city editor.
“I suppose Mr. Bangs told you that we’re going to start you off at twenty dollars?” said Mr. Devoe. “We can do a little better later, perhaps. It’s up to you.” Mr. Devoe looked at him severely—or kindly54, Felix was not sure which—over his glasses, and turned back to his desk.
“Yes, sir,” said Felix.
Willie Smith patted him on the back. “Glad you’ve got it,” he said.
“Take it easy,” Clive told him. “A newspaper job in Chicago is just like a newspaper job anywhere else.”
Well! So at last, somehow, the devil only knew how, he had gained a foothold in Chicago.
He discussed the event with Rose-Ann that evening. She laughed at his surprise. “How do you suppose people get jobs?” she demanded. “You were going at it in precisely55 the right way. I knew from what you told me they were going to take you.”
46Felix had already begun to worry about the future. “I don’t know where any place is,” he said. “I must dig up my street-map.”
“Oh, throw that street-map away,” said Rose-Ann. “I’ll give you a guide to Chicago that’s much more useful.” She went to her shelf and took down a little book. “Here!”
“If you can write a play that will please children, you can write to please the people of Chicago. They’re children, too,” she said.
Felix slipped the book in his pocket and went to his room and his street-map. She had too much confidence in him. Only he himself knew what a fool he was. He had got this job under false pretences.
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1
perturbing
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的现在分词 ) | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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addiction
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| n.上瘾入迷，嗜好 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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14
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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18
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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26
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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avocation
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| n.副业，业余爱好 | |
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29
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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30
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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32
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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34
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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36
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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40
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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41
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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42
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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43
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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44
perk
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| n.额外津贴；赏钱；小费； | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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47
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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48
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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49
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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50
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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52
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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53
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
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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55
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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56
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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