COMING out on the street, swinging his stick, Felix was vividly1 conscious of the outer world—it was as if the curtain had just risen upon a stage scene. The shapes of the trees in the distance had all the interest of a beautifully painted set—artificial, as scenery should be, not aping nature, but symbolizing3 it. The houses that stood beside the road were cardboard shapes that suggested great masses of brick and stone. And the way the night sky bent4 down at the street-end to touch the earth—that was marvelous.
The whole scene was refreshing5. It had the beauty of something made to be looked at. It was as if the outer-world were no longer the unnoted background of a drama in which he was a baffled participant: he had stepped out of the play now, he was a spectator—he could look on and enjoy the spectacle.
There was a sense of vast release in his mind. The burden of emotion, of pain, of grief, of anger, the intolerable burden of human illusion, was lifted. His shoulders felt lighter6, and he carried himself with a jaunty7 air.
A man passed him—no spectator like himself of this play, but a participant in it, a man to whom things really seemed to matter. With a tired droop8 of the head and shoulders, putting one foot mechanically before another, he was going home. Two girls passed, eagerly talking to each other. None of them saw him, or the world through which they moved—they were busy acting9 their parts, too busy thinking about yesterday and tomorrow.
How good it was no longer to have a part to play—to be able to look on, full of curiosity! He was like a disembodied 364spirit that wanders freely upon the earth without a care. The world was beautiful. All the time that he had been worrying about other things, it had been beautiful—and he had been too passionately10 entangled11 in the coil of personal emotions to notice.... The crooked13 branch of an elm, from which all but a few leaves had fallen, drooping14 black against the luminous15 sky—the world had been full of such things all along, and he had never paused to look before.
It was pleasant to have a mind able to notice little things—like the fantastic shadow that danced along the sidewalk, growing shorter and longer and dodging16 about in front and behind—a mind that could dwell upon light things, instead of revolving17 eternally in some cycle of hope and fear. A leisurely18, disinterested19, curious mind!
As he walked, his thoughts touched lightly upon Rose-Ann—he had a fleeting20 memory-picture, uncoloured by any painful emotion, of her standing21 on the balcony of that house in Woods Point, about to jump off into the snow-bank; he sensed her as a creature possessed22 by some wish which she did not understand, driven on by it to delightful23 and absurd actions.... And Clive, ironically officiating as host to a bridal pair in the house which he had built to shelter his own happiness.... And Phyllis, holding Clive perpetually at arm’s length, because he was not utterly24 a god.... And himself, strangest shape of all, taking the emotions of all these other characters seriously and trying to adjust his life to them! They were like people in a play, strange and foolish, beautiful and pitiful. He saw them all, he saw his own past self, with a delicate and appreciating exactitude.
But they did not matter—he could stop thinking of them, and look at the nimbus of light around the arc lamp on the corner. That was strange and beautiful, too.
To be a spectator of the spectacle of existence! At first that was enough. But presently he was aware of a vague desire for a fellow-spectator. The desire was faint, but faint as it was it moved his steps to the Illinois Central platform, and presently he emerged upon Michigan Avenue.
365
2
That evening in the Artists’ Theatre there was a rehearsal25 of several episodes from Schnitzler’s “Anatol,” which was to be the second bill of the season. At midnight Elva Macklin saw Felix Fay stroll in and listen to the jaded26 end of the rehearsal from the theatre’s one tiny and inconvenient27 box.
Felix saw her, too, and realized by what instinctive28 wish he had been led, without conscious thought, to the Artists’ Theatre. He wanted her for his fellow-spectator of the spectacle of existence.
He saw her as if for the first time. He had never talked with her much; and he had been drunk, on dreams if not on whiskey, the time he had danced with her at the ball. She had been a sort of dream-figure to him, an out-of-the-world creature. He saw her now clearly enough—an intense young egotist in her every word and gesture; no dryad, but soulless enough for all her human nature—a girl who still kept the hardness of a child about her. She would never make a good actress, he reflected; she was too much herself; she was acting abominably29 her part in this Schnitzler play, but with her own special charm, the charm that made her what she was. But she was not a person to pity. He liked her for that. He would talk to her.
A few moments later, as Elva Macklin was putting on her coat to go home, Felix Fay appeared at the door of the tiny women’s dressing30 room.
The others had gone, she was there alone.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “whoever you are ... and you may button my spats31 if you want to, Felix Fay. I’m too tired, and I was going off without them.”
She continued, as he knelt at her feet and twisted the reluctant buttons one by one into place, “I’ve done the circus girl for hours, over and over again. Gregory doesn’t like the way I do it—and I don’t like the way 366Jimmy Taylor does Anatol. Neither does Gregory, for that matter. Everything’s gone wrong tonight.... Gregory gets more and more Napoleonic. He says, ‘Stop! we’ll do that scene all over again!’ Nothing about what’s the matter, or how it should be done—we just know that it doesn’t suit him, and so we do it differently. And usually worse. Then he frowns; he bites his lip; he even stamps his foot: but even that doesn’t do much good!”
She put out her other foot. “Jimmie’s really impossible as Anatol. He looks all right—but he hasn’t any spirit. You just can’t imagine Jimmie’s having six mistresses. He treats me as though I were his aunt.... Gregory wants me to do the circus girl ‘simply’—whatever that means. I wish he would condescend32 to explain, instead of just looking haughty33.... I’m awfully34 tired.... Thanks. I don’t feel quite clothed without my spats.”
Felix stood up. “Let’s go somewhere and get something to eat,” he said.
“I’d like to,” she said. “I don’t want to go home. I’m too tired to sleep.” She buttoned her coat about her.
