“Now do you think you can remember, dear?” she said to May, the child, after having explained over and over again what she wished her to do.
“Yeth,” said May, who lisped charmingly in the sweetest of child voices.
“Well, what must you say?”
“I muth thay: Pleathe write your—your——”
“Autograph.”
“Yeth, your au—to—graph in my album.”
“That’s right, autograph, autograph, don’t forget. Now let me hear you say it.”
“Pleathe write your autograph in my book.”
Mrs. Philpot caught the child to her breast and kissed it vigorously, and not long afterward10 little May went forth11 to try the experiment.[20] She was armed with her mother’s autograph album. When she approached her victim he thought he never had seen so lovely a child. The mother had not spared pains to give most effect to the little thing’s delicate and appealing beauty by an artistic13 arrangement of the shining gold hair and by the simplest but cunningest tricks of color and drapery.
With that bird-like shyness so winning in a really beautiful little girl, May walked up to the stranger and made a funny, hesitating courtesy. He looked at her askance, his smiling face shooting forth a ray of tenderness along with a gleam of shrewd suspicion, as he made out the album in her dimpled little hand.
“Good morning, little one,” he said cheerily. “Have you come to make a call?”
He held out both hands and looked so kindly14 and good that she smiled until dimples just like her mother’s played over her cheeks and chin. Half sidewise she crept into his arms and held up the book.
“Pleathe write your photograph in my book,” she murmured.
“Who told you to come?” he inquired, with a guilty cunning twinkle in his gray eyes.
“Mama told me,” was the prompt answer.
Again the man chuckled17, and, between the shame he felt for having betrayed the child and delight at the success of his perfidy18, he grew quite red in the face. He took the autograph album and turned its stiff, ragged-edged leaves, glancing at the names.
“Ah, this is your mama’s book, is it?” he went on.
“Yeth it is,” said May.
“And I must write my name in it?”
“No, your—your——”
“Well what?”
“I don’t ’member.”
He took from his pocket a stylographic pen and dashed a picturesque19 sign manual across a page.
While the ink was drying he tenderly kissed the child’s forehead and then rested his chin on her bright hair. He could hear the clack of balls and mallets and the creak of a lazy swing down below on the so-called lawn, and a hum of voices arose from the veranda20. He looked through the open window and saw, as in a dream, blue peaks set against a shining rim12 of sky with a wisp of vultures slowly wheeling about in a filmy, sheeny space.
“Mama said I muthn’t stay,” apologized the child, slipping down from his knee, which she had found uncomfortably short.
He pulled himself together from a diffused21 state of revery and beamed upon her again with his cheerful smile.
She turned near the door and dropped another comical little courtesy, bobbing her curly head till her hair twinkled like a tangle22 of starbeams[22] on a brook-ripple, then she darted23 away, book in hand.
Little Mrs. Philpot snatched the album from May, as she ran to her, and greedily rustled24 the leaves in search of the new record, finding which she gazed at it while her face irradiated every shade of expression between sudden delight and utter perplexity. In fact she could not decipher the autograph, although the handwriting surely was not bad. Loath25 as she naturally was to sharing her secret with her friends, curiosity at length prevailed and she sought help. Everybody in turn tried to make out the two short words, all in vain till Crane, by the poet’s subtle vision, cleared up the mystery, at least to his own satisfaction.
“Gaspard Dufour is the name,” he asserted, with considerable show of conscious superiority. “A Canadian, I think. In fact I imperfectly recall meeting him once at a dinner given by the Governor General to Lord Rosenthal at Quebec. He writes plays.”
“Another romance out of the whole cloth by the Bourbon æsthete!” whispered the critic. “There’s no such a Canadian as Gaspard Dufour, and besides the man’s a Westerner rather over-Bostonized. I can tell by his voice and his mixed manners.”
“But Mrs. Hope would know him,” suggested the person addressed. “She meets all the Hub literati, you know.”
A few minutes later Mr. Gaspard Dufour came down and passed out of the hotel, taking his way into the nearest ravine. He wore a very short coat and a slouch hat. In his hand he carried a bundle of fishing-rod joints27. A man of his build looks far from dignified28 in such dress, at best; but nothing could have accentuated29 more sharply his absurd grotesqueness30 of appearance than the peculiar31 waddling32 gait he assumed as he descended33 the steep place and passed out of sight, a fish basket bobbing beside him and a red kerchief shining around his throat.
