The morning paper stated that Dr. Bellingham had suffered a fracture of the skull1 and internal injury, but might live. A note to Paula from Madame Nestor late the next day contained the following paragraph: "I called at the hospital to inquire. A doctor told me that the case is likely to become a classic one. Never in his experience, he stated, had he witnessed a man put up such a fight for life. It will be long, however, before he is abroad again. He must have been following you quite madly, because there never was a man more careful in the midst of city-dangers than Bellingham. Why, a scratched finger completely upset him—in the earlier days. Inscrutable, but thrilling—isn't it, my dear Paula?"
"Did you follow Moby Dick's whale tracks around the wet wastes of the world?" Reifferscheid asked several mornings later, as Paula entered.
Her face was flushed. A further letter from Quentin Charter had just been tucked into her bag. "Yes, and Mr. Melville over trans-continental digressions," she answered. "He surely is Neptune's own confrère."
"Did you get the leviathan alongside and study the bewildering chaos2 of a ninety-foot nervous system?" Reifferscheid went on with delight.
"Exactly, and colored miles of sea-water with the emptyings of his vast heart. Then, there was an extended process of fatty degeneration, which I believe they called—blubber-boiling."
They laughed together over the old whale-epic.
"They remember Melville up in Boston and Nantucket," he added, "but he's about as much alive as a honey-bee's pulse elsewhere. The trouble is, you can't rectify3 this outrage4 by law. It isn't uxoricide or sheep-stealing—not to know Melville—but it's the deadly sin of ingratitude5. This is a raw age, we adorn—not to rock in the boat of that man's soul. Why, he's worthy7 to stand with the angels on the point of the present."
The big editor always warmed her when he enthused. Here, in the midst of holiday books pouring in by scores, he had time to make a big personal and public protest against a fifty-year-old novel being forgotten.
"But isn't Melville acknowledged to be the headwaters of inspiration for all later sea-books?" Paula asked.
"Yes, to the men who do them, he's the big laughing figure behind their work, but the public doesn't seem to know.... Of course, Herman has faults—Japan currents of faults—but they only warm him to a white man's heart. Do you know, I like to think of him in a wide, windy room, tearing off his story long-hand, upon yard square sheets, grinning like an ogre at the soul-play, the pages of copy settling ankle-deep upon the floor. There's no taint8 of over-breeding in the unborn thing, no curse of compression, no aping Addison—nothing but Melville, just blown in with the gale9, reeking10 with a big story which must be shed, before he blows out again, with straining cordage booming in his ears. He harnesses Art. He man-handles Power, makes it grovel11 and play circus. 'Here it is,' he seems to say at the end. 'Take it or leave it. I'm rotting here ashore12.'"
"You ought to dictate13 reviews like that, Mr. Reifferscheid," Paula could not help saying, though she knew he would be disconcerted.
He colored, turned back to his work, directing her to take her choice from the shelf of fresh books.... On the car going back, Paula opened Charter's letter. Her fingers trembled, because she had been in a happy and daring mood five or six days before when she wrote the letter to which this was the reply.
... Do you know, I really like to write to you? I feel untrammelled—turned loose in the meadows. It seems when I start an idea—that you've grasped it as soon as it is clear to me. Piled sentences after that are unnecessary. It's a real joy to write this way, as spirits commune. It wouldn't do at all for the blessed multitude. You have to be a mineral and a vegetable and an animal, all in a paragraph, to get the whole market. But how generous the dear old multitude is—(if the writer has suffered enough)—with its bed and board and lamplight....
I have been scored and salted so many times that I heal like an earth-worm. Tell me, can scar-tissue ever be so fine? Fineness—that's the one excellent feature of being human! There's no other reason for being—no other meaning or reason for atomic affinity14 or star-hung space. True, the great Conceiver of Refining Thought seems pleased to take all eternity15 to play in....
