“WHY don’t you want me to get a job, Felix?”
It was mid-April, and the Park across the way had, all at once, turned that lovely young green of beginning grass and burgeoning2 trees. It was dusk, and Rose-Ann and Felix were sitting in their cushioned window-seat—a new addition to the household furnishing—arguing a point which had been coming up from time to time since their marriage.
“You have your work,” she went on.
“Yes,” he said, “and I’m doing all Hawkins’s work now, and in the fall I will get a respectable salary, I expect, so why need we—”
“I don’t mean that,” she said. “I mean your writing.” Ever since that morning at the St. Dunstan, Felix had been writing at odd times, at—heaven knew just what, he wasn’t sure himself—something that might perhaps be called a play, but so fantastic a thing as yet that he had not even ventured to show any of the fragments of it to Rose-Ann; she had been very nice about it, too, never asking him to let her see what he had done the night before ... to furnish the justification3, as it were, for staying up until all hours. Felix wasn’t at all certain that they constituted such a justification. They were probably mere4 folly5: but, so far, they were all he could attempt.
“You have your writing,” Rose-Ann was saying. “And I haven’t anything.”
“You used to write, Rose-Ann,” he said.
“I know. Not much.”
“You need not have given up your class at Community House,” he suggested.
188“It wasn’t enough, any longer. I want something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something to use up my energies. I can’t stay here and play keeping house in a studio. There’s no excuse for it. That’s why we have a studio, Felix! So we can each be free. Why are you so stubborn about it?”
“I’m not being stubborn, Rose-Ann. I’m just being candid6. I can’t stop you from going out and getting a job. But I can tell the truth and say I don’t like the idea! And that’s all I can do. If it means so much to you, you’ll have to do it in spite of my not liking7 it, that’s all.... It isn’t as if there were some particular thing you wanted to do—I wouldn’t say a word against that. But work in general—work for the sake of work—that just means a little more money, which we don’t need, and your coming home tired at night.... After all, Rose-Ann, I want a wife....”
She grew suddenly cold. “Then you should have married somebody else,” she said. “I don’t want to be—a wife!”
2
These silences, inexplicable9 and impenetrable, would spring up between them, and then as inexplicably10 dissolve—sometimes in tears, sometimes in laughter.
That night when they came home to their studio and started to undress for bed, Rose-Ann changed back suddenly to her accustomed self; and his own mood, a moment ago puzzled and angry, could not withstand the influence of her smile. Then both of them were sorry, and accused themselves inwardly of the fault.... Felix could see why she objected to being merely “a wife,” and wondered that he had been so crass11 as to say such a thing ... and they sought with passionate12 tenderness to make each other forget....
“Do I make you happy, Felix?”
“Yes.... And are you happy?”
“Yes,”—a little sadly, in spite of herself.
“Sometimes,” he said, “you seem for a moment to go far away from me, even when you are here in my arms. I 189can’t bear that.” He held her more closely, as though to reassure13 himself of the reality of her presence. “Then it all begins to seem like a dream again.... I’ve always been lonely for you, all my life, wanting you always ... and not believing I was ever going to find you ... trying to adjust myself to a world in which you didn’t exist. And sometimes, even now—But you are real, aren’t you?”
“I dreamed of you, too, Felix....”
“Isn’t it strange? And strangest of all, that the story should have a happy ending.”
“This—is just the beginning, Felix....”
A faint sadness in her tone, that he had heard before in the very midst of their happiness, frightened him.
“The beginning, yes,” he said. “The beginning of happiness.”
“And—afterward, Felix?”
“More happiness.... Doesn’t that satisfy you?”
“Yes, but—Oh, of course it’s beautiful and wonderful to me, Felix. But I’m afraid....”
“Of what, darling?”
“We love just being together, now. But will we always? I mean—doesn’t something happen to happiness, after a while? I know it sounds absurd. I don’t mean we’ll fall out of love—not that—but won’t we lose the beauty of this—this intimacy14, in time? You know how other people sometimes seem—cooped up and used to each other—just that. It’s ugly, to me ... I suspect we are rather awful, Felix, talking about such things!...”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t enough to feel—we must know why we feel.”
