He was there again. She saw him when she took her first glance at the restless Manhattan audience — down in the front row with his head bent1 a bit forward and his gray eyes fixed2 on her. And she knew that to him they were alone together in a world where the high-rouged row of ballet faces and the massed whines3 of the violins were as imperceivable as powder on a marble Venus. An instinctive4 defiance5 rose within her.
“Silly boy!” she said to herself hurriedly, and she didn’t take her encore.
“What do they expect for a hundred a week — perpetual motion?” she grumbled6 to herself in the wings.
“What’s the trouble? Marcia?”
“Guy I don’t like down in front.”
During the last act as she waited for her specialty7 she had an odd attack of stage fright. She had never sent Horace the promised post-card. Last night she had pretended not to see him — had hurried from the theatre immediately after her dance to pass a sleepless8 night in her apartment, thinking — as she had so often in the last month — of his pale, rather intent face, his slim, boyish fore9, the merciless, unworldly abstraction that made him charming to her.
And now that he had come she felt vaguely10 sorry — as though an unwonted responsibility was being forced on her.
“Infant prodigy11!” she said aloud.
“What?” demanded the negro comedian12 standing13 beside her.
“Nothing — just talking about myself.”
On the stage she felt better. This was her dance — and she always felt that the way she did it wasn’t suggestive any more than to some men every pretty girl is suggestive. She made it a stunt14.
“Uptown, downtown, jelly on a spoon,
After sundown shiver by the moon.”
He was not watching her now. She saw that clearly. He was looking very deliberately15 at a castle on the back drop, wearing that expression he had worn in the Taft Grill16. A wave of exasperation17 swept over her — he was criticising her.
“That’s the vibration18 that thrills me,
Funny how affection fi-lls me
Uptown, downtown ——”
Unconquerable revulsion seized her. She was suddenly and horribly conscious of her audience as she had never been since her first appearance. Was that a leer on a pallid19 face in the front row, a droop20 of disgust on one young girl’s mouth? These shoulders of hers — these shoulders shaking — were they hers? Were they real? Surely shoulders weren’t made for this!
“Then — you’ll see at a glance
“I’ll need some funeral ushers21 with St. Vitus dance
At the end of the world I’ll ——”
The bassoon and two cellos22 crashed into a final chord. She paused and poised23 a moment on her toes with every muscle tense, her young face looking out dully at the audience in what one young girl afterward24 called “such a curious, puzzled look,” and then without bowing rushed from the stage. Into the dressing-room she sped, kicked out of one dress and into another, and caught a taxi outside.
Her apartment was very warm — small, it was, with a row of professional pictures and sets of Kipling and O. Henry which she had bought once from a blue-eyed agent and read occasionally. And there were several chairs which matched, but were none of them comfortable, and a pink-shaded lamp with blackbirds painted on it and an atmosphere of other stifled25 pink throughout. There were nice things in it — nice things unrelentingly hostile to each other, offspring of a vicarious, impatient taste acting26 in stray moments. The worst was typified by a great picture framed in oak bark of Passaic as seen from the Erie Railroad — altogether a frantic27, oddly extravagant28, oddly penurious29 attempt to make a cheerful room. Marcia knew it was a failure.
Into this room came the prodigy and took her two hands awkwardly.
“I followed you this time,” he said.
“Oh!”
“I want you to marry me,” he said.
Her arms went out to him. She kissed his mouth with a sort of passionate30 wholesomeness31.
“There!”
“I love you,” he said.
She kissed him again and then with a little sigh flung herself into an armchair and half lay there, shaken with absurd laughter.
“Why, you infant prodigy!” she cried.
“Very well, call me that if you want to. I once told you that I was ten thousand years older than you — I am.”
She laughed again.
“I don’t like to be disapproved33 of.”
“No one’s ever going to disapprove32 of you again.”
“Omar,” she asked, “why do you want to marry me?”
The prodigy rose and put his hands in his pockets.
“Because I love you, Marcia Meadow.”
And then she stopped calling him Omar.
“Dear boy,” she said, “you know I sort of love you. There’s something about you — I can’t tell what — that just puts my heart through the wringer every time I’m round you. But honey —” She paused.
“But what?”
“But lots of things. But you’re only just eighteen, and I’m nearly twenty.”
“Nonsense!” he interrupted. “Put it this way — that I’m in my nineteenth year and you’re nineteen. That makes us pretty close — without counting that other ten thousand years I mentioned.”
Marcia laughed.
“But there are some more ‘buts.’ Your people ——
“My people!” exclaimed the prodigy ferociously34. “My people tried to make a monstrosity out of me.” His face grew quite crimson35 at the enormity of what he was going to say. “My people can go way back and sit down!”
“My heavens!” cried Marcia in alarm. “All that? On tacks36, I suppose.”
“Tacks — yes,” he agreed wildly —“on anything. The more I think of how they allowed me to become a little dried-up mummy ——”
“What makes you thank you’re that?” asked Marcia quietly —“me?”
“Yes. Every person I’ve met on the streets since I met you has made me jealous because they knew what love was before I did. I used to call it the ‘sex impulse.’ Heavens!”
“There’s more ‘buts,’” said Marcia
“What are they?”
“How could we live?”
“I’ll make a living.”
“You’re in college.”
“Do you think I care anything about taking a Master of Arts degree?”
“You want to be Master of Me, hey?”
“Yes! What? I mean, no!”
Marcia laughed, and crossing swiftly over sat in his lap. He put his arm round her wildly and implanted the vestige37 of a kiss somewhere near her neck.
“There’s something white about you,” mused38 Marcia “but it doesn’t sound very logical.”
“Oh, don’t be so darned reasonable!”
“I can’t help it,” said Marcia.
“I hate these slot-machine people!”
“But we ——”
“Oh, shut up!”
And as Marcia couldn’t talk through her ears she had to.
收听单词发音 |
1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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7
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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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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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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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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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
cellos
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| n.大提琴( cello的名词复数 ) | |
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23
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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26
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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27
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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28
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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wholesomeness
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| 卫生性 | |
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32
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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33
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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36
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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37
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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