Strett, the valet, had been in, drawn1 the bath in the adjoining dressing-room, placed the crystal and silver cigarette-box at his side, put a match to the fire, and thrown open the windows to the bright morning air. It brought in, on the glitter of sun, all the shrill2 crisp morning noises — those piercing notes of the American thoroughfare that seem to take a sharper vibration3 from the clearness of the medium through which they pass.
Betton raised himself languidly. That was the voice of Fifth Avenue below his windows. He remembered that when he moved into his rooms eighteen months before, the sound had been like music to him: the complex orchestration to which the tune4 of his new life was set. Now it filled him with horror and weariness, since it had become the symbol of the hurry and noise of that new life. He had been far less hurried in the old days when he had to be up by seven, and down at the office sharp at nine. Now that he got up when he chose, and his life had no fixed5 framework of duties, the hours hunted him like a pack of blood-hounds.
He dropped back on his pillows with a groan6. Yes — not a year ago there had been a positively7 sensuous8 joy in getting out of bed, feeling under his bare feet the softness of the sunlit carpet, and entering the shining tiled sanctuary9 where his great porcelain10 bath proffered11 its renovating12 flood. But then a year ago he could still call up the horror of the communal13 plunge14 at his earlier lodgings15: the listening for other bathers, the dodging16 of shrouded17 ladies in “crimping”-pins, the cold wait on the landing, the reluctant descent into a blotchy18 tin bath, and the effort to identify one’s soap and nail-brush among the promiscuous19 implements20 of ablution. That memory had faded now, and Betton saw only the dark hours to which his blue and white temple of refreshment21 formed a kind of glittering antechamber. For after his bath came his breakfast, and on the breakfast-tray his letters. His letters!
He remembered — and that memory had not faded! — the thrill with which he had opened the first missive in a strange feminine hand: the letter beginning: “I wonder if you’ll mind an unknown reader’s telling you all that your book has been to her?”
Mind? Ye gods, he minded now! For more than a year after the publication of “Diadems and Faggots” the letters, the inane22 indiscriminate letters of condemnation23, of criticism, of interrogation, had poured in on him by every post. Hundreds of unknown readers had told him with unsparing detail all that his book had been to them. And the wonder of it was, when all was said and done, that it had really been so little — that when their thick broth24 of praise was strained through the author’s anxious vanity there remained to him so small a sediment25 of definite specific understanding! No — it was always the same thing, over and over and over again — the same vague gush26 of adjectives, the same incorrigible27 tendency to estimate his effort according to each writer’s personal preferences, instead of regarding it as a work of art, a thing to be measured by objective standards!
He smiled to think how little, at first, he had felt the vanity of it all. He had found a savour even in the grosser evidences of popularity: the advertisements of his book, the daily shower of “clippings,” the sense that, when he entered a restaurant or a theatre, people nudged each other and said “That’s Betton.” Yes, the publicity28 had been sweet to him — at first. He had been touched by the sympathy of his fellow-men: had thought indulgently of the world, as a better place than the failures and the dyspeptics would acknowledge. And then his success began to submerge him: he gasped29 under the thickening shower of letters. His admirers were really unappeasable. And they wanted him to do such preposterous30 things — to give lectures, to head movements, to be tendered receptions, to speak at banquets, to address mothers, to plead for orphans31, to go up in balloons, to lead the struggle for sterilized32 milk. They wanted his photograph for literary supplements, his autograph for charity bazaars33, his name on committees, literary, educational, and social; above all, they wanted his opinion on everything: on Christianity, Buddhism34, tight lacing, the drug-habit, democratic government, female suffrage35 and love. Perhaps the chief benefit of this demand was his incidentally learning from it how few opinions he really had: the only one that remained with him was a rooted horror of all forms of correspondence. He had been unutterably thankful when the letters began to fall off.
“Diadems and Faggots” was now two years old, and the moment was at hand when its author might have counted on regaining36 the blessed shelter of oblivion — if only he had not written another book! For it was the worst part of his plight37 that his first success had goaded38 him to the perpetration of this particular folly39 — that one of the incentives40 (hideous thought!) to his new work had been the desire to extend and perpetuate41 his popularity. And this very week the book was to come out, and the letters, the cursed letters, would begin again!
Wistfully, almost plaintively42, he contemplated43 the breakfast-tray with which Strett presently appeared. It bore only two notes and the morning journals, but he knew that within the week it would groan under its epistolary burden. The very newspapers flung the fact at him as he opened them.
READY ON MONDAY.
GEOFFREY BETTON’S NEW NOVEL
ABUNDANCE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “DIADEMS AND FAGGOTS.”
FIRST EDITION OF ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND ALREADY SOLD OUT.
