"Why do you waste your time on a thing like that?" I inquired, smiling and trying to criticize and yet encourage him at one and the same time, for I had been annoyed by many similar assignments given out by the old management which could not now be used. "You look to me to have too much force and sense for that. Why not undertake something worth your time?"
"My time, hell!" he bristled7, like a fighting sledge-dog, of which by the way he reminded me. "You show me a magazine in this town that would buy anything that I thought worthy8 of my time! You're like all the rest of them: you talk big, but you really don't want anything very important. You want little things probably, written to a theory or down to 'our policy.' I know. Give me the stuff. You don't have to take it. It was ordered, but I'll throw it in the waste basket."
"Not so fast! Not so fast!" I replied, admiring his courage and moved by his contempt of the editorial and book publishing conditions in America. He was so young and raw and savage9 in his way, quite animal, and yet how interesting! There was something as fresh and clean about him as a newly plowed10 field or the virgin11 prairies. He typified for me all the young unsophisticated strength of my country, but with more "punch" than it usually manifests, in matters intellectual at least. "Now, don't get excited, and don't snarl," I cooed. "I know what you say is true. They don't really want much of what you have to offer. I don't. Working for some one else, as most of us do, for the dear circulation department, it's not possible for us to get very far above crowd needs and tastes. I've been in your position exactly. I am now. Where do you come from?"
He told me—Missouri—and some very few years before from its state university.
"And what is it you want to do?"
"What's that to you?" he replied irritatingly, with an ingrowing and obvious self-conviction of superiority and withdrawing as though he highly resented my question as condescending13 and intrusive15. "You probably wouldn't understand if I told you. Just now I want to write enough magazine stuff to make a living, that's all."
"Dear, dear!" I said, laughing at the slap. "What a bravo we are! Really, you're interesting. But suppose now you and I get down to brass16 tacks17. You want to do something interesting, if you can, and get paid for it. I rather like you, and anyhow you look to me as though you might do the things I want, or some of them. Now, you want to do the least silly thing you can—something better than this. I want the least silly stuff I can get away with in this magazine—genuine color out of the life of New York, if such a thing can be published in an ordinary magazine. Roughly, here's the kind of thing I want," and I outlined to him the probable policy of the magazine under my direction. I had taken an anæmic "white-light" monthly known as The Broadway (!) and was attempting to recast it into a national or international metropolitan18 picture. He thawed19 slightly.
"Well, maybe with that sort of idea behind it, it might come to something. I don't know. It's possible that you may be the one to do it." He emphasized the "possible." "At any rate, it's worth trying. Judging by the snide editors and publications in this town, no one in America wants anything decent." His lip curled. "I have ambitions of my own, but I don't expect to work them out through the magazines of this town; maybe not of this country. I didn't know that any change was under way here."
"Well, it is," I said. "Still, you can't expect much from this either, remember. After all, it seeks to be a popular magazine. We'll see how far we can go with really interesting material. And now if you know of any others like yourself, bring them in here. I need them. I'll pay you for that article, only I'll include it in a better price I'll give you for something else later, see?"
I smiled and he smiled. His was a warmth which was infectious when he chose to yield, but it was always a repressed warmth, cynical21, a bit hard; heat chained to a purpose, I thought. He went away and I saw him no more until about a week later when he brought me his first attempt to give me what I wanted.
In the meantime I was busy organizing a staff which should if possible, I decided22 after seeing him, include him. I could probably use him as a salaried "special" writer, provided he could be trained to write "specials." He looked so intelligent and ambitious that he promised much. Besides, the little article which he had left when he came again, while not well organized or arranged as to its ideas or best points, was exceedingly well written from the point of mere23 expression.
And the next thing I had given him to attempt was even better. It was, if I recall correctly, a stirring picture of the East Side, intended to appeal to readers elsewhere than in the city, but while in the matter of color and definiteness of expression as well as choice of words it was exceptional, it was lacking in, quite as the first one had been, the arrangement of its best points. This I explained to him, and also made it clear to him that I could show him how if he would let me. He seemed willing enough, quite anxious, although always with an air of reserve, as if he were accommodating himself to me in this much but no more. He grasped the idea of order swiftly, and in a little while, having worked at a table in an outer room, brought me the rearranged material, almost if not quite satisfactory. During a number of weeks and months thereafter, working on one "special" and another in this way with me, he seemed finally to grasp the theory I had, or at least to develop a method of his own which was quite as satisfactory to me, and I was very much pleased. A little later I employed him at a regular salary.
It was pathetic, as I look at it now, the things we were trying to do and the conditions under which we were trying to do them—the raw commercial force and theory which underlay25 the whole thing, the necessity of explaining and fighting for so much that one should not, as I saw it then, have to argue over at all. We were in new rooms, in a new building, filled with lumber26 not yet placed and awaiting the completion of partitions which, as some one remarked, "would divide us up." Our publisher and owner was a small, energetic, vibrant27 and colorful soul, all egotism and middle-class conviction as to the need of "push," ambition, "closeness to life," "punch," and what not else, American to the core, and descending14 on us, or me rather, hourly as it were, demanding the "hows" and the "whyfors" of the dream which the little group I was swiftly gathering28 about me was seeking to make real.
It was essential to me, therefore, that something different should be done, some new fresh note concerning metropolitan life and action be struck; the old, slow and somewhat grandiose29 methods of reporting and describing things dispensed30 with, at least in this instance, and here was a youth who seemed able to help me do it. He was so vigorous, so avid31 of life, so anxious to picture the very atmosphere which this magazine was now seeking to portray32. I felt stronger, better for having him around. The growth of the city, the character and atmosphere of a given neighborhood, the facts concerning some great social fortune, event, condition, crime interested him intensely; on the other hand he was so very easy to teach, quick to sense what was wanted and the order in which it must be presented. A few brief technical explanations from me, and he had the art of writing a "special" at his fingertips, and thereafter gave me no real difficulty.
But what was more interesting to me than his success in grasping my theory of "special" writing was his own character, as it was revealed to me from day to day in intimate working contact with him under these conditions. Here, as I soon learned, and was glad to learn, was no namby-pamby scribbler of the old happy-ending, pretty-nothing school of literary composition. On the contrary he sounded, for the first time in my dealings with literary aspirants34 of every kind, that sure, sane35, penetrating36, non-sentimental37 note so common to the best writers of the Continent, a note entirely38 free from mush, bravado39 and cant40. He had a style as clear as water, as simple as rain; color, romance, humor; and if a little too much of vanity and self-importance, still one could forgive him for they were rather well-based. Already used to dealing33 with literary and artistic41 aspirants of different kinds in connection with the publications of which I had been a part, this one appealed to me as being the best of them all and a very refreshing42 change.
