"You'll make good when you get down there," Mathews said to him one afternoon when Howe was out of the room, for he realized that the latter was jealous. "You've got the stuff. Some of the work you have done here will give you a fine introduction. I wish I were going."
"Why don't you?" suggested Eugene.
"Who? me? What good would it do me? I'm not ready yet. I can't do that sort of stuff. I might go down some time."
"I think you do good work," said Eugene generously. He really did not believe it was good art, but it was fair newspaper sketching6.
"Oh, no, you don't mean that, Witla," replied Mathews. "I know what I can do."
Eugene was silent.
"I wish when you get down there," went on Mathews, "you would write us occasionally. I would like to know how you are getting along."
"Sure, I'll write," replied Eugene, flattered by the interest his determination had aroused. "Sure I will." But he never did.
In Ruby7 and Angela he had two problems to adjust which were not so easy. In the one case it was sympathy, regret, sorrow for her helplessness, her hopelessness. She was so sweet and lovely in her way, but not quite big enough mentally or emotionally for him. Could he really live with her if he wanted to? Could he substitute her for a girl like Angela? Could he? And now he had involved Angela, for since her return to tell him that she accepted him as her affianced lover, there had been some scenes between them in which a new standard of emotion had been set for him. This girl who looked so simple and innocent was burning at times with a wild fire. It snapped in her eyes when Eugene undid8 her wonderful hair and ran his hands through its heavy strands9. "The Rhine Maiden," he would say. "Little Lorelei! You are like the mermaid10 waiting to catch the young lover in the strands of her hair. You are Marguerite and I Faust. You are a Dutch Gretchen. I love this wonderful hair when it is braided. Oh, sweet, you perfect creature! I will put you in a painting yet. I will make you famous."
Angela thrilled to this. She burned in a flame which was of his fanning. She put her lips to his in long hot kisses, sat on his knee and twined her hair about his neck; rubbed his face with it as one might bathe a face in strands of silk. Finding such a response he went wild, kissed her madly, would have been still more masterful had she not, at the slightest indication of his audacity11, leaped from his embrace, not opposition12 but self protection in her eyes. She pretended to think better of his love, and Eugene, checked by her ideal of him, tried to restrain himself. He did manage to desist because he was sure that he could not do what he wanted to. Daring such as that would end her love. So they wrestled13 in affection.
It was the fall following his betrothal14 to Angela that he actually took his departure. He had drifted through the summer, pondering. He had stayed away from Ruby more and more, and finally left without saying good-bye to her, though he thought up to the last that he intended to go out and see her.
As for Angela, when it came to parting from her, he was in a depressed15 and downcast mood. He thought now that he did not really want to go to New York, but was being drawn16 by fate. There was no money for him in the West; they could not live on what he could earn there. Hence he must go and in doing so must lose her. It looked very tragic17.
Out at her aunt's house, where she came for the Saturday and Sunday preceding his departure, he walked the floor with her gloomily, counted the lapse18 of the hours after which he would be with her no more, pictured the day when he would return successful to fetch her. Angela had a faint foreboding fear of the events which might intervene. She had read stories of artists who had gone to the city and had never come back. Eugene seemed such a wonderful person, she might not hold him; and yet he had given her his word and he was madly in love with her—no doubt of that. That fixed, passionate19, yearning20 look in his eyes—what did it mean if not enduring, eternal love? Life had brought her a great treasure—a great love and an artist for a lover.
"Go, Eugene!" she cried at last tragically21, almost melodramatically. His face was in her hands. "I will wait for you. You need never have one uneasy thought. When you are ready I will be here, only, come soon—you will, won't you?"
"Will I!" he declared, kissing her, "will I? Look at me. Don't you know?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she exclaimed, "of course I know. Oh, yes! yes!"
The rest was a passionate embrace. And then they parted. He went out brooding over the subtlety22 and the tragedy of life. The sharp October stars saddened him more. It was a wonderful world but bitter to endure at times. Still it could be endured and there was happiness and peace in store for him probably. He and Angela would find it together living in each other's company, living in each other's embrace and by each other's kisses. It must be so. The whole world believed it—even he, after Stella and Margaret and Ruby and Angela. Even he.
The train which bore him to New York bore a very meditative23 young man. As it pulled out through the great railroad yards of the city, past the shabby back yards of the houses, the street crossings at grade, the great factories and elevators, he thought of that other time when he had first ventured in the city. How different! Then he was so green, so raw. Since then he had become a newspaper artist, he could write, he could find his tongue with women, he knew a little something about the organization of the world. He had not saved any money, true, but he had gone through the art school, had given Angela a diamond ring, had this two hundred dollars with which he was venturing to reconnoitre the great social metropolis24 of the country. He was passing Fifty