Thurley’s thoughts had been rather well regulated by routine until she was left with but scant4 time for reminiscence. No lesson had been done away with but more added. She spent twice as much time at Hobart’s studio, either with him or with the Bohemian singing teacher whom she loathed5 but who knew how to guide her voice into unsurpassed channels.
Then there were hateful languages to conquer and, if she disliked the social secretary or the gymnast or the corps6 of other workers who were making her “ready” to sing for her supper on the opera stage, they continued to appear at regular intervals7 until Thurley realized that Bliss8 Hobart had had method in his madness, for he had seen the need of curbing9 a rebellious10 and turbulent spirit, one that tired too quickly of routine for its own good. In reality, he was teaching her the grind, which most artists never escape, in a condensed and merciful fashion.
Thurley was beginning to realize even more of this great question of “values.” In the old days at the Corners when gray, sullen11 moods conquered her sunny self, she had been wont12 to take refuge within the box-car[149] wagon13 or the hilly cemetery14, to sob15 without reason or plan rebellions of which neither Dan nor Betsey Pilrig could have had the slightest understanding! Now she called a taxi and drove through the parks or out suburban17 roads, thinking the same quality of thoughts with different and widely varied18 guises19 and returning, as she had done from the box-car wagon or cemetery, light hearted, dangerously glad for every one, singing like a meadow lark20 and insisting on doing things for whosoever might come her way almost to the extent of exaggeration.
Formerly21, when saddish longings22 and presentiments23 would sweep over the wild rose Thurley, she had tramped through the pine woods as sturdily as a soldier under his captain’s orders, tramping, tramping, tramping up through the amphitheater of hills which lay outside the town. Finally, she would come upon a pasture clearing and here she would sit, exhausted24 but filled with sweet contentment, at the “top of the world” she fondly called it, looking down at the little village which seemed a cardboard play-town and dreaming of the day when she should stand at the top of the world to sing and all the cardboard towns in the universe should listen and applaud.
In New York, Thurley took another method when pessimism25 interrupted common sense routine. She went to the piano and practised until her throat gave warning to cease and she could again face the world as the wild-rose-with-a-prophecy-of-the-hothouse-variety Thurley, baby of the great “family,” an interesting young goddess who seldom voiced an opinion but who could sweep away opinions if she sang a ballad26 (unbeknownst to her present audience) with thoughts of Dan or Philena or the old days in the wagon as the inspiration!
[150]
During those effervescent moods of abandon which fairly intoxicated27 all those who saw Thurley under their spell—back in the Corners—she had always rushed down to the emporium and coaxed28 Dan away on a frolic—a picnic, if summer, or skating, if winter. They would sit, these two, on the porch of a deserted29 lake mansion30 dreaming dreams of a lyric31 quality with a sincerity32 which made both the boy and the girl the better for having dreamed them! Thurley would weave garlands of wild flowers—Dan gathering33 them—and she would come home to Betsey Pilrig, her cheeks like roses and her eyes like stars, singing a spring song and causing Betsy to lapse34 into Ali Baba’s favorite expression, “Land sakes and Mrs. Davis—Thurley, be you from another world?”
The joyous35 moods, these days, came very seldom. To some degree they happened when Ernestine told her that Hobart was pleased with her progress or when Polly Harris kissed her and said she was a little sister to the great; some faint imitation of them was experienced when Caleb took her motoring and told her his humorous troubles or when she went with Miss Clergy36 and Hobart to the first opera—“Rigoletto”—and saw with the grave, conceited37 eyes of youth herself outshining the present Gilda—herself standing16 with outstretched arms to acknowledge the applause. The wild joy was felt for half an instant when Collin Hedley said he would paint the infant before her début—there would be no fun at all in painting her when she was famous and unapproachable, waving engagement tablets at a mere39 artist.
Thurley came to realize clearly the difference in the inspiration of her joy—the joy which had been her solace40 during the gray, hungry days of childhood. In[151] Birge’s Corners supreme41 mirth came from smell of new mown hay, with sunshine sparkling all about, or the summer breeze kissing the little curls at the delicious nape of her white, soft neck—it was generated by the discovery of the first violets or the exhilaration of a skating party with Dan, by some baby’s laughing face or Betsey’s pleased smile—and most of all by Dan’s ardor42. Thurley told herself with almost shamed admission that her values had changed.