One day, only a few weeks after I had met him, seeing that I was alert for fiction, poetry and short essays or prose phantasies, all illustrative of the spirit of New York, he brought me a little poem entitled "Neuvain," which interested me greatly. It was so brief and forceful and yet so delicate, a double triolet of the old French order, but with the modernity and flavor of the streets outside, the conduit cars, hand-organs and dancing children of the pavements. The title seemed affected43, seeing that the English word "Spring" would have done as well, but it was typical of his mood at the time, his literary adorations. He was in leash44 to the French school of which de Maupassant was the outstanding luminary45, only I did not know it at the time.
"Charming," I exclaimed quite enthusiastically. "I like this. Let me see anything else you have. Do you write short stories?"
For answer he merely stared at me for a little while in the most examining and arrogant46 and contemptuous way, as much as to say, "Let me see if you are really worth my time and trouble in this matter," or "This sad specimen47 of alleged48 mentality49 is just beginning to suspect that I might write a short story." Seeing that I merely smiled most genially50 in return, he finally deigned51 to say, "Sure, I write short stories. What do you think I'm in the writing game for?"
"But you might be interested in novels only or plays, or poetry."
"No," he returned after a pause and with that same air of unrelieved condescension52, "the short story is what I want to specialize in."
"Well," I said to myself, "here is a young cub53 who certainly has talent, is crowded with it, and yet owing to the kind of thing he is starting out to do and the fact that life will give him slaps and to spare before he is many years older, he needs to be encouraged. I was like that myself not so long ago. And besides, if I do not encourage this type of work financially (which is the best way of all), who will?"
About a week later I was given another and still more gratifying surprise, for one day, in his usual condescending manner, he brought to me two short pieces of fiction and laid them most gingerly on my desk with scarcely a word—"Here was something I might read if I chose," I believe. The reading of these two stories gave me as much of a start as though I had discovered a fully54 developed genius. They were so truly new or different in their point of view, so very clear, incisive55, brief, with so much point in them (The Second Motive56; The Right Man). For by then having been struggling with the short-story problem in other magazine offices before this, I had become not a little pessimistic as to the trend of American short fiction, as well as long—the impossibility of finding any, even supposing it publishable once we had it. My own experience with "Sister Carrie" as well as the fierce opposition57 or chilling indifference58 which, as I saw, overtook all those who attempted anything even partially59 serious in America, was enough to make me believe that the world took anything even slightly approximating the truth as one of the rankest and most criminal offenses60 possible. One dared not "talk out loud," one dared not report life as it was, as one lived it. And one of the primary warnings I had received from the president of this very organization—a most eager and ambitious and distressing62 example of that American pseudo-morality which combines a pirate-like acquisitiveness with an inward and absolute conviction of righteousness—was that while he wanted something new in fiction, something more virile63 and life-like than that "mush," as he characterized it, to be found in the current magazines, still (1), it must have a strong appeal for the general reader (!); and (2), be very compelling in fact and clean, as the dear general reader would of course understand that word—a solid little pair of millstones which would unquestionably end in macerating everything vital out of any good story.
Still I did not despair; something might be done. And though I sighed, I hoped to be able to make my superior stretch a point in favor of the exceptional thing, or, as the slang phrase went, "slip a few over on him," but that of course meant nothing or something, as you choose. My dream was really to find one or many like this youth, or a pungent64 kind of realism that would be true and yet within such limits as would make it usable. Imagine, then, my satisfaction in finding these two things, tales that I could not only admire genuinely but that I could publish, things that ought to have an interest for all who knew even a little about life. True, they were ironic65, cruel, but still with humor and color, so deftly66 and cleanly told that they were smile-provoking. I called him and said as much, or nearly so—a mistake, as I sometimes think now, for art should be long—and bought them forthwith, hoping, almost against hope, to find many more such like them.
By this time, by the way, and as I should have said before, I had still further enlarged my staff by one art director of the most flamboyant67 and erratic68 character, a genius of sorts, volatile69, restless, emotional, colorful, a veritable Verlaine-Baudelaire-Rops soul, who, not content to arrange and decorate the magazine each month, must needs wish to write, paint, compose verse and music and stage plays, as well as move in an upper social world, entrée to which was his by birth. Again, there was by now an Irish-Catholic makeup70 editor, a graduate of some distinguished71 sectarian school, who was more interested in St. Jerome and his Vulgate, as an embodiment of classic Latin, than he was in getting out the magazine. Still he had the advantage of being interesting—"and I learned about Horace from him." Again, there was a most interesting and youthful and pretty, if severe, example of the Wellesley-Mt. Holyoke-Bryn Mawr school of literary art and criticism, a most engagingly interesting intellectual maiden72, who functioned as assistant editor and reader in an adjoining room, along with the art-director, the makeup editor and an office boy. This very valuable and in some respects remarkable73 young woman, who while holding me in proper contempt, I fear, for my rather loose and unliterary ways, was still, as I had suspected before employing her, as keen for something new and vital in fiction and every other phase of the scriptic art as any one well could be. She was ever for culling74, sorting, eliminating—repression75 carried to the N-th power. At first L——cordially hated her, calling her a "simp," a "bluff," a "la-de-da," and what not. In addition to these there was a constantly swelling76 band of writers, artists, poets, critics, dreamers of reforms social, and I know not what else, who, holding the hope of achieving their ends or aims through some really forceful magazine, were by now beginning to make our place a center. It fairly swarmed77 for a time with aspirants; an amusing, vivid, strident world.
As for L——, all this being new to him, he was as interested, fascinated even, as any one well might be. He responded to it almost gayly at times, wondering whether something wonderful, international, enduring might not be made to come of it. He rapidly developed into one of the most pertinacious78 and even disconcerting youths I have ever met. At times he seemed to have a positive genius for saying and doing irritable79 and disagreeable things, not only to me but to others. Never having heard of me before he met me here, he was convinced, I think, that I was a mere nothing, with some slight possibilities as an editor maybe, certainly with none as a writer or as one who could even suggest anything to writers. I had helped him, but that was as it should be. As for my art-director, he was at first a fool, later a genius; ditto my makeup man.
As for Miss E——, the Wellesley-Bryn Mawr-Mt. Holyoke assistant, who from the first had agreed with me that here indeed was a writer of promise, a genius really, he, as I have said, at first despised her. Later, by dint80 of exulting81 in his force, sincerity82 of purpose, his keen insight and all but braggart83 strength, she managed, probably on account of her looks and physical graces, to install herself in his confidence and to convince him that she was not only an honest admirer of his skill but one who had taste and judgment84 of no mean caliber85. Thereafter he was about as agreeable as a semi-caged wild animal would be about any office.
