AND still they found no place to live, and their week at the St. Dunstan became as second, and a third.
They went together to look at dozens of apartments. Rose-Ann was observantly critical of their good and bad features, and yet extremely complaisant1; he felt that she would have agreed to anything he wanted. But he had not forgotten her fierce discontent at “ordinary” apartments, and he was looking for something that would really please her. He felt that he had not found it yet....
And no one at the St. Dunstan had objected to the noise of their typewriter on occasional evenings. They could have breakfast brought up and set down on a tray at their bedside, a breakfast of cool grapefruit and elaborately disguised eggs and coffee with cream, and linger over their last sip2 of coffee and a final cigarette before dressing3 lazily; and Felix could stroll into the office at ten o’clock, like Hawkins—a free man and not a hurried, anxious slave.
Felix had at first felt a little guilty about these late appearances, when everybody else had been at work for hours; but it was apparently4 expected of him that he would take due advantage of the opportunities for leisure that the position gave. So long as he did his work, it did not matter when he came or went; Hawkins himself did not show up every day—and there was that god-like being, the literary editor, McQuish, he who had taught the Chicago intelligentsia to speak of their “reactions” and of being “intrigued”: he fulminated his Wednesday critiques locked in his office on Tuesday afternoon and except for his Tuesday arrival and departure was never seen around the place at all!
163Felix’s new loose-fitting homespun clothes, with their air of having been worn in to town from a country-club, helped Felix to feel the rightful possessor of this leisure, and to assume its proper air. Silk shirts with soft collars, and Windsor ties, bought by Rose-Ann, and approved by Clive, helped still more.
After all, if the management liked his work, if he was no longer on trial, but an accepted person, privileged to do about as he pleased, why should he maintain his old anxieties and disguises? Why try to look like an efficient young business man? Nobody wanted him to! Why not be comfortable, in a soft collar and homespun clothes? Yes, why not?
In this mood, he bought himself a stick, on his own initiative.... He had always wanted to carry a stick, and had never quite dared. His clothes had never been quite up to it. Perhaps they were not quite up to it now. But there was nothing dandified about this stick; it was no silver-plated confection, just a simple stick of light bamboo, covered with a shiny black lacquer—a real stick. It suited him; he liked the smooth firm lacquered surface, he liked the feel of it in his hand, lightly swinging, or hanging from the crook5 of his arm. And Rose-Ann liked it, too. He felt that it gave him the touch of confidence he had lacked in his new position; with that stick on his arm, he could saunter into the Chronicle office at ten o’clock in the morning without a qualm.
2
Just after his evening clothes were finished, they were invited casually6 to one of Mr. and Mrs. Howard Morgan’s evenings, and Felix was assured by Rose-Ann that it was an occasion which a dinner coat would appropriately grace; she also remarked that ordinary clothes would be all right. That seemed to make it rather a test of his moral courage, and so he wore his evening clothes....
Howard Morgan was a poet, one of the few in America for whom Felix had any respect. Felix had been introduced 164to him once, under rather inauspicious circumstances—one evening when, deep in kalsomine, he was painting a back drop for Rose-Ann in the little Community Theatre, which the great man was being shown, in what was apparently a tour of inspection7 of Community House. Rose-Ann had met him then, too, and, less abashed8 by her kalsomine-smeared apron9 and hastily turbaned hair, had talked with him; and he had remembered her, and sent a message by some one in Community House to come up to his next “Friday evening” and bring her husband.
Felix was glad to pay his respects to this distinguished10 personage, but he was not prepared for the crowd of people who filled the Morgans’ drawing-room; he hated crowds. But, after Mrs. Morgan had introduced him to an elderly and talkative spinster, and then, as he felt, basely deserted11 him, he was rescued by Rose-Ann; steered12 through a whirlpool of encounters—he almost failed to recognize Clive Bangs in his evening clothes, with that wild lock of hair neatly13 slicked into its proper place—and brought into the presence of Howard Morgan himself, who was standing14, a tall and impressive figure, with grey hair, a nose like an eagle’s beak15, and flashing eyes, in the midst of, as it seemed to Felix, swirling16 tides of people. Morgan turned from two women, one very old and the other very young, with whom he was conducting two different conversations at once—a flirtatious17 one with the aged18 dame19 and a very earnest and serious one with the young girl.
