Surprisingly enough, it got pretty good reviews in most of the leading newspapers and magazines. That is, they were the kind of reviews that his publisher called “good”. They said nice things about the book and made people want to buy it. George himself could have wished that some of the reviewing gentry1, even some of those who hailed him as “a discovery” and studded their sentences with superlatives, had been a little more discriminating2 in what they said of him. Occasionally he could have asked for a little more insight into what he had been driving at. But after reading the letters from his former friends and neighbours he was in no mood to quarrel with anybody who felt disposed to speak him a soft and gentle word, and on the whole he had every reason to be well pleased with his press.
He read the notices avidly3, feverishly4, and sooner or later he must have seen them all, for his publisher showed him the clippings as they came in from every section of the country. He would take great bunches of them home to devour5. When his eager eye ran upon a word of praise it was like magic to him, and he would stride about his room in a delirium6 of joy. When he read a savage7, harsh, unfavourable review, he felt crushed: even though it came from some little rural paper in the South, his fingers would tremble, his face turn pale, and he would wad it up in his hand and curse it bitterly.
Whenever a notice of his work appeared in one of the best magazines or weekly journals, he could hardly bring himself to read it; neither could he go away from it and leave it unread. He would approach it as a man creeps stealthily to pick a snake up by the tail, his heart leaping at the sight of his name. He would scan the last line first, then with a rush of blood to his face he would plunge8 into it at once, devouring9 the whole of it as quickly as he could. And if he saw that it was going to be “good”, a feeling of such powerful joy and exultancy10 would well up in his throat that he would want to shout his triumph from the windows. If he saw that the verdict was going to be “thumbs down”, he would read on with agonised fascination11, and his despair would be so great that he would feel he was done for, that he had been exposed to the world as a fool and a failure, and that he would never be able to write another line.
After the more important reviews appeared, his mail gradually took on a different complexion12. Not that the flood of damning letters from home had ceased, but now, along with them, began to come messages of another kind, from utter strangers who had read his novel and liked it. The book was doing pretty well, it seemed. ‘It even appeared on some of the best-seller lists, and then things really began to happen. Soon his box was stuffed with fan mail, and the telephone jingled13 merrily all day long with invitations from wealthy and cultivated people who wanted him for lunch, for tea, for dinner, for theatre parties, for week-ends in the country — for anything at all if he would only come.
Was this Fame at last? It looked so, and in the first flush of his eager belief he almost forgot about Libya Hill and rushed headlong into the welcoming arms of people he had never seen before. He accepted invitations right and left, and they kept him pretty busy. And each time he went out it seemed to him that he was on the very point of capturing all the gold and magic he had ever dreamed of finding, and that now he was really going to take a place of honour among the great ones of the city, in a life more fortunate and good than any he had ever known. He went to each encounter with each new friend as though some wonderful and intoxicating14 happiness were impending15 for him.
But he never found it. For, in spite of all the years he had lived in New York, he was still a country boy, and he did not know about the lion hunters. They are a peculiar16 race of people who inhabit the upper jungles of Cosmopolis and subsist17 entirely18 on some rarefied and ambrosial19 ectoplasm that seems to emanate20 from the arts. They love art dearly — in fact, they dote on it — and they love the artists even more. So they spend their whole lives running after them, and their favourite sport is trapping literary lions. The more intrepid21 hunters go after nothing but the full-grown lions, who make the most splendid trophies22 for exhibition purposes, but others — especially the lady hunters — would rather bag a cub23. A cub, once tamed and housebroken, makes a nice pet — much nicer than a lap dog — because there’s just no limit to the beguiling24 tricks a gentle hand can teach him.
For a few weeks George was quite the fair-haired boy among these wealthy and cultivated people.
One of his new-found friends told him about an aesthetic25 and high-minded millionaire who was panting with eagerness to meet him. From others came further confirmation26 of the fact.
“The man is mad about your work,” people would say to him. “He’s crazy to meet you. And you ought to go to see him, because a man like that might be of great help to you.”