But above all he was affronted86 by M——, the publisher of the paper, concerning whom he could find no words equal to his contemptuous thoughts of him. The publisher, as L——made quite bold to say to me, was little more than a "dodging87, rat-like financial ferret," a "financial stool-pigeon for some trust or other," a "shrewd, material little shopkeeper." This because M—— was accustomed to enter and force a conversation here and there, anxious of course to gather the full import of all these various energies and enthusiasms. One of the things which L—— most resented in him at the time was his air of supreme88 material well-being89, his obvious attempt and wish not to convey it, his carefully-cut clothes, his car, his numerous assistants and secretaries following him here and there from various other organizations with which he was connected.
M——'s idea, as he always said, was to spend and to live, only it wasn't. He merely induced others so to do. One of his customs (and it must have impressed L—— very much, innocent newcomer that he was) was to have one or another of his hirelings announce his passing from one "important" meeting to another, within or without his own building, telephone messages being "thrown in" on his line or barred out, wherever he happened to be at the moment and when, presumably, he was deep in one of those literary conferences or confidences with one employee or another or with a group, for which he rapidly developed a passion. Another of his vanities was to have his automobile90 announced and he be almost forced into it by impetuous secretaries, who, because of orders previously91 given, insisted that he must be made to keep certain important engagements. Or he would send for one of his hirelings, wherever he chanced to be—club, restaurant, his home—midnight if necessary, to confer with him on some subject of great moment, and the hireling was supposed to call a taxi and come post haste in order that he might not be kept waiting.
"God!" L—— once remarked in my presence. "To think that a thinking being has to be beholden to a thing like that for his weekly income! Somebody ought to tap him with a feather-duster and kill him!"
But the manner in which L—— developed in this atmosphere! It was interesting. At first, before the magazine became so significant or well-organized, it was a great pleasure for me to associate with him outside office hours, and a curious and vivid companion he made. He was so intensely avid of life, so intolerant of the old, of anything different to that which he personally desired or saw, that at times it was most difficult to say anything at all for fear of meeting a rebuff or at least a caustic92 objection. As I was very pleased to note, he had a passion for seeing, as all youth should have when it first comes to the great city—the great bridges, the new tunnels just then being completed or dug, the harbor and bay, Coney Island, the two new and great railway terminals, then under construction. Most, though, he reveled in different and even depressing neighborhoods—Eighth Avenue, for instance, about which he later wrote a story, and a very good one ("A Quiet Duet"); Hell's Kitchen, that neighborhood that lies (or did), on the West Side of Manhattan, between Eighth and Tenth Avenues, Thirty-sixth and Forty-first Streets; Little Italy, the region below Delancey and north of Worth Street on the East Side; Chinatown; Washington Street (Syria in America); the Greeks in Twenty-seventh and -eighth Streets, West Side. All these and many more phases of New York's multiplex life took his full and restless attention. Once he said to me quite excitedly, walking up Eighth Avenue at two in the morning—I was showing him some rear tenement93 slums in the summertime—"God, how I hate to go to bed in this town! I'm afraid something will happen while I'm asleep and I won't see it!" That was exactly how he felt all the time, I am sure.
And in those days he was most simple, a very Spartan94 of a boy. He hadn't the least taste for drink, lived in a small hall-bedroom somewhere—Eighth Avenue, I believe—and took his meals in those shabby little quick-lunch rooms where the characters were more important to him than the food. (My hat—my hat is in my hand!) Intellectually he was so stern and ambitious that I all but stood in awe20 of and reverence95 before him. Here, I said to myself, is one who will really do; let him be as savage as he pleases. In America he probably needs to be.
And during this short time, what scraps96 of his early life he revealed! By degrees I picked up bits of his early deprivations97 and difficulties, if such they might be called. He had been a newspaper reporter, or had tried to be, in Kansas City, had worked in the college restaurant and laundry of the middle-West State university from which he had graduated, to help pay his way. Afterward98 he had assisted the janitor99 of some great skyscraper100 somewhere—Kansas City, I believe—and, what was most pleasing to me, he in nowise emphasized these as youthful difficulties or made any comment as to their being "hard." Neither did he try to boastingly minimize them as nothing at all—another wretched pose. From him I learned that throughout his youth he had been carried here and there by the iron woman who was his mother and whom he seemed to adore in some grim contentious101 way, smothering102 his comments as though he disliked to say anything at all, and yet describing her at times as coarse and vulgar, but a mother to him "all right," someone who had made marked sacrifices for him.
She had once "run" a restaurant in a Western mining camp, had then or later carried him as a puling baby under her shawl or cloak across the Mojave Desert, on foot a part of the way. Apparently103 he did not know who his father was, and he was not very much concerned to know whether she did or not. His father had died, he said, when he was a baby. Later his mother, then a cook in some railroad hotel in Texas, had sent him to school there. Later still she had been a "bawler out," if you know what that means, an employee of a loan shark and used by him to compel delinquent104, albeit105 petty and pathetic, creditors106 to pay their dues or then and there, before all their fellow-workers, be screamed at for their delinquency about the shop in which they worked! Later she became a private detective! an insurance agent—God knows what—a kind of rough man-woman, as she turned out to be, but all the while clinging to this boy, her pet, no doubt her dream of perfection. She had by turns sent him to common and high school and to college, remitting107 him such sums of money as she might to pay his way. Later still (at that very time in fact) she was seeking to come to New York to keep house for him, only he would not have that, perhaps sensing the need of greater freedom. But he wrote her regularly, as he confessed to me, and in later years I believe sent her a part of his earnings108, which were to be saved by her for him against a rainy day. Among his posthumous109 writings later I found a very lovely story ("His Mother"), describing her and himself in unsparing and yet loving terms, a compound of the tender and the brutal110 in his own soul.
The thing that always made me hope for the best was that at that time he was not at all concerned with the petty little moralic and economic definitions and distinctions which were floating about his American world in one form and another. Indeed he seemed to be entirely free of and even alien to them. What he had heard about the indwelling and abiding111 perfections of the human soul had gone, and rightly so, in one ear and out the other. He respected the virtues112, but he knew of and reckoned with die antipathetic vices113 which gave them their reason for being. To him the thief was almost as important as the saint, the reason for the saint's being. And, better still, he had not the least interest in American politics or society—a wonderful sign. The American dream of "getting ahead" financially and socially was not part of him—another mark royal. All life was fascinating, acceptable, to be interpreted if one had the skill; it was a great distinction to have the skill—worth endless pains to acquire it.
