But what he noticed chiefly — and once he observed it he began watching for it, and it was always there — was the look on the people’s faces. It puzzled him, and frightened him, and when he tried to find a word to describe it, the only thing he could think of was — madness. The nervous, excited glitter in the eyes seemed to belong to nothing else but madness. The faces of natives and strangers alike appeared to be animated4 by some secret and unholy glee. And their bodies, as they darted5, dodged6, and thrust their way along, seemed to have a kind of leaping energy as if some powerful drug was driving them on. They gave him the impression of an entire population that was drunk — drunk with an intoxication7 which never made them weary, dead, or sodden8, and which never wore of, but which incited9 them constantly to new efforts of leaping and thrusting exuberance10.
The people he had known all his life cried out to him along the streets, seizing his hand and shaking it, and saying: “Hi, there, boy! Glad to see you home again! Going to be with us for a while now? Good! I’ll be seeing you! I’ve got to go on now — got to meet a fellow down the street to sign some papers! Good to see you, boy!” Then, having uttered this tempestuous11 greeting without a pause and without the loss of a stride, pulling and dragging him along with them ‘as they wrung12 his hand, they vanished.
On all sides he heard talk, talk, talk — terrific and incessant13. And the tumult14 of voices was united in variations of a single chorus — speculation15 and real estate. People were gathered in earnestly chattering16 groups before the drug-stores, before the post office, before the Court House and the City Hall. They hurried along the pavements talking together with passionate17 absorption, bestowing18 half-abstracted nods of greeting from time to time on passing acquaintances.
The real estate men were everywhere. Their motors and buses roared through the streets of the town and out into the country, carrying crowds of prospective19 clients. One could see them on the porches of houses unfolding blueprints20 and prospectuses21 as they shouted enticements and promises of sudden wealth into the ears of deaf old women. Everyone was fair game for them — the lame22, the halt, and the blind, Civil War veterans or their decrepit23 pensioned widows, as well as high school boys and girls, negro truck drivers, soda24 jerkers, elevator boys, and bootblacks.
Everyone bought real estate; and everyone was “a real estate man” either in name or practice. The barbers, the lawyers, the grocers, the butchers, the builders, the clothiers — all were engaged now in this single interest and obsession25. And there seemed to be only one rule, universal and infallible — to buy, always to buy, to pay whatever price was asked, and to sell again within two days at any price one chose to fix. It was fantastic. Along all the streets in town the ownership of the land was constantly changing; and when the supply of streets was exhausted26, new streets were feverishly28 created in the surrounding wilderness29; and even before these streets were paved or a house had been built upon them, the land was being sold, and then resold, by the acre, by the lot, by the foot, for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
A spirit of drunken waste and wild destructiveness was everywhere apparent. The fairest places in the town were being mutilated at untold30 cost. In the centre of town there had been a beautiful green opulent with rich lawns and lordly trees, with beds of flowers and banks of honeysuckle, and on top of it there had been an immense, rambling31, old wooden hotel. From its windows one could look out upon the vast panorama32 of mountain ranges in the smoky distance.
George could remember its wide porches and comfortable rockers, its innumerable eaves and gables, its labyrinth33 of wings and corridors, its great parlours and their thick red carpets, and the lobby with its old red leather chairs, hollowed and shaped by the backs of men, and its smell of tobacco and its iced tinkle34 of tall drinks. It had a splendid dining-room filled with laughter and quiet voices, where expert negroes in white jackets bent35 and scraped and chuckled36 over the jokes of the rich men from the North as with prayerful grace they served them delicious foods out of old silver dishes. George could remember, too, the smiles and the tender beauty of the rich men’s wives and daughters. As a boy he had been touched with the unutterable mystery of all these things, for these wealthy travellers had come great distances and had somehow brought with them an evocation37 of the whole golden and unvisited world, with its fabulous38 cities and its promise of glory, fame, and love.