They told George that this man had asked all kinds of questions about him, and had learned that he was very poor and had to work for a small salary as an instructor27 in the School for Utility Cultures. When the millionaire heard this, his great heart began to bleed for the young author immediately. It was intolerable, he said, that such a state of affairs should exist. America was the only country in the world where it would be permitted. Anywhere in Europe — yes, even in poor little Austria! — the artist would be subsidised, the ugly threat of poverty that hung over him would be removed, his best energies would be released to do his finest work — and, by God, he was going to see that this was done for George!
George had never expected anything like this to happen, and he could not see why such a thing should be done for any man. Nevertheless, when he thought of this great-hearted millionaire, he burned with eagerness to meet him and began to love him like a brother.
So a meeting was arranged, and George went to see him, and the man was very fine to him. The millionaire had George to his house for dinner several times and showed him off to all of his rich friends. And one lovely woman to whom the millionaire introduced the poor young author took him home with her that very night and granted him the highest favour in her keeping.
Then the millionaire had to go abroad on brief but urgent business. George went to the boat to see him off, and his friend shook him affectionately by the shoulder, called him by his first name, and told him that if there was anything he wanted, just to let him know by cable and he would see that it was done. He said he would be back within a month at most, and would be so busy that he wouldn’t have time to write, but he would get in touch with George again as soon as he returned. With this he wrung28 George by the hand and sailed away.
A month, six weeks, two months went by, and George heard nothing from the man. It was well into the new year before he saw him again, and then by accident.
A young lady had invited George to have lunch with her at an expensive speak-easy. As soon as they entered the place George saw his millionaire friend sitting alone at one of the tables. Immediately George uttered a cry of joy and started across the room to meet him with his hand outstretched, and in such precipitate29 haste that he fell sprawling30 across an intervening table and two chairs. When he picked himself up from the floor, the man had drawn31 back with an expression of surprise and perplexity on his face, but he unbent sufficiently32 to take the young man’s proffered33 hand and to say coolly, in an amused and tolerant voice:
“Ah — it’s our writer friend again? How are you?”
The young man’s crestfallen34 confusion and embarrassment35 were so evident that the rich man’s heart was quite touched. His distant manner thawed36 out instantly, and now nothing would do but that George should bring the young lady over to the millionaire’s table so that they could all have lunch together.
During the course of the meal the man became very friendly and attentive37. It seemed he just couldn’t do enough for George. He kept helping38 him to various dishes and filling his glass with more wine. And whenever George turned to him he would find the man looking at him with an expression of such obvious sympathy and commiseration39 that finally he felt compelled to ask him what the trouble was.
“Ah,” he said, shaking his head with a doleful sigh, “I was mighty40 sorry when I read about it.”
“Read about what?”
“Why,” he said, “the prize.”
“What prize?”
“But didn’t you read about it in the paper? Didn’t you see what happened?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said George, puzzled. “What did happen?”
“Why,” he said, “you didn’t get it.”
“Didn’t get what?”
“The prize!” he cried —“the prize!”— mentioning a literary prize that was awarded every year. “I thought you would be sure to get it, but”— he paused a moment, then went on sorrowfully —“they gave it to another man . . . You got mentioned . . . you were runner-up . . . but”— he shook his head gloomily —“you didn’t get it.”
So much for his gocd friend, the millionaire. George never saw him again after that. And yet, let no one say that he was ever bitter.
Then there was Dorothy.
Dorothy belonged to that fabulous41 and romantic upper crust of New York “Society” which sleeps by day and begins to come awake at sunset and never seems to have any existence at all outside of the better-known hot spots of the town. She had been expensively educated for a life of fashion, she had won a reputation in her set for being quite an intellectual because she had been known to read a book, and so, of course, when George Webber’s novel was listed as a best seller she bought it and left it lying around in prominent places in her apartment. Then she wrote the author a scented42 note, asking him to come and have a cocktail43 with her. He did, and at her urging he went back to see her again and again.
