“Do you remember that picture we saw in the art store the other day, Algernon?” she would drawl, calling him by his second name, which she had adopted for herself as being more suited to his moods when with her and more pleasing to her. Cowperwood had protested, but she held to it. “Do you remember that lovely blue of the old man’s coat?” (It was an “Adoration of the Magi.”) “Wasn’t that be-yoot-i-ful?”
She drawled so sweetly and fixed16 her mouth in such an odd way that he was impelled17 to kiss her. “You clover blossom,” he would say to her, coming over and taking her by the arms. “You sprig of cherry bloom. You Dresden china dream.”
“Now, are you going to muss my hair, when I’ve just managed to fix it?”
“Yes, I am, minx.”
“Yes, but you mustn’t smother19 me, you know. Really, you know you almost hurt me with your mouth. Aren’t you going to be nice to me?”
“Yes, sweet. But I want to hurt you, too.”
“Well, then, if you must.”
But for all his transports the lure20 was still there. She was like a butterfly, he thought, yellow and white or blue and gold, fluttering over a hedge of wild rose.
In these intimacies21 it was that he came quickly to understand how much she knew of social movements and tendencies, though she was just an individual of the outer fringe. She caught at once a clear understanding of his social point of view, his art ambition, his dreams of something better for himself in every way. She seemed to see clearly that he had not as yet realized himself, that Aileen was not just the woman for him, though she might be one. She talked of her own husband after a time in a tolerant way—his foibles, defects, weaknesses. She was not unsympathetic, he thought, just weary of a state that was not properly balanced either in love, ability, or insight. Cowperwood had suggested that she could take a larger studio for herself and Harold—do away with the petty economies that had hampered22 her and him—and explain it all on the grounds of a larger generosity23 on the part of her family. At first she objected; but Cowperwood was tactful and finally brought it about. He again suggested a little while later that she should persuade Harold to go to Europe. There would be the same ostensible24 reason—additional means from her relatives. Mrs. Sohlberg, thus urged, petted, made over, assured, came finally to accept his liberal rule—to bow to him; she became as contented25 as a cat. With caution she accepted of his largess, and made the cleverest use of it she could. For something over a year neither Sohlberg nor Aileen was aware of the intimacy26 which had sprung up. Sohlberg, easily bamboozled27, went back to Denmark for a visit, then to study in Germany. Mrs. Sohlberg followed Cowperwood to Europe the following year. At Aix-les-Bains, Biarritz, Paris, even London, Aileen never knew that there was an additional figure in the background. Cowperwood was trained by Rita into a really finer point of view. He came to know better music, books, even the facts. She encouraged him in his idea of a representative collection of the old masters, and begged him to be cautious in his selection of moderns. He felt himself to be delightfully28 situated29 indeed.
The difficulty with this situation, as with all such where an individual ventures thus bucaneeringly on the sea of sex, is the possibility of those storms which result from misplaced confidence, and from our built-up system of ethics30 relating to property in women. To Cowperwood, however, who was a law unto himself, who knew no law except such as might be imposed upon him by his lack of ability to think, this possibility of entanglement31, wrath32, rage, pain, offered no particular obstacle. It was not at all certain that any such thing would follow. Where the average man might have found one such liaison33 difficult to manage, Cowperwood, as we have seen, had previously34 entered on several such affairs almost simultaneously35; and now he had ventured on yet another; in the last instance with much greater feeling and enthusiasm. The previous affairs had been emotional makeshifts at best—more or less idle philanderings in which his deeper moods and feelings were not concerned. In the case of Mrs. Sohlberg all this was changed. For the present at least she was really all in all to him. But this temperamental characteristic of his relating to his love of women, his artistic36 if not emotional subjection to their beauty, and the mystery of their personalities37 led him into still a further affair, and this last was not so fortunate in its outcome.
