“Well, Hosmer,” said Schryhart the next day, when they met at their favorite club—the union League—“it looks as though we were making some little progress, after all, doesn’t it? Our friend didn’t succeed in turning that little trick, did he?”
He beamed almost ecstatically upon his solid companion.
“Not this time. I wonder what move he will decide to make next.”
“I don’t see very well what it can be. He knows now that he can’t get his franchises2 without a compromise that will eat into his profits, and if that happens he can’t sell his union Traction3 stock. This legislative4 scheme of his must have cost him all of three hundred thousand dollars, and what has he to show for it? The new legislature, unless I’m greatly mistaken, will be afraid to touch anything in connection with him. It’s hardly likely that any of the Springfield politicians will want to draw the fire of the newspapers again.”
Schryhart felt very powerful, imposing—sleek, indeed—now that his theory of newspaper publicity6 as a cure was apparently7 beginning to work. Hand, more saturnine8, more responsive to the uncertainty9 of things mundane—the shifty undercurrents that are perpetually sapping and mining below—was agreeable, but not sure. Perhaps so.
In regard to his Eastern life during this interlude, Cowperwood had been becoming more and more keenly alive to the futility10 of the attempt to effect a social rescue for Aileen. “What was the use?” he often asked himself, as he contemplated11 her movements, thoughts, plans, as contrasted with the natural efficiency, taste, grace, and subtlety12 of a woman like Berenice. He felt that the latter could, if she would, smooth over in an adroit13 way all the silly social antagonisms14 which were now afflicting15 him. It was a woman’s game, he frequently told himself, and would never be adjusted till he had the woman.
Simultaneously16 Aileen, looking at the situation from her own point of view and nonplussed17 by the ineffectiveness of mere18 wealth when not combined with a certain social something which she did not appear to have, was, nevertheless, unwilling19 to surrender her dream. What was it, she asked herself over and over, that made this great difference between women and women? The question contained its own answer, but she did not know that. She was still good-looking—very—and an adept20 in self-ornamentation, after her manner and taste. So great had been the newspaper palaver21 regarding the arrival of a new multimillionaire from the West and the palace he was erecting22 that even tradesmen, clerks, and hall-boys knew of her. Almost invariably, when called upon to state her name in such quarters, she was greeted by a slight start of recognition, a swift glance of examination, whispers, even open comment. That was something. Yet how much more, and how different were those rarefied reaches of social supremacy23 to which popular repute bears scarcely any relationship at all. How different, indeed? From what Cowperwood had said in Chicago she had fancied that when they took up their formal abode24 in New York he would make an attempt to straighten out his life somewhat, to modify the number of his indifferent amours and to present an illusion of solidarity25 and unity26. Yet, now that they had actually arrived, she noticed that he was more concerned with his heightened political and financial complications in Illinois and with his art-collection than he was with what might happen to be going on in the new home or what could be made to happen there. As in the days of old, she was constantly puzzled by his persistent27 evenings out and his sudden appearances and disappearances28. Yet, determine as she might, rage secretly or openly as she would, she could not cure herself of the infection of Cowperwood, the lure29 that surrounded and substantiated30 a mind and spirit far greater than any other she had ever known. Neither honor, virtue31, consistent charity, nor sympathy was there, but only a gay, foamy32, unterrified sufficiency and a creative, constructive33 sense of beauty that, like sunlit spray, glowing with all the irradiative glories of the morning, danced and fled, spun34 driftwise over a heavy sea of circumstance. Life, however dark and somber35, could never apparently cloud his soul. Brooding and idling in the wonder palace of his construction, Aileen could see what he was like. The silver fountain in the court of orchids36, the peach-like glow of the pink marble chamber38, with its birds and flowers, the serried39 brilliance40 of his amazing art-collections were all like him, were really the color of his soul. To think that after all she was not the one to bind41 him to subjection, to hold him by golden yet steely threads of fancy to the hem5 of her garment! To think that he should no longer walk, a slave of his desire, behind the chariot of her spiritual and physical superiority. Yet she could not give up.
By this time Cowperwood had managed through infinite tact42 and a stoic43 disregard of his own aches and pains to re-establish at least a temporary working arrangement with the Carter household. To Mrs. Carter he was still a Heaven-sent son of light. Actually in a mournful way she pleaded for Cowperwood, vouching44 for his disinterestedness45 and long-standing generosity46. Berenice, on the other hand, was swept between her craving47 for a great state for herself—luxury, power—and her desire to conform to the current ethics48 and morals of life. Cowperwood was married, and because of his attitude of affection for her his money was tainted49. She had long speculated on his relation to Aileen, the basis of their differences, had often wondered why neither she nor her mother had ever been introduced. What type of woman was the second Mrs. Cowperwood? Beyond generalities Cowperwood had never mentioned her. Berenice actually thought to seek her out in some inconspicuous way, but, as it chanced, one night her curiosity was rewarded without effort. She was at the opera with friends, and her escort nudged her arm.