Dorothy was no longer as young as she had been, but she was well built, had kept her figure and her face, and was not a bad-looking wench. She had never married, and apparently44 felt she did not need to, for it was freely whispered about that she seldom slept alone. One heard that she had bestowed45 her favours not only upon all the gentlemen of her own set, but also upon such casual gallants as the milkmen on her family’s estate, stray taxi-drivers, writers of da-da, professional bicycle riders, wasteland poets, and plug-ugly bruisers with flat feet and celluloid collars. So George had expected their friendship to come quickly to its full flower, and he was quite surprised and disappointed when nothing happened.
His evenings with Dorothy turned out to be quiet and serious tête-à-têtes devoted46 to highly intellectual conversation. Dorothy remained as chaste47 as a nun48, and George began to wonder whether she had not been grossly maligned49 by evil tongues. He found her intellectual and aesthetic interests rather on the dull side, and was several times on the point of giving her up in sheer boredom50. But always she would pursue him, sending him notes and letters written in a microscopic51 hand on paper edged with red, and he would go back again, partly out of curiosity and a desire to find out what it was the woman was after.
He found out. Dorothy asked him to dine with her one night at a fashionable restaurant, and on this occasion she brought along her current sleeping companion, a young Cuban with patent-leather hair. George sat at the table between them. And while the Cuban gave his undivided attention to the food before him, Dorothy began to talk to George, and he learned to his chagrin52 that she had picked him out of all the world to be the victim of her only sacred passion.
“I love you, Jawge,” she leaned over and whispered loudly in her rather whiskified voice. “I love you — but mah love for you is pewer!” She looked at him with a soulful expression. “You, Jawge — I love you for your maind,” she rumbled53 on, “for your spirit! But Miguel! Miguel!”— here her eyes roved over the Cuban as he sat tucking the food away with both hands —“Miguel — I love him for his bawd-y! He has no maind, but he has a fa-ine bawd-y,” she whispered lustfully54, “a fa-ine beaut-iful bawd-y — so slim — so boyish — so La-tin!”
She was silent for a moment, and when she went on it was in a tone of foreboding:
“I wantcha to come with us to-naight, Jawge!” she said abruptly55. “I don’t know what is going to happen,” she said ominously56, “and I wantcha nee-ah me.”
“But what is going to happen, Dorothy?”
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I just don’t know. Anything might happen! . . . Why, last night I thought that he was gone! We had a fight and he walked out on me! These La-tins are so proud, so sen-sitive! He caught me looking at another man, and he got up and left me flat! . . . If he left me I don’t know what I’d do, Jawge,” she panted. “I think I’d die! I think I’d kill myself!”
Her eye rested broodingly upon her lover, who at this moment was bending forward with bared teeth towards the tines of his uplifted fork on which a large and toothsome morsel57 of broiled58 chicken was impaled59. Feeling their eyes upon him, he looked up with his fork poised60 in mid-air, smiled with satisfaction, then seized the bit of chicken in his jaws61, took a drink to wash it down, and wiped his moist lips with a napkin. After that he elegantly lifted one hand to shield his mouth, inserted a finger-nail between his teeth, detached a fragment of his victuals62, and daintily ejected it upon the floor, while his lady’s fond eye doted on him. Then he picked up the fork again and resumed his delightful63 gastronomic64 labours.
“I shouldn’t worry about it, Dorothy,” George said to her. “I don’t think he’s going to leave you for some time.”
“I should die!” she muttered. “I really think that it would kill me! . . . Jawge, you’ve got to come with us to-naight! I just wantcha to be nee-ah me! I feel so safe — so secure— when you’re around! You’re so sawlid, Jawge — so comfawtin’!” she said. “I wantcha to be theah to tawk to me — to hold mah hand and comfawt me — if anything should happen,” she said, at the same time putting her hand on his and squeezing it.