It had been one of the pleasantest places in the town, but now it was gone. An army of men and shovels39 had advanced upon this beautiful green hill and had levelled it down to an ugly flat of clay, and had paved it with a desolate40 horror of white concrete, and had built stores and garages and office buildings and parking spaces — all raw and new — and were now putting up a new hotel beneath the very spot where the old one had stood. It was to be a structure of sixteen storeys, of steel and concrete and pressed brick. It was being stamped out of the same mould, as if by some gigantic biscuit-cutter of hotels, that had produced a thousand others like it all over the country. And, to give a sumptuous41 — if spurious — distinction to its patterned uniformity, it was to be called The Libya–Ritz.
One day George ran into Sam Pennock, a boyhood friend and a classmate at Pine Rock College. Sam came down the busy street swiftly at his anxious, lunging stride, and immediately, without a word of greeting, he broke hoarsely42 into the abrupt43 and fragmentary manner of speaking that had always been characteristic of him, but that now seemed more feverish27 than ever:
“When did you get here? . . . How long are you going to stay? . . . What do you think of the way things look here?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he demanded with brusque, challenging, and almost impatient scornfulness: “Well, what do you intend to do — be a two-thousand-dollar-a-year school-teacher all your life?”
The contemptuous tone, with its implication of superiority — an implication he had noticed before in the attitude of these people, big with their inflated44 sense of wealth and achievement — stung George to retort sharply:
“There are worse things than teaching school! Being a paper millionaire is one of them! As for the two thousand dollars a year, you really get it, Sam! It’s not real estate money, it’s money you can spend. You can buy a ham sandwich with it.”
Sam laughed. “You’re right!” he said. “I don’t blame you. It’s the truth!” He began to shake his head slowly. “Lord, Lord!” he said. “They’ve all gone clean out of their heads here . . . Never saw anything like it in my life . . . Why, they’re all crazy-as a loon45!” he exclaimed. “You can’t talk to them . . . You can’t reason with them . . . They won’t listen to you . . . They’re getting prices for property here that you couldn’t get’ in New York.”
“Are they getting it?”
“Well,” he said, with a falsetto laugh, “they get the first five hundred dollars . . . You pay the next five hundred thousand on time.”
“How much time?”
“God!” he said. “I don’t know . . . All you want, I reckon . . . For ever! . . . It doesn’t matter . . . You sell it next day for a million.”
“On time?”
“That’s it!” he cried, laughing. “You make half a million just like that.”
“On time?”
“You’ve got it!” said Sam. “On time . . . God! Crazy, crazy, crazy,” he kept laughing and shaking his head. “That’s the way they make it.”
“Are you making it, too?”
At once his manner became feverishly earnest: “Why, it’s the damnedest thing you ever heard of!” he said. “I’m raking it in hand over fist! . . . Made three hundred thousand dollars in the last two months . . . Why, it’s the truth! . . . Made a trade yesterday and turned round and sold the lot again not two hours later . . . Fifty thousand dollars just like that!” he snapped his fingers. “Does your uncle want to sell that house on Locust46 Street where your Aunt Maw lived? . . . Have you talked to him about it? . . . Would he consider an offer?”
“I suppose so, if he gets enough.”
“How much does be want?” he demanded impatiently. “Would he take a hundred thousand?”
“Could you get it for him?”
“I could get it within twenty-four hours,” he said. “I know a man who’d snap it up in five minutes . . . I tell you what I’ll do, Monk47, if you persuade him to sell — I’ll split the commission with you . . . I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”
“All right, Sam, it’s a go. Could you let me have fifty cents on account?”
“Do you think he’ll sell?” he asked eagerly.
“Really, I don’t know, but I doubt it. That place was my grandfather’s. It’s been in the family a long time. I imagine he’ll want to keep it.”
“Keep it! What’s the sense in keeping it? . . . Now’s the time when things are at the peak. He’ll never get a better offer!”
“I know, but he’s expecting to strike oil out in the backyard any time now,” said George with a laugh.
