Cowperwood, as was natural, heard much of her stage life. At first he took all this palaver11 with a grain of salt, the babbling12 of an ardent13 nature interested in the flighty romance of the studio world. By degrees, however, he became curious as to the freedom of her actions, the ease with which she drifted from place to place—Lane Cross’s studio; Bliss14 Bridge’s bachelor rooms, where he appeared always to be receiving his theatrical friends of the Garrick Players; Mr. Gardner Knowles’s home on the near North Side, where he was frequently entertaining a party after the theater. It seemed to Cowperwood, to say the least, that Stephanie was leading a rather free and inconsequential existence, and yet it reflected her exactly—the color of her soul. But he began to doubt and wonder.
“Where were you, Stephanie, yesterday?” he would ask, when they met for lunch, or in the evenings early, or when she called at his new offices on the North Side, as she sometimes did to walk or drive with him.
“Oh, yesterday morning I was at Lane Cross’s studio trying on some of his Indian shawls and veils. He has such a lot of those things—some of the loveliest oranges and blues15. You just ought to see me in them. I wish you might.”
“Alone?”
“For a while. I thought Ethel Tuckerman and Bliss Bridge would be there, but they didn’t come until later. Lane Cross is such a dear. He’s sort of silly at times, but I like him. His portraits are so bizarre.”
Cowperwood marveled, not at Lane Cross’s art nor his shawls, but at this world in which Stephanie moved. He could not quite make her out. He had never been able to make her explain satisfactorily that first single relationship with Gardner Knowles, which she declared had ended so abruptly18. Since then he had doubted, as was his nature; but this girl was so sweet, childish, irreconcilable19 with herself, like a wandering breath of air, or a pale-colored flower, that he scarcely knew what to think. The artistically inclined are not prone20 to quarrel with an enticing21 sheaf of flowers. She was heavenly to him, coming in, as she did at times when he was alone, with bland22 eyes and yielding herself in a kind of summery ecstasy23. She had always something artistic to tell of storms, winds, dust, clouds, smoke forms, the outline of buildings, the lake, the stage. She would cuddle in his arms and quote long sections from “Romeo and Juliet,” “Paolo and Francesca,” “The Ring and the Book,” Keats’s “Eve of St. Agnes.” He hated to quarrel with her, because she was like a wild rose or some art form in nature. Her sketch24-book was always full of new things. Her muff, or the light silk shawl she wore in summer, sometimes concealed25 a modeled figure of some kind which she would produce with a look like that of a doubting child, and if he wanted it, if he liked it, he could have it. Cowperwood meditated26 deeply. He scarcely knew what to think.
The constant atmosphere of suspicion and doubt in which he was compelled to remain, came by degrees to distress27 and anger him. While she was with him she was clinging enough, but when she was away she was ardently28 cheerful and happy. Unlike the station he had occupied in so many previous affairs, he found himself, after the first little while, asking her whether she loved him instead of submitting to the same question from her.
He thought that with his means, his position, his future possibilities he had the power to bind29 almost any woman once drawn30 to his personality; but Stephanie was too young and too poetic31 to be greatly impaired32 by wealth and fame, and she was not yet sufficiently33 gripped by the lure34 of him. She loved him in her strange way; but she was interested also by the latest arrival, Forbes Gurney. This tall, melancholy35 youth, with brown eyes and pale-brown hair, was very poor. He hailed from southern Minnesota, and what between a penchant36 for journalism37, verse-writing, and some dramatic work, was somewhat undecided as to his future. His present occupation was that of an instalment collector for a furniture company, which set him free, as a rule, at three o’clock in the afternoon. He was trying, in a mooning way, to identify himself with the Chicago newspaper world, and was a discovery of Gardner Knowles.
Stephanie had seen him about the rooms of the Garrick Players. She had looked at his longish face with its aureole of soft, crinkly hair, his fine wide mouth, deep-set eyes, and good nose, and had been touched by an atmosphere of wistfulness, or, let us say, life-hunger. Gardner Knowles brought a poem of his once, which he had borrowed from him, and read it to the company, Stephanie, Ethel Tuckerman, Lane Cross, and Irma Ottley assembled.
“Listen to this,” Knowles had suddenly exclaimed, taking it out of his pocket.
It concerned a garden of the moon with the fragrance39 of pale blossoms, a mystic pool, some ancient figures of joy, a quavered Lucidian tune40.
Stephanie Platow had sat silent, caught by a quality that was akin38 to her own. She asked to see it, and read it in silence.
“I think it’s charming,” she said.
Thereafter she hovered45 in the vicinity of Forbes Gurney. Why, she could scarcely say. It was not coquetry. She just drew near, talked to him of stage work and her plays and her ambitions. She sketched46 him as she had Cowperwood and others, and one day Cowperwood found three studies of Forbes Gurney in her note-book idyllicly done, a note of romantic feeling about them.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s a young poet who comes up to the Players—Forbes Gurney. He’s so charming; he’s so pale and dreamy.”
“Another one of Stephanie’s adherents,” he commented, teasingly. “It’s a long procession I’ve joined. Gardner Knowles, Lane Cross, Bliss Bridge, Forbes Gurney.”
“How you talk! Bliss Bridge, Gardner Knowles! I admit I like them all, but that’s all I do do. They’re just sweet and dear. You’d like Lane Cross yourself; he’s such a foolish old Polly. As for Forbes Gurney, he just drifts up there once in a while as one of the crowd. I scarcely know him.”