“Have you noticed Box 9—the lady in white satin with the green lace shawl?”
“Yes.” Berenice raised her glasses.
“Mrs. Frank Algernon Cowperwood, the wife of the Chicago millionaire. They have just built that house at 68th Street. He has part lease of number 9, I believe.”
Berenice almost started, but retained her composure, giving merely an indifferent glance. A little while after, she adjusted her glasses carefully and studied Mrs. Cowperwood. She noted50 curiously51 that Aileen’s hair was somewhat the color of her own—more carroty red. She studied her eyes, which were slightly ringed, her smooth cheeks and full mouth, thickened somewhat by drinking and dissipation. Aileen was good-looking, she thought—handsome in a material way, though so much older than herself. Was it merely age that was alienating52 Cowperwood, or was it some deep-seated intellectual difference? Obviously Mrs. Cowperwood was well over forty—a fact which did not give Berenice any sense of satisfaction or of advantage. She really did not care enough. It did occur to her, however, that this woman whom she was observing had probably given the best years of her life to Cowperwood—the brilliant years of her girlhood. And now he was tired of her! There were small carefully powdered lines at the tails of Aileen’s eyes and at the corners of her mouth. At the same time she seemed preternaturally gay, kittenish, spoiled. With her were two men—one a well-known actor, sinisterly53 handsome, a man with a brutal54, unclean reputation, the other a young social pretender—both unknown to Berenice. Her knowledge was to come from her escort, a loquacious55 youth, more or less versed56, as it happened, in the gay life of the city.
“I hear that she is creating quite a stir in Bohemia,” he observed. “If she expects to enter society it’s a poor way to begin, don’t you think?”
“Do you know that she expects to?”
“All the usual signs are out—a box here, a house on Fifth Avenue.”
This study of Aileen puzzled and disturbed Berenice a little. Nevertheless, she felt immensely superior. Her soul seemed to soar over the plain Aileen inhabited. The type of the latter’s escorts suggested error—a lack of social discrimination. Because of the high position he had succeeded in achieving Cowperwood was entitled, no doubt, to be dissatisfied. His wife had not kept pace with him, or, rather, had not eluded57 him in his onward58 flight—had not run swiftly before, like a winged victory. Berenice reflected that if she were dealing59 with such a man he should never know her truly—he should be made to wonder and to doubt. Lines of care and disappointment should never mar37 her face. She would scheme and dream and conceal60 and evade61. He should dance attendance, whoever he was.
Nevertheless, here she herself was, at twenty-two, unmarried, her background insecure, the very ground on which she walked treacherous62. Braxmar knew, and Beales Chadsey, and Cowperwood. At least three or four of her acquaintances must have been at the Waldorf on that fatal night. How long would it be before others became aware? She tried eluding63 her mother, Cowperwood, and the situation generally by freely accepting more extended invitations and by trying to see whether there was not some opening for her in the field of art. She thought of painting and essayed several canvases which she took to dealers64. The work was subtle, remote, fanciful—a snow scene with purple edges; a thinking satyr, iron-like in his heaviness, brooding over a cloudy valley; a lurking65 devil peering at a praying Marguerite; a Dutch interior inspired by Mrs. Batjer, and various dancing figures. Phlegmatic66 dealers of somber mien67 admitted some promise, but pointed68 out the difficulty of sales. Beginners were numerous. Art was long. If she went on, of course.... Let them see other things. She turned her thoughts to dancing.
This art in its interpretative sense was just being introduced into America, a certain Althea Baker69 having created a good deal of stir in society by this means. With the idea of duplicating or surpassing the success of this woman Berenice conceived a dance series of her own. One was to be “The Terror”—a nymph dancing in the spring woods, but eventually pursued and terrorized by a faun; another, “The Peacock,” a fantasy illustrative of proud self-adulation; another, “The Vestal,” a study from Roman choric worship. After spending considerable time at Pocono evolving costumes, poses, and the like, Berenice finally hinted at the plan to Mrs. Batjer, declaring that she would enjoy the artistic70 outlet71 it would afford, and indicating at the same time that it might provide the necessary solution of a problem of ways and means.
“Why, Bevy72, how you talk!” commented Mrs. Batjer. “And with your possibilities. Why don’t you marry first, and do your dancing afterward73? You might compel a certain amount of attention that way.”
“Oh, when it comes to that—” replied Mrs. Batjer, with a slight reproachful lift in her voice, and thinking of Kilmer Duelma. “But surely your need isn’t so pressing. If you were to take up professional dancing I might have to cut you afterward—particularly if any one else did.”
She smiled the sweetest, most sensible smile. Mrs. Batjer accompanied her suggestions nearly always with a slight sniff75 and cough. Berenice could see that the mere fact of this conversation made a slight difference. In Mrs. Batjer’s world poverty was a dangerous topic. The mere odor of it suggested a kind of horror—perhaps the equivalent of error or sin. Others, Berenice now suspected, would take affright even more swiftly.
