A man, the only passenger, alighted from his perch1 beside the driver and for a moment stood as if a little dazed by what he saw.
He was very short, rather round and stout2, and bore himself quietly, almost demurely3. His head was large, his feet and hands were small and his face wore the expression of an habitual4 good humor amounting nearly to jolliness, albeit5 two vertical6 wrinkles between his brows hinted of a sturdy will seated behind a heavy Napoleonic forehead. The stubby tufts of grizzled hair that formed his mustaches shaded[11] a mouth and chin at once strong and pleasing. He impressed the group of people on the hotel veranda7 most favorably, and at once a little buzz of inquiry8 circulated. No one knew him.
That this was an important arrival could not be doubted; it was felt at once and profoundly. Great men carry an air of individuality about with them; each, like a planet, has his own peculiar9 atmosphere by which his light is modified. There was no mistaking the light in this instance; it indicated a luminary10 of the first magnitude.
Unfortunately the guests at Hotel Helicon were not required to record their names in a register, therefore the new comer could bide11 his own time to make himself known.
Miss Alice Moyne, of Virginia, the beautiful young author of two or three picturesque12 short stories lately published in a popular magazine, was in conversation with Hartley Crane, the rising poet from Kentucky, just at the moment when this new arrival caused a flutter on the veranda.
“Oh, I do wonder if he can be Edgar De Vere?” she exclaimed.
“No,” said Hartley Crane, “I have seen De Vere; he is as large and as fascinating as his romances. That little pudgy individual could never make a great romantic fiction like Solway Moss13, by De Vere.”
“But that is a superb head,” whispered Miss Moyne, “the head of a master, a genius.”
[12]
“Oh, there are heads and heads, genius and genius,” replied Crane. “I guess the new-comer off as a newspaper man from Chicago or New York. It requires first-class genius to be a good reporter.”
The stranger under discussion was now giving some directions to a porter regarding his luggage. This he did with that peculiar readiness, or sleight14, so to call it, which belongs to none but the veteran traveler. A moment later he came up the wooden steps of the hotel, cast a comprehensive but apparently15 indifferent glance over the group of guests and passed into the hall, where they heard him say to the boy in waiting: “My room is 24.”
“That is the reserved room,” remarked two or three persons at once.
Great expectations hung about room 24; much guessing had been indulged in considering who was to be the happy and exalted16 person chosen to occupy it. Now he had arrived, an utter stranger to them all. Everybody looked inquiry.
“Who can he be?”
“It must be Mark Twain,” suggested little Mrs. Philpot, of Memphis.
“Oh, no; Mark Twain is tall, and very handsome; I know Mark,” said Crane.
“How strange!” ejaculated Miss Moyne, and when everybody laughed, she colored a little and added hastily:
“I didn’t mean that it was strange that Mr. Crane should know Mr. Twain, but——”
[13]
They drowned her voice with their laughter and hand-clapping.
They were not always in this very light mood at Hotel Helicon, but just now they all felt in a trivial vein17. It was as if the new guest had brought a breath of frivolous18 humor along with him and had blown it over them as he passed by.
Room 24 was the choice one of Hotel Helicon. Every guest wanted it, on account of its convenience, its size and the superb view its windows afforded; but from the first it had been reserved for this favored individual whose arrival added greater mystery to the matter.
As the sun disappeared behind the western mountains, and the great gulf19 of the valley became a sea of purplish gloom, conversation clung in half whispers to the subject who meantime was arraying himself in evening dress for dinner, posing before the large mirror in room 24 and smiling humorously at himself as one who, criticising his own foibles, still holds to them with a fortitude20 almost Christian21.
He parted his hair in the middle, but the line of division was very slight, and he left a pretty, half-curled short wisp hanging over the centre of his forehead. The wide collar that hid his short neck creased22 his heavy well-turned jaws23, giving to his chin the appearance of being propped24 up. Although he was quite stout, his head was so broad and his feet so small that he appeared to taper25 from top to toe in a way that emphasized very forcibly his expression of blended dignity and jollity, youth and middle[14] age, sincerity26 and levity27. When he had finished his toilet, he sat down by the best window in the best room of Hotel Helicon, and gazed out over the dusky valley to where a line of quivering silver light played fantastically along the line of peaks that notched28 the delicate blue of the evening sky. The breeze came in, cool and sweet, with a sort of champagne29 sparkle in its freshness and purity. It whetted30 his appetite and blew the dust of travel out of his mind. He was glad when the dinner hour arrived.
The long table was nearly full when he went down, and he was given a seat between Miss Moyne and little Mrs. Philpot. By that secret cerebral31 trick we all know, but which none of us can explain, he was aware that the company had just been discussing him. In fact, someone had ventured to wonder if he were Mr. Howells, whereupon Mr. Crane had promptly32 said that he knew Mr. Howells quite well, and that although in a general way the new-comer was not unlike the famous realist, he was far from identical with him.
