On Thursday night Horace Tarbox sat in an aisle1 seat in the fifth row and witnessed “Home James.” Oddly enough he found that he was enjoying himself. The cynical2 students near him were annoyed at his audible appreciation3 of time-honored jokes in the Hammerstein tradition. But Horace was waiting with anxiety for Marcia Meadow singing her song about a Jazz-bound Blundering Blimp. When she did appear, radiant under a floppity flower-faced hat, a warm glow settled over him, and when the song was over he did not join in the storm of applause. He felt somewhat numb4.
In the intermission after the second act an usher5 materialized beside him, demanded to know if he were Mr. Tarbox, and then handed him a note written in a round adolescent band. Horace read it in some confusion, while the usher lingered with withering6 patience in the aisle.
“Dear Omar: After the show I always grow an awful hunger. If you want to satisfy it for me in the Taft Grill7 just communicate your answer to the big-timber guide that brought this and oblige.
Your friend,
Marcia Meadow.”
“Tell her,”— he coughed —“tell her that it will be quite all right. I’ll meet her in front of the theatre.”
The big-timber guide smiled arrogantly8.
“I giss she meant for you to come roun’ t’ the stage door.”
“Where — where is it?”
“Ou’side. Tunayulef. Down ee alley10.”
“What?”
“Ou’side. Turn to y’ left! Down ee alley!”
The arrogant9 person withdrew. A freshman11 behind Horace snickered.
Then half an hour later, sitting in the Taft Grill opposite the hair that was yellow by natural pigment12, the prodigy13 was saying an odd thing.
“Do you have to do that dance in the last act?” he was asking earnestly —“I mean, would they dismiss you if you refused to do it?”
Marcia grinned.
“It’s fun to do it. I like to do it.”
And then Horace came out with a FAUX PAS.
“I should think you’d detest14 it,” he remarked succinctly15. “The people behind me were making remarks about your bosom16.”
“I can’t help that,” she said quickly. “The dance to me is only a sort of acrobatic stunt18. Lord, it’s hard enough to do! I rub liniment into my shoulders for an hour every night.”
“Do you have — fun while you’re on the stage?”
“Uh-huh — sure! I got in the habit of having people look at me, Omar, and I like it.”
“Hm!” Horace sank into a brownish study.
“How’s the Brazilian trimmings?”
“Hm!” repeated Horace, and then after a pause: “Where does the play go from here?”
“New York.”
“For how long?”
“All depends. Winter — maybe.”
“Oh!”
“Coming up to lay eyes on me, Omar, or aren’t you int’rested? Not as nice here, is it, as it was up in your room? I wish we was there now.”
“I feel idiotic19 in this place,” confessed Horace, looking round him nervously20.
“Too bad! We got along pretty well.”
At this he looked suddenly so melancholy21 that she changed her tone, and reaching over patted his hand.
“Ever take an actress out to supper before?”
“No,” said Horace miserably22, “and I never will again. I don’t know why I came to-night. Here under all these lights and with all these people laughing and chattering23 I feel completely out of my sphere. I don’t know what to talk to you about.”
“We’ll talk about me. We talked about you last time.”
“Very well.”
“Well, my name really is Meadow, but my first name isn’t Marcia — it’s Veronica. I’m nineteen. Question — how did the girl make her leap to the footlights? Answer — she was born in Passaic, New Jersey24, and up to a year ago she got the right to breathe by pushing Nabiscoes in Marcel’s tea-room in Trenton. She started going with a guy named Robbins, a singer in the Trent House cabaret, and he got her to try a song and dance with him one evening. In a month we were filling the supper-room every night. Then we went to New York with meet-my-friend letters thick as a pile of napkins.
“In two days we landed a job at Divinerries’, and I learned to shimmy from a kid at the Palais Royal. We stayed at Divinerries’ six months until one night Peter Boyce Wendell, the columnist25, ate his milk-toast there. Next morning a poem about Marvellous Marcia came out in his newspaper, and within two days I had three vaudeville26 offers and a chance at the Midnight Frolic. I wrote Wendell a thank-you letter, and he printed it in his column — said that the style was like Carlyle’s, only more rugged27 and that I ought to quit dancing and do North American literature. This got me a coupla more vaudeville offers and a chance as an ingénue in a regular show. I took it — and here I am, Omar.”
When she finished they sat for a moment in silence she draping the last skeins of a Welsh rabbit on her fork and waiting for him to speak.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said suddenly.
Marcia’s eyes hardened.
“What’s the idea? Am I making you sick?”
“No, but I don’t like it here. I don’t like to be sitting here with you.”
Without another word Marcia signalled for the waiter.
“What’s the check?” she demanded briskly “My part — the rabbit and the ginger28 ale.”
Horace watched blankly as the waiter figured it.
“See here,” he began, “I intended to pay for yours too. You’re my guest.”
With a half-sigh Marcia rose from the table and walked from the room. Horace, his face a document in bewilderment, laid a bill down and followed her out, up the stairs and into the lobby. He overtook her in front of the elevator and they faced each other.
“See here,” he repeated “You’re my guest. Have I said something to offend you?”
After an instant of wonder Marcia’s eyes softened29.
“You’re a rude fella!” she said slowly. “Don’t you know you’re rude?”
“I can’t help it,” said Horace with a directness she found quite disarming30. “You know I like you.”
“You said you didn’t like being with me.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?” Fire blazed suddenly from the gray forests of his eyes.
“Because I didn’t. I’ve formed the habit of liking31 you. I’ve been thinking of nothing much else for two days.”
“Well, if you ——”
“Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “I’ve got something to say. It’s this: in six weeks I’ll be eighteen years old. When I’m eighteen years old I’m coming up to New York to see you. Is there some place in New York where we can go and not have a lot of people in the room?”
“Sure!” smiled Marcia. “You can come up to my ‘partment. Sleep on the couch if you want to.”
“I can’t sleep on couches,” he said shortly. “But I want to talk to you.”
“Why, sure,” repeated Marcia. “in my ‘partment.”
In his excitement Horace put his hands in his pockets.
“All right — just so I can see you alone. I want to talk to you as we talked up in my room.”
“Honey boy,” cried Marcia, laughing, “is it that you want to kiss me?”
“Yes,” Horace almost shouted. “I’ll kiss you if you want me to.”
The elevator man was looking at them reproachfully. Marcia edged toward the grated door.
“I’ll drop you a post-card,” she said.
Horace’s eyes were quite wild.
“Send me a post-card! I’ll come up any time after January first. I’ll be eighteen then.”
And as she stepped into the elevator he coughed enigmatically, yet with a vague challenge, at the calling, and walked quickly away.
收听单词发音 |
1
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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pigment
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| n.天然色素，干粉颜料 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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columnist
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| n.专栏作家 | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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