At this moment there was a disturbance48 among the tides of traffic in the street. A magnificent car detached itself from the stream of humbler vehicles and moved in swiftly to the kerb, where it came to a smooth stop — a glitter of nickel, glass, and burnished49 steel. From it a gaudily50 attired51 creature stepped down to the pavement with an air of princely indolence, tucked a light Malacca cane52 carelessly under its right armpit, and slowly and fastidiously withdrew from its nicotined fingers a pair of lemon-coloured gloves, at the same time saying to the liveried chauffeur53:
“You may go, James. Call for me again in hal-luf an houah!” The creature’s face was thin and sunken. Its complexion54 was a deathly sallow — all except the nose, which was bulbous and glowed a brilliant red, showing an intricate network of enlarged purple veins55. Its toothless jaws56 were equipped with such an enormous set of glittering false teeth that the lips could not cover them, and they grinned at the world with the prognathous bleakness58 of a skeleton. The whole figure, although heavy and shambling, had the tottering59 appearance which suggested a stupendous debauchery. It moved forward with its false, bleak57 grin, leaning heavily upon the stick, and suddenly George recognised that native ruin which had been known to him since childhood as Tim Wagner.
J. Timothy Wagner — the “J” was a recent and completely arbitrary addition of his own, appropriated, no doubt, to fit his ideas of personal grandeur61, and to match the eminent62 position in the town’s affairs to which he had belatedly risen — was the black sheep of one of the old, established families in the community. At the time George Webber was a boy, Tim Wagner had been for so long the product of complete disillusion63 that there was no longer any vestige64 of respect attached to him.
He had been preeminently the town sot. His title to this office was unquestioned. In this capacity he was even held in a kind of affection. His exploits were notorious, the subjects of a hundred stories. One night, for example, the loafers in McCormack’s pharmacy65 had seen Tim swallow something and then shudder66 convulsively. This process was repeated several times, until the curiosity of the loafers was aroused. They began to observe him furtively67 but closely, and in a few minutes Tim thrust out his hand slyly, fumbled68 round in the gold-fish bowl, and withdrew his hand with a wriggling69 little shape between his fingers. Then the quick swallow and the convulsive shudder were repeated.
He had inherited two fortunes before his twenty-fifth year and had run through them both. Hilarious70 stories were told of Tim’s celebrated71 pleasure tour upon the inheritance of the second fortune. He had chartered a private car, stocked it plentifully72 with liquor, and selected as his travelling companions the most notorious sots, vagabonds, and tramps the community could furnish. The debauch60 had lasted eight months. This party of itinerant73 bacchuses had made a tour of the entire country. They had exploded their empty flasks74 against the ramparts of the Rocky Mountains, tossed their empty kegs into San Francisco Bay, strewn the plains with their beer bottles. At last the party had achieved a condition of exhausted satiety75 in the nation’s capital, where Tim, with what was left of his inheritance, had engaged an entire floor at one of the leading hotels. Then, one by one, the exhausted wanderers had drifted back to town, bringing tales of bacchanalian76 orgies that had not been equalled since the days of the Roman emperors, and leaving Tim finally in solitary77 possession of the wreckage78 of empty suites79.
From that time on he had slipped rapidly into a state of perpetual sottishness. Even then, however, he had retained the traces of an attractive and engaging personality. Everyone had had a tolerant and unspoken affection for him. Save for the harm he did himself, Tim was an inoffensive and good-natured creature.
His figure on the streets of the town at night had been a familiar one. From sunset on, he might be found almost anywhere. It was easy to tell what progressive state of intoxication he had reached simply by observing his method of locomotion81. No one ever saw him stagger. He did not weave drunkenly along the pavement. Rather, when he approached the saturation82 point, he walked very straight, very rapidly, but with funny little short steps. As he walked he kept his face partly lowered, glancing quickly and comically from side to side, with little possumlike looks. If he approached complete paralysis83, he just stood quietly and leaned against something — a lamppost or a door-way or the side of a building or the front of the drugstore. Here he would remain for hours in a state of solemn immobility, broken only by an occasional belch84. His face, already grown thin and flabby-jowled, with its flaming beacon85 of a nose, would at these times be composed in an expression of drunken gravity, and his whole condition would be characterised by a remarkable86 alertness, perceptiveness87, and control. He rarely degenerated88 into complete collapse89. Almost always he could respond instantly and briskly to a word of greeting.
