As Eugene began to draw near it he caught for the first time the sense and significance of a great city. What were these newspaper shadows he had been dealing9 with in his reading compared to this vivid, articulate, eager thing? Here was the substance of a new world, substantial, fascinating, different. The handsome suburban10 station at South Chicago, the first of its kind he had ever seen, took his eye, as the train rolled cityward. He had never before seen a crowd of foreigners—working men—and here were Lithuanians, Poles, Czechs, waiting for a local train. He had never seen a really large factory plant, and here was one, and another, and another—steel works, potteries11, soap-factories, foundries, all gaunt and hard in the Sunday evening air. There seemed to be, for all it was Sunday, something youthful, energetic and alive about the streets. He noted12 the streetcars waiting; at one place a small river was crossed on a draw,—dirty, gloomy, but crowded with boats and lined with great warehouses13, grain elevators, coal pockets—that architecture of necessity and utility. His imagination was fired by this for here was something that could be done brilliantly in black—a spot of red or green for ship and bridge lights. There were some men on the magazines who did things like this, only not so vivid.
The train threaded its way through long lines of cars coming finally into an immense train shed where arc lights were spluttering—a score under a great curved steel and glass roof, where people were hurrying to and fro. Engines were hissing14; bells clanging raucously15. He had no relatives, no soul to turn to, but somehow he did not feel lonely. This picture of life, this newness, fascinated him. He stepped down and started leisurely16 to the gate, wondering which way he should go. He came to a corner where a lamp post already lit blazoned17 the name Madison. He looked out on this street and saw, as far as the eye could reach, two lines of stores, jingling18 horse cars, people walking. What a sight, he thought, and turned west. For three miles he walked, musing19, and then as it was dark, and he had arranged for no bed, he wondered where he should eat and sleep. A fat man sitting outside a livery stable door in a tilted20, cane-seated chair offered a possibility of information.
"Do you know where I can get a room around here?" asked Eugene.
The lounger looked him over. He was the proprietor21 of the place.
"There's an old lady living over there at seven-thirty-two," he said, "who has a room, I think. She might take you in." He liked Eugene's looks.
Eugene crossed over and rang a downstairs bell. The door was opened shortly by a tall, kindly22 woman, of a rather matriarchal turn. Her hair was gray.
"Yes?" she inquired.
"The gentleman at the livery stable over there said I might get a room here. I'm looking for one."
She smiled pleasantly. This boy looked his strangeness, his wide-eyed interest, his freshness from the country. "Come in," she said. "I have a room. You can look at it."
It was a front room—a little bed-room off the one main living room, clean, simple, convenient. "This looks all right," he said.
She smiled.
"That's all right," he said, putting down his grip. "I'll take it."
"Have you had supper?" she asked.
"No, but I'm going out soon. I want to see the streets. I'll find some place."
"I'll give you something," she said.
Eugene thanked her, and she smiled. This was what Chicago did to the country. It took the boys.
He opened the closed shutters24 of his window and knelt before it, leaning on the sill. He looked out idly, for it was all so wonderful. Bright lights were burning in store windows. These people hurrying—how their feet sounded—clap, clap, clap. And away east and away west it was all like this. It was all like this everywhere, a great big, wonderful city. It was nice to be here. He felt that now. It was all worth while. How could he have stayed in Alexandria so long! He would get along here. Certainly he would. He was perfectly25 sure of that. He knew.
Chicago at this time certainly offered a world of hope and opportunity to the beginner. It was so new, so raw; everything was in the making. The long lines of houses and stores were mostly temporary make-shifts—one and two story frame affairs—with here and there a three and four story brick building which spoke26 of better days to come. Down in the business heart which lay between the lake and the river, the North Side and the South Side, was a region which spoke of a tremendous future, for here were stores which served the buying public, not only of Chicago, but of the Middle West. There were great banks, great office buildings, great retail27 stores, great hotels. The section was running with a tide of people which represented the youth, the illusions, the untrained aspirations28, of millions of souls. When you walked into this area you could feel what Chicago meant—eagerness, hope, desire. It was a city that put vitality29 into almost every wavering heart: it made the beginner dream dreams; the aged30 to feel that misfortune was never so grim that it might not change.