Laurens Peck, the bushy-bearded New England critic, whispered in someone’s ear that it appeared as if Crane knew everybody, but that the poet’s lively imagination had aided him more than his eyes, in all probability. “Fact is,” said he, “a Kentuckian soon gets so that he thinks he has been everywhere and seen everybody, whether he has or not.”
Out of this remark grew a serious affair[15] which it will be my duty to record at the proper place.
Little Mrs. Philpot, who wore gold eye-glasses and had elongated33 dimples in her cheeks and chin, dexterously34 managed to have a word or two with the stranger, who smiled upon her graciously without attempting to enter into a conversation. Miss Moyne fared a little better, for she had the charm of grace and beauty to aid her, attended by one of those puffs35 of good luck which come to none but the young and the beautiful. Mr. B. Hobbs Lucas, a large and awkward historian from New York, knocked over a bottle of claret with his elbow, and the liquor shot with an enthusiastic sparkle diagonally across the table in order to fall on Miss Moyne’s lap.
With that celerity which in very short and stout persons appears to be spontaneous, a sort of elastic36 quality, the gentleman from room 24 interposed his suddenly outspread napkin. The historian flung himself across the board after the bottle, clawing rather wildly and upsetting things generally. It was but a momentary37 scene, such as children at school and guests at a summer hotel make more or less merry over, still it drew forth38 from the genial39 man of room 24 a remark which slipped into Miss Moyne’s ear with the familiarity of well trained humor.
“A deluge40 of wine in a free hotel!” he exclaimed, just above a whisper. “Such generosity41 is nearly shocking.”
“I am sorry you mention it,” said Miss[16] Moyne, with her brightest and calmest smile; “I have been idealizing the place. A gush42 of grape-juice on Helicon is a picturesque thing to contemplate43.”
“But a lap-full of claret on Mt. Boab is not so fine, eh? What a farce44 poetry is! What a humbug45 is romance!”
The historian had sunk back in his chair and was scowling46 at the purple stain which kept slowly spreading through the fiber47 of the cloth.
“I always do something,” he sighed, and his sincerity was obvious.
“And always with aplomb,” remarked little Mrs. Philpot.
“It would be a genius who could knock over a claret bottle with grace,” added Peck. “Now a jug48 of ale——”
“I was present at table once with Mr. Emerson,” began the Kentucky poet, but nobody heard the rest. A waiter came with a heavy napkin to cover the stain, and as he bent49 over the table he forced the man from room 24 to incline very close to Miss Moyne.
“To think of making an instance of Emerson!” he murmured. “Emerson who died before he discovered that men and women have to eat, or that wine will stain a new dress!”
“But then he discovered so many things——” she began.
“Please mention one of them,” he glibly50 interrupted. “What did Emerson ever discover? Did he ever pen a single truth?”
[17]
Blows the sweet breath of song,”
she replied. “He trod the very headlands of truth. But you are not serious——” she checked herself, recollecting52 that she was speaking to a stranger.
“Not serious but emphatically in earnest,” he went on, in the same genial tone with which he had begun. “There isn’t a thing but cunning phrase-form in anything the man ever wrote. He didn’t know how to represent life.”
“Oh, I see,” Miss Moyne ventured, “you are a realist.”
It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the peculiar shade of contempt she conveyed through the words. She lifted her head a little higher and her beauty rose apace. It was as if she had stamped her little foot and exclaimed: “Of all things I detest53 realism—of all men, I hate realists.”
“But I kept the wine off your dress!” he urged, as though he had heard her thought. “There’s nothing good but what is real. Romance is lie-tissue. Reality is truth-tissue.”
“Permit me to thank you for your good intentions,” she said, with a flash of irony54; “you held the napkin just in the right position, but the wine never fell from the table. Still your kindness lost nothing in quality because the danger was imaginary.”
When dinner was over, Miss Moyne sought out Hartley Crane, the Kentucky poet who knew everybody, and suggested that perhaps[18] the stranger was Mr. Arthur Selby, the analytical55 novelist whose name was on everybody’s tongue.
“But Arthur Selby is thin and bald and has a receding56 chin. I met him often at the—I forget the club in New York,” said Crane. “It’s more likely that he’s some reporter. He’s a snob57, anyway.”
“Dear me, no, not a snob, Mr. Crane; he is the most American man I ever met,” replied Miss Moyne.
“But Americans are the worst of all snobs,” he insisted, “especially literary Americans. They adore everything that’s foreign and pity everything that’s home-made.”
As he said this he was remembering how Tennyson’s and Browning’s poems were overshadowing his own, even in Kentucky. From the ring of his voice Miss Moyne suspected something of this sort, and adroitly58 changed the subject.
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收听单词发音
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1
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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3
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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5
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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6
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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7
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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8
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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9
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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10
luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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sleight
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| n.技巧，花招 | |
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15
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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16
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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17
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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18
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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19
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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20
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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21
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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22
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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23
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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24
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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26
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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28
notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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29
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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30
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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31
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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33
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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35
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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36
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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37
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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40
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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41
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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42
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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43
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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44
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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45
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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46
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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47
fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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48
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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49
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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51
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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52
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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53
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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54
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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55
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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56
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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57
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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58
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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