Antoinette Nowak had come to him fresh from a West Side high school and a Chicago business college, and had been engaged as his private stenographer38 and secretary. This girl had blossomed forth39 into something exceptional, as American children of foreign parents are wont40 to do. You would have scarcely believed that she, with her fine, lithe41 body, her good taste in dress, her skill in stenography42, bookkeeping, and business details, could be the daughter of a struggling Pole, who had first worked in the Southwest Chicago Steel Mills, and who had later kept a fifth-rate cigar, news, and stationery43 store in the Polish district, the merchandise of playing-cards and a back room for idling and casual gaming being the principal reasons for its existence. Antoinette, whose first name had not been Antoinette at all, but Minka (the Antoinette having been borrowed by her from an article in one of the Chicago Sunday papers), was a fine dark, brooding girl, ambitious and hopeful, who ten days after she had accepted her new place was admiring Cowperwood and following his every daring movement with almost excited interest. To be the wife of such a man, she thought—to even command his interest, let alone his affection—must be wonderful. After the dull world she had known—it seemed dull compared to the upper, rarefied realms which she was beginning to glimpse through him—and after the average men in the real-estate office over the way where she had first worked, Cowperwood, in his good clothes, his remote mood, his easy, commanding manner, touched the most ambitious chords of her being. One day she saw Aileen sweep in from her carriage, wearing warm brown furs, smart polished boots, a street-suit of corded brown wool, and a fur toque sharpened and emphasized by a long dark-red feather which shot upward like a dagger44 or a quill45 pen. Antoinette hated her. She conceived herself to be better, or as good at least. Why was life divided so unfairly? What sort of a man was Cowperwood, anyhow? One night after she had written out a discreet46 but truthful47 history of himself which he had dictated48 to her, and which she had sent to the Chicago newspapers for him soon after the opening of his brokerage office in Chicago, she went home and dreamed of what he had told her, only altered, of course, as in dreams. She thought that Cowperwood stood beside her in his handsome private office in La Salle Street and asked her:
“Antoinette, what do you think of me?” Antoinette was nonplussed49, but brave. In her dream she found herself intensely interested in him.
“Oh, I don’t know what to think. I’m so sorry,” was her answer. Then he laid his hand on hers, on her cheek, and she awoke. She began thinking, what a pity, what a shame that such a man should ever have been in prison. He was so handsome. He had been married twice. Perhaps his first wife was very homely50 or very mean-spirited. She thought of this, and the next day went to work meditatively51. Cowperwood, engrossed52 in his own plans, was not thinking of her at present. He was thinking of the next moves in his interesting gas war. And Aileen, seeing her one day, merely considered her an underling. The woman in business was such a novelty that as yet she was declassé. Aileen really thought nothing of Antoinette at all.
Somewhat over a year after Cowperwood had become intimate with Mrs. Sohlberg his rather practical business relations with Antoinette Nowak took on a more intimate color. What shall we say of this—that he had already wearied of Mrs. Sohlberg? Not in the least. He was desperately54 fond of her. Or that he despised Aileen, whom he was thus grossly deceiving? Not at all. She was to him at times as attractive as ever—perhaps more so for the reason that her self-imagined rights were being thus roughly infringed55 upon. He was sorry for her, but inclined to justify56 himself on the ground that these other relations—with possibly the exception of Mrs. Sohlherg—were not enduring. If it had been possible to marry Mrs. Sohlberg he might have done so, and he did speculate at times as to whether anything would ever induce Aileen to leave him; but this was more or less idle speculation57. He rather fancied they would live out their days together, seeing that he was able thus easily to deceive her. But as for a girl like Antoinette Nowak, she figured in that braided symphony of mere53 sex attraction which somehow makes up that geometric formula of beauty which rules the world. She was charming in a dark way, beautiful, with eyes that burned with an unsatisfied fire; and Cowperwood, although at first only in the least moved by her, became by degrees interested in her, wondering at the amazing, transforming power of the American atmosphere.
“Are your parents English, Antoinette?” he asked her, one morning, with that easy familiarity which he assumed to all underlings and minor58 intellects—an air that could not be resented in him, and which was usually accepted as a compliment.