She sighed. “I guess we are like that. We can’t even take happiness without asking why.”
It was true; they encouraged each other in what would have seemed, to some people, an exaggerated curiosity about things of no importance—and, to many lovers, a prying15 into matters best left alone. Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? They did not seem to fear it.
“I suppose,” said Felix reflectively, “people must care a 190great deal for each other.... It would be dreadful, this closeness, if one didn’t want it.”
“But does one keep on wanting it?... Yes, Felix, that’s what I’m afraid of. If this is only for a while—and then we were to be just like other people—sunk in a greasy16 domesticity—Felix, I couldn’t keep on living.”
He took her hand tenderly. “But we aren’t like those other people, Rose-Ann,” he said. He had a baffling sense of this speech contradicting something he had said or thought before....
“Do you really think our marriage is so different from other people’s, Felix?”
They seemed to have exchanged places in the argument—that argument, so absurd and yet so poignant17, which kept arising, neither of them knowing why, nor quite what it was all about....
“Of course our marriage is different,” he was saying. “How many married people really want to know each other? How many of them can really talk to one another about what is going on in their inmost minds—as we do!”
“Yes, we do, don’t we,” said Rose-Ann, comforted to find in this complete candour of theirs an authentic18 superiority to the common destiny of tragic19 and ridiculous mutual20 misunderstanding.
“We shall always be finding out new things about one another,” Felix went on bravely. “That is what our marriage means—a knitting together of our whole lives, a marrying of our memories.”
“And our hopes, too, Felix,” said Rose-Ann. “And a creating of something new and beautiful—books, plays, poems.... But I forgot!” she laughed. “I mustn’t talk about your literary works till you let me. Must talk about something else!...
“Yes, Felix, we are different. We can say things to each other that ordinary lovers couldn’t. I wouldn’t have dared speak of my silly fears to anybody but you.... And—you can tell me things.... What you wrote to me, when I was home in Springfield, you remember, about that girl, Felix—I 191loved you for it. A sonnet21 you read me last night reminded me of her and you. I made you read it over twice—I didn’t tell you why. I still remember the way it begins.” Softly she said the lines:
“We needs must know that in the days to come
No child, that from our summer sprang, shall be....
“It made me love you all the more to know you felt so about your boyish love-affair—that you wanted to be married, that you really wanted your girl-sweetheart to have a baby, hers and yours.... I’m glad it didn’t happen that way, but I think you were a lovely, foolish, beautiful boy-lover to want it....
“Of course,” she added, “artists shouldn’t have families to support.... They are children themselves.—Do you know why I want to get a job, Felix? You mustn’t be angry at me—but if anything should happen, if you should lose your place on the Chronicle, or if you should get to feel that you need all your time for your writing, I would want to be able to make enough money so you could go on with your own work. You don’t mind my wanting that, do you, Felix? We’re not the conventional married couple, the wife sitting at home doing nothing while the man goes out to work every day! I want to be a real helpmeet—an artist’s wife, not an ordinary wife.”
“You’re a darling,” said Felix. “But—” a little uncomfortably—“I guess I can take care of myself; I shan’t need to be supported. Why don’t you go ahead and be an artist yourself?”
“Oh, Felix, I can’t!...”
“Why not? What kind of artist do you want to be?”
“Something I can’t be, Felix. If I tell you, you’ll understand.... But you won’t laugh at me?”
“Of course not, Rose-Ann.”
“But it’s really funny! Especially if you had seen me when I was a girl—shy, awkward, prudish22—yes, prudish, Felix. When I was eighteen, I was the worst little old maid you ever saw. I read romantic books all the time, and real people seemed to me coarse and horrible. I hated 192everybody. I wouldn’t go to boy-and-girl parties, because of the—it still seems an ugly word to me—‘spooning’ that went on in the corners. I wouldn’t dance, I wouldn’t hold hands. I wouldn’t keep company. Oh, I was terrible. For a while I wanted to be a missionary23 in some savage24 country—”
“And teach the natives to wear clothes?—is that your secret ambition?” he laughed.