“Exactly,” said Cowperwood, dolefully; “but you sketch him.” For some reason Cowperwood did not believe this. Back in his brain he did not believe Stephanie at all, he did not trust her. Yet he was intensely fond of her—the more so, perhaps, because of this.
“Tell me truly, Stephanie,” he said to her one day, urgently, and yet very diplomatically. “I don’t care at all, so far as your past is concerned. You and I are close enough to reach a perfect understanding. But you didn’t tell me the whole truth about you and Knowles, did you? Tell me truly now. I sha’n’t mind. I can understand well enough how it could have happened. It doesn’t make the least bit of difference to me, really.”
Stephanie was off her guard for once, in no truly fencing mood. She was troubled at times about her various relations, anxious to put herself straight with Cowperwood or with any one whom she truly liked. Compared to Cowperwood and his affairs, Cross and Knowles were trivial, and yet Knowles was interesting to her. Compared to Cowperwood, Forbes Gurney was a stripling beggar, and yet Gurney had what Cowperwood did not have—a sad, poetic lure. He awakened52 her sympathies. He was such a lonely boy. Cowperwood was so strong, brilliant, magnetic.
Perhaps it was with some idea of clearing up her moral status generally that she finally said: “Well, I didn’t tell you the exact truth about it, either. I was a little ashamed to.”
At the close of her confession53, which involved only Knowles, and was incomplete at that, Cowperwood burned with a kind of angry resentment54. Why trifle with a lying prostitute? That she was an inconsequential free lover at twenty-one was quite plain. And yet there was something so strangely large about the girl, so magnetic, and she was so beautiful after her kind, that he could not think of giving her up. She reminded him of himself.
“Well, Stephanie,” he said, trampling55 under foot an impulse to insult or rebuke56 and dismiss her, “you are strange. Why didn’t you tell me this before? I have asked and asked. Do you really mean to say that you care for me at all?”
“How can you ask that?” she demanded, reproachfully, feeling that she had been rather foolish in confessing. Perhaps she would lose him now, and she did not want to do that. Because his eyes blazed with a jealous hardness she burst into tears. “Oh, I wish I had never told you! There is nothing to tell, anyhow. I never wanted to.”
Cowperwood was nonplussed57. He knew human nature pretty well, and woman nature; his common sense told him that this girl was not to be trusted, and yet he was drawn to her. Perhaps she was not lying, and these tears were real.
“And you positively58 assure me that this was all—that there wasn’t any one else before, and no one since?”
Stephanie dried her eyes. They were in his private rooms in Randolph Street, the bachelor rooms he had fitted for himself as a changing place for various affairs.
“I don’t believe you care for me at all,” she observed, dolefully, reproachfully. “I don’t believe you understand me. I don’t think you believe me. When I tell you how things are you don’t understand. I don’t lie. I can’t. If you are so doubting now, perhaps you had better not see me any more. I want to be frank with you, but if you won’t let me—”
She paused heavily, gloomily, very sorrowfully, and Cowperwood surveyed her with a kind of yearning59. What an unreasoning pull she had for him! He did not believe her, and yet he could not let her go.
“Oh, I don’t know what to think,” he commented, morosely60. “I certainly don’t want to quarrel with you, Stephanie, for telling me the truth. Please don’t deceive me. You are a remarkable61 girl. I can do so much for you if you will let me. You ought to see that.”
“But I’m not deceiving you,” she repeated, wearily. “I should think you could see.”
“I believe you,” he went on, trying to deceive himself against his better judgment62. “But you lead such a free, unconventional life.”
“Ah,” thought Stephanie, “perhaps I talk too much.”
“I am very fond of you. You appeal to me so much. I love you, really. Don’t deceive me. Don’t run with all these silly simpletons. They are really not worthy63 of you. I shall be able to get a divorce one of these days, and then I would be glad to marry you.”
“But I’m not running with them in the sense that you think. They’re not anything to me beyond mere49 entertainment. Oh, I like them, of course. Lane Cross is a dear in his way, and so is Gardner Knowles. They have all been nice to me.”
Cowperwood’s gorge64 rose at her calling Lane Cross dear. It incensed65 him, and yet he held his peace.
“Do give me your word that there will never be anything between you and any of these men so long as you are friendly with me?” he almost pleaded—a strange role for him. “I don’t care to share you with any one else. I won’t. I don’t mind what you have done in the past, but I don’t want you to be unfaithful in the future.”
“What a question! Of course I won’t. But if you don’t believe me—oh, dear—”
Stephanie sighed painfully, and Cowperwood’s face clouded with angry though well-concealed suspicion and jealousy66.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Stephanie, I believe you now. I’m going to take your word. But if you do deceive me, and I should find it out, I will quit you the same day. I do not care to share you with any one else. What I can’t understand, if you care for me, is how you can take so much interest in all these affairs? It certainly isn’t devotion to your art that’s impelling67 you, is it?”
“Oh, are you going to go on quarreling with me?” asked Stephanie, naively68. “Won’t you believe me when I say that I love you? Perhaps—” But here her histrionic ability came to her aid, and she sobbed69 violently.
Cowperwood took her in his arms. “Never mind,” he soothed70. “I do believe you. I do think you care for me. Only I wish you weren’t such a butterfly temperament71, Stephanie.”
So this particular lesion for the time being was healed.
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收听单词发音
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1
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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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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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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13
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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25
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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29
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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32
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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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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penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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40
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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41
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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42
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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45
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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46
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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47
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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48
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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50
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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52
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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53
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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54
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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55
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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56
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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57
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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58
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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59
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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60
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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61
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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62
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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63
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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64
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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65
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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66
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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67
impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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68
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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69
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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70
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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71
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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