Even the police had had a benevolent90 regard for him, and they had exercised a friendly guardianship91 over him. Through long experience and observation, every policeman on the force was thoroughly92 acquainted with Tim’s symptoms. They could tell at a glance just what degree of intoxication he had reached, and if they thought he had crossed the final border line and that his collapse in door-way or gutter93 was imminent94, they would take charge of him, speaking to him kindly95, but with a stern warning:
“Tim, if you’re on the streets again to-night, we’re going to lock you up. Now you go on home and go to bed.”
To this Tim would nod briskly, with instant and amiable96 agreement: “Yes, sir, yes, sir. Just what I was going to do, Captain Crane, when you spoke80 to me. Going home right this minute. Yes, sir.”
With these words he would start off briskly across the street, his legs making their little fast, short steps and his eyes darting97 comically from side to side, until he had vanished round the corner. Within ten or fifteen minutes, however, he might be seen again, easing his way along cautiously in the dark shadow of a building, creeping up to the corner, and peeking98 round with a sly look on his face to see if any of the watchdogs of the law were in sight.
As time went on and his life lapsed99 more and more into total vagabondage, one of his wealthy aunts, in the hope that some employment might partially100 retrieve101 him, had given him the use of a vacant lot behind some buildings in the business section of the town, a short half-block from Main Street. The motor-car had now come in sufficient numbers to make parking laws important, and Tim was allowed by his aunt to use this lot as parking space for cars and to keep the money thus obtained. In this employment he succeeded far better than anyone expected. He had little to do except stay on the premises102, and this was not difficult for him so long as he was plentifully supplied with corn whisky.
During this period of his life some canvassers at a local election, had looked for Tim to enrol103 him in the interest of their candidate, but they had been unable to find out where he lived. He had not; lived, of course, with any member of his family for years, and investigation104 failed to disclose that he had a room anywhere. The question then began to go round: “Where does Tim Wagner live? Where does he sleep?” No one could find out. And Tim’s own answers, when pressed for information, were slyly evasive.
One day, however, the answer came to light. The motor-car had come, and come so thoroughly that people were even getting buried by motor-car. The day of the horse-drawn105 hearse had passed for ever. Accordingly, one of the local undertaking106 firms had told Tim he could have their old horse-drawn hearse if he would only take it off their premises. Tim had accepted the macabre107 gift and had parked the hearse in his lot. One day when Tim was absent the canvassers came back again, still persistent108 in their efforts to learn his address so they could enrol him. They noticed the old hearse, and, seeing that its raven109 curtains were so closely drawn that the interior was hidden from view, they decided110 to investigate. Cautiously they opened the doors of the hearse. A cot was inside. There was even a chair. It was completely furnished as a small but adequate bedroom.
So at last his secret had been found out. Henceforth all the town knew where he lived.
That was Tim Wagner as George had known him fifteen years ago. Since then he had been so constantly steeped in alcohol that his progressive disintegration112 had been marked, and he had lately adopted the fantastic trappings of a clown of royalty113. Everyone knew all about him, and yet — the fact was incredible! — Tim Wagner had now become the supreme114 embodiment of the town’s extravagant115 folly116. For, as gamblers will stake a fortune on some moment’s whimsey of belief, thrusting their money into a stranger’s hand and bidding him to play with it because the colour of his hair is lucky, or as racetrack men will rub the hump upon a cripple’s back to bring them luck, so the people of the town now listened prayerfully to every word Tim Wagner uttered. They sought his opinion in all their speculations117, and acted instantly on this suggestions. He had become — in what way and for what reason no one knew — the high priest and prophet of this insanity118 of waste.
They knew that he was diseased and broken, that his wits were always addled119 now with alcohol, but they used him as men once used divining rods. They deferred120 to him as Russian peasants once deferred to the village idiot. They now believed with an absolute and unquestioning faith that some power of intuition in him made all his judgments121 infallible.