You've made me think of you out of all proportion. I don't want to help it. I'm very glad we hailed each other across the distance. There's something so entirely16 blithe17 and wise and finished about the personality I've builded from three little letters and a critique—that I refresh myself very frequently from them.... I think we must be old playmates. Perhaps we plotted ghost-stories and pegged18 oranges at each other in Atlantean orchards19 millenniums ago. I begin to feel as if I deserve to have my playmate back.... Then, again, it is as though these little letters brought to my garret window the Skylark I have heard far and faintly so long in the higher moments of dream. Just a note here and there used to come to me from far-shining archipelagoes of cloud-land. I listen now and clearly understand what you have sung so long in the Heights.... You are winged—that's the word! Wing often to my window—won't you? Life is peppering me with good things this year, I could not be more grateful.
Letters like these made Paula think of that memorable20 first afternoon with Grimm; and like it, too, the joy was so intense as to hold the suggestion that there must be something evil in it all. She laughed at this. What law, human or divine, was disordered by two human grown-ups with clean minds communing together intimately in letters? Quentin Charter might have been less imperious, or less precipitous, in writing such pleasing matters about herself, but had he not earned the boon21 of saying what he felt? Still, Paula would not have been so entirely feminine, had she not repressed somewhat. She even may have known that artful repression22 from without is stimulus23 to any man. Occasionally, Charter forgot his sense of humor, but the woman five years younger, never. The inevitable24 thought that in the ordinary sequence of events, they should meet face to face, harrowed somewhat with the thought that she must keep his ideals down—or both were lost. What could a mind like his not build about months of communion (eyes and ears strained toward flashing skies) with a Skylark ideal?... She reminded Charter that skylarks are little, brown, tame-plumaged creatures that only sing when they soar. She could not forbear to note that he was a bit sky-larky, too, in his letters, and observed that she had found it wise, mainly to keep one's wings tightly folded in New York. She signed her next letter, nevertheless, with a small pen-picture of the name he had given her—full-throated and ascending25. Also she put on her house address. Some of the paragraphs from letters which came in the following weeks, she remembered without referring to the treasured file:
... Bless the wings! May they never tire for long—since I cannot be there when they are folded.... Often, explain it if you can, I think of you as some one I have seen in Japan, especially in Tokyo—hurrying through the dusk in the Minimasakurna-cho, wandering through the tombs of the Forty-seven Ronins. or sipping26 tea in the Kameido among the wistaria blooms. Some time—who knows? I have made quite a delightful27 romance about it.... Who is so wise as positively28 to say, that we are not marvellously related from the youth of the world? Who dares declare we have not climbed cliffs of Cathay to stare across the sky-blue water, nor whispered together in orient casements29 under constellations30 that swing more perilously31 near than these?... We may be a pair of foolish dreamers, but Asia must have a cup of tea for us—Asia, because she is so far and so still. We shall remember then....
And so you live alone? How strange, I have always thought of you so? From the number, I think you must overlook the Park—don't you?... It may strike you humorously, but I feel like ordering you not to take too many meals alone. One is apt to be neglectful, and women lose their appetites easier than men. I used to be graceless toward the gift of health. Perhaps I enjoy perfectly32 prepared food altogether too well for one of inner aspirations33. The bit of a soul in which you see such glorious possibilities, packs rather an imperious animal this trip, I fear. However, I don't let the animal carry me—any more.
I see a wonderful sensitiveness in all that you write—that's why I suggest especially that you should never forget fine food and plentiful34 exercise. Psychic35 activity in America is attained36 so often at the price of physical deterioration37. This is an empty failure, uncentering, deluding38. Remember, I say in America.... Pray, don't think I fail to worship sensitiveness—those high, strange emotions, the sense of oneness with all things that live, the vergings of the mind toward the intangible, the light, refreshing39 sleep of asceticism40, subtle expandings of solitude41 and the mystical launchings,—anything that gives spread of wing rather than amplitude42 of girth—but I have seen these very pursuits carry one entirely out of rhythm with the world. The multitudes cannot follow us when there are stars in our eyes—they cannot see.