It was a boyish coat, and she wore it with a boyish air. There was something Puck-like in her face, something impish, mischievous35.
“Yes,” she said, startled. “Why?”
“What is it?”
“Bobby. Again, why?”
He laughed.
“Because I was going to give you one if you hadn’t. I was going to name you Till Eulenspiegel. But Bobby will do very well. I shall call you that, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. But you may regret it.—Who was Till Eulenspiegel?” she asked.
“A celebrated37 scamp.—Why should I regret it?”
“We’ll have to number our questions and answers—we’re getting all mixed up. Bobby is a celebrated scamp, too. You haven’t heard of her? When I’m Elva I’m on my very best behaviour.”
367“Then come as Bobby, by all means!” he said.
“It’s only fair to warn you that you may not like her at all. Some people don’t.”
“I’m sure I shall. Come along!” he laughed.
“Wait a moment. How much money have you got? When I’m Bobby, I insist on paying my own way. But I’ve only carfare home tonight. So you’ll have to lend me some.”
He took out a roll of bills from his pocket, all that was left of the two weeks’ salary after paying for his apartment, and solemnly divided it.
She accepted the money, and then handed it back. “No, I feel like being recklessly dependent tonight. I’ll let you buy my dinner.... One moment—I have to turn the lights out. Go ahead, I can find my way out in the dark.”
She joined him in the hall a moment later. “The elevator’s stopped running,” she said, “we’ll have to walk down.”
Half way down she stopped. “Let’s rest and smoke a cigarette.”
She lighted her cigarette at his match, and then asked, “What brings you here tonight?”
“Idle curiosity,” he said.
“Something’s happened to you,” she said.
“Right,” he answered cheerfully.
“Want to tell me your troubles?” she asked indifferently.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t any troubles. I’ve ceased to have them. That’s what’s happened to me.”
She laughed lightly. “So that’s it. Well, I’m glad you don’t want sympathy. I was afraid you might.”
“You misjudged me,” he said. “Besides, if I had wanted sympathy, would I have come to you?”
“No, I guess you do know me better than that.... Well, what do you want of me?”
368She puffed on her cigarette again. “You don’t look at all broken-hearted,” she said.
“Why should I look broken-hearted?”
“I hear all the theatre-gossip. I suppose it’s true?”
“Well, I don’t hear the theatre-gossip, so I don’t know whether it’s true or not. Why should you care?”
“I don’t care. I’m just curious. You know, you’ve been looking worried and unhappy ever since I first saw you—until now. At first I thought you were worried about the play; but when it was a success you looked more unhappy than ever. And now—well, the transformation41 is astonishing!”
“I can explain that.... You probably have in your rooms—”
“My room,” she corrected him. “A quite singular room, in every sense.”
“In your room, then, you probably have five or six copies of the Rubaiyat, presented you by different youths....”
“Yes, all with a pencil mark beside the ‘Book of Verses’ verse. Go on.”
“Well, in that poem Omar boasts of ‘striking from the Calendar Unborn Tomorrow and Dead Yesterday.’ I’ve just performed that same astronomical42 feat43.”
“I know just what you mean,” she said. “It’s—it’s like getting over a headache, isn’t it?... I’m glad.... Well, let’s go on.”
She jumped up.
Out in the street he asked her, “How do you come to know so much about it? When did you perform Omar’s astronomical feat?”
She laughed.
“I? Oh, fully2 twenty years ago—at the age of five!... You see, up to that time I had been the only child—the reigning44 princess, in fact. And then a little brother came along. People laugh about these things—but I don’t think anything in later life can hurt worse than a childish tragedy like that. To be considered the most wonderful 369being in all the world, and then—pushed out of the way.... Well, I saw that my reign45 was ended, that human beings were fickle46, and that my heart would be broken if I kept on caring. So I stopped—and I’ve never cared since. Not for a single other living thing in all the world.”
“I see you are a person of great experience in—not caring. Twenty years of it! Tell me, how does it work out?”
She stopped suddenly, pulling at his sleeve. “Look!” she said with apparent irrelevance47.
He looked in the direction of her upward glance, and saw outlined against the sky a curious accidental roof-line made by the juxtaposition48 of two buildings. It was nothing—and it had the pure beauty of a design by Hiroshige.
“Yes,” he said, gazing at it. An accidental scrap49 of beauty, unseen by millions of passing eyes, and only revealed, it seemed, to such people as themselves! He gazed, and the knowledge that she too saw it, that her world was full of such moments, and that they could share them together, satisfied his need of companionship. He pressed her arm closer to his side.
They resumed their walk. “You can’t see things like that if you care about people,” she said. “And that’s how it works out.... But it’s nice to know some one else like that. Only—I don’t think this will last, with you....”
“Why?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“So you believe I’ll go back to caring—to being human, as they call it—to having remorse50 about the past and worries about the future, to being all tangled12 up in unhappiness again!” he said incredulously.
She laughed, and sang, in a low voice, close to his ear, the lines of a song that went to an old ballad51 measure:
“Oh, the briary-bush,
If I ever get out of the briary-bush
I’ll never get in any more!”
370“You think you won’t, Felix, but you will! People do go back to the briary-bush. You have to learn early, to stay out.... But I’m glad you came to see me while you’re in this mood. You know, you may get over it in an hour or two!”
“Wait and see!”
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1
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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acting
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passionately
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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crooked
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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dodging
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revolving
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leisurely
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disinterested
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fleeting
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standing
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possessed
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delightful
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utterly
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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instinctive
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abominably
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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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spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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curiously
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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astronomical
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| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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43
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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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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juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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49
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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