“The supreme1 importance of the arts,” he said, “is poise2. There is no poise in life itself. Life is mere3 tumult4 and shouting. And since there is no poise there is no meaning. The arts hover5 above the hurly-burly, dipping down into it a little for delicate nourishment6, but no more of it than a cloud, which sucks its constituent7 vapor8 from the earth, is of the earth. In the country of the arts there is quiet. That is to say,” he added drily, “there was. The arts at the moment have ceased to exist, and with them has vanished all that we possessed9 of value.”
But the beautifully enunciated11 phrases really gave him a feeling of contempt for Mr. Latimer. And he wondered how he could ever have admired this polished esthete. His glance wandered to Marian (the only other person in the room, her mother being out somewhere) who was curled up in a large chair on the other side of her father. Stacey considered the girl’s face attentively12. She stirred him by her beauty, especially when seen thus, motionless, carved; yet left him, when everything was summed up, feeling actively13 hostile.
Mr. Latimer had taken a small vase from the mantelshelf and was toying with it abstractedly.
“Leisure,” he remarked, “is anathema14 to Americans. Yet leisure is all there is of importance. It is what all men strive to attain15 through labor16, but, having attained17, are incapable18 of supporting. It is too noble for their tawdry energetic minds, and they hasten to fill it up with meaningless movement. They even, I am told, go to witness what they call ‘photo-plays,’ where, though themselves sitting still, they can enjoy a vicarious restlessness and be saved from the leisure they dread19. How false an understanding of life, or, rather, what complete lack of any understanding! The goal of life itself is, after all, just the eternal leisure of the grave.”
“An admirable epigram,” said Stacey, with no hint of expression in his face. “I cannot make out whether it belongs spiritually in the eighteenth century or in the nineties of the last century.”
“In any case it does not belong in the twentieth,” Mr. Latimer returned, a touch of irascibility in his voice. “Nor do I.” He set the vase down almost with a bump. “I must go,” he said. “I have an appointment, and here in America every one is always on time.” And he left them.
Marian uncurled herself gracefully20. “Papa is cross,” she observed, with a laugh. “It is only three o’clock, you see. He does not approve of early afternoon. Let’s go to the library, Stacey. I don’t like this room.” And she danced off up the stairs, he following.
She half knelt on a window-seat in the library and gazed out, her mood seeming to change suddenly from hard to soft.
“The clouds drift and drift,” she said dreamily. “And sometimes they’re majestic21 and white with purple shadows, as now, and sometimes they’re black and terrible, and sometimes mere little pale ghosts of clouds. But they’re always clouds. They haven’t anything to do with real majesty22 or terror or ghosts. (Can one say ‘real ghosts,’ Stacey?) Only clouds. They just drift and drift. I think I’d like to be a cloud.”
She whirled around, her face mischievous24. “Oh, how funny you are, Stacey! You won’t care for me any more. You’ll damn anything I do or say. You’re an enemy, out and out,—oh, yes, you are! Yet you’d be glad enough to kiss me this very minute.”
“Yes,” he admitted angrily.
“But you’re not going to,” she said, with haughtiness25. “Not now or ever.” She smiled. “Ames Price is coming to see me to-night. Shall I let him kiss me? It would make him so happy. I think it’s my duty to. Come! Let’s sit down and talk of duty, Stacey.”
And so she kept it up, as full of witchery as Circe, dazzling in the bright rapid flash of her moods, swift and lovely as a swallow, soft at one moment and clouded,—brilliant and gemlike the next.
Yet, through it all, Stacey, though he talked freely enough, was cold, distant and bored. He was like a man idly watching a sorceress draw circles and pentagons in the sand and murmur26 incantations. No spirits responded. No enchantment27 ensued. It was merely laborious28 lines and words, silly child’s play. The only thing that interested him—a little—in the performance was the question of whether or not it was deliberate.
Stacey had continued to go daily to see Marian. He remained unmoved by almost everything in her that had formerly29 delighted him. There was no longer any magic, any mystery. Yet he desired to be near her. Something she did give him. But as to what it was he did not inquire.
It was a strange relationship, but it is possible that Marian found it piquant30. She seemed fascinated by Stacey, now that he was indifferent to her.
At last the girl sank lightly down upon an ottoman near the young man’s feet and gazed up at him, as on that day years before when he had come to tell her he was going to the war.
