This was a small but expensive tea-room recently opened on the fifth floor of a building close to the river front, and Stacey, as he entered it (for the first time), glanced swiftly about at its white walls, low white ceiling, small-paned windows with hangings of purple-figured cretonne, and at the purple wooden parrot on a tall standard in the centre of the room. A silver vase containing a single yellow rose decorated each of the ten or twelve little tables. Finally Stacey turned in mute amazement1 to his companion, since it was she who had suggested the place.
“They have very good tea,” she said, with an amused smile.
However, Miss Wilcox, proprietor2 of the tea-room, advanced toward them. “I’m so glad you’ve come early, before any one else, Mrs. Latimer,” she said, “because you can have one of the two tables out on the balcony. I’m sure you’d like that. They’re always the first to go.”
“Don’t you think it’s a nice idea,” asked Miss Wilcox, standing4 near them, “to try and use our river esthetically, Captain Carroll? It is Captain Carroll, isn’t it? I recognized you from your photograph. We’re honored to have you come. It seems such a shame to have this magnificent river and then use it solely5 for ugly business purposes. But that’s so often true in America, I think. Saint Louis is the same way. I should so like to have my modest little effort followed by others.”
Stacey said politely that he hoped it would be, and Miss Wilcox presently moved away.
“You mustn’t mind her, poor thing!” Mrs. Latimer observed kindly6. “She’s devoted7 to her institution. It’s her child.”
It sweltered in the intense August sunlight. Barges10 and tugs11 moved up and down its sallow waters, and vast warehouses12 flanked it. Across on the further side was a train yard with multitudes of red freight cars, idle or with engines shunting them about. Trucks and drays rattled13 over the cobble stones of the streets leading down to the river (the strike having been settled some weeks since), and shouts rose and the odor of grease. And Stacey, turning away from it to order tea and scones14 from a capped and aproned maid who had come to his side, looked at her as though he did not believe in her.
“A movie world, Mrs. Latimer,” he remarked finally.
“Yes,” she said, “it is silly, isn’t it? This painted parrot, and the tea roses, and the tiny, fussy15, white-and-purple room, trying to make itself noticed by that immense fierce reality out there! But it doesn’t do any harm, and I thought the incongruity16 of it might amuse you. Where has your sense of humor gone, Stacey? Once you would have laughed gaily17 at this.”
“Where does a china tea-cup go in an earthquake?” he responded absently, looking down again at the river, then back at the room. “No, of course there’s no harm in it,” he said, after a moment, “since it is so obviously absurd, but you might, I suppose, take it as a fantastic caricature of something—”
But Miss Wilcox was seating people at the other table of the balcony. “. . . so often true in America, I think,” she was saying. “I should like to have my modest little effort followed by others.”
Mrs. Latimer smiled, but Stacey did not. He waited impassively until Miss Wilcox had finished speaking and had walked away.
“Now in the movies,” he continued, “you are presented with standards of behavior—sweetness and light, purity unsoiled, virtue18 triumphant19, best of all possible worlds—that have nothing to do with real life. Seems impossible that real men and women could have posed for the pictures. You’d think the contrast with the promiscuity20 of their actual California divorce-court lives would be too strong. Not a bit of it! Well, that’s all right—if people like that kind of thing. Personally, I think it’s sickening. No matter how abominable21 real life is, I’d a thousand times rather have to live in it than in a Pollyanna, Mary Pickford, glad-and-tender world! Faugh!”
“So should I,” said Mrs. Latimer. “But if weary people find release in such tawdry fairy-tales—”
“Sure! Let them! Nobody’s business! But there’s the trouble. The silly stuff isn’t just taken as release. It gets accepted as truth. I mean to say, the ideals and standards are taken as those of real people. How in heaven’s name they can be by any member of a movie audience who knows anything about himself, I swear I can’t imagine, but they are.”
“Ah, but that’s the point!” said Mrs. Latimer gently. “They don’t know themselves. Even you don’t know yourself, Stacey.”
“I know enough about myself to see that I’m not like that. And what results? That any glimpse of truth is condemned22 as rotten, abnormal, pathological. For the movies are only a glowing example of a spirit that corrupts23 everything. Why, if a novelist were to take any man alive—I don’t say me, but somebody better—Jimmy Prout, for instance—and tell the whole truth about him, the ghastly things he did and the ghastlier ones he wanted to do but didn’t dare, what a row there’d be! The reviewers would call the book abominable, the hero a hopeless rotter, though every one of them has done or wanted to do things just as bad. A movie world, Mrs. Latimer! No truth in it!”
“Yes,” she said, “no doubt. I’d like it different, honester. But what harm does the pretence24 do? It even sets a standard of a sort, doesn’t it?”
