“To be sure,” he conceded, “to be sure there is a demand for dialect stories, and I suppose that they must be written; but for my part I cannot see why we Americans must stultify7 ourselves in the eyes of all the world by flooding our magazines, newspapers and books with yawp instead of with a truly characteristic American literature of a high order. There is some excuse for a quasi-negro literature, and even the Creoles might have a niche8 set apart for them, but dialect, on the whole, is growing to be a literary bore.”
“But don’t you think,” said Miss Crabb, drawing her chin under, and projecting her upper teeth to such a degree that anything like realistic description would appear brutal9, “don’t you think, Mr. Dufour, that Mr. Tolliver would make a great character in a mountain romance?”
“No. There is nothing great in a clown, as[76] such,” he promptly10 answered. “If Tolliver is great he would be great without his jargon11.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but the picturesqueness12, the color, the contrast, you know, would be gone. Now Craddock—”
“Craddock is excellent, so long as there is but one Craddock, but when there are some dozens of him it is different,” said Dufour, “and it is the process of multiplication13 that I object to. There’s Cable, who is no longer a genius of one species. The writers of Creole stories are swarming14 by the score, and, poor old Uncle Remus! everybody writes negro dialect now. Literary claim-jumpers are utterly15 conscienceless. The book market will soon be utterly ruined.”
“I had hoped,” she said, “to get my novel on the market before this, but I have not yet found a publisher to suit me.”
She winced17 inwardly at this way of expressing the fact that every publisher, high and low, far and near, had declined her MS. out of hand; but she could not say the awful truth in its simpliest terms, while speaking to one so prosperous as Dufour. She felt that she must at all hazards preserve a reasonable show of literary independence. Crane came to her aid.
“One publisher is just as good as another,” he said almost savagely18. “They are all thieves. They report every book a failure, save those they own outright19, and yet they all get rich. I shall publish for myself my next volume.”
Dufour smiled grimly and turned away. It was rather monotonous20, this iteration and reiteration21 of so grave a charge against the moral character of publishers, and this threat of Crane’s to become his own publisher was a bit of unconscious and therefore irresistible22 humor.
“It’s too pathetic to be laughed at,” Dufour thought, as he strolled along to where Miss Moyne sat under a tree, “but that Kentuckian actually thinks himself a poet!”
With all his good nature and kind heartedness, Dufour could be prejudiced, and he drew the line at what he called the “prevailing tendency toward boastful prevarication23 among Kentucky gentlemen.”
As he walked away he heard Crane saying:
“George Dunkirk & Co. have stolen at least twenty thousand dollars in royalties24 from me during the past three years.”
It was the voice of Ferris that made interrogative response:
“Is Dunkirk your publisher?”
“Yes, or rather my robber.”
Dufour half turned about and cast a quick glance at the speakers. He did not say anything, however, but resumed his progress toward Miss Moyne, who had just been joined by Mrs. Nancy Jones Black, a stoutish26 and oldish woman very famous on account of having assumed much and done little. Mrs. Nancy Jones Black was from Boston. She was president of the Woman’s Antiquarian Club, of the Ladies’ Greek[78] Association, of The Sappho Patriotic27 Club, of the Newport Fashionable Near-sighted Club for the study of Esoteric Transcendentalism, and it may not be catalogued how many more societies and clubs. She was a great poet who had never written any great poem, a great essayist whom publishers and editors avoided, whom critics regarded as below mediocrity, but of whom everybody stood in breathless awe28, and she was an authority in many literary and philosophical29 fields of which she really knew absolutely nothing. She was a reformer and a person of influence who had made a large number of her kinsfolk famous as poets and novelists without any apparent relevancy between the fame and the literary work done. If your name were Jones and you could trace out your relationship to Mrs. Nancy Jones Black and could get Mrs. Nancy Jones Black interested in your behalf, you could write four novels a year with great profit ever afterward30.