But how unwilling115 would the average American of his day have been, stuffed as he was and still is with book and picture drivel about artists and art, to accept L—— as anything more than a raw, callow yokel116, presuming to assail117 the outer portals of the temple with his muddy feet! A romping118, stamping, irritable soul, with more the air of a young railroad brakeman or "hand," than an artist, and with so much coarse language at times and such brutality119 of thought as to bar him completely, one might say, from having anything to do with great fiction, great artistic conceptions, or the temple of art. What, sit with the mighty120!—that coarse youth, with darkish-brown hair parted at one side and combed over one ear, in the manner of a grandiose barber; with those thick-soled and none too shapely brown shoes, that none too well-made store suit of clothes, that little round brown hat, more often a cap, pulled rather savagely121 and vulgarly, even insultingly, over one eye; that coarse frieze122 overcoat, still worn on cold spring days, its "corners" back and front turned up by the damp and from being indifferently sat on; that brash corn-cob pipe and bag of cheap tobacco, extracted and lit at odd moments; what, that youth with the aggressive, irritating vibrant manner—almost the young tough with a chip on his shoulder looking for one to even so much as indicate that he is not all he should be! Positively123, there was something brutal and yet cosmic (not comic) about him, his intellectual and art pretensions124 considered. At times his waspishness and bravado palled126 even on me. He was too aggressive, too forceful, too intolerant, I said. He should be softer. At other times I felt that he needed to be all that and more to "get by," as he would have said. I wanted to modify him a little—and yet I didn't—and I remained drawn127 to him in spite of many irritating little circumstances, all but infuriating at times, and actually calculated, it seemed, with a kind of savage skill to reduce what he conceived to be my lofty superiority. At times I thought he ought to be killed—like a father meditating128 on an unruly son—but the mood soon passed and his literary ability made amends129 for everything.
In so far as the magazine was concerned, once it began to grow and attract attention he was for me its most important asset; not that he did so much directly as that he provided a definite standard toward which we all had to work. Not incuriously, he was swiftly recognized for what he was by all who came in touch with the magazine. In the first place, interested in his progress, I had seen to it that he was properly introduced wherever that was possible and of benefit to him, and later on, by sheer force of his mental capacity and integrity, his dreams and his critical skill, he managed to center about him an entire band of seeking young writers, artists, poets, playwrights131, aspiring132 musicians; an amusing and as interesting a group as I have ever seen. Their points of rendezvous133 appeared to be those same shabby quick-lunches in back streets or even on the principal thoroughfares about Times Square, or they met in each other's rooms or my office at night after I had gone, giving me as an excuse that they had work to do. And during all this time the air fairly hummed with rumors134 of new singers, dancers, plays, stories being begun or under way, articles and essays contemplated135; avid, if none too well financed frolics or bohemian midnight suppers here and there. Money was by no means plentiful136, and in consequence there was endless borrowing and "paying up" among them. Among the most enthusiastic members of this circle, as I had begun to note, and finally rather nervously137, were my art-director, a valiant138 knight139 in Bohemia if ever there was one, and she of Bryn Mawr-Wellesley standards. My makeup editor, as well as various contributors who had since become more or less closely identified with the magazine, were also following him up all the time.
If not directly profitable it was enlivening, and I was fairly well convinced by now that from the point of view of being "aware," "in touch with," "in sympathy with" many of the principal tendencies and undercurrents which make for a magazine's success and precedence, this group was as valuable to me as any might well be. It constituted a "kitchen cabinet" of sorts and brought hundreds of interesting ideas to the surface, and from all directions. Now it would be a new and hitherto unheard-of tenor140 who was to be brought from abroad and introduced with great noise to repute-loving Americans; a new sculptor141 or painter who had never been heard of in America; a great actor, perhaps, or poet or writer. I listened to any quantity of gossip in regard to new movements that were ready to burst upon the world, in sculpture, painting, the scriptic art. About the whole group there was much that was exceedingly warm, youthful, full of dreams. They were intensely informative142 and full of hope, and I used to look at them and wonder which one, if any, was destined143 to have his dreams realized.
Of L—— however I never had the least doubt. He began, it is true, to adopt rather more liberal tendencies, to wish always to be part and parcel of this gayety, this rushing here and there; and he drank at times—due principally, as I thought, to my wildling art-director, who had no sense or reserve in matters material or artistic and who was all for a bacchanalian144 career, cost what it might. On more than one occasion I heard L—— declaring roundly, apropos145 of some group scheme of pilgrimage, "No, no! I will not. I am going home now!" He had a story he wanted to work on, an article to finish. At the same time he would often agree that if by a certain time, when he was through, they were still at a certain place, or a second or third, he would look them up. Never, apparently, did his work suffer in the least.
And it was about this time that I began to gather the true source and import of his literary predisposition. He was literally146 obsessed147, as I now discovered, with Continental148 and more especially the French conception of art in writing. He had studied the works as well as the temperaments149 and experiences (more especially the latter, I fear) of such writers as de Maupassant, Flaubert, Baudelaire, Balzac, de Musset, Sand, Daudet, Dumas junior, and Zola, as well as a number of the more recent writers: Hervieu, Bourget, Louys and their contemporaries. Most of all, though, he was impressed, and deeply, by the life and art of de Maupassant, his method of approach, his unbiased outlook on life, his freedom from moral and religious and even sentimental predisposition. In the beginning of his literary career I really believe he slaved to imitate him exactly, although he could not very well escape the American temperament and rearing by which he was hopelessly conditioned. A certain Western critic and editor, to whom he had first addressed his hopes and scribblings before coming to me, writing me after L——'s death in reference to a period antedating150 that in which I had known him, observed, "He was crazy about the fin24 de siècle stuff that then held the boards and from which (I hope the recording151 angel will put it to my credit) I steered152 him clear." I think so; but he was still very much interested in it. He admired Aubrey Beardsley, the poster artists of France, Verlaine, Baudelaire, Rops, the Yellow Book, even Oscar Wilde, although his was a far more substantial and plebeian153 and even radical154 point of view.
Unfortunately for L——, I have always thought, there now thrust himself forward the publisher and owner of the magazine, who from previously having been content to see that the mercantile affairs of the magazine were in good order, had decided that since it was attracting attention he should be allowed to share in its literary and artistic prestige, should indeed be closely identified with it and recognized as its true source and inspiration—a thing which in no fashion had been contemplated by me when I went there. From having agreed very distinctly with me that no such interference would at any time be indulged in, he now came forward with a plan for an advisory156 council which was to consist of himself and the very members of the staff which I had created.