A few years ago I had a strange period of deep-delving into ancient wisdom. A lot of big, simple treasures unfolded, but I discovered great dogmas as well—the steel shirts, iron shields, mailed fists and other junk which lesser43 men seem predestined to hammer about the gentle spirit of Truth. I vegetarianed, lived inside, practiced meditate44, and became a sensitive, as it seems now, in rather a paltry45, arrogant46 sense. The point is I lost the little appeal I had to people through writing. It came to me at length with grim finality that if a man means to whip the world into line at all, he must keep a certain brute47 strength. He must challenge the world at its own games and win, before he can show the world that there are finer games to play. You can't stand above the mists and call the crowd to you, but many will follow you up through them.... I truly hope, if I am wrong in this, that you will see it instantly, and not permit the edge and temper of your fineness to be coarsened through me. You are so animate48, so delicately strong, and seem so spiritually unhurt, that it occurs to me now that there may be finer laws for you, than are vouchsafed49 to me. I interpreted my orders—to win according to certain unalterable rules of the world. Balzac did that. I think some Skylark sang to him at the last, when he did his Seraphita....
I cannot help but tell you again of my gratitude6. I am no impressionable boy. I know what the woman must be who writes to me.... Isn't this an excellent world when the finer moments come; when we can think with gentleness of past failures of the flesh and spirit, and with joy upon the achievements of others; when we feel that we have preserved a certain relish50 for the rich of all thought, and a pleasure in innocence51; when out of our errors and calamities52 we have won a philosophy which makes serene53 our present voyaging and gives us keen eyes to discern the coast-lights of the future?... With lifted brow—I harken for your singing.
Paula knew that Quentin Charter was crying out for his mate of fire. She remembered that she had strangely felt his strength before there were any letters, but she could not deny that it since had become a greater and more intimate thing—her tower, white and heroic, cutting clean through the films of distance, and suggesting a vast, invisible city at its base. That she was the bright answer in the East for such a tower was incredible. She could send a song over on the wings of the morning—make it shine like ivory into the eyes of the new day, but she dared not think of herself as a corresponding fixture54. A man like Charter could form a higher woman out of dreams and letter-pages than the world could mold for him from her finest clays. Always she said this—and forgot that the man was clay. A pair of dreamers, truly, and yet there was a difference in their ideals. If Charter's vision of her lifted higher, it was also flexible to contain a human woman. As for hers—Paula had builded a tower. True, there were moments of flying fog in which she did not see it, but clean winds quickly brushed away the obscurations, and not a remnant clung. When seen at all, her tower was pure white and undiminished.
Of necessity there were reactions. His familiarity with the petty intensities55 of the average man often startled her. He seemed capable of dropping into the parlance56 of any company, not as one who had listened and memorized, but as an old familiar who had served time in all societies. In the new aspect of personal letters, his book revealed a comprehension of women—that dismayed. Of course, his printed work was filled with such stuff as her letters were made of, but between a book and a letter, there is the same difference of appeal as the lines read by an actor, however gifted, are cold compared to a friend's voice. Though she wondered at Charter giving his time to write such letters to her, this became very clear, if his inclination57 were anything like her own to answer them. All the thinking of her days formed itself into compressed messages for him; and all the best of her sprang to her pen under his address. The effort then became to repress, to keep her pages within bounds, and the ultimate effort was to wait several days before writing again. His every sentence suggested pleasure in writing; and as a matter of fact, he repressed very little.... Was it through letters like hers in his leisure months that Charter amassed58 his tremendous array of poignant59 details; was it through such, that he reared his imposing60 ranges of feminine understanding? This was a question requiring a worldlier woman than Paula long to hold in mind. In the man's writing, regarded from her critical training, there was no betrayal of the literary clerk dependent upon data.