Antoinette, clean and fresh in a white shirtwaist, a black walking-skirt, a ribbon of black velvet59 about her neck, and her long, black hair laid in a heavy braid low over her forehead and held close by a white celluloid comb, looked at him with pleased and grateful eyes. She had been used to such different types of men—the earnest, fiery60, excitable, sometimes drunken and swearing men of her childhood, always striking, marching, praying in the Catholic churches; and then the men of the business world, crazy over money, and with no understanding of anything save some few facts about Chicago and its momentary61 possibilities. In Cowperwood’s office, taking his letters and hearing him talk in his quick, genial way with old Laughlin, Sippens, and others, she had learned more of life than she had ever dreamed existed. He was like a vast open window out of which she was looking upon an almost illimitable landscape.
“No, sir,” she replied, dropping her slim, firm, white hand, holding a black lead-pencil restfully on her notebook. She smiled quite innocently because she was pleased.
“I thought not,” he said, “and yet you’re American enough.”
“I don’t know how it is,” she said, quite solemnly. “I have a brother who is quite as American as I am. We don’t either of us look like our father or mother.”
“What does your brother do?” he asked, indifferently.
“He’s one of the weighers at Arneel & Co. He expects to be a manager sometime.” She smiled.
Cowperwood looked at her speculatively62, and after a momentary return glance she dropped her eyes. Slowly, in spite of herself, a telltale flush rose and mantled63 her brown cheeks. It always did when he looked at her.
“Take this letter to General Van Sickle,” he began, on this occasion quite helpfully, and in a few minutes she had recovered. She could not be near Cowperwood for long at a time, however, without being stirred by a feeling which was not of her own willing. He fascinated and suffused64 her with a dull fire. She sometimes wondered whether a man so remarkable65 would ever be interested in a girl like her.
The end of this essential interest, of course, was the eventual66 assumption of Antoinette. One might go through all the dissolving details of days in which she sat taking dictation, receiving instructions, going about her office duties in a state of apparently chill, practical, commercial single-mindedness; but it would be to no purpose. As a matter of fact, without in any way affecting the preciseness and accuracy of her labor67, her thoughts were always upon the man in the inner office—the strange master who was then seeing his men, and in between, so it seemed, a whole world of individuals, solemn and commercial, who came, presented their cards, talked at times almost interminably, and went away. It was the rare individual, however, she observed, who had the long conversation with Cowperwood, and that interested her the more. His instructions to her were always of the briefest, and he depended on her native intelligence to supply much that he scarcely more than suggested.
“You understand, do you?” was his customary phrase.
“Yes,” she would reply.
She felt as though she were fifty times as significant here as she had ever been in her life before.
The office was clean, hard, bright, like Cowperwood himself. The morning sun, streaming in through an almost solid glass east front shaded by pale-green roller curtains, came to have an almost romantic atmosphere for her. Cowperwood’s private office, as in Philadelphia, was a solid cherry-wood box in which he could shut himself completely—sight-proof, sound-proof. When the door was closed it was sacrosanct68. He made it a rule, sensibly, to keep his door open as much as possible, even when he was dictating69, sometimes not. It was in these half-hours of dictation—the door open, as a rule, for he did not care for too much privacy—that he and Miss Nowak came closest. After months and months, and because he had been busy with the other woman mentioned, of whom she knew nothing, she came to enter sometimes with a sense of suffocation70, sometimes of maidenly71 shame. It would never have occurred to her to admit frankly72 that she wanted Cowperwood to make love to her. It would have frightened her to have thought of herself as yielding easily, and yet there was not a detail of his personality that was not now burned in her brain. His light, thick, always smoothly73 parted hair, his wide, clear, inscrutable eyes, his carefully manicured hands, so full and firm, his fresh clothing of delicate, intricate patterns—how these fascinated her! He seemed always remote except just at the moment of doing something, when, curiously74 enough, he seemed intensely intimate and near.