I could not object and it did not disturb me so much personally. For some time I had been sensing that the thing was for me no end in itself, but an incident. This same I felt to be true for L——, who had been taking more and more interest in the magazine's technical composition. At the same time I saw no immediate157 way of arranging my affairs and departing, which left me, for a very little while, more or less of a spectator. During this time I had the dissatisfaction of noting the growth of an influence with L—— which could, as I saw, prove only harmful. M—— was no suitable guide for him. He was a brilliant but superficial and very material type who was convinced that in the having and holding of many things material—houses, lands, corporation stocks, a place in the clubs and circles of those who were materially prosperous—was really to achieve all that was significant in the now or the hereafter. Knowing comparatively nothing of either art or letters, or that subtle thing which makes for personality and atmosphere in a magazine or in writing (and especially the latter), that grateful something which attracts and detains one, he was nevertheless convinced that he did. And what was more, he was determined158 not only to make friends with and hold all those whom I might have attracted, providing they could prove useful to him, but also a number of a much more successful group in these fields, those who had already achieved repute in a more commonplace and popular way and were therefore presumably possessed159 of a following and with the power to exact a high return for their product, and for the magazine, regardless of intrinsic merit. His constant talk was of money, its power to attract and buy, the significance of all things material. He now wanted the magazine to be representative of this glowing element, and at the same time, paradoxical as it might seem, the best that might be in literary and artistic thought.
Naturally the thing was impossible, but he had a facile and specious160 method of arguing, a most gay and in some respects magnetic personality, far from stodgy161 or gross, which for a time attracted many to him. Very briskly then indeed he proceeded to make friends with all those with whom I had surrounded myself, to enter into long and even private discussions with them as to the proper conduct of the magazine, to hint quite broadly at a glorious future in which all, each one particularly to whom he talked, was to share. Curiously130, this new and (as I would have thought) inimical personality of M—— seemed to appeal to L—— very much.
I do not claim that the result was fatal. It may even, or at least might, have had value, combined with an older or slightly more balanced temperament. But it seemed to me that it offered too quickly what should have come, if at all, as the result of much effort. For in regard to the very things L—— should have most guarded against—show and the shallow pleasures of social and night and material life in New York—M—— was most specious. I never knew a more intriguing162 and fascinating man in this respect nor one who cared less for those he used to obtain his unimportant ends. He had positive genius for making the gaudy163 and the unworthy seem worthy and even perfect. During his earlier days there, L—— had more than once "cursed him out" (in his absence, of course), to use his own expressive164 phrase, for his middle-West trade views, as he described them, his shabby social and material ideals, and yet, as I could plainly see, even at that time the virus of his theories was working. For it must be remembered that L—— was very new to New York, very young, and never having had much of anything he was no doubt slightly envious165 of the man's material facility, the sense of all-sufficiency, exclusiveness and even a kind of petty trade grandeur166 with which he tried to surround himself.
Well, that might not have proved fatal either, only L——needed some one to keep him true to himself, his individual capabilities167, to constantly caution and if possible sober him to his very severe taste, and as it was he was all but surrounded by acolytes168 and servitors.
A little later, having left M——'s and assumed another editorial position, and being compelled to follow the various current magazines more or less professionally, I was disturbed to note that there began to appear in various publications—especially M——'s, which was flourishing greatly for the moment—stories which while exhibiting much of the deftness169 and repression as well as an avidity for the true color of things, still showed what I had at first feared they might: a decided compromise. That curse of all American fiction, the necessarily happy ending, had been impressed on him—by whom? To my sincere dissatisfaction, he began writing stories, some at least, which concerned (1), a young woman who successfully abandoned art dreams for advertising170; (2), a middle-aged171 charmer, female, who attempted libertinage172 and was defeated, American style; (3), a Christmas picture with sweetness and light reigning173 on every hand (Dickens at his sentimentalest could have done no worse); (4), a Broadway press agent who, attempting to bring patronage174 to a great hotel via chic175 vice114, accidentally and unintentionally mates an all-too-good young society man turned hotel manager to a grand heiress. And so on and so on, not ad infinitum but for a period at least—the ten years in which he managed to live and work.
And, what was more, during this new period I heard and occasionally saw discouraging things in connection with him from time to time. True to his great promise, for I sincerely think M—— had a genuine fondness for his young protégé, as much of a fondness as he could well have for anything, he guaranteed him perhaps as much as three thousand a year; sent him to Stockholm at the age of twenty-four or-five to meet and greet the famous false pole discoverer, Doctor Cook; allowed him to go to Paris in connection with various articles; to Rome; sent him into the middle and far West; to Broadway for dramatic and social studies. Well and good, only he wanted always in what was done for him the "uplift" note, the happy ending—or at least one not vulgar or low—whereas my idea in connection with L——, gifted as he was, was that he should confine himself to fiction as an art and without any regard to theories or types of ending, believing, as I did, that he would definitely establish himself in that way in the long run. I had no objection of course to experiences of various kinds, his taking up with any line of work which might seem at the moment far removed from realistic writing, providing always that the star of his ideal was in sight. Whenever he wrote, be it early or late, it must be in the clear, incisive, uncompromising vein177 of these first stories and with that passion for revelation which characterized him at first, that same unbiased and unfettered non-moral viewpoint.
But after meeting with and working for M—— under this new arrangement and being apparently fascinated for the moment by his personality, he seemed to me to gradually lose sight of his ideal, to be actually taken in by the plausible178 arguments which the latter could spin with the ease that a spider spins gossamer179. In that respect I insist that M—— was a bad influence. Under his tutelage L—— gradually became, for instance, an habitué of a well-known and pseudo-bohemian chop-house, a most mawkish180 and naïvely imitative affair, intended frankly to be a copy or even the original, forsooth, of an old English inn, done, in so far as its woodwork was concerned, in smoked or dark-stained oak to represent an old English interior, its walls covered with long-stemmed pipes and pictures of English hunting and drinking scenes, its black-stained but unvarnished tables littered with riding, driving and country-life society papers, to give it that air of sans ceremonie with an upper world of which its habitués probably possessed no least inkling but most eagerly craved181. Here, along with a goodly group of his latter-day friends, far different from those by whom he had first been surrounded—a pretentious182 society poet of no great merit but considerable self-emphasis, a Wall Street broker183, posing as a club man, raconteur184, "first-nighter" and what not, and several young and ambitious playwrights, all seeking the heaven of a Broadway success—he began to pose as one of the intimates of the great city, its bosom185 child as it were, the cynosure186 and favorite of its most glittering precincts—a most M—— like proceeding187. His clothes by now, for I saw him on occasion, had taken on a more lustrous188 if less convincing aspect than those he had worn when I first knew him. The small round hat or rakish cap, typical of his Western dreams, had now given way to a most pretentious square-topped derby, beloved, I believe, of undertakers and a certain severe type of banker as well as some clergymen, only it was a light brown. His suit and waistcoat were of a bright English tweed, reddish-brown or herring-bone gray by turns, his shoes box-toed perfections of the button type. He carried a heavy cane189, often a bright leather manuscript case, and seemed intensely absorbed in the great and dramatic business of living and writing. "One must," so I read him at this time, "take the pleasures as well as the labors190 of this world with the utmost severity." Here, with a grand manner, he patronized the manager and the waiters, sent word to his friend the cook, who probably did not know him at all, that his chop or steak was to be done just so. These friends of his, or at least one of them (the poet) he met every day at five for an all-essential game of chess, after which an evening paper was read and the chop ordered. Ale—not beer—in a pewter mug was comme il faut, the only thing for a gentleman of letters, worthy of the name, to drink.