Everybody looked at his neighbor and smiled inquisitively34. Now that they had discovered his name, the question arose: What had Gaspard Dufour ever done that he should be accorded the place of honor in Hotel Helicon. No one (save Crane, in a shadowy way) had ever heard of him before. No doubt they all felt a little twinge of resentment35; but Dufour, disappearing down the ravine, had in some unaccountable way deepened his significance.
IV.
Everybody knows that a mountain hotel has no local color, no sympathy with its environment, no gift of making its guests feel that they are anywhere in particular. It is all very delightful36 to be held aloft on the shoulder of a giant almost within reach of the sky; but the charm of the thing is not referable to any[24] definite, visible cause, such as one readily bases one’s love of the sea-side on, or such as accounts for our delight in the life of a great city. No matter how fine the effect of clouds and peaks and sky and gorge37, no matter how pure and exhilarating the air, or how blue the filmy deeps of distance, or how mossy the rocks, or how sweet the water, or how cool the wooded vales, the hotel stands there in an indefinite way, with no raison d’etre visible in its make-up, but with an obvious impudence38 gleaming from its windows. One cannot deport39 one’s self at such a place as if born there. The situation demands—nay, exacts behavior somewhat special and peculiar. No lonely island in the sea is quite as isolated40 and out of the world as the top of any mountain, nor can any amount of man’s effort soften41 in the least the savage42 individuality of mountain scenery so as to render those high places familiar or homelike or genuinely habitable. Delightful enough and fascinating enough all mountain hotels surely are; but the sensation that living in one of them induces is the romantic consciousness of being in a degree “out of space, out of time.” No doubt this feeling was heightened and intensified43 in the case of the guests at Hotel Helicon who were enjoying the added novelty of entire freedom from the petty economies that usually dog the footsteps and haunt the very dreams of the average summer sojourner44. At all events, they were mostly a light-hearted set given over to a[25] freedom of speech and action which would have horrified45 them on any lower plane.
Scarcely had Gaspard Dufour passed beyond sight down the ravine in search of a trout-brook, than he became the subject of free discussion. Nothing strictly impolite was said about him; but everybody in some way expressed amazement46 at everybody’s ignorance of a man whose importance was apparent and whose name vaguely47 and tauntingly48 suggested to each one of them a half-recollection of having seen it in connection with some notable literary sensation.
“Is there a member of the French institute by the name of Dufour?” inquired R. Hobbs Lucas, the historian, thoughtfully knitting his heavy brows.
“I am sure not,” said Hartley Crane, “for I met most of the members when I was last at Paris and I do not recall the name.”
“There goes that Bourbon again,” muttered Laurens Peck, the critic; “if one should mention Xenophon, that fellow would claim a personal acquaintance with him!”
It was plain enough that Peck did not value Crane very highly, and Crane certainly treated Peck very coolly. Miss Moyne, however, was blissfully unaware49 that she was the cause of this trouble, and for that matter the men themselves would have denied with indignant fervor50 any thing of the kind. Both of them were stalwart and rather handsome, the Kentuckian dark and passionate51 looking, the New Yorker fair, cool and willful in appearance. Miss Moyne had[26] been pleased with them both, without a special thought of either, whilst they were going rapidly into the worry and rapture52 of love, with no care for anybody but her.
She was beautiful and good, sweet-voiced, gentle, more inclined to listen than to talk, and so she captivated everybody from the first.
“I think it would be quite interesting,” she said, “if it should turn out that Mr. Dufour is a genuine foreign author, like Tolstoï or Daudet or——”
“Realists, and nobody but realists,” interposed Mrs. Philpot; “why don’t you say Zola, and have done with it?”
“Well, Zola, then, if it must be,” Miss Moyne responded; “for, barring my American breeding and my Southern conservatism, I am nearly in sympathy with—no, not that exactly, but we are so timid. I should like to feel a change in the literary air.”
“Oh, you talk just as Arthur Selby writes in his critical papers. He’s all the time trying to prove that fiction is truth and that truth is fiction. He lauds53 Zola’s and Dostoieffsky’s filthy54 novels to the skies; but in his own novels he’s as prudish55 and Puritanish as if he had been born on Plymouth Rock instead of on an Illinois prairie.”
“I wonder why he is not a guest here,” some one remarked. “I should have thought that our landlord would have had him at all hazards. Just now Selby is monopolizing56 the[27] field of American fiction. In fact I think he claims the earth.”
“It is so easy to assume,” said Guilford Ferris, whose romances always commanded eulogy57 from the press, but invariably fell dead on the market; “but I am told that Selby makes almost nothing from the sales of his books.”
“But the magazines pay him handsomely,” said Miss Moyne.