One day, after many exchanges of glances in which her own always fell sharply—in the midst of a letter—he arose and closed the half-open door. She did not think so much of that, as a rule—it had happened before—but now, to-day, because of a studied glance he had given her, neither tender nor smiling, she felt as though something unusual were about to happen. Her own body was going hot and cold by turns—her neck and hands. She had a fine figure, finer than she realized, with shapely limbs and torso. Her head had some of the sharpness of the old Greek coinage, and her hair was plaited as in ancient cut stone. Cowperwood noted75 it. He came back and, without taking his seat, bent76 over her and intimately took her hand.
“Antoinette,” he said, lifting her gently.
She looked up, then arose—for he slowly drew her—breathless, the color gone, much of the capable practicality that was hers completely eliminated. She felt limp, inert77. She pulled at her hand faintly, and then, lifting her eyes, was fixed by that hard, insatiable gaze of his. Her head swam—her eyes were filled with a telltale confusion.
“Antoinette!”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You love me, don’t you?”
She tried to pull herself together, to inject some of her native rigidity78 of soul into her air—that rigidity which she always imagined would never desert her—but it was gone. There came instead to her a picture of the far Blue Island Avenue neighborhood from which she emanated—its low brown cottages, and then this smart, hard office and this strong man. He came out of such a marvelous world, apparently. A strange foaming79 seemed to be in her blood. She was deliriously80, deliciously numb81 and happy.
“Antoinette!”
“I like your name,” he said, simply. “Antoinette.” And then, pulling her to him, he slipped his arm about her waist.
She was frightened, numb, and then suddenly, not so much from shame as shock, tears rushed to her eyes. She turned and put her hand on the desk and hung her head and sobbed83.
“Why, Antoinette,” he asked, gently, bending over her, “are you so much unused to the world? I thought you said you loved me. Do you want me to forget all this and go on as before? I can, of course, if you can, you know.”
He knew that she loved him, wanted him.
She heard him plainly enough, shaking.
“Do you?” he said, after a time, giving her moments in which to recover.
“Oh, let me cry!” she recovered herself sufficiently84 to say, quite wildly. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just because I’m nervous, I suppose. Please don’t mind me now.”
“Antoinette,” he repeated, “look at me! Will you stop?”
“Oh no, not now. My eyes are so bad.”
“Antoinette! Come, look!” He put his hand under her chin. “See, I’m not so terrible.”
“Oh,” she said, when her eyes met his again, “I—” And then she folded her arms against his breast while he petted her hand and held her close.
“I’m not so bad, Antoinette. It’s you as much as it is me. You do love me, then?”
“Yes, yes—oh yes!”
“And you don’t mind?”
“No. It’s all so strange.” Her face was hidden.
“Kiss me, then.”
She put up her lips and slipped her arms about him. He held her close.
He tried teasingly to make her say why she cried, thinking the while of what Aileen or Rita would think if they knew, but she would not at first—admitting later that it was a sense of evil. Curiously she also thought of Aileen, and how, on occasion, she had seen her sweep in and out. Now she was sharing with her (the dashing Mrs. Cowperwood, so vain and superior) the wonder of his affection. Strange as it may seem, she looked on it now as rather an honor. She had risen in her own estimation—her sense of life and power. Now, more than ever before, she knew something of life because she knew something of love and passion. The future seemed tremulous with promise. She went back to her machine after a while, thinking of this. What would it all come to? she wondered, wildly. You could not have told by her eyes that she had been crying. Instead, a rich glow in her brown cheeks heightened her beauty. No disturbing sense of Aileen was involved with all this. Antoinette was of the newer order that was beginning to privately85 question ethics and morals. She had a right to her life, lead where it would. And to what it would bring her. The feel of Cowperwood’s lips was still fresh on hers. What would the future reveal to her now? What?
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1
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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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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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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bamboozled
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| v.欺骗，使迷惑( bamboozle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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stenography
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| n.速记，速记法 | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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46
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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48
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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49
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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51
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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52
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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53
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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54
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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55
infringed
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的过去式和过去分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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56
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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57
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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58
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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59
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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sacrosanct
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| adj.神圣不可侵犯的 | |
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dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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