Underneath31, of course, was struggle. Youth and hope and energy were setting a terrific pace. You had to work here, to move, to step lively. You had to have ideas. This city demanded of you your very best, or it would have little to do with you. Youth in its search for something—and age—were quickly to feel this. It was no fool's paradise.
Eugene, once he was settled, realized this. He had the notion, somehow, that the printer's trade was all over for him. He wanted no more of that. He wanted to be an artist or something like that, although he hardly knew how to begin. The papers offered one way, but he was not sure that they took on beginners. He had had no training whatever. His sister Myrtle had once said that some of his little thumb-nail sketches32 were pretty, but what did she know? If he could study somewhere, find someone who would teach him.... Meanwhile he would have to work.
He tried the newspapers first of course, for those great institutions seemed the ideal resort for anyone who wanted to get up in the world, but the teeming33 offices with frowning art directors and critical newspaper workers frightened him. One art director did see something in the three or four little sketches he showed, but he happened to be in a crusty mood, and did not want anybody anyway. He simply said no, there was nothing. Eugene thought that perhaps as an artist also, he was destined35 to be a failure.
The trouble with this boy was really that he was not half awake yet. The beauty of life, its wonder, had cast a spell over him, but he could not yet interpret it in line and color. He walked about these wonderful streets, gazing in the windows, looking at the boats on the river, looking at the ships on the lake. One day, while he was standing36 on the lake shore, there came a ship in full sail in the offing—the first he had ever seen. It gripped his sense of beauty. He clasped his hands nervously37 and thrilled to it. Then he sat down on the lake wall and looked and looked and looked until it gradually sank below the horizon. So this was how the great lakes were; and how the great seas must be—the Atlantic and the Pacific and the Indian Ocean. Ah, the sea! Some day, perhaps he would go to New York. That was where the sea was. But here it was also, in miniature, and it was wonderful.
One cannot moon by lake shores and before store windows and at bridge draws and live, unless one is provided with the means of living, and this Eugene was not. He had determined38 when he left home that he would be independent. He wanted to get a salary in some way that he could at least live on. He wanted to write back and be able to say that he was getting along nicely. His trunk came, and a loving letter from his mother, and some money, but he sent that back. It was only ten dollars, but he objected to beginning that way. He thought he ought to earn his own way, and he wanted to try, anyhow.
After ten days his funds were very low, a dollar and seventy-five cents, and he decided39 that any job would have to do. Never mind about art or type-setting now. He could not get the last without a union card, he must take anything, and so he applied40 from store to store. The cheap little shops in which he asked were so ugly they hurt, but he tried to put his artistic41 sensibilities aside. He asked for anything, to be made a clerk in a bakery, in a dry goods store, in a candy store. After a time a hardware store loomed42 up, and he asked there. The man looked at him curiously43. "I might give you a place at storing stoves."
Eugene did not understand, but he accepted gladly. It only paid six dollars a week, but he could live on that. He was shown to a loft44 in charge of two rough men, stove fitters, polishers, and repairers, who gruffly explained to him that his work was to brush the rust34 off the decayed stoves, to help piece and screw them together, to polish and lift things, for this was a second hand stove business which bought and repaired stoves from junk dealers45 all over the city. Eugene had a low bench near a window where he was supposed to do his polishing, but he very frequently wasted his time here looking out into the green yards of some houses in a side street. The city was full of wonder to him—its every detail fascinating. When a rag-picker would go by calling "rags, old iron," or a vegetable vender46 crying "tomatoes, potatoes, green corn, peas," he would stop and listen, the musical pathos47 of the cries appealing to him. Alexandria had never had anything like this. It was all so strange. He saw himself making pen and ink sketches of things, of the clothes lines in the back yards and of the maids with baskets.
On one of the days when he thought he was working fairly well (he had been there two weeks), one of the two repairers said, "Hey, get a move on you. You're not paid to look out the window." Eugene stopped. He had not realized that he was loafing.