“No—for I got converted ... to paganism. When I was twenty-one years old. It was a book that converted me.”
“I really know very little about you, don’t I? All this seems so strange.... I’ve imagined you as always being what you are now. What book was it converted you?”
“It was ‘Leaves of Grass.’ You remember I told you how I decided25 to be a librarian, and took a course of training, and was made an assistant in the library at Springfield.... Well, there was a shelf of forbidden books—and one day I opened one of those forbidden books, and read a passage.... I’ll tell you: it was ‘A woman’s body at auction’—do you remember it? Uncouth26, wonderful lines—not so much poetry to me as a revelation. I remember I stood there reading some of those lines again and again, and I went back to the desk saying them over and over to myself—just rough, plain phrases naming over one by one the joints27 and muscles and parts of the body, like an anatomy28 text-book—but making me feel, as no text-book had ever done, that these wonderful things were my body! Those lines still have a thrill for me—” And she chanted, solemnly, like a litany:
“Upper arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones,
O I say these are not parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul!”
She paused, and smoked her cigarette silently, remembering. “I went around the rest of that day,” she said 193presently, “in a dreaming ecstasy34.... I had read in some of my father’s books about the mystics, and I knew that I felt like them when they had seen God.... I looked every now and then with a kind of awe35 at my wrist or my finger-nail, saying to myself, These are not parts of the body only, but of the soul! And that night I took the book home, and read it in bed, happy and afraid....
“And now comes the part that is funny. There always is something funny, isn’t there, in trying to put a revelation into practice! But don’t laugh at me, Felix. Think what it would mean to a young-lady-librarian, a clergyman’s daughter, to discover that her body was a poem.... I got out of bed and took off my nightgown to look at myself in the glass. But it was a modest glass, fastened sideways to the top of the bureau, and it refused to show me all of myself at once; so I unfastened it, and wrestled36 it down from the bureau, and stood it upright against the wall. I was rather disappointed, Felix—my body wasn’t as beautiful as a poem ought to be; it was just a slim, awkward, twenty-one-year-old girl’s body, that was all.
“But there had been something beautiful about it for a moment—in the glimpses I had of it in the glass as I pulled it down from the bureau; then it had been—well, yes, beautiful, with the beauty of—flexed muscles and purposeful movement.... And I had a kind of vision.... Yes, really, Felix ... a wonderful and terrible moment, in which I seemed to see myself wrestling with life, in a kind of agony of creation ... and for a moment I seemed to know what my woman’s body was for. And then I sort of waked up, wondering what it was all about. I was thrilled and afraid....
“And then an idea came to me—I’m glad I can tell you this part, Felix—I said to myself: I will be a dancer! Yes, I decided to go to Chicago and learn to be a dancer....
“There was a boy who wanted to marry me—though I don’t know what this has to do with it; anyway, I would get away from him at the same time, by going to Chicago.... I was all on fire with the idea. I wanted to start right 194away with dancing. I couldn’t go to sleep. And—this is the part that seems to me the most terribly ridiculous of all—I went downstairs and brought back the Dan-Emp volume of father’s encyclopedia37 to read the article about Dancing....
“And there, in that article, Felix, I learned why I could never be a really-truly dancer—it seems that one must begin in one’s cradle!
“Well—I cried. I could cry now when I think about it. I’m a perfect fool, Felix.... But what’s the use of having a vision of one’s purpose in life, if one can’t do anything about it?... There seemed to be nothing to do except stay in Springfield and—marry that boy. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t do that. I thought of other things besides dancing that I might do, but they didn’t interest me. An artist’s model? Somehow I didn’t like that idea—not in modern terms—not at so much an hour; after all, I was a clergyman’s daughter, and it just didn’t seem respectable! I thought—if I had lived in Ancient Greece, I might have been a friend of Phidias or somebody, and seen myself carved upon the frieze38 of a temple ... or been one of the marble maidens39 of Keats’ Grecian Urn1. Oh, I dreamed of all the lovely and impossible things in the world. And I decided—at least I wouldn’t stay in Springfield!”
“And so you came to Chicago....”