But if Thurley changed quickly during the winter, Miss Clergy stayed the same feeble, at times querulous, ghost lady, always willing for Thurley to go to places without her, trusting the girl as one would trust a matron, content, now that she had roused from her neurotic43 lethargy, to lapse into a semi-doze with a vigilant44 eye for only two things—to have Thurley succeed as a spinster and to have no one become personally acquainted with her own withered45 self lest memories be unearthed46 over which she mourned in vain.
So Thurley came and went at will and the family became used to the fact that the infant’s benefactress was a “character.” For that matter the family themselves were characters with pet “phobias” and hobbies and theories, to say nothing of scars, cotton-wooled and well protected from the bromidic world.
It was Christmas week when Thurley experienced a savage47 mood—anger really the stimulus—for she had bought a supply of frocks and hats preparatory to the “family’s” Christmas festivities when Ernestine wrote her a note from Chicago, where she was playing engagements, saying that she would not be home until January and she was writing before Christmas purposely because she never had believed in the holiday and neither gave nor accepted gifts; therefore she wished the child-Thurley[152] all good things and to work as hard as she could; she would see her within a few weeks.
The savage mood began to manifest itself as Thurley read the careless note. Like the writer, its force and decision were unquestionable. Thurley had prepared gifts for all members of the family in the same impulsive48 fashion as for every one she had loved back at the Corners. She went to the bureau drawer and opened it to examine them—they seemed garish49 and absurd. She was not yet at the topnotch of fame which allows one to do whatsoever50 one will and have it accepted. If she had made her début and chosen to present Ernestine Christian with one of those gilded51 rolling pins with a regiment52 of hooks which hung on the doors of many of the best families in the Corners, it would have been received in resigned silence. As it was, the purse she had chosen for Ernestine was probably not at all what she would have liked; Thurley would give it to the room maid instead. She would think it quite wonderful and carry it for shopping or Sunday mass!
She looked at the handkerchiefs she had for Polly Harris—but Polly would probably make some sarcastic53 squib at their expense and never be seen with one protruding54 from her smock pocket. No, the handkerchiefs would do for the social secretary and the antique leather box for Caleb she would press upon the gymnast, while the book on art originally intended for Collin would be relegated55 to the scrap56 heap! Thurley laughed aloud as she thought of giving Collin a book on art—when Collin, foremost portrait painter in America, had written a book on art which was used as an authority by the younger school ... well, it had not been so very long since she had bought her gifts at Dan’s store with Dan refusing her money and had done them up in white tissue[153] and the reddest of red ribbon, flying about like a good fairy on Christmas Eve to leave them at doorsteps! After re-reading Ernestine’s note, Thurley came to the conclusion that Christmas was not for those afflicted57 with exaggerated ego58 but merely for those who held good jobs.
She had bought no present for Sam Sparling or Mark Wirth, the latter still abroad, and as for Bliss Hobart, her fingers fearfully touched the carved idol59—a metal Buddha60 mounted on teakwood. Why she had selected it, after endless excursions to endless shops, Thurley did not know—perhaps it was because she had never seen one in his office where there was everything else under the sun from a Filipino kris to a bibelot which had belonged to Marie Antoinette. Or perhaps there was another reason—at any rate, she had recklessly bought the idol and sacrificed her spending money for a month to come, blushing furiously each time she planned what to write on the accompanying card.
She could hardly give the Buddha to a bellboy and she had purchased black gloves for Miss Clergy, the presents for Betsey, Ali Baba and Hopeful being on their way.
She pushed the Buddha back in the drawer and went to her lesson with Hobart with a reserved, patronizing manner which amused him and his amusement, in turn, angered Thurley.
Fame seemed something which would strangle everything commonplace and joyous, Thurley thought, as she mechanically did her exercises. These persons were so ultra, so fond of “my taste in dress”—“the way I eat my artichokes”—“the sort of wall paper in my studio”—so over developed and emphasized that they made clever, well bred fun of the “pastoral joys,” as Ernestine[154] named them, all the while amusingly unconscious of the whine61 of conceit38 which crept into their voices whenever they made a drastic statement.