“You’re the oddest person, Stacey!” she said, her eyes shining. “Just like a great rock—a handsome rock. Why do you come to see me? You don’t need to, you know. You’ve broken our engagement—and my heart,” she continued elfishly. “I shall tell every one that you have. It will be in the newspapers. ‘Returned Hero Breaks Girl’s Heart!’?”
This was better. There was something cool and hard in this that appealed to Stacey, wakened a sense of surface comradeship in him.
“H’m!” he remarked, smiling. “Your heart seems to be doing pretty well—if you’ve got one. Have you got one, Marian?”
“That’s a horrid31 habit you’ve acquired, Stacey,” she said gaily32, “of never answering a question, but always asking another. I asked you why you came to see me. Well, since you won’t tell me, I’ll tell you. You come to see me just as you’d go to see the Parthenon.”
The smile faded from his face. By Jove, she was right! (Stacey Carroll, 1914, had been intelligently introspective; Stacey Carroll, 1919, could always be surprised if some one told him truth about himself. Also annoyed, generally. But not this time.) Yes, that was it, he supposed. The bodily fact of Marian wakened his atrophied33 sense of beauty—but differently than in the old days, austerely34 save for the touch of desire.
“Now when you can see things as straight as that why do you go in so for everything rococo35?” he demanded harshly. “Why do you embroider36 and sentimentalize?”
She gazed at him, her mouth compressed, her eyes brilliant with anger—which was certainly justified37. Then her expression changed and she shrugged38 her shoulders, gracefully.
“So you see,” she said calmly, “you were just asking a silly careless question a moment ago. You don’t care whether I have a heart or not.” She smiled again. “What an odd pair we are!” she went on. “Poor me! Not engaged any longer! Deserted40 after all these years! You must be sure not to tell papa until you’ve given me time to get engaged to some one else—Ames Price, I think you said I might marry. Papa would be too awfully41 angry.”
“Why?” Stacey asked. “Is he so anxious to be rid of you?”
But at this Marian only laughed without replying.
Stacey had of course seen Mr. and Mrs. Latimer more than once by this time. His old admiration42 for Marian’s father had gone, like so many other things. He found Mr. Latimer a cultivated futile43 gentleman with an interest in baubles44 and a talent for intelligent monologue45. The only thing about him that awakened46 any interest in Stacey was a kind of irascibility that Stacey did not remember as formerly characteristic of him. Mr. Latimer was really sharp at times, in a suave47 polished way, with his daughter and his wife.
But Mrs. Latimer, though she had certainly aged39, had clearly not done so because of such trifles; for she bore her husband’s occasional pettish48 outbursts with a pleasant detached tolerance49. They might have been the outbursts of characters in a book she was reading, for all the effect they appeared to have on her.
She had welcomed Stacey with quiet happiness, and he had felt at once a comfort in her presence which he felt in that of no one else. Yet she had said nothing of importance to him, had talked of externals even the time or two that they had found themselves alone together for a few minutes.
He left the Latimer house rather early on the afternoon of this unsatisfactory interview with Marian. Something about Marian antagonized him strongly, even now that he was surely free; so that the impulse he felt to seek her society repeatedly in this way revealed a bond of some inexplicable50 sort and irked him.
He walked swiftly north till he came to the handsome park the entrance to which lay at no great distance from the Latimer home. And, plunging51 into the green shady paths, he felt a sudden relief. To cut loose from it all—all streets! all men! To be free! There was no joy for him in the full-leafed June beauty of the trees or in the bird songs among them,—no call to comradeship. Quite otherwise. It was solely52 as release that he instinctively53 welcomed them.
Striding aimlessly onward54 in this mood, Stacey suddenly heard his name called and swung about quickly to see Mrs. Latimer sitting on a bench at the edge of the path he followed and waving a green parasol at him.
“I couldn’t help calling to you,” she said pleasantly, “though I oughtn’t to. You look so splendidly alone, as though you didn’t want to see any one.”
“Oh, but yes,” he returned, “I’m glad to see you! No one else; but you!” And he sat down on her bench.
“Now what old woman could help having her head turned by that?” she exclaimed, with a smile.
He scrutinized55 her face. Yes, she had grown older, he thought, but not ignominiously56; in some way that made age seem of value. Even in regard to her Stacey was not curious as to what experiences of body or soul lay beneath the changes her face showed; but he accepted what she was, as a gracious fact.
“Where have you come from, Stacey?” she asked.
“From your house,” he replied, with an acid smile.