It was this creature who had just alighted at the kerb a little beyond George Webber and Sam Pennock, full of drunken majesty122 and bleary-eyed foppishness. Sam turned to him with a movement of feverish eagerness, saying to George abruptly123:
“Wait a minute! I’ve got to speak to Tim Wagner about something! Wait till I come back!”
George watched the scene with amazement124. Tim Wagner, still drawing the gloves off of his fingers with an expression of bored casualness, walked slowly over towards the entrance of McCormack’s drug-store — no longer were his steps short and quick, for he leaned heavily on his cane — while Sam, in an attitude of obsequious125 entreaty126, kept at his elbow, bending his tall form towards him and hoarsely pouring out a torrent127 of questions:
“ . . . Property in West Libya . . . Seventy-five thousand dollars . . . Option expires tomorrow at noon . . . Joe Ingram has the piece above mine . . . Won’t sell . . . Holding for hundred fifty . . . Mine’s the best location . . . But Fred Bynum says too far from main road . . . What do you think, Tim? . . . Is it worth it?”
During the course of this torrential appeal Tim Wagner did not even turn to look at his petitioner128. He gave no evidence whatever that he heard what Sam was saying. Instead, he stopped, thrust his gloves into his pocket, cast, his eyes round slyly in a series of quick glances, and suddenly began to root into himself violently with a clutching hand. Then he straightened up like a man just coming out of a trance, and seemed to become aware for the first time that Sam was waiting.
“What’s that? What did you say, Sam?” he said rapidly. “How much did they offer you for it? Don’t sell, don’t sell!” he said suddenly and with great emphasis. “Now’s the time to buy, not to sell. The trend is upwards129. Buy! Buy! Don’t take it. Don’t sell. That’s my advice!”
“I’m not selling, Tim,” Sam cried excitedly. “I’m thinking of buying.”
“Oh — yes, yes, yes!” Tim muttered rapidly. “I see, I see.” He turned now for the first time and fixed130 his eyes upon his questioner. “Where did you say it was?” he demanded sharply. “Deepwood? Good! Good! Can’t go wrong! Buy! Buy!”
He started to walk away into the drug-store, and the lounging idlers moved aside deferentially131 to let him pass. Sam rushed after him frantically132 and caught him by the arm, shouting:
“No, no, Tim! It’s not Deepwood! It’s the other way . . . I’ve been telling you . . . It’s West Libya!”
“What’s that?” Tim cried sharply. “West Libya? Why didn’t you say so? That’s different. Buy! Buy! Can’t go wrong! Whole town’s moving in that direction. Values double out there in six months. How much do they want?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” Sam panted. “Option expires tomorrow . . . Five yeas to pay it up.”
“Buy! Buy!” Tim barked, and walked off into the drug-store.
Sam strode back towards George, his eyes blazing with excitement.
“Did you hear him? Did you hear what he said?” he demanded hoarsely. “You heard him, didn’t you? . . . Best damned judge of real estate that ever lived . . . Never known to make a mistake! . . . ‘Buy! Buy! Will double in value in six months!’ . . . You were standing133 right here”— he said hoarsely and accusingly, glaring at George —“you heard what he said, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I heard him.”
Sam glanced wildly about him, passed his hand nervously134 through his hair several times, and then said, sighing heavily and shaking his head in wonder:
“Seventy-five thousand dollars’ profit in one deal! . . . Never heard anything like it in my . . . life! Lord, Lord!” he cried. “What are we coming to?”
Somehow the news had got round that George had written a book and that it would soon be published. The editor of the local paper heard of it and sent a reporter to interview him, and printed a story about it.
“So you’ve written a book?” said the reporter. “What kind of a book is it? What’s it about?”
“Why — I— I hardly know how to tell you,” George stammered135. “It — it’s a novel ——”
“A Southern novel? Anything to do with this part of the country?”
“Well — yes — that is — it’s about the South, all right — about an Old Catawba family — but ——”
LOCAL BOY WRITES ROMANCE OF THE OLD SOUTH
George Webber, son of the late John Webber and nephew of Mark Joyner, local hardware merchant, has written a novel with a Libya Hill background which the New York house of James Rodney & Co. will publish this autumn.