"What have you got to do with it?" he asked, hurt and half defiant48. He was under the impression that he was working with these men, not under them.
"I'll show you, you fresh kid," said the older of the two, who was an individual built on the order of "Bill Sykes." "You're under me. You get a move on you, and don't give me any more of your lip."
Eugene was startled. It was a flash of brutality49 out of a clear sky. The animal, whom he had been scanning as an artist would, as a type, out of the corner of his eye, was revealing himself.
"You go to the devil," said Eugene, only half awake to the grim reality of the situation.
"What's that!" exclaimed the man, making for him. He gave him a shove toward the wall, and attempted to kick him with his big, hob-nailed boot. Eugene picked up a stove leg. His face was wax white.
"Call it off, Jim," said the other man, who saw the uselessness of so much temper. "Don't hit him. Send him down stairs if you don't like him."
"You get to hell out of here, then," said Eugene's noble superior.
Eugene walked to a nail where his hat and coat were, carrying the stove leg. He edged past his assailant cautiously, fearing a second attack. The man was inclined to kick at him again because of his stubbornness, but forebore.
Eugene slipped out quietly. His spirit was hurt and torn. What a scene! He, Eugene Witla, kicked at, and almost kicked out, and that in a job that paid six dollars a week. A great lump came up in his throat, but it went down again. He wanted to cry but he could not. He went downstairs, stovepolish on his hands and face and slipped up to the desk.
"I want to quit," he said to the man who had hired him.
"All right, what's the matter?"
"They're pretty rough men," answered the employer. "I was afraid you wouldn't get along. I guess you're not strong enough. Here you are." He laid out three dollars and a half. Eugene wondered at this queer interpretation53 of his complaint. He must get along with these men? They musn't get along with him? So the city had that sort of brutality in it.
He went home and washed up, and then struck out again, for it was no time now to be without a job. After a week he found one,—as a house runner for a real estate concern, a young man to bring in the numbers of empty houses and post up the "For Rent" signs in the windows. It paid eight dollars and seemed to offer opportunities of advancement54. Eugene might have stayed there indefinitely had it not failed after three months. He had reached the season of fall clothes then, and the need of a winter overcoat, but he made no complaint to his family. He wanted to appear to be getting along well, whether he was or not.
One of the things which tended to harden and sharpen his impressions of life at this time was the show of luxury seen in some directions. On Michigan Avenue and Prairie Avenue, on Ashland Avenue and Washington Boulevard, were sections which were crowded with splendid houses such as Eugene had never seen before. He was astonished at the magnificence of their appointments, the beauty of the lawns, the show of the windows, the distinction of the equipages which accompanied them and served them. For the first time in his life he saw liveried footmen at doors: he saw at a distance girls and women grown who seemed marvels55 of beauty to him—they were so distinguished56 in their dress; he saw young men carrying themselves with an air of distinction which he had never seen before. These must be the society people the newspapers were always talking about. His mind made no distinctions as yet. If there were fine clothes, fine trappings, of course social prestige went with them. It made him see for the first time what far reaches lay between the conditions of a beginner from the country and what the world really had to offer—or rather what it showered on some at the top. It subdued57 and saddened him a little. Life was unfair.
These fall days, too, with their brown leaves, sharp winds, scudding58 smoke and whirls of dust showed him that the city could be cruel. He met shabby men, sunken eyed, gloomy, haggard, who looked at him, apparently59 out of a deep despair. These creatures all seemed to be brought where they were by difficult circumstances. If they begged at all,—and they rarely did of him, for he did not look prosperous enough, it was with the statement that unfortunate circumstances had brought them where they were. You could fail so easily. You could really starve if you didn't look sharp,—the city quickly taught him that.
During these days he got immensely lonely. He was not very sociable60, and too introspective. He had no means of making friends, or thought he had none. So he wandered about the streets at night, marveling at the sights he saw, or staying at home in his little room. Mrs. Woodruff, the landlady61, was nice and motherly enough, but she was not young and did not fit into his fancies. He was thinking about girls and how sad it was not to have one to say a word to him. Stella was gone—that dream was over. When would he find another like her?