“What harm?” he cried. “Why, it makes people shocked at German atrocities25, as though they were sins committed by some alien inhuman26 monsters. Down with Prussianism? As much as you like! I’m glad we beat the Germans. So far, so good. But how about the Prussianism in ourselves? A movie world! A smug, lying, movie world!”
“Yes,” Stacey assented29 somberly, “there is—in sudden impulses, more frequent, I’ll even concede, than these passing gusts30 of bestiality. But, so far as I can see, there’s only one real force, one motive31, in life, that stays on and on and never dies. Greed!” he concluded fiercely.
Mrs. Latimer gazed at him for a moment in silence.
“And still you don’t see it all,” she said at last very gently. “You won’t look deeply enough into yourself. If you did you’d see the splendid spectacle of the human soul fighting all this that you describe—and without quarter, dear Stacey, as long as you have breath in you. Has your hatred32 of greed and lies no significance?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, drawing his hand across his forehead. “And I don’t see that I’m doing any splendid fighting. I don’t know what to fight. I merely fume34 impotently.” But the wild look of pain had disappeared from his eyes.
He fell to wondering about his companion. No optimist35, surely. Doubtful of most things, but sweet and mellow36 in her skepticism. How had she attained37 such serenity38?
“You must know Catherine, my friend Philip Blair’s wife,” he said suddenly. “You will like her, and she you. There’s truth in the hearts of both of you, and yet you’re different, somehow.”
“When you do say pretty things, they’re pleasant to hear, Stacey,” Mrs. Latimer replied, with a faint girlish blush, “because you seem not ever to be saying them for effect.”
Soon they rose to go. Neither of them had so much as alluded39 to the fact that Marian was to be married to Ames Price in a few weeks.
That same evening Stacey attended a meeting of the American Legion. His life was like that now, inconsequential. He went pointlessly from one unrelated fact to another.
Being in a far from constructive40 frame of mind, he had nothing against the Legion and nothing in favor of it. It had indeed occurred to him that if an organization founded on no common conviction, but on the mere33 fact that its members had all been in the army, should come to exert political influence, that influence would certainly be confusing and might be harmful; on the contrary, if the young men who had been soldiers wanted to play together, why not? But these were idle thoughts. At heart he did not care one way or the other about the Legion. If he had shown more interest he might perhaps, in view of his record, have been elected commander of the post; but this is doubtful. He was a wealthy son of a wealthy father, and class antagonisms41 were not absent from the Legion.
Up to now he had attended only one meeting, but he had learned that to-night a protest was to be presented against the engagement of Fritz Kreisler to play in Vernon in the coming autumn; and Stacey, disgusted, was out to see if there was anything he could do to head off such nonsense.
It was a full meeting. There were several hundred men in the large hall when Stacey entered, and tobacco smoke hung over them in a dull blue mist. The commander of the post was already in the chair, and the business of reading minutes was under way. Stacey dropped into a seat and waited abstractedly.
He did not have long to wait. Excitement buzzed in a group near the centre of the room, and a young captain sprang up. Stacey knew him by sight. His unit was that to which Jimmy Prout had belonged. It had never left Camp Grant.
“Mr. Commander and Comrades!” he began tensely. “You know what I want to say. It’s about this business of letting an enemy come here and take our money, just as if nothing had ever happened. You know who I mean. I mean Kreisler. Kreisler was our enemy in the war. It doesn’t make any difference that he didn’t happen to fight against Americans or that he was out of it before we went in. He was on the wrong side. He supported the side that did all the—the atrocities you know about. And what I want to say is that if we’re asked to give him our support and our money it’s an outrage42. And so,” he added, unfolding a paper, “I propose the following motion:
“We, the members of the John Harton Post of the American Legion, hereby express our amazement and strong disapproval43 of the action of the manager of the Park Street Theatre in engaging Fritz Kreisler, recently a soldier in the Austrian army, to play at a concert in the city of Vernon less than one year after the conclusion of a great war during which thousands of American lives were sacrificed to defeat the very principles that Herr Kreisler supported. And we hereby request the manager of said theatre to cancel Herr Kreisler’s engagement, and notify him that failure to do so will result in an attitude of marked disinclination to patronize said theatre on the part of the members of this post.”
And the young captain sat down amid applause, during which half a dozen voices seconded the motion.
“Are there any remarks?” asked the chairman calmly.
Stacey was smiling a little at the contrast between the phraseology of the introduction and that of the motion, but, half risen in his seat, he was also looking about him keenly. It did not strike him that the tensity was universal. There were sluggish44 centres of indifference45 in the hall, and not many remarks were being made.
Presently he rose to his feet, obtained recognition, and made his way to the front of the room amid some considerable interest.