When interviewed last night, the young author stated that his book was a romance of the Old South, centring about the history of a distinguished136 antebellum family of this region. The people of Libya Hill and environs will await the publication of the book with special interest, not only because many of them will remember the author, who was born and brought up here, but also because that stirring period of Old Catawba’s past has never before been accorded its rightful place of honour in the annals of Southern literature.
“We understand you have travelled a great deal since you left home. Been to Europe several times?”
“Yes, I have.”
“In your opinion, how does this section of the country compare with other places you have seen?”
“Why — why — er — why good! . . . I mean, fine! That is ——”
LOCAL PARADISE COMPARES FAVOURABLY137
In answer to the reporter’s question as to how this part of the country compared to other places he had seen, the former Libya man declared:
“There is no place I have ever visited — and my travels have taken me to England, Germany, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Norway, Denmark, Sweden, to say nothing of the south of France, the Italian Riviera, and the Swiss Alps — which can compare in beauty with the setting of my native town.
“We have here,” he said enthusiastically, “a veritable Paradise of Nature. Air, climate, scenery, water, natural beauty, all conspire138 to make this section the most ideal place in the whole world to live.”
“Did you ever think of coming back here to live?”
“Well — yes — I have thought of it — but — you see ——”
WILL SETTLE AND BUILD HERE
When questioned as to his future plans, the author said:
“For years, my dearest hope and chief ambition has been that one day I should be able to come back here to live. One who has ever known the magic of these hills cannot forget them. I hope, therefore, that the time is not far distant when I may return for good.
“Here, I feel, as nowhere else,” the author continued wistfully, “that I will be able to and the inspiration that I must have to do my work. Scenically139, climatically, geographically140, and in every other way, the logical spot for a modern renaissance141 is right here among these hills. There is no reason why, in ten years’ time, this community should not be a great artistic142 colony, drawing to it the great artists, the music and the beauty lovers, of the whole world, as Salzburg does now. The Rhododendron Festival is already a step in the right direction.
“It shall be a part of my purpose from now on,” the earnest young author added, “to do everything in my power to further this great cause, and to urge all my writing and artistic friends to settle hereto make Libya Hill the place it ought to be-The Athens of America.”
“Do you intend to write another book?”
“Yes — that is — I hope so. In fact —”
“Would you care to say anything about it?”
“Well — I don’t know — it’s pretty hard to say ——”
“Come on, son, don’t be bashful. We’re all your home folks here . . . Now, take Longfellow. There was a great writer! You know what a young fellow with your ability ought to do? He ought to come back here and do for this section what Longfellow did for New England . . . ”
PLANS NATIVE SAGA143
When pressed for details about the literary work he hopes to do hereafter, the author became quite explicit144:
“I want to return here,” he said, “and commemorate145 the life, history, and development of Western Catawba in a series of poetic146 legends comparable to those with which the poet Longfellow commemorated147 the life of the Acadians and the folklore148 of the New England countryside. What I have in mind is a trilogy that will begin with the early settlement of the region by the first pioneers, among them my own forebears, and will trace the steady progress of Libya Hill from its founding and the coming of the railroad right down to its present international prominence149 and the proud place it occupies today as ‘The Gem150 City of the Hills’.”
George writhed151 and swore when he read the article. There was hardly an accurate statement in it. He felt angry and sheepish and guilty all at the same time.
He sat down and wrote a scathing153 letter to the paper, but when he had finished he tore it up. After all, what good would it do? The reporter had spun154 his story out of nothing more substantial than his victim’s friendly tones and gestures, a few words and phrases which he had blurted155 out in his confusion, and, above all, his reticence156 to talk about his work; yet the fellow had obviously been so steeped in the booster spirit that he had been able to concoct157 this elaborate fantasy — probably without quite knowing that it was a fantasy.