As Dufour approached he heard Miss Moyne say:
“I publish my poor little works with George Dunkirk & Co. and the firm has been very kind to me. I feel great encouragement, but I don’t see how I can bear this horrible newspaper familiarity and vulgarity.”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Nancy Jones Black, placing her plump, motherly hand on the young woman’s arm, “you must not appear to notice it. Do as did my daughter Lois when they assailed31 her first little novel with sugar-plum[79] praise. Why, when it began to leak out that Lois was the author of A Sea-Side Symphony the poor girl was almost smothered32 with praise. Of course I had to take the matter in hand and under my advice Lois went abroad for six months. When she returned she found herself famous.”
“Talking shop?” inquired Dufour, accepting the offer of a place on the bench beside Mrs. Black.
“Yes,” said she, with a comprehensive wave of her hand, “I am taking Miss Moyne under my wing, so to say, and am offering her the comfort of my experience. She is a genius whom it doesn’t spoil to praise. She’s going to be the next sensation in the East.”
“I suggested as much to her,” said Dufour. “She is already on a strong wave, but she must try and avoid being refractory33, you know.” He said this in a straightforward34, business way, but his voice was touched with a certain sort of admirable tenderness.
Miss Moyne was looking out over the deep, hazy35 valley, her cheeks still warm with the thought of that newspaper portrait with its shabby clothes and towsled bangs. What was fame, bought at such a price! She bridled36 a little, but did not turn her head as she said.
“I am not refractory, I am indignant, and I have a right to be. They cannot justify37 the liberty they have taken, besides I will not accept notoriety—I—”
“There, now, dear, that is what Lois said, and[80] Milton John Jones, my nephew, was at first bound that he wouldn’t let Tom, my brother, advertise him; but he soon saw his way clear, I assure you, and now he publishes four serials38 at once. Be prudent39, dear, be prudent.”
“But the idea of picturing me with great barbaric rings in my ears and with a corkscrew curl on each side and—”
Dufour interrupted her with a laugh almost hearty40 enough to be called a guffaw41, and Mrs. Black smiled indulgently as if at a clever child which must be led, not driven.
“Being conscious that you really are stylish42 and beautiful, you needn’t care for the picture,” said Dufour, in a tone of sturdy sincerity43.
“There is nothing so effective as a foil,” added Mrs. Black.
Miss Moyne arose and with her pretty chin slightly elevated walked away.
“How beautiful she is!” exclaimed Dufour, gazing after her, “and I am delighted to know that you are taking an interest in her.”
“She grows upon one.”
“Yes,” said he, with self-satisfied obtuseness46, “yes, she is magnetic, she is a genuine genius.”
“Precisely, she stirs one’s heart strangely,” replied Mrs. Black.
“You should speak of it to her at the first opportunity.”
Dufour started a little, flushed and finally laughed as one does who discovers a bit of clever and harmless treachery.
“If I only dared,” he presently said, with something very like fervor49 in his tone. “If I only dared.”
Mrs. Black looked at him a moment, as if measuring in her mind his degree of worthiness50, then with a wave of her hand she said:
“Never do you dare to dare. Mr. Crane stands right in your path.”
Dufour leaped to his feet with the nimbleness and dangerous celerity of a tiger.
“Crane!” he exclaimed with a world of contempt in his voice, “If he—” but he stopped short and laughed at himself.
Mrs. Black looked at him with a patronizing expression in her eyes.
“Leave it to me,” she said, in her most insinuating51 tone.
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收听单词发音
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1
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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stultify
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| v.愚弄；使呆滞 | |
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8
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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9
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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picturesqueness
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13
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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14
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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15
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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16
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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17
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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19
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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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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21
reiteration
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| n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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22
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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prevarication
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| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
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24
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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stoutish
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| 略胖的 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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32
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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33
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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34
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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36
bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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37
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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38
serials
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| n.连载小说，电视连续剧( serial的名词复数 ) | |
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39
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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40
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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41
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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42
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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43
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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44
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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45
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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46
obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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47
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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48
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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49
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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50
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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51
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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