“The last time I saw you, you were painting scenery,” he said, smilingly extending his hand.
“Yes,” said Felix, flushing.
“And now I read your dramatic criticisms in the Chronicle,” said Howard Morgan. “You seem to have a multitude of talents! No wonder you have captured that lovely prize!—She is lovely, isn’t she?” he added, in a tone of man-to-manly confidence, looking after Rose-Ann, who had floated away in that dress which was like moonlit falling water.
“Yes,” said Felix, feeling very stupid.
165“Do you know Mrs. Meagham? Mr. Fay....” And the great man, who had retained Felix’s hand in his, pressed it warmly, smiled with his big delicately-carven mouth and his cavernous, flashing eyes, and turned back to resume with instant interest his conversations with the young woman and the old one, not to speak of a third who came up and was welcomed heartily20 in the midst of a sentence; leaving Felix to the mercies of Mrs. Meagham.
It appeared that Mrs. Meagham had no wish to detain Felix Fay; it was the great man, Howard Morgan, that she wanted to talk to. And Felix had no wish to prevent her—none whatever; only he was between her and the great man and he didn’t know how to get out of the way.
How does one leave a lady whom one does not want to talk to, and who obviously enough reciprocates21 that lack of interest? Felix hadn’t the slightest idea.... He ransacked22 his memory of books—while saying to Mrs. Meagham that no, he had not lived in Chicago long—for something to help him. Surely in all the novels he had read there must be something bearing upon this situation! But the only thing he could remember was the desperate device of H. G. Wells’ Mr. Polly, who upon one embarrassing occasion murmured to the young woman something about a “little dog,” and ran out of the house. But then, Mr. Polly had a bicycle, and he was pretending that he heard a little dog gnawing23 at the tires. No—that would not do at all. He suddenly felt that H. G. Wells was but a poor guide and mentor24 in the thorny25 ways of real life. Perhaps if he had forced himself to read more of Henry James—!
At this stage, when he felt his reason going, Rose-Ann appeared, radiant and cool, to his rescue. He was so grateful that he forgot to note how she did it.... It had been easy enough, apparently; no such heroic task as it appeared. But then, things like that were easy, to anybody except himself!
And he had not told Howard Morgan how much he liked—how devoutly26 he knew by heart—the magnificent “Ode in the Valley of Decision.” No, he had stood there saying, 166“Yes,” like a fool, while a great poet paid him compliments! He thought a little the less of Howard Morgan for those compliments; they were so obviously a product of the occasion, a few out of the hundred he had uttered that night—two or three around to everybody, share and share alike! They were none the less banal27 because he uttered them with such pretended sincerity28 and real grace. What madness such a scene was! To think of men and women deliberately29 inflicting30 upon themselves such painful mockery of social intercourse31! But perhaps it was not painful to them. No, they actually appeared to enjoy it. Well—that proved that they were mad! Bedlam32! And a great poet condemned33 to go through this rigmarole, so abominable34 to any person of decent sensitiveness! But perhaps he enjoyed it, too? In truth, he did seem to be enjoying it vastly. Then he was no poet, but a sham35.... A line of the great Ode came into Felix’s mind, one of the magnificent lines: he said it over to himself, testing it—and it did sound rather tinny. Milton and some base amalgam36, not true gold.... An actor, the fellow was, strutting37 and smirking38 and kissing ladies’ hands.... Still—if it were a thing that had to be done (like wearing evening clothes, for instance) doubtless the more gracefully39 it was done the better. And Howard Morgan—it must be conceded—did it superlatively well!... Would Rose-Ann never be ready to go home?
She turned to him fondly. “You were doing very well, darling. I noticed at the time. It’s just your inexperience that made you feel a trifle ill at ease. With a little more experience, you will be quite as charming as Howard Morgan. More so, darling!”
3
Tell one whom you have caused to be waylaid42 and tortured by cruel savages43, that he has passed through the 167incident very creditably; tell him that with a little more practice he will be able to wear the true martyr’s look of joy! And then kiss him.... Yes, and pretend that you love him, that you are the wife of his bosom44. Ah, serpent! Delilah!