ORDER NOW.
A hundred and fifty thousand volumes! And an average of three readers to each! Half a million of people would be reading him within a week, and every one of them would write to him, and their friends and relations would write too. He laid down the paper with a shudder44.
The two notes looked harmless enough, and the calligraphy45 of one was vaguely46 familiar. He opened the envelope and looked at the signature: Duncan Vyse. He had not seen the name in years — what on earth could Duncan Vyse have to say? He ran over the page and dropped it with a wondering exclamation47, which the watchful48 Strett, re-entering, met by a tentative “Yes, sir?”
“Nothing. Yes — that is — ” Betton picked up the note. “There’s a gentleman, a Mr. Vyse, coming to see me at ten.”
Strett glanced at the clock. “Yes, sir. You’ll remember that ten was the hour you appointed for the secretaries to call, sir.”
Betton nodded. “I’ll see Mr. Vyse first. My clothes, please.”
As he got into them, in the state of irritable49 hurry that had become almost chronic50 with him, he continued to think about Duncan Vyse. They had seen a lot of each other for the few years after both had left Harvard: the hard happy years when Betton had been grinding at his business and Vyse — poor devil! — trying to write. The novelist recalled his friend’s attempts with a smile; then the memory of one small volume came back to him. It was a novel: “The Lifted Lamp.” There was stuff in that, certainly. He remembered Vyse’s tossing it down on his table with a gesture of despair when it came back from the last publisher. Betton, taking it up indifferently, had sat riveted51 till daylight. When he ended, the impression was so strong that he said to himself: “I’ll tell Apthorn about it — I’ll go and see him to-morrow.” His own secret literary yearnings gave him a passionate52 desire to champion Vyse, to see him triumph over the ignorance and timidity of the publishers. Apthorn was the youngest of the guild53, still capable of opinions and the courage of them, a personal friend of Betton’s, and, as it happened, the man afterward54 to become known as the privileged publisher of “Diadems and Faggots.” Unluckily the next day something unexpected turned up, and Betton forgot about Vyse and his manuscript. He continued to forget for a month, and then came a note from Vyse, who was ill, and wrote to ask what his friend had done. Betton did not like to say “I’ve done nothing,” so he left the note unanswered, and vowed55 again: “I’ll see Apthorn.”
The following day he was called to the West on business, and was gone a month. When he came back, there was another note from Vyse, who was still ill, and desperately56 hard up. “I’ll take anything for the book, if they’ll advance me two hundred dollars.” Betton, full of compunction, would gladly have advanced the sum himself; but he was hard up too, and could only swear inwardly: “I’ll write to Apthorn.” Then he glanced again at the manuscript, and reflected: “No — there are things in it that need explaining. I’d better see him.”
Once he went so far as to telephone Apthorn, but the publisher was out. Then he finally and completely forgot.
One Sunday he went out of town, and on his return, rummaging57 among the papers on his desk, he missed “The Lifted Lamp,” which had been gathering58 dust there for half a year. What the deuce could have become of it? Betton spent a feverish59 hour in vainly increasing the disorder60 of his documents, and then bethought himself of calling the maid-servant, who first indignantly denied having touched anything (“I can see that’s true from the dust,” Betton scathingly interjected), and then mentioned with hauteur61 that a young lady had called in his absence and asked to be allowed to get a book.
“A lady? Did you let her come up?”
“She said somebody’d sent her.”
Vyse, of course — Vyse had sent her for his manuscript! He was always mixed up with some woman, and it was just like him to send the girl of the moment to Betton’s lodgings, with instructions to force the door in his absence. Vyse had never been remarkable62 for delicacy63. Betton, furious, glanced over his table to see if any of his own effects were missing — one couldn’t tell, with the company Vyse kept! — and then dismissed the matter from his mind, with a vague sense of magnanimity in doing so. He felt himself exonerated64 by Vyse’s conduct.
The sense of magnanimity was still uppermost when the valet opened the door to announce “Mr. Vyse,” and Betton, a moment later, crossed the threshold of his pleasant library.
His first thought was that the man facing him from the hearth-rug was the very Duncan Vyse of old: small, starved, bleached-looking, with the same sidelong movements, the same queer air of anaemic truculence65. Only he had grown shabbier, and bald.
Betton held out a hospitable66 hand.
“This is a good surprise! Glad you looked me up, my dear fellow.”
Vyse’s palm was damp and bony: he had always had a disagreeable hand.
“You got my note? You know what I’ve come for?” he said.
“About the secretaryship? (Sit down.) Is that really serious?”
Betton lowered himself luxuriously67 into one of his vast Maple68 arm-chairs. He had grown stouter69 in the last year, and the cushion behind him fitted comfortably into the crease70 of his nape. As he leaned back he caught sight of his image in the mirror between the windows, and reflected uneasily that Vyse would not find him unchanged.