I am sorry to write so, for after all youth must have its fling. Still, I had expected better of L——, and I was a little disappointed to see that earlier dream of simplicity191 and privation giving way to an absolutely worthless show. Besides, twenty or thirty such stories as "The Right Man," "Sweet Dreams," "The Man With the Broken Fingers," "The Second Motive," would outweigh192 a thousand of the things he was getting published and the profits of which permitted him these airs.
Again, during the early days of his success with M——, he had married—a young nurse who had previously been a clerk in a store, a serious, earnest and from one point of view helpful person, seeing that she could keep his domestic affairs in order and bear him children, which she did, but she had no understanding of, or flair193 for, the type of thing he was called upon to do. She had no instinct for literature or the arts, and aside from her domestic capacities little skill or taste for "socializing." And, naturally, he was neglecting her. His head was probably surging with great ideas of art and hence a social supremacy194 which might well carry him anywhere. He had bought a farm some distance from New York, where in a community supposedly inhabited by successful and superior men of letters he posed as a farmer at times, mowing195 and cocking hay as became a Western plow-boy; and also, as the mood moved him, and as became a great and secluded196 writer, working in a den61 entirely surrounded by books in fine leather bindings (!) and being visited by those odd satellites of the scriptic art who see in genius of this type the summum bonum of life. It was the thing to do at that time, for a writer to own a farm and work it. Horace had. One individual in particular, a man of genuine literary and critical ability and great taste in the matter of all the arts but with no least interest in or tolerance197 for the simplicities198 of effort, came here occasionally, as I heard, to help him pile hay, and this in a silk shirt and a monocle; a second—and a most fascinating intellectual flaneur, who, however, had no vision or the gift of dreams—came to eat, drink, talk of many things to be done, to steal a few ideas, borrow a little money perhaps or consume a little morphine, and depart; a third came to spout199 of his success in connection with plays, or his proposed successes; a fourth to paint a picture, urged on by L——; a fifth to compose rural verse; a sixth, a broker or race-track tout200 or city bar-tender (for color, this last), to marvel201 that one of L——'s sense, or any one indeed, should live in the country at all. There were drinking bouts202, absolute drunkenness, in which, according to the Johnsonian tradition and that of Messieurs Rabelais and Molière, the weary intellect and one's guiding genius were immersed in a comforting Lethe of rye.
Such things cost money, however. In addition, my young friend, due to a desire no doubt to share in the material splendors203 of his age (a doctrine204 M—— was ever fond of spouting—and as a duty, if you please), had saddled himself, for a time at least, with an apartment in an exclusive square on the East Side, the rent of which was a severe drain. Before this there had been, and after it were still, others, obligations too much for him to bear financially, all in the main taken for show, that he might be considered a literary success. Now and again (so I was told by several of his intimates), confronted by a sudden exhaustion205 of his bank balance, he would leave some excellent apartment house or neighborhood, where for a few months he had been living in grand style, extracting his furniture as best he might, or leaving it and various debts beside, and would take refuge in some shabby tenement, or rear rooms even, and where, touched by remorse206 or encouraged by the great literary and art traditions (Balzac, Baudelaire, Johnson, Goldsmith, Verlaine) he would toil207 unendingly at definite money-yielding manuscripts, the results of which carried to some well-paying successful magazine would yield him sufficient to return to the white lights—often even to take a better apartment than that which last had been his. By now, however, one of the two children he eventually left behind him had been born. His domestic cares were multiplying, the marriage idea dull. Still he did not hesitate to continue those dinners given to his friends, the above-mentioned group or its spiritual kin12, either in his apartment or in a bohemian restaurant of great show in New York. In short, he was a fairly successful short-story writer and critic in whom still persisted a feeling that he would yet triumph in the adjacent if somewhat more difficult field of popular fiction.
It was during this period, if I may interpolate an incident, that I was waiting one night in a Broadway theater lobby for a friend to appear, when who should arrive on the scene but L——, most outlandishly dressed in what I took to be a reductio ad absurdum of his first pose, as I now half-feared it to be: that of the uncouth208 and rugged209 young American, disclaiming210 style in dress at least, and content to be a clod in looks so long as he was a Shelley in brains. His suit was of that coarse ill-fitting character described as Store, and shelf-worn; his shoes all but dusty brogans, his headgear a long-visored yellowish-and-brown cross-barred cap. He had on a short, badly-cut frieze overcoat, his hands stuck defiantly211 in his trousers pockets, forcing its lapels wide open. And he appeared to be partially if not entirely drunk, and very insolent212. I had the idea that the drunkenness and the dress were a pose, or else that he had been in some neighborhood in search of copy which required such an outfit213. Charitably let us accept the last. He was accompanied by two satellic souls who were doing their best to restrain him.
"Come, now! Don't make a scene. We'll see the show all right!"
"Sure we'll see the show!" he returned contentiously214. "Where's the manager?"
A smug mannikin whose uniform was a dress suit, the business manager himself, eyed him in no friendly spirit from a nearby corner.
"This is Mr. L——," one of the satellites now approached and explained to the manager. "He's connected with M——'s Magazine. He does short stories and dramatics occasionally."
The manager bowed. After all, M——'s Magazine had come to have some significance on Broadway. It was as well to be civil. Courtesy was extended for three, and they went in.
As for myself, I resented the mood and the change. It was in no way my affair—his life was his own—and still I resented it. I did not believe that he was as bad as he seemed. He had too much genuine sense. It was just boyish swagger and show, and still it was time that he was getting over that and settling down. I really hoped that time would modify all this.