Then, too, he reflected, people would take an emphatic158 denial of the statements that had been attributed to him as evidence that he was a sorehead, full of conceit159 about his book. You couldn’t undo160 the effect of a thing like this with a simple negative. If he gave the lie to all that gush161, everybody would say he was attacking the town and turning against those who had nurtured162 him. Better let bad enough alone.
So he did nothing about it. And after that, strangely enough, it seemed to George that the attitude of people changed towards him. Not that they had been unfriendly before. It was only that he now felt they approved of him. This in itself gave him a quiet sense of accomplishment163, as if the stamp of business confirmation164 had been put upon him.
Like all Americans, George had been amorous165 of material success, so it made him happy now to know that the people of his home town believed he had got it, or at any rate was at last on the highroad to it. One thing about the whole affair was most fortunate. The publisher who had accepted his book had an old and much respected name; people knew the name, and would meet him on the street and wring166 his hand and say:
“So your book is going to be published by James Rodney & Co.?”
That simple question, asked with advance knowledge of the fact, had a wonderful sound. It had a ring, not only of congratulation that his book was being published, but also of implication that the distinguished house of Rodney had been fortunate to secure it. That was the way it sounded, and it was probably also the way it was meant. He had the feeling, therefore, that in the eyes of his own people he had “arrived”. He was no longer a queer young fellow who had consumed his substance in the deluded167 hope that he was — oh, loaded word! —“a writer”. He was a writer. He was not only a writer, but a writer who was about to be published, and by the ancient and honourable168 James Rodney & Co.
There is something good in the way people welcome success, or anything — no matter what — that is stamped with the markings of success. It is not an ugly thing, really. People love success because to most of them it means happiness, and, whatever form it takes, it is the image of what they, in their hearts, would like to be. This is more true in America than anywhere else. People put this label on the image of their heart’s desire because they have never had an image of another kind of happiness. So, essentially169, this love of success is not a bad thing, but a good thing. It calls forth111 a general and noble response, even though the response may also be mixed with self-interest. People are happy for your happiness because they want so much to be happy themselves. Therefore it’s a good thing. The idea behind it is good, anyhow. The only trouble with it is that the direction is misplaced.
That was the way it seemed to George. He had gone through a long and severe period of probation170, and now he was approved. It made him very happy. There is nothing in the world that will take the chip off of one’s shoulder like a feeling of success. The chip was off now, and George didn’t want to fight anybody. For the first time he felt that it was good to be home again.
Not that he did not have his apprehensions171. He knew what he had written about the people and the life of his home town. He knew, too, that he had written about them with a nakedness and directness which, up to that time, had been rare in American fiction. He wondered how they would take it. Even when people congratulated him about the book he could not altogether escape a feeling of uneasiness, for he was afraid of what they would say and think after the book came out and they had read it.
These apprehensions took violent possession of him one night in a most vivid and horrible dream. He thought he was running and stumbling over the blasted heath of some foreign land, fleeing in terror from he knew not what. All that he knew was that he was filled with a nameless shame. It was wordless, and as shapeless as a smothering172 fog, yet his whole mind and soul shrank back in an agony of revulsion and self-contempt. So overwhelming was his sense of loathing173 and guilt152 that he coveted174 the place of murderers on whom the world had visited the fierceness of its wrath175. He envied the whole list of those criminals who had reaped the sentence of mankind’s dishonour176 — the thief, the liar1, the trickster, the outlaw177, and the traitor178 — men whose names were anathema179 and were spoken with a curse, but which were spoken; for he had committed a crime for which there was no name, he was putrescent with a taint180 for which there was neither comprehension nor cure, he was rotten with a vileness181 of corruption182 that placed him equally beyond salvation183 or vengeance184, remote alike from pity, love, and hatred185, and unworthy of a curse. Thus he fled across the immeasurable and barren heath beneath a burning sky, an exile in the centre of a planetary vacancy186 which, like his own shameful187 self, had no place either among things living or among things dead, and in which there was neither vengeance of lightning nor mercy of burial; for in all that limitless horizon there was no shade or shelter, no curve or bend, no hill or tree or hollow: there was only one vast, naked eye — searing and inscrutable — from which there was no escape, and which bathed his defenceless soul in its fathomless188 depths of shame.