“Yes, they do,” replied Ferris, pulling his long brown mustache reflectively, “and I can’t see why. He really is not popular; there is no enthusiasm for his fiction.”
“It’s a mere58 vogue59, begotten60 by the critics,” said Hartley Crane. “Criticism is at a very low ebb61 in America. Our critics are all either ignorant or given over to putting on English and French airs.”
Ferris opened his eyes in a quiet way and glanced at Peck who, however, did not appear to notice the remark.
“There’s a set of them in Boston and New York,” Crane went on, “who watch the Revue de Deux Mondes and the London Atheneum, ready to take the cue from them. Even American books must stand or fall by the turn of the foreign thumb.”
“Take these crude, loose, awkward, almost obscene Russian novels,” continued Crane, “and see what a furor64 the critics of New York and Boston have fermented65 in their behalf, all[28] because it chanced that a coterie66 of Parisian literary roués fancied the filthy imaginings of Dostoieffsky and the raw vulgarity of Tolstoï. What would they say of you, Ferris, if you should write so low and dirty a story as Crime and Its Punishment by Dostoieffsky?”
“Oh, I don’t know, and, begging your grace, I don’t care a straw,” Ferris replied; “the publishers would steal all my profits in any event.”
“Do you really believe that?” inquired Peck.
“Believe it? I know it,” said Ferris. “When did you ever know of a publisher advertising67 a book as in its fiftieth thousand so long as the author had any royalty68 on the sales? The only book of mine that ever had a run was one I sold outright69 in the manuscript to George Dunkirk & Co., who publish all my works. That puerile70 effort is now in its ninetieth thousand, while the best of the other six has not yet shown up two thousand! Do you catch the point?”
“But what difference can printing a statement of the books sold make, anyway?” innocently inquired Miss Moyne.
Ferris laughed.
“All the difference in the world,” he said; “the publisher would have to account to the author for all those thousands, don’t you see.”
“Account!” exclaimed Ferris, contemptuously; “account! yes, they have to account.”
“But they account to me,” Miss Moyne gently insisted.
“Who are your publishers?” he demanded.
“George Dunkirk & Co.,” was the answer.
“Well,” said he, “I’ll wager72 you anything I can come within twenty of guessing the sales up to date of your book. It has sold just eleven hundred and forty copies.”
She laughed merrily and betrayed the dangerous closeness of his guess by coloring a little.
“Oh, its invariably just eleven hundred and forty copies, no matter what kind of a book it is, or what publisher has it,” he continued; “I’ve investigated and have settled the matter.”
The historian was suddenly thoughtful, little Mrs. Philpot appeared to be making some abstruse73 calculation, Crane was silently gazing at the ground and Peck, with grim humor in his small eyes, remarked that eleven hundred and forty was a pretty high average upon the whole.
Just at this point a figure appeared in the little roadway where it made its last turn lapsing74 from the wood toward the hotel. A rather tall, slender and angular young woman, bearing a red leather bag in one hand and a blue silk umbrella in the other, strode forward with the pace of a tragedienne. She wore a bright silk dress, leaf-green in color, and a black bonnet75, of nearly the Salvation76 Army pattern, was set far back on her head, giving full play to a mass of short, fine, loosely tumbled yellow hair.
She was very much out of breath from her walk up the mountain, but there was a plucky77 smile on her rather sallow face and an enterprising gleam in her light eyes.
She walked right into the hotel, as if she had always lived there, and they heard her talking volubly to the servant as she was following him to a room.
Everybody felt a waft78 of free Western air and knew that Hotel Helicon had received another interesting guest, original if not typical, with qualities that soon must make themselves respected in a degree.
“Walked from the station?” Mrs. Philpot ventured, in querulous, though kindly interrogation.
“Up the mountain?” Miss Moyne added, with a deprecatory inflection.
“And carried that bag!” exclaimed all the rest.
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1
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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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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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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8
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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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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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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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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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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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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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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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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27
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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grotesqueness
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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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waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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33
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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38
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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deport
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| vt.驱逐出境 | |
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40
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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41
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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42
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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43
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
sojourner
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| n.旅居者，寄居者 | |
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45
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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46
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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47
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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48
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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49
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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50
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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51
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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52
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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53
lauds
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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55
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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56
monopolizing
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| v.垄断( monopolize的现在分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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57
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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58
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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59
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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60
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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61
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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62
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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63
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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64
furor
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| n.狂热；大骚动 | |
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65
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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66
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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68
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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69
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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70
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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71
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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72
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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73
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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74
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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75
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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76
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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77
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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