After wandering around for nearly a month, during which time he was compelled to use some money his mother sent him to buy a suit of clothes on an instalment plan, he got a place as driver of a laundry, which, because it paid ten dollars a week, seemed very good. He sketched62 now and then when he was not tired, but what he did seemed pointless. So he worked here, driving a wagon, when he should have been applying for an art opening, or taking art lessons.
During this winter Myrtle wrote him that Stella Appleton had moved to Kansas, whither her father had gone; and that his mother's health was bad, and that she did so want him to come home and stay awhile. It was about this time that he became acquainted with a little Scotch63 girl named Margaret Duff, who worked in the laundry, and became quickly involved in a relationship which established a precedent64 in his experiences with women. Before this he had never physically65 known a girl. Now, and of a sudden, he was plunged66 into something which awakened67 a new, and if not evil, at least disrupting and disorganizing propensity68 of his character. He loved women, the beauty of the curves of their bodies. He loved beauty of feature and after a while was to love beauty of mind,—he did now, in a vague, unformed way,—but his ideal was as yet not clear to him. Margaret Duff represented some simplicity69 of attitude, some generosity70 of spirit, some shapeliness of form, some comeliness71 of feature,—it was not more. But, growing by what it fed on, his sex appetite became powerful. In a few weeks it had almost mastered him. He burned to be with this girl daily—and she was perfectly willing that he should, so long as the relationship did not become too conspicuous72. She was a little afraid of her parents, although those two, being working people, retired73 early and slept soundly. They did not seem to mind her early philanderings with boys. This latest one was no novelty. It burned fiercely for three months—Eugene was eager, insatiable: the girl not so much so, but complaisant74. She liked this evidence of fire in him,—the hard, burning flame she had aroused, and yet after a time she got a little tired. Then little personal differences arose,—differences of taste, differences of judgment75, differences of interest. He really could not talk to her of anything serious, could not get a response to his more delicate emotions. For her part she could not find in him any ready appreciation76 of the little things she liked—theater jests, and the bright remarks of other boys and girls. She had some conception of what was tasteful in dress, but as for anything else, art, literature, public affairs, she knew nothing at all, while Eugene, for all his youth, was intensely alive to what was going on in the great world. The sound of great names and great fames was in his ears,—Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman. He read of great philosophers, painters, musicians, meteors that sped across the intellectual sky of the western world, and he wondered. He felt as though some day he would be called to do something—in his youthful enthusiasm he half-thought it might be soon. He knew that this girl he was trifling77 with could not hold him. She had lured78 him, but once lured he was master, judge, critic. He was beginning to feel that he could get along without her,—that he could find someone better.
Naturally such an attitude would make for the death of passion, as the satiation of passion would make for the development of such an attitude. Margaret became indifferent. She resented his superior airs, his top-lofty tone at times. They quarreled over little things. One night he suggested something that she ought to do in the haughty79 manner customary with him.
"Oh, don't be so smart!" she said. "You always talk as though you owned me."
"I do," he said jestingly.
"Well, whenever you're ready you can have them. I'm willing."
The tone cut her, though actually it was only an ill-timed bit of teasing, more kindly meant than it sounded.
"Well, I'm ready now. You needn't come to see me unless you want to. I can get along."
She tossed her head.
"Don't be foolish, Margy," he said, seeing the ill wind he had aroused. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I? Well, we'll see." She walked away from him to another corner of the room. He followed her, but her anger re-aroused his opposition81. "Oh, all right," he said after a time. "I guess I'd better be going."
She made no response, neither pleas nor suggestions. He went and secured his hat and coat and came back. "Want to kiss me good-bye?" he inquired.
"No," she said simply.
"Good-night," he called.
"Good-night," she replied indifferently.
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1
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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raucously
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| adv.粗声地；沙哑地 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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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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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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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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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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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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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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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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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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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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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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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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vender
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| n.小贩 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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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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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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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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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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