And then, with bright and sharp intensity189, the dream changed, and suddenly he found himself among the scenes and faces he had known long ago. He was a traveller who had returned after many years of wandering to the place he had known in his childhood. The sense of his dreadful but nameless corruption still hung ominously190 above him as he entered the streets of the town again, and he knew that he had returned to the springs of innocence191 and health from whence he came, and by which he would be saved.
But as he came into the town he became aware that the knowledge of his guilt was everywhere about him. He saw the men and women he had known in childhood, the boys with whom he had gone to school, the girls he had taken to dances. They were engaged in all their varied192 activities of life and business, and they showed their friendship towards one another, but when he approached and offered his hand in greeting they looked at him with blank stares, and in their gaze there was no love, hatred, pity, loathing, or any feeling whatsoever193. Their faces, which had been full of friendliness194 and affection when they spoke to one another, went dead; they gave no sign of recognition or of greeting; they answered him briefly195 in toneless voices, giving him what information he asked, and repulsed196 every effort he made towards a resumption of old friendship with the annihilation of silence and that blank and level stare. They did not laugh or mock or nudge or whisper when he passed; they only waited and were still, as if they wanted but one thing — that he should depart out of their sight.
He walked on through the old familiar streets, past houses and places that lived again for him as if he had never left them, and by people who grew still and waited until he had gone, and the knowledge of wordless guilt was rooted in his soul. He knew that he was obliterated197 from their lives more completely than if he had died, and he felt that he was now lost to all men.
Presently he had left the town, and was again upon the blasted heath, and he was fleeing across it beneath the pitiless sky where flamed the naked eye that pierced him with its unutterable weight of shame.
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1
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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2
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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3
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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11
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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12
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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14
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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16
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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17
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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18
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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19
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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20
blueprints
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| n.蓝图，设计图( blueprint的名词复数 ) | |
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21
prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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22
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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24
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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25
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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26
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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27
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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28
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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29
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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30
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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31
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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32
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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33
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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34
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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38
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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39
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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40
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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41
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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42
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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43
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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44
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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45
loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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46
locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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47
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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48
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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49
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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50
gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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51
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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53
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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54
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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55
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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57
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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58
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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59
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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60
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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61
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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62
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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63
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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64
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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65
pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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66
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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67
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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68
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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69
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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70
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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71
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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72
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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73
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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74
flasks
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| n.瓶，长颈瓶， 烧瓶( flask的名词复数 ) | |
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75
satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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76
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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77
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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78
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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79
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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80
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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81
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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82
saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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83
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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84
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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85
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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86
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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87
perceptiveness
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| n.洞察力强，敏锐，理解力 | |
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88
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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90
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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91
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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92
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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93
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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95
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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96
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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97
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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98
peeking
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| v.很快地看( peek的现在分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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99
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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100
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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101
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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102
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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103
enrol
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| v.（使）注册入学，（使）入学，（使）入会 | |
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104
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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105
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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106
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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107
macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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108
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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109
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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110
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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111
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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112
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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113
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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114
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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115
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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116
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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117
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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118
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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119
addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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120
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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121
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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122
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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123
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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124
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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125
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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126
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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127
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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128
petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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129
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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130
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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131
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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132
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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133
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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134
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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135
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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136
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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137
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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138
conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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139
scenically
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140
geographically
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| adv.地理学上，在地理上，地理方面 | |
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141
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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142
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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143
saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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144
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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145
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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146
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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147
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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149
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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150
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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151
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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153
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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154
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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155
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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157
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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158
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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159
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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160
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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161
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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162
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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163
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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164
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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165
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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166
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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167
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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169
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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170
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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171
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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172
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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173
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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174
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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175
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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176
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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177
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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178
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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179
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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180
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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181
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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182
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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183
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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184
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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185
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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186
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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187
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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188
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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189
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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190
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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191
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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192
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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193
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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194
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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195
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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196
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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197
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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