There ought to be a refined, sulphitic, fumigated62 holiday just for this sort of people, Thurley thought. She was driving home and watching the crowds of shoppers laden63 with packages who tried to make their way across the street. They were good-natured crowds because they were buying something for some one else and she longed to leave the cab and be one with them, to jostle and sway together until the traffic signal was given and then to dash across to reach a crosstown car and to end, breathless, disordered of hat and hair but happy, in some small home where the packages were relegated to the top shelf and a recital64 of the day’s happenings told to the master of the household over a supper of steak, coffee and baker’s pie!
Up to this moment Thurley had not experienced homesickness, but as the cab shot on in patrician65 fashion she began recalling the fattened66 turkey they would have at Birge’s Corners and the way Betsey had made her pudding and Christmas cakes days before, as well as the nights Dan had called for her to have her aid in trimming the store windows with make-believe fireplaces and tinsel stars; the way the boys and girls went into the woods for the smallest fir trees and decorated the church until it was “a bower67 of beauty,” according to the Gazette report; how the choir68 would practise the Christmas anthem69 and carols night after night with Thurley directing, playing the organ and singing. On Christmas morning would come the service with Thurley, the envy of every girl in town because of her new pin or bracelet70 or chain which Dan had given her, singing “The Birthday of a King” in a glorious, clear voice—like[155] some one permitted to sing down from the clouds for an instant!
Oh, it was good to remember—good?—Thurley’s eyes filled with tears. She told the man to drive on until she ordered him to turn back to her hotel. She laughed as she snuggled down in the machine, drawing a robe over her lap and prepared to dream-remember. As she did so, she recalled Caleb Patmore’s saying to Ernestine one afternoon at tea,
“Jolly lark, isn’t it? Don’t make it a habit or you may slip into it altogether—then you would be helpless.”
“Take the advice for yourself,” he had retorted, to which she nodded her head and the subject was dropped. When Thurley asked her about it, Ernestine said with a trace of confusion,
“You child, you’re not ready for any ‘ooze’ game yet; you are still in it in actuality to an extent. When you begin to want to go to nerve specialists and are not hungry enough for bread and butter but keen on frosted cake as it were, knowing nothing but work and wanting to know nothing but play, when your day’s program—not the one written by your press agent—is as impossible as a typewritten love letter, you’ll find the ooze. I’ll show you how to find it.”
But Thurley had insisted, like a true Pandora, upon knowing and so Ernestine good-naturedly tried to explain.
“My nice creature, when people are so famous they experience loneliness because they are quite shut away from those who are quite famous, they cannot exist on work no matter in what line their talent may be—nor[156] on lollipop72 praise of the public nor carping criticisms. They must have an antidote73. Yet they cannot sacrifice their relentless74 system of life which takes a first mortgage on their time and energy. So while you hear of us as having huge poultry75 farms and see our pictures taken in the act of garroting a red pepper from Madame So and So’s truck farm where she spends most of her time when not—and so on, or read an interview in which one of us declares a submarine boat to be our favorite siesta76 spot, please know it is not true. But throughout the years of endless work and surrender of the mystical force constituting genius, we have just to be children—and pretend. There, that is the whole thing in a nutshell—pretend just as children fancy themselves policemen, motormen, kings and fairy queens all the while swallowing the mortification77 of domineering nurses and bibs. We live with our memories, many times, if they are pleasant. How rich a confession78 Caleb could wring79 out of us, if he were not so sluggish80! We dream-play, fancy, create a world within a world. Bliss Hobart in a fit of cynicism—I noticed he began taking pepsin the following week—named it ‘the ooze’—and it became our trade name for it. The ooze, the unreal, really unimportant and absurd, yet ready to be lived with and yet to vanish, the state of mind which we people as we wish and live house-and-garden lives for as much as half an hour at a time! You may not give this credence81, but it is quite as real as my piano or Collin’s brush. And heaven grant you won’t need the ooze, Thurley, for a little! Still, it is a lovely, plastic state of thought—like those lavender and gold butterflies you find lingering in the corners of Whistler’s paintings or that flutter in the margins82 of special editions.”
“Why don’t you have the—the ooze be real—live[157] a fifty-fifty sort of existence?” Thurley borrowed Dan’s slang.