That was the way Felix felt as he lay sleeplessly45 at Rose-Ann’s side that night; but he knew perfectly46 well why he felt that way. He was just looking for an excuse to get out of taking a little trouble.... Of course things like that went hard, at first; so was walking hard to a child who had just begun fearfully to stand upon its two feet; so was breathing hard at first for the new-born infant—did it not greet the world with a cry of pain? Yes, life was hard; that was why it was so interesting. It would be dull if one never did anything one was afraid to do.... And why, at the age of twenty-two, should he still find it an agony to meet a roomful of people?... No, confound it, that wasn’t true! There were roomfuls of people he could meet, with pleasure; it was these people—they meant nothing to him, he nothing to them.... Or was it just egotism? Was it because he was nothing to them, that he resented their presence? Was it just the feeling of mother’s little boy who goes out to play and finds that instead of being the Young Prince, he is only one of a crowd? He remembered his first day in school—the humiliation47 of suddenly finding himself nobody in particular!... Yes, he had gone there that evening as if he alone in the world had ever admired Howard Morgan—and found himself merely one of dozens. He had hoped to impress the great man by his admiration48; and he had found his admiration not at all needed. That was why he was angry at his hero!... And then, too, perhaps a little jealous. As if he had thought, “I could get the same kind of worship if I would condescend49 to pay for it in the same way you do!” But could he? Was he, too, in spite of his protestations to Rose-Ann, secretly dreaming of greatness? Was it because this man dared admit himself a poet, a creator, a Somebody, that Felix 168Fay disliked him?—And what was he doing to realize those dreams? It was all very well to say, “Some day!” But—no, his destiny wasn’t just writing silly-clever things for the Chronicle. But what was it? Rose-Ann believed in him. Did he believe in himself?
And all this was far enough away from the question at issue: which was very simple—in fact, it resolved itself down to one thing—doing what Rose-Ann wanted him to do! Not because she was his wife; not at all because he loved her; but because she understood life better than he did....
He must never let her know what a baby he was about things like these. What a silly fuss he had been making about nothing at all! He must do what was expected of him: yes, confound it, and if she wanted a house like the Morgans’, and crowds of people ... he could see with half-dreaming mind her white shoulders, her eyes, her red-gold hair, gleaming in their midst—why, she should have them!... even if he had to “play the host,” like Howard Morgan, for her.
... He fell asleep and awoke dreaming that he was a little boy, who was captured by savages and tortured, and who endured it all with a smile for the sake of their Queen, a girl with white shoulders and red hair, who had promised to tell him a secret if he was brave. And he said: “I know your secret! You are all the women I have ever known; you are the little girl I was afraid to walk to school with, and you are the girl I played with in the garret and was afraid to go to meet for a farewell kiss, and you are Margaret, the girl in the candy-factory that I was afraid to write to, and you are the girl in Port Royal that I was afraid to ask to marry me.” And she said, “Yes, but I have one more secret.” “I know that, too,” he said. “You are Life!”
A very literary dream! He wasn’t sure, when he woke up at dawn, but that he had made it up like a story. Anyway, he understood it, and he didn’t want to forget it, and he was writing it down hastily on sheets of hotel 169stationery when Rose-Ann opened her eyes sleepily at eight o’clock.... She opened her eyes sleepily, but sleep vanished when she saw what he was doing, and she sat up eagerly in bed.
“Oh!” she cried, looking as though an expected, long-awaited miracle had happened at last.
“What?” he asked, startled.
“You’re writing again!—writing, I mean, for yourself....”
“Well, what of it?” he said crossly.
“Nothing,” she said. “Only—I knew you would!”
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1
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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2
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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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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4
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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5
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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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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7
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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8
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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10
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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11
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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12
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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13
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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14
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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15
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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16
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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17
flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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18
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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21
reciprocates
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| n.报答，酬答( reciprocate的名词复数 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的第三人称单数 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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22
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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23
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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24
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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26
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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27
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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28
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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30
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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31
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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32
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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33
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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34
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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35
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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36
amalgam
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| n.混合物；汞合金 | |
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37
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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38
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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39
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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40
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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41
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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42
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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44
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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45
sleeplessly
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| adv.失眠地 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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48
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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49
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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