But George did not go with her that night, nor any night thereafter. This was the last he saw of Dorothy. But surely none can say that he was ever bitter.
Again, there was the rich and beautiful young widow whose husband had died just a short time before, and who mentioned this sad fact in the moving and poignantly65 understanding letter she wrote to George about his book. Naturally, he accepted her kind invitation to drop in for tea. And almost at once the lovely creature offered to make the supreme66 sacrifice, first beginning with an intimate conversation about poetry, then looking distressed67 and saying it was very hot in here and did he mind if she took off her dress, then taking it off, and everything else as well, until she stood there as God made her, then getting into bed and casting the mop of her flaming red hair about on the pillow, rolling her eyes in frenzied68 grief, and crying out in stricken tones: “0 Algernon! Algernon! Algernon!”— which was the name of her departed husband.
“0 Algernon!” she cried, rolling about in grief and shaking her great mop of flaming hair —“Algie, darling, I am doing it for you! Algie, come back to me! Algie, I love you so! My pain is more than I can bear! Algernon! — No, no, poor boy!” she cried, seizing George by the arm as he started to crawl out of bed, because, to tell the truth, he did not know whether she had gone mad or was playing some wicked joke on him. “Don’t go!” she whispered tenderly, clinging to his arm. “You just don’t understand! I want to be so good to you — but everything I do or think or feel is Algernon, Algernon, Algernon!”
She explained that her heart was buried in her husband’s grave, that she was really “a dead woman” (she had already told him she was a great reader of psychologies), and that the act of love was just an act of devotion to dear old Algie, an effort to be with him again and to be “a part of all this beauty.”
It was very fine and high and rare, and surely no one will think that George would sneer69 at a beautiful emotion, although it was too fine for him to understand. Therefore he went away, and never saw this lovely and sorrowful widow any more. He knew he was not fine enough. And yet, not for a moment should you think that he was ever bitter.
Finally, there was another girl who came into George Webber’s life during this period of his brief glory, and her he understood. She was a beautiful and brave young woman, country-bred, and she had a good job, and a little apartment from which you could see the East River, the bridges, and all the busy traffic of the tugs70 and barges71. She was not too rare and high for him, although she liked to take a part in serious conversations, to know worth-while people with liberal minds, and to keep up her interest in new schools and modern methods for the children. George became quite fond of her, and would stay all night and go away at daybreak when the streets were empty, and the great buildings went soaring up haggardly, incredibly, as if he were the first man to discover them, in the pale, pure, silent light of dawn.
He loved her well; and one night, after a long silence, she put her arms round him, drew him down beside her, and kissed him, whispering:
“Will you do something for me if I ask you to?”
“Darling, anything!” he said. “Anything you ask me, if I can!” She held him pressed against her for a moment in the dark and living silence.
“I want you to use your influence to get me into the Cosmopolis Club,” she whispered passionately72 ——
And then dawn came, and the stars fell.
This was the last he saw of the great world of art, of fashion, and of letters.
And if it seems to anyone a shameful73 thing that I have written thus of shameful things and shameful people, then I am sorry for it. My only object is to set down here the truthful74 record of George Webber’s life, and he, I feel quite sure, would be the last person in the world to wish me to suppress any chapter of it. So I do not think that I have written shamefully75.
The only shame George Webber felt was that at one time in his life, for however short a period, he broke bread and sat at the same table with any man when the living warmth of friendship was not there; or that he ever traded upon the toil76 of his brain and the blood of his heart to get the body of a scented whore that might have been better got in a brothel for some greasy77 coins. This was the only shame he felt. And this shame was so great in him that he wondered if all his life thereafter would be long enough to wash out of his brain and blood the last pollution of its loathsome78 taint79.
And yet, he would not have it thought that he was bitter.
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1
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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avidly
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| adv.渴望地，热心地 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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emanate
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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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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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sufficiently
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proffered
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crestfallen
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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attentive
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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lustfully
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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poignantly
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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