Subsequent to this, however, she made one slight investigation76 of those realms that govern professional theatrical77 engagements. It was a most disturbing experience. The mere color and odor of the stuffy78 offices, the gauche79, material attendants, the impossible aspirants80 and participants in this make-believe world! The crudeness! The effrontery81! The materiality! The sensuality! It came to her as a sickening breath and for the moment frightened her. What would become of refinement82 there? What of delicacy83? How could one rise and sustain an individual dignity and control in such a world as this?
Cowperwood was now suggesting as a binding84 link that he should buy a home for them in Park Avenue, where such social functions as would be of advantage to Berenice and in some measure to himself as an occasional guest might be indulged in. Mrs. Carter, a fool of comfort, was pleased to welcome this idea. It promised to give her absolute financial security for the future.
“I know how it is with you, Frank,” she declared. “I know you need some place that you can call a home. The whole difficulty will be with Bevy. Ever since that miserable85 puppy made those charges against me I haven’t been able to talk to her at all. She doesn’t seem to want to do anything I suggest. You have much more influence with her than I have. If you explain, it may be all right.”
Instantly Cowperwood saw an opportunity. Intensely pleased with this confession86 of weakness on the part of the mother, he went to Berenice, but by his usual method of indirect direction.
“You know, Bevy,” he said, one afternoon when he found her alone, “I have been wondering if it wouldn’t be better if I bought a large house for you and your mother here in New York, where you and she could do entertaining on a large scale. Since I can’t spend my money on myself, I might as well spend it on some one who would make an interesting use of it. You might include me as an uncle or father’s cousin or something of that sort,” he added, lightly.
Berenice, who saw quite clearly the trap he was setting for her, was nonplussed. At the same time she could not help seeing that a house, if it were beautifully furnished, would be an interesting asset. People in society loved fixed87, notable dwellings88; she had observed that. What functions could not be held if only her mother’s past were not charged against her! That was the great difficulty. It was almost an Arabian situation, heightened by the glitter of gold. And Cowperwood was always so diplomatic. He came forward with such a bland89, engaging smile. His hands were so shapely and seeking.
“A house such as you speak of would enlarge the debt beyond payment, I presume,” she remarked, sardonically90 and with a sad, almost contemptuous gesture. Cowperwood realized how her piercing intellect was following his shifty trail, and winced91. She must see that her fate was in his hands, but oh! if she would only surrender, how swiftly every dollar of his vast fortune should be piled humbly92 at her feet. She should have her heart’s desire, if money would buy it. She could say to him go, and he would go; come, and he would come.
“Berenice,” he said, getting up, “I know what you think. You fancy I am trying to further my own interests in this way, but I’m not. I wouldn’t compromise you ultimately for all the wealth of India. I have told you where I stand. Every dollar that I have is yours to do with as you choose on any basis that you may care to name. I have no future outside of you, none except art. I do not expect you to marry me. Take all that I have. Wipe society under your feet. Don’t think that I will ever charge it up as a debt. I won’t. I want you to hold your own. Just answer me one question; I won’t ever ask another.”
“Yes?”
“If I were single now, and you were not in love or married, would you consider me at all?”
His eyes pleaded as never had they pleaded before.
She started, looked concerned, severe, then relaxed as suddenly. “Let me see,” she said, with a slight brightening of the eyes and a toss of her head. “That is a second cousin to a proposal, isn’t it? You have no right to make it. You aren’t single, and aren’t likely to be. Why should I try to read the future?”
She walked indifferently out of the room, and Cowperwood stayed a moment to think. Obviously he had triumphed in a way. She had not taken great offense93. She must like him and would marry him if only...
Only Aileen.
And now he wished more definitely and forcefully than ever that he were really and truly free. He felt that if ever he wished to attain94 Berenice he must persuade Aileen to divorce him.
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1
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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franchises
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| n.（尤指选举议员的）选举权( franchise的名词复数 )；参政权；获特许权的商业机构（或服务）；（公司授予的）特许经销权v.给…以特许权，出售特许权( franchise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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disappearances
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| n.消失( disappearance的名词复数 )；丢失；失踪；失踪案 | |
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29
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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foamy
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| adj.全是泡沫的，泡沫的，起泡沫的 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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44
vouching
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| n.（复核付款凭单等）核单v.保证( vouch的现在分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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45
disinterestedness
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46
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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47
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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48
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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49
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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50
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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51
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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52
alienating
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| v.使疏远( alienate的现在分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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53
sinisterly
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| 不吉祥地，邪恶地 | |
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54
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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55
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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56
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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57
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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58
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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59
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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60
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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61
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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63
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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64
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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65
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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66
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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67
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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68
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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69
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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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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71
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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72
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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73
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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75
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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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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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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80
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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81
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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82
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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83
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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84
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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85
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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86
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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87
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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88
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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89
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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90
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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91
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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93
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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94
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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