"I am no impressionable boy. I know what the woman must be who writes to me." There was something of seership in his thus irrevocably affixing61 his ideal to the human woman who held the pen.... His photograph was frequently enough in the press—a big browed, plain-faced young man with a jaw62 less aggressive than she would have imagined, and a mouth rather finely arched for a reformer who was to whip the world into line. And then there was a discovery. In a magazine dated a decade before, she ran upon his picture among the advertising63 pages. Verses of his were announced to appear during the year to come. He could not have been over twenty for this picture, and to her it was completely charming—a boy out of the past calling blithely64; a poetic65 face, too, reminding her of prints she had seen of an early drawing of Keats's head now in London—eager, sensitive, all untried!... It was not without resistance that she acknowledged herself closer to the boy—that something of the man was beyond her. There was a mystery left upon the face by the intervening years, "while the tireless soul etched on...." Should she ever know? Or must there always be this dim, hurting thing? Was it all the etching of the soul—that this later print revealed?... These were but bits of shadow—ungrippable things which made her wings falter66 for a moment and long for something sure to rest upon, but Reifferscheid's first talk about Charter, the latter's book, and the letters—out of these were reconstructed her tower of shining purity.
There were times when Paula's heart, gathering67 all its tributary68 sympathies, poured out to the big figure in the West in a deep and rushing torrent69. Her entire life was illuminated70 by these moments of ardor71. Here was a giving, in which the thought of actual possession had little or no part. Her finest elements were merged72 into one-pointed expression. It is not strange that she was dismayed by the triumphant73 force of the woman within her, nor that she recalled one of the first of Madame Nestor's utterances74, "Nonsense, Paula, the everlasting75 feminine is alive in every movement of you." Yet this outpouring was lofty, and noon-sky clear. An emotion like this meant brightness to every life that contacted it.... But ruthlessly she covered, hid away even from her own thoughts, illuminations such as these. Here was a point of tragic76 significance. Out of the past has come this great fear to strong women—the fear to let themselves love. This is one of the sorriest evolutions of the self-protecting instinct. So long have women met the tragic fact of fickleness77 and evasion78 in the men of their majestic79 concentrations—that fear puts its weight against the doors that love would open wide.
Almost unconsciously the personal tension of the correspondence increased. Not infrequently after her letters were gone, Paula became afraid that this new, full-powered self of hers had crept into her written pages with betraying effulgence80, rising high above the light laughter of the lines. How she cried out for open honesty in the world and rebelled against the garments of falsity which society insists must cover the high as well as the low. Charter seemed to say what was in his heart; at least, he dared to write as the woman could not, as she dared not even to think, lest he prove—against the exclaiming negatives of her soul—a literary craftsman81 of such furious zeal82 that he could tear the heart out of a woman he had not seen, pin the quivering thing under his lens, to describe, with his own responsive sensations.
So the weeks were truly emotional. Swiftly, beyond any realization83 of her own, Paula Linster became full-length a woman. Reifferscheid found it harder and harder to talk even bossily84 to her, but cleared his voice when she entered, vented85 a few booky generalities, and cleared his voice when she went away. Keen winter fell upon his system of emptied lakes; gusty86 winter harped87 the sound of a lonely ship in polar seas among the naked branches of the big elms above his cottage; indeed, gray winter would have roughed it—in the big chap's breast, had he not buckled88 his heart against it.... For years, Tim Reifferscheid had felt himself aloof89 from all such sentiment. Weakening, he had scrutinized90 his new assistant keenly for the frailties91 with which her sex was identified in his mind. In all their talks together, she had verified not one, so that he was forced to destroy the whole worthless edition. She was a discovery, thrillingly so, since he had long believed such a woman impossible. Now he felt crude beside her, remembered everything that he had done amiss (volumes of material supposed to be out of print). Frankly92, he was irritated with any one in the office who presumed to feel himself an equal with Miss Linster.... But all this was Reifferscheid's, and no other—as far from any expression of his, as thoughtless kisses or thundering heroics.
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1
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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ascending
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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casements
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constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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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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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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58
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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affixing
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| v.附加( affix的现在分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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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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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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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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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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68
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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72
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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73
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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77
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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78
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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79
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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80
effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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81
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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84
bossily
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| 黄铜地，似黄铜地，低廉而华丽地 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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87
harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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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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90
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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