“Oh,” she observed, “so that’s why you were marching along with the air of being so glad to be alone! Have you broken—I mean, have you and Marian broken off your engagement?”
“Yes,” said Stacey coolly, “I believe so.”
After this they were silent for a while.
“Oh,” he observed suddenly, as an afterthought, but really with some little touch of human sentiment, “I hope you won’t feel hurt! I should be sorry to hurt you.”
“I?” Mrs. Latimer exclaimed. “Gracious, no! I’m immensely relieved. I wouldn’t have had you and Marian marry for anything in the world.”
Stacey did not know whether she was being a vixenish mother-in-law or an unnatural57 mother, but he found her remark amusing taken either way, and laughed. She laughed with him, but more gaily.
“Oh,” he added after a moment, “I forgot! Marian says we must be sure not to let Mr. Latimer know at present.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Latimer, as though it were too elementary a truth to deserve mention. “Marian’s much more intelligent than you ever gave her credit for being,” she added, an instant later.
“Yes, I know that,” Stacey admitted freely, even though he did not see the present application of the remark, or, indeed, why both Marian and her mother deemed it essential that Mr. Latimer should not learn that the engagement was off.
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Latimer thoughtfully, poking58 holes in the gravel59 with the tip of her parasol, “I could see that things were not the same as once. Well, that was to be expected. I shouldn’t have been at all surprised to have you show a kind of—of fond indifference60 to Marian. But what I don’t understand—there’s so much I don’t understand about you, Stacey—is the positive hostility61 I’ve felt sometimes in the looks you gave her. It was as though you hated her. Why? Poor Marian! She’s just the same as always. Is that itself—her sameness—the reason?”
“No,” Stacey muttered, “of course not! I don’t know why.”
“Can’t you—find out why?” she asked gently.
Stacey reflected, painfully and with resentment62 at the need. Finally he drew his hand across his forehead and looked at Mrs. Latimer. An odd fanatical intensity63 glowed in his face.
“I don’t know,” he said, speaking thickly and with difficulty. “I hadn’t thought. But perhaps it’s—because Marian’s perfection is so—dependent on wealth. I see Marian,” he went on, his words suddenly pouring out, “as a flower that you get by fairly watering the ground with money. Put her by herself in the panting sweating world and what would she be? Her grace is money! Her ease—money. All her charm—money! Everything in her except her chiselled64 Greek beauty is money! I hate money!” And he fell into tumultuous silence.
“So that was it,” Mrs. Latimer said in a tired voice. “Poor Stacey! Confidence for confidence,” she added abruptly65, after a pause. “Have you ever wondered why we gave up Italy and came here to live?”
“Often,” he answered, surprised. “I used to fancy it was your decision—your feeling that Marian ought to know America.”
She smiled oddly. “My decision! It would make no difference where Marian lived. She would never at any point touch the real world. No, it was not my decision. You see, our income, which was considered a tidy little competence66 at the time Mr. Latimer inherited it, remained stationary67 while the cost of everything grew and grew. America was expensive, but in it Marian could marry money—money, Stacey! And, of course,” she added, with a kind of bravado68, “you were a splendid parti!”
Stacey felt sickened by the revelation. Oddly enough, five years past, when he had been incorrigibly69 romantic, it would not have disgusted him a tenth as much as now when he was stripped clean of illusions.
“I see,” he remarked. “So to-day, with the present cost of living, Marian simply must marry. What an economic waste to have thrown away these five years in waiting for me! Why do you tell me this, Mrs. Latimer?”
“Only because it’s a relief to tell somebody,” she replied, “and because you said what you did about money, and because I wanted to show you that one might feel as you did, with even more reason, and still live and be tolerably happy.”
He shook his head.
“Very well, then,” she concluded desperately70, “because truth is truth, and if I ever connived71 at anything against you I want to tell you of it.”
Stacey smiled. “You’re much more girlish than your daughter,” he said.
They were silent for a long while.
Then: “Did you have an awful, awful time, Stacey?” she asked softly.
He started. “Where? In France? Oh, yes, of course,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I thought of you so often,” she went on. “It must be dreadful to be an idealist and then see all your ideals go—violently—one by one—”
“Violently, yes,” he interrupted coolly. “Not one by one.”
“Crushed to death by facts—not average facts, all the horrible evil facts herded72 together and organized until they must have seemed normal!”
“Oh,” he said, “facts are facts! They aren’t either evil or good. And you’re much too polite in saying that I was an idealist. ‘Sentimentalist’ is the right word. Can’t say that the method employed to remove my illusions was particularly gentle, but I’m grateful enough for the removal.”
There was a look of pain on Mrs. Latimer’s face. “No! No!” she cried. “It isn’t fair! There’s good disillusionment and bad! It’s good to have false prettiness, false sentiment—whatever is false—scrubbed off, but it isn’t good, it isn’t fair to a man, to see only pain and death and agony and mud for four years and be made to feel that that’s all there is of true. It isn’t fair! It isn’t!”
Stacey’s face was pale but calm and touched with a distant haughty73 scorn of all things. “Oh, it wasn’t only that!” he said in a chill voice. “I doubt if that was even the profoundest lesson in disillusionment. That was the lesson of pain and brutality74 and ugliness and fatigue75—incredible fatigue. It even had gleams of relief—flashes of lightning in chaos76. Men showed themselves beasts, but with a capacity for enduring more suffering than you’d have thought possible. There was funk, of course,—individual cowardice77 and rank, bestial78, mass terror, just as there was mass cruelty. But there was amazing heroism79, too. And the men did carry on in spite of everything. Oh, no, the trouble with the front line was the senselessness of squandering80 so much life. The place to get real disillusionment—where you learned the senselessness and sordidness81 of life itself—was behind the lines, back where things were neat and pretty, where the officers had feuds82 over questions of personal prestige, and stupid fools gave orders disposing of men’s lives, and the peasants gouged83 the soldiers for all they were worth. Or back in Paris where the shop-keepers gouged every one. And the Y. M. C. A. with their silly sloppy84 Christianity—all for the best in the best of all possible worlds! Or down in Italy, where butter and sugar were rationed85 down to the minutest fragments and there wasn’t enough so that women and children could always get even those tiny rations86, and yet some people had butter on their table in quantities three times a day and bought sugar in five-kilo packages at their back doors at six times the established price. And the American Red Cross with its silly pompous87 ‘majors’ and ‘colonels’ out for decorations! ‘Colonel’ So-and-So thought he’d been slighted, and ‘Major’ Thingumbob absolutely was going to be given a place on the balcony when that ceremony came off, by God he was or know the reason why! And the Committee on Public Misinformation! And no coal to run trains enough to carry the people who absolutely had to travel, and President Wilson coming to Rome with a million journalists!” He laughed harshly. “Or, for the matter of that,—America! I haven’t seen very much of it yet, but I gather—oh, I gather a great deal!”
Stacey paused at last. But he did not look crushed or dejected by his enumeration88 of abuses. He looked more alive than before. He looked like a young, evil, disdainful god.
It was Mrs. Latimer whose face was white. “Poor Stacey!” she murmured brokenly. “All true, no doubt, but not the whole truth! Poor Stacey!”
“Poor me?” he asked. “Why? I’m all right, and free—or almost.”
“Free, or almost?” she repeated.
He frowned. “Wisps of old things hang around futilely89 and bother me a trifle—like soft fog around a ship, but I’ll get rid of them,” he said confidently.
“So as to be free?”
“Yes.”
She reflected for a moment. “Why do you want to be free?” she asked timidly. “What will you do with freedom, Stacey?”
“Do with it? Nothing! It’s an end in itself. Isn’t it aim enough to want to get rid of association with the kind of thing I’ve been chronicling?”
She shook her head. “It might be. It isn’t your aim, Stacey. And anyway one can’t be free. Oh, Stacey, forgive an old woman who is fond of you,—but you—you’ve come back a different person than you went away, and indeed you must, to live, follow that old, old advice: ‘Know Thyself’!”
“I know you’re determined91 not to, but you must!” she cried.
“Haven’t I,” he said coldly, “been regaling you with reams about myself?”
She shook her head again. “You haven’t even scratched the surface. It’s late, my dear boy,” she added. “Please take me home.”
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1
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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constituent
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| n.选民；成分，组分；adj.组成的，构成的 | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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callously
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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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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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formerly
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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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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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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incorrigibly
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| adv.无法矫正地；屡教不改地；无可救药地；不能矫正地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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connived
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| v.密谋 ( connive的过去式和过去分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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herded
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| 群集，纠结( herd的过去式和过去分词 )； 放牧； （使）向…移动 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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gouged
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| v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 )；乱要价；（在…中）抠出…；挖出… | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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rationed
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| 限量供应，配给供应( ration的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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