One thing that made me hope for the best was that very shortly after this M——'s Magazine blew completely up, leaving him without that semi-financial protection which I felt was doing him so much harm. The next favorable sign that I observed was that a small volume of short stories, some sixteen in number, and containing the cream of his work up to that time, was brought to a publishing house with which I was financially identified at the time, and although no word was said to me (I really think he took great care not to see me), still it was left and on my advice eventually published (it sold, I believe, a little under five hundred copies). But the thing that cheered me was that it contained not one story which could be looked upon as a compromise with his first views. And better, it had been brought to the concern with which I was connected—intentionally, I am sure. I was glad to have had a hand in its publication. "At least," I said, "he has not lost sight of his first ideal. He may go on now."
And thereafter, in one magazine and another, excellent enough to have but a small circulation, I saw something of his which had genuine merit. A Western critical journal began to publish a series of essays by him, for which I am sure he received nothing at all. Again, three or four years later, a second volume of stories, almost if not quite as good as his first, was issued by this same Western paper. He was trying to do serious work; but he still sought and apparently craved those grand scenes on the farm or in some New York restaurant or an expensive apartment, and when he could no longer afford it. He still wrote happy-ending, or compromise, stories for any such magazine as would receive him, and was apparently building up a reasonably secure market for them. In the meantime the moving-picture scenario215 market had developed, and he wrote for it. His eyes were also turning toward the stage, as one completed manuscript and several "starts" turned over to me after his death proved. One day some one who knew him and me quite well assured me that L——, having sent out many excellent stories only to have them returned, had one day cried and then raged, cursing America for its attitude toward serious letters—an excellent sign, I thought, good medicine for one who must eventually forsake216 his hope of material grandeur and find himself. "In time, in time," I said, "he will eat through the husks of these other things, the 'M—— complex,' and do something splendid. He can't help it. But this fantastic dream of grandeur, of being a popular success, will have to be lived down."
For a time now I heard but little more save once that he was connected with a moving-picture concern, suggesting plots and making some money. Then I saw a second series of essays in the same Western critical paper—that of the editor who had published his book—and some of them were excellent, very searching and sincere. I felt that he was moving along the right line, although they earned him nothing. Then one week, very much to my surprise, there was a very glowing and extended commentary on myself, concerning which for the time being I decided to make no comment; and a little later, perhaps three weeks, a telephone call. Did I recall him? (!) Could he come and see me? (!) I invited him to dinner, and he came, carrying, of all things—and for him, the ex-railroad boy—a great armful of red roses. This touched me.
He blushed like a girl, a little irritably218 too, I thought, for he found me (as perhaps he had hoped not to) examining and critical, and he may have felt that I was laughing at him, which I wasn't. "I wished to give them to you, and I brought 'em. Why shouldn't I?"
"You know you should bring them if you want me to have them, and I'm only too glad to get them, anyway. Don't think I'm criticizing."
He smiled and began at once on the "old days," as he now called them, a sad commentary on our drifting days. Indeed he seemed able to talk of little else or fast enough or with too much enthusiasm. He went over many things and people—M——; K——, the wonderful art-director, now insane and a wreck219; the group of which he and I had once been a part; his youthful and unsophisticated viewpoint at the time. "You know," he confessed quite frankly finally, "my mother always told me then and afterwards that I made a mistake in leaving you. You were the better influence for me. She was right. I know it now. Still, a life's a life, and we have to work through it and ourselves somehow."
He told me of his wife, children, farm, his health and his difficulties. It appeared that he was making a bare living at times, at others doing very well. His great bane was the popular magazine, the difficulty of selling a good thing. It was true, I said, and at midnight he left, promising176 to come again, inviting221 me to come to his place in the country at my convenience. I promised.
But one thing and another interfered222. I went South. One day six months later, after I had returned, he called up once more, saying he wished to see me. Of course I asked him down and he came and spoke223 of his health. Some doctor, an old college pal125 of his, was assuring him that he had Bright's disease and that he might die at any time. He wanted to know, in case anything happened to him, would I look after his many mss., most of which, the most serious efforts at least, had never been published. I agreed. Then he went away and I never saw him again. A year later I was one day informed that he had died three days before of kidney trouble. He had been West to see a moving-picture director; on his way East he had been taken ill and had stopped off with friends somewhere to be treated, or operated upon. A few weeks later he had returned to New York, but refusing to rest and believing that he could not die, so soon, had kept out of doors and in the city, until suddenly he did collapse224. Or, rather, he met his favorite doctor, an intellectual savage like himself, who with some weird225 desire to appear forceful, definite, unsentimental perhaps—a mental condition L——most fancied—had told him to go home and to bed, for he would be dead in forty-eight hours!—a fine bit of assurance which perhaps as much as anything else assisted L—— to die. At any rate and in spite of the ministrations of his wife, who wished to defy the doctor and who in her hope for herself and her children as well as him strove to contend against this gloom, he did so go to bed and did die. On the last day, realizing no doubt how utterly226 indifferent his life had been, how his main aspirations227 or great dreams had been in the main nullified by passions, necessities, crass228 chance (how well he was fitted to understand that!) he broke down and cried for hours. Then he died.
A friend who had known much of this last period, said to me rather satirically, "He was dealing with death in the shape of a medic. Have you ever seen him?" The doctor, he meant. "He looks like an advertisement for an undertaker. I do believe he was trying to discover whether he could kill somebody by the power of suggestion, and he met L—— in the nick of time. You know how really sensitive he was. Well, that medic killed him, the same as you would kill a bird with a bullet. He said 'You're already dead,' and he was."
And—oh yes—M——, his former patron. At the time of L——'s sickness and death he was still owing him $1100 for services rendered during the last days of that unfortunate magazine. He had never been called upon to pay his debts, for he had sunk through one easy trapdoor of bankruptcy229 only to rise out of another, smiling and with the means to continue. Yes, he was rich again, rated A No. 1, the president of a great corporation, and with L——'s $1100 still unpaid230 and now not legally "collectible." His bank balance, established by a friend at the time, was exactly one hundred thousand.