“Yes, and became a settlement-worker. It seems a pitiful climax40 to my story, doesn’t it? And yet, if one lives in twentieth-century America instead of in Ancient Greece, what is one to do? It seemed to me a good pagan life, to try to bring about a better world for everybody—a world in which beauty would count for something.... At one time I thought I was a socialist41, but I found that I couldn’t bear to attend stuffy42 meetings, and that I couldn’t understand Marx and didn’t want to. And I wasn’t interested in woman suffrage43, either. My life had to be centred around something personal. So—”
“So you taught those children how to play....”
“It was the Greekliest thing I knew to do.... If Aspasia 195had been born in Springfield, Illinois, she might have taken a class in a Chicago settlement!” Rose-Ann said defiantly—and then, doubtfully, “What do you think of it all?”
“I don’t know,” he said—“it leaves me bewildered—except that I think you’re a wonderful child.”
“It’s you who are wonderful,” she said, “to understand. I am a child, I suppose—and I want to stay one always. I don’t want to grow up. That’s very foolish, isn’t it? Do you know that horrible habit some married people have of addressing each other as ‘Pa’ and ‘Ma’—as soon as they have a baby, I mean? I suppose it’s meant as a joke. And I suppose it’s a joke, too, when a man refers to his wife as ‘the old woman.’ When I was a little girl, I vowed44 to myself that no man would ever have the right to call me his ‘old woman.’ Or ... but then, we shan’t ever have any children, shall we? You remember what I said—the talk we had in the hospital that day. I meant that, Felix.”
Felix’s mind was fumbling45 for the lost thread of their discourse46. Rose-Ann’s talk had a disconcerting way of suddenly leaping from one idea to another. How did they come to be talking about children? She had brought them in, without rhyme or reason, more than once tonight. And each time he had remembered with a sense of discouragement and vague shame that moment at the hospital when he had not had the courage to tell her that he wanted to be—everything that it seemed he need not be after all. He wanted now to say something—but what could he say? Some other time, perhaps, when he had a chance to think things out more clearly.... It did not need to be settled now.
“Why,” he said confusedly, “we did talk about it, yes. I don’t suppose we can afford to—” He was going to add “right away,” but Rose-Ann interrupted him.
“Oh, dear!” she said, “I’ve forgotten—I promised to let my father know our address, as soon as we found a place to live, so he could come and see us, and I forgot all about it! Felix, will you bring me pencil and paper, please? I’ll write to him now.”
196Rose-Ann’s troubled mind—too troubled to be aware of itself—had been seeking an answer to a question ... the question for which she had unconsciously sought the answer in “Leaves of Grass,” in the “Dan-Emp” volume of her father’s encyclopedia, in settlement work, and now in her marriage. There was an answer which she dreaded—and perhaps hoped—to hear. But in his chance phrase she had heard instead the definite ratification47 of their casual agreement that she was never to bear him a child ... and the question, which neither of them knew had been discussed, of whether the meaning of her vision, of her search, of her unsatisfied yearning48, might not perhaps be found in the common, ordinary, the all too obvious r?le of motherhood, was answered No....
Felix brought the pencil and a writing pad, and she sat and wrote, and smiled, and wrote again. She had become once more remote—a figure, it seemed to him as she sat there on the bed in the lamplight with her red-gold hair falling over her white shoulders, like a girl in a painting, as eternally lovely and unapproachable.
She stopped writing. “We’ve utterly49 forgotten the world ever since we moved into this studio,” she murmured.
“And a good thing, too,” said Felix, feeling in her words some threat against their peace and quiet.
“But we must let our friends know where we are—and that they can come to see us.... We might give a kind of house-warming.”
“A house-warming?” Felix repeated doubtfully.
“Yes—a big party—one of the kind you hate. But I’ll make it up to you by giving some cozy50 little parties.... There are people you ought to know, Felix.... Yes, I’m going to be a real artist’s wife!” She put her arms about him and kissed him, fiercely and tenderly.
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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burgeoning
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| adj.迅速成长的，迅速发展的v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的现在分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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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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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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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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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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ratification
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| n.批准，认可 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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