“Serious?” Vyse rejoined. “Why not? Aren’t you?”
“Oh, perfectly71.” Betton laughed apologetically. “Only — well, the fact is, you may not understand what rubbish a secretary of mine would have to deal with. In advertising72 for one I never imagined — I didn’t aspire73 to any one above the ordinary hack74.”
“I’m the ordinary hack,” said Vyse drily.
Betton’s affable gesture protested. “My dear fellow — . You see it’s not business — what I’m in now,” he continued with a laugh.
Vyse’s thin lips seemed to form a noiseless “ Isn’t it?” which they instantly transposed into the audibly reply: “I inferred from your advertisement that you want some one to relieve you in your literary work. Dictation, short-hand — that kind of thing?”
“Well, no: not that either. I type my own things. What I’m looking for is somebody who won’t be above tackling my correspondence.”
Vyse looked slightly surprised. “I should be glad of the job,” he then said.
Betton began to feel a vague embarrassment75. He had supposed that such a proposal would be instantly rejected. “It would be only for an hour or two a day — if you’re doing any writing of your own?” he threw out interrogatively.
“No. I’ve given all that up. I’m in an office now — business. But it doesn’t take all my time, or pay enough to keep me alive.”
“In that case, my dear fellow — if you could come every morning; but it’s mostly awful bosh, you know,” Betton again broke off, with growing awkwardness.
Vyse glanced at him humorously. “What you want me to write?”
“Well, that depends — ” Betton sketched76 the obligatory77 smile. “But I was thinking of the letters you’ll have to answer. Letters about my books, you know — I’ve another one appearing next week. And I want to be beforehand now — dam the flood before it swamps me. Have you any idea of the deluge78 of stuff that people write to a successful novelist?”
As Betton spoke79, he saw a tinge80 of red on Vyse’s thin cheek, and his own reflected it in a richer glow of shame. “I mean — I mean — ” he stammered81 helplessly.
“No, I haven’t,” said Vyse; “but it will be awfully82 jolly finding out.”
There was a pause, groping and desperate on Betton’s part, sardonically83 calm on his visitor’s.
“You — you’ve given up writing altogether?” Betton continued.
“Yes; we’ve changed places, as it were.” Vyse paused. “But about these letters — you dictate84 the answers?”
“Lord, no! That’s the reason why I said I wanted somebody — er — well used to writing. I don’t want to have anything to do with them — not a thing! You’ll have to answer them as if they were written to you — ” Betton pulled himself up again, and rising in confusion jerked open one of the drawers of his writing-table.
“Here — this kind of rubbish,” he said, tossing a packet of letters onto Vyse’s knee.
“Oh — you keep them, do you?” said Vyse simply.
“I— well — some of them; a few of the funniest only.”
Vyse slipped off the band and began to open the letters. While he was glancing over them Betton again caught his own reflection in the glass, and asked himself what impression he had made on his visitor. It occurred to him for the first time that his high-coloured well-fed person presented the image of commercial rather than of intellectual achievement. He did not look like his own idea of the author of “Diadems and Faggots” — and he wondered why.
Vyse laid the letters aside. “I think I can do it — if you’ll give me a notion of the tone I’m to take.”
“The tone?”
“Yes — that is, if I’m to sign your name.”
“Oh, of course: I expect you to sign for me. As for the tone, say just what you’d — well, say all you can without encouraging them to answer.”
Vyse rose from his seat. “I could submit a few specimens,” he suggested.
“Oh, as to that — you always wrote better than I do,” said Betton handsomely.
“I’ve never had this kind of thing to write. When do you wish me to begin?” Vyse enquired85, ignoring the tribute.
“The book’s out on Monday. The deluge will begin about three days after. Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out with real heartiness86. “It was great luck for me, your striking that advertisement. Don’t be too harsh with my correspondents — I owe them something for having brought us together.”
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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6
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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renovating
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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14
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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17
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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18
blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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21
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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22
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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26
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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27
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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31
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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32
sterilized
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| v.消毒( sterilize的过去式和过去分词 )；使无菌；使失去生育能力；使绝育 | |
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33
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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34
Buddhism
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| n.佛教（教义） | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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38
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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39
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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41
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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42
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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43
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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44
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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45
calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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46
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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47
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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48
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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49
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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50
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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51
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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52
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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53
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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54
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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55
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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57
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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58
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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59
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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60
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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61
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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62
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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63
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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64
exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
truculence
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| n.凶猛，粗暴 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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67
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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68
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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69
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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70
crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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75
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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79
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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81
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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82
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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83
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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84
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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85
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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