But Mrs. L——, anxious to find some way out of her difficulty since her husband was lying cold, and knowing of no one else to whom to turn, had written to him. There was no food in the house, no medicine, no way to feed the children at the moment. That matter of $1100 now—could he spare a little? L—- had thought——
A letter in answer was not long in arriving, and a most moving M——y document it was. M—— had been stunned231 by the dreadful news, stunned. Could it really be? Could it? His young brilliant friend? Impossible! At the dread232, pathetic news he had cried—yes he had—cried—and cried—and cried—and then he had even cried some more. Life was so sad, so grim. As for him, his own affairs were never in so wretched a condition. It was unfortunate. Debts there were on every hand. They haunted him, robbed him of his sleep. He himself scarcely knew which way to turn. They stood in serried233 ranks, his debts. A slight push on the part of any one, and he would be crushed—crushed—go down in ruin. And so, as much as he was torn, and as much as he cried, even now, he could do nothing, nothing, nothing. He was agonized234, beaten to earth, but still——. Then, having signed it, there was a P.S. or an N.B. This stated that in looking over his affairs he had just discovered that by stinting235 himself in another direction he could manage to scrape together twenty-five dollars, and this he was enclosing. Would that God had designed that he should be better placed at this sad hour!
However that may be, I at once sent for the mss. and they came, a jumbled236 mass in two suitcases and a portfolio237; and a third suitcase, so I was informed, containing all of a hundred mss., mostly stories, had been lost somewhere! There had been much financial trouble of late and more than one enforced move. Mrs. L—— had been compelled—but I will not tell all. Suffice it to say that he had such an end as his own realistic pen might have satirically craved.
The mss., finally sorted, tabulated238 and read, yielded two small volumes of excellent tales, all unpublished, the published material being all but uniformly worthless. There was also the attempt at a popular comedy, previously mentioned, a sad affair, and a volume of essays, as well as a very, very slender but charming volume of verse, in case a publisher could ever be found for them—a most agreeable little group, showing a pleasing sense of form and color and emotion. I arranged them as best I could and finally——
But they are still unpublished.
P.S. As for the sum total of the work left by L——, its very best, it might be said that although he was not a great psychologist, still, owing to a certain pretentiousness239 of assertion at times, one might unthinkingly suppose he was. Neither had he, as yet, any fixed240 theories of art or definite style of his own, imitating as he was now de Maupassant, now O. Henry, now Poe; but also it must be said that slowly and surely he was approximating one, original and forceful and water-clear in expression and naturalness. At times he veered241 to a rather showy technique, at others to a cold and even harsh simplicity. Yet always in the main he had color, beauty, emotion, poignance242 when necessary. Like his idol243, de Maupassant, he had no moral or strong social prejudices, no really great or disturbing imagination, no wealth of perplexing ideas. He saw America and life as something to be painted as all masters see life and paint it. Gifted with a true vein of satire244, he had not, at the time of his death, quite mastered its possibilities. He still retained prejudice of one type or another, which he permitted to interfere155 with the very smooth arrangement of his colors. At the same time, had he not been disturbed by so many of the things which in America, as elsewhere, ordinarily assail an ambitious and earnest writer—the prejudice against naturalness and sincerity in matters of the intellect and the facts of life, and the consequent difficulty of any one so gifted in obtaining funds at any time—he might have done much better sooner. He was certain to come into his own eventually had he lived. His very accurate and sensitive powers of observation, his literary taste, his energy and pride in his work, were destined to carry him there. It could not have been otherwise. Ten years more, judging by the rate at which he worked, his annual product and that which he did leave, one might say that in the pantheon of American letters it is certain that he would have proved a durable245 if not one of its great figures, and he might well have been that. As it stands, it is not impossible that he will be so recognized, if for no more than the sure promise of his genius.
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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condescending
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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15
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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16
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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17
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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19
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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20
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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21
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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25
underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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26
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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27
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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28
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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29
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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31
avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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32
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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33
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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34
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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35
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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36
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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37
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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38
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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39
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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40
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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41
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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42
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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43
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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44
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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45
luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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46
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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47
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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48
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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49
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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50
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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51
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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53
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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54
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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55
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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56
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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57
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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58
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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59
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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60
offenses
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| n.进攻( offense的名词复数 )；（球队的）前锋；进攻方法；攻势 | |
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61
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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62
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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63
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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64
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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65
ironic
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|
| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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66
deftly
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|
| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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67
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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68
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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69
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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70
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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71
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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72
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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73
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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74
culling
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|
| n.选择，大批物品中剔出劣质货v.挑选，剔除( cull的现在分词 ) | |
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75
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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76
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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77
swarmed
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|
| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 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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78
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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79
irritable
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|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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80
dint
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|
| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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81
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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82
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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83
braggart
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|
| n.吹牛者；adj.吹牛的，自夸的 | |
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84
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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85
caliber
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| n.能力；水准 | |
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86
affronted
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|
| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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87
dodging
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|
| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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88
supreme
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|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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89
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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90
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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91
previously
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|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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92
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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93
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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94
spartan
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|
| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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95
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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96
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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97
deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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98
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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99
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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100
skyscraper
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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101
contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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102
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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103
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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104
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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105
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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106
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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107
remitting
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的现在分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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108
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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109
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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110
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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111
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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112
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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113
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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114
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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115
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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116
yokel
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| n.乡下人；农夫 | |
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117
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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118
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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119
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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120
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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121
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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122
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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123
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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124
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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125
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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126
palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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128
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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129
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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130
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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131
playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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132
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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133
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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134
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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135
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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136
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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137
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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138
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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139
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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140
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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141
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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142
informative
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| adj.提供资料的，增进知识的 | |
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143
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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144
bacchanalian
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| adj.闹酒狂饮的；n.发酒疯的人 | |
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145
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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146
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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147
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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148
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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149
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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150
antedating
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的现在分词 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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151
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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152
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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153
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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154
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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155
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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156
advisory
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| adj.劝告的，忠告的，顾问的，提供咨询 | |
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157
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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158
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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159
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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160
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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161
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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162
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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163
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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164
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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165
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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166
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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167
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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168
acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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169
deftness
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170
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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171
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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172
libertinage
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| n.放荡，自由观点 | |
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173
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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174
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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175
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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176
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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177
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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178
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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179
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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180
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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181
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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182
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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183
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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184
raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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185
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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186
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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187
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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188
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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189
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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190
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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191
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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192
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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193
flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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194
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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195
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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196
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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197
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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198
simplicities
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| n.简单，朴素，率直( simplicity的名词复数 ) | |
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199
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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200
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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201
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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202
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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203
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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204
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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205
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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206
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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207
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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208
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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209
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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210
disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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211
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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212
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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213
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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214
contentiously
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215
scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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216
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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217
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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218
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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219
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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220
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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221
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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222
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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223
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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224
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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225
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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226
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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227
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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228
crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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229
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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230
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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231
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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232
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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233
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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234
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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235
stinting
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| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
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236
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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237
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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238
tabulated
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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240
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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241
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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242
poignance
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243
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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244
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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245
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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