“It would be like blending chilblains and poetry or mosquitoes and mahogany—impossible! That is why they say all genius is a trifle mad. Remember, the ooze is your best friend! Why, after a fatiguing83 concert, I’ve played I was the bustling84, happy mother of half a dozen youngsters, the type of American housewife who does all her work except the washing and whose hands grow red and hardened yet are sparkling with diamonds, whose children grow up and adore her—I’ve lived in a red brick house with those diamond-shaped panes85 at the front windows and dotted muslin curtains criss-crossed—you know—and I’ve entertained bridge clubs galore, making mayonnaise and maple86 parfait myself while the baby was napping—” and when Thurley had clamored for a clearer understanding, Ernestine ordered her off to study her French and forget she shared the secret of the “ooze.”
“What is Bliss Hobart’s ooze?” she had insisted.
“I think he plays he runs an ice cream soda87 fountain in Harlem,” Ernestine had answered to be rid of her. At the time Thurley had seriously questioned Ernestine’s sanity88.
But this snowy December night the ooze became very real to her and, unknowingly, Thurley passed a telling boundary line of progress. She dreamed on of Birge’s Corners—she saw the Christmas entertainment taking place. There was the awful make-believe chimney which the Sunday-school superintendent89, invariably the thinnest man in town, was to descend90, fragments of his cotton beard floating about the stage after the feat91 was accomplished92. She could see the primary class waving the red satin banner symbolic93 of the best attendance—strange,[158] how excellent is the Sunday-school attendance during holiday season—and then marching on the stage to sing in a series of mouse-like squeaks94, “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” while their teacher, in love with Jo Drummer, the Santa Claus, stood below to direct them and wonder if Jo was properly impressed with her maternal95 devotion and her new hat.
Then the minister “delivered” a few remarks and Lorraine came on the stage to hand out tarlatan stockings with nuts and hard candies which accompanied the gifts. After laborious96 recitations by tortured boys with slicked-back hair and freckles97 pale because of the excitement, the town elocutionist let loose with “How They Brought the Good News from Aix to Ghent” or “The Wreck98 of the Hesperus” and about at this juncture99 the stage chimney would crash down and reveal the truth—it was nothing but a lot of brick-paper pasted on Dan Birge’s store boxes!
Well, it was fun to play that one was taking part in the entertainment and showing off a little, as every one else did, including the minister, to smell, in imagination, the pines and evergreens100 and to visualize101 Dan Birge, the handsomest lad in the assemblage, winking102 at her during the minister’s address!
The river wind swept in through the lowered taxicab window-pane and Thurley leaned forward to say, “Home, please”—the ooze drifting obediently away. She was Thurley Precore, the Thurley with rejected Christmas gifts and the prospect103 of a hotel holiday dinner in company with Miss Clergy who would nap most of the day!
Yet the ooze had stimulated104 Thurley; she could always go slipping back to the Corners to relive the homey things which had made her a wild rose. It appeared[159] to be tremendously comforting and she went a step further in self-analysis, telling herself, as she was going up to the hotel rooms, that the thing which made great people lapse into the ooze for tangled105 up nerves and snarly106 frames of mind was the thing which made sarcastic, aloof107 Ernestine Christian play a gypsy dance with the wild fire its author intended it to have or gave Caleb the power to invent an entirely108 new setting for the same old, “Will you love me?” or told Collin how to forget the ingrowing chin of his subject and make it strong and masterful still looking like the ingrowing original—here, Thurley took the lesson home for she, too, was crystallizing her personality. It gave Thurley the ability to feel that she was Juliet in the tomb or Rosina having that delightful109 music lesson with her masquerading lover, it was temperament110, psychic111 masquerading! There, that was a much nicer name than the ooze and when she was famous enough she would tell Bliss Hobart so and make him admit his clumsiness of nomenclature.
After which exhilaration came the hint of a warning—Miss Clergy’s years of uselessness were the result of just such “psychic masquerading” fed by revenge and disappointment. After all, was this ooze merely confined to the great? Would they not have to yield a point and admit they had much in common with their neighbors?
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1
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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intervals
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| 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 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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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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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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guises
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| n.外观，伪装( guise的名词复数 )v.外观，伪装( guise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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45
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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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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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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51
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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52
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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56
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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fumigated
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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fattened
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| v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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67
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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71
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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lollipop
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| n.棒棒糖 | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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102
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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105
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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106
snarly
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| adj.善于嚣叫的；脾气坏的；爱谩骂的；纠缠在一起的 | |
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107
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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108
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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109
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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110
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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111
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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