“I quite agree with Captain Small,” he said, leaning against the chairman’s desk, “that it doesn’t make any difference that Kreisler was an Austrian instead of a German, and that the unit in which he fought never faced an American unit. Aside from that, I disagree with him in everything. It strikes me that for this post to pass any such motion as that proposed would be silly. Kreisler fought against us? Well, what of it? So did a lot of other good men. If we don’t admit that we depreciate46 our own achievement. Gentlemen, I call to your attention the advice given some months since by a newspaper in Rome. ‘There are a large number of people sitting in a large number of offices, and especially those who never saw service at the front,’ this paper said, ‘who ought to be made to write: The war is over! The war is over! twenty times a day until they get the fact into their heads’.”
There was a murmur9 of laughter; but Captain Small was on his feet, protesting angrily. “Mr. Commander!” he cried, “I object to the insinuation that Captain Carroll has made—I mean to say, that I never saw active service. If I didn’t it wasn’t my fault, and I—”
The chairman rapped with his gavel. “I am sure Captain Carroll intended no such suggestion,” he observed. “Go on, Captain.”
“Certainly not,” said Stacey coolly. “It was through no fault of Captain Small’s that he did not get to France. He was, I believe, one of the first to volunteer upon America’s entry into the war. But, having made that perfectly47 clear, and since the point has arisen, I call it to your attention that both the proposer of this motion and those who seconded it happen to be men who, though through no fault of their own, did not see fighting.”
“Wait a minute! Let me finish! I say this not to create dissension, but because I want to show that I’m speaking not just for myself but for the point of view of the men who had the luck—good or bad—to fight the Germans in Flanders and the Argonne.”
He leaned forward and scrutinized49 the faces of the audience swiftly. There was something compelling in his presence. Undoubtedly50 he dominated the crowd, even against their will.
“You Franck!” he called sharply. “Are you against letting Kreisler play?”
“And you, Davies? You, Markovitch? You, Einstein? Jones? Thorburtson?”
“No!”—“No!”—shakes of the head—negatives all.
“Bruce?”
“Jesus Christ! no, Captain! Let him play and—”
Laughter broke out tumultuously, and the chairman pounded with his gavel.
“That’s all,” said Stacey, and sat down.
“I think,” said the commander, when silence had been partly restored, “that it would be unfortunate to divide this organization up into those who saw fighting and those who did not. We should stick together in everything.” But his words were perfunctory. He had been severely52 wounded at Les Eparges. “All in favor of the motion signify by saying Aye. Opposed, No.”
The motion was lost.
Stacey had won. But he was under no illusions. He had won by force, and he had made more enemies than friends. When he left the hall at the end of the meeting he was a solitary53 figure at whom men looked from a distance. He did not care. He preferred his solitude54.
But outside, at the foot of the steps, Edwards, the commander, caught up with him and limped off beside him. He was a mechanic and a student, self-educated, and popular with labor55. In high quarters he was solemnly suspected of being a socialist56.
“What you said was right enough, Carroll,” he observed meditatively57. “The trouble was with the way you said it. Too much outside. Too harsh and scornful.”
“Quite true,” Stacey assented. “That happens to be the way I personally am—harsh and scornful.”
Edwards shook his head. “You saw too much of it, I guess, Carroll,” he remarked. “Four whole years, wasn’t it? God in heaven! And more mud than we ever saw. Years more of mud! Filthy58 thing, the war, wasn’t it?”
Stacey laughed shortly. “Wait twenty years and see how people talk about it,” he said. “Banners waving! Steel-capped heroes! Glory! Glory! We’ll be talking that way, too.”
They walked on in silence.
“Oh, by the way, Edwards,” said Stacey suddenly, “you’re a labor man. I wish to God you’d set me right about that strike business. The thing was too silly the way it got into those rotten papers. I—”
Edwards was laughing quietly. “Pshaw!” he interrupted. “Do you think we don’t know the facts? That’s one thing we do know. The boys aren’t down on you. They’re not even down on Burnham now, though he did turn against them. Can’t say that you’re personally popular—too harsh and scornful, but you’re respected.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Stacey, with genuine relief.
“You ought to crawl through the needle’s eye and come in with us,” Edwards added, after a moment. “I don’t believe you give a damn for your money.”
“You do, though,—you labor people,” Stacey returned coldly. “You’re out for all you can get, regardless. How do you expect me to take sides either for or against you? Greed on one hand, greed on the other. Everywhere.”
“Saw too much of it, Carroll,” Edwards repeated. “Years too much. ’Night. I turn down here.”
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1
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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4
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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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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8
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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9
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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10
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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12
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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15
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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16
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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19
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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promiscuity
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| n.混杂，混乱；（男女的）乱交 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
corrupts
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的第三人称单数 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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24
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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27
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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28
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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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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30
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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31
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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35
optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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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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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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42
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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43
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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44
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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45
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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46
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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49
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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50
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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51
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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53
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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54
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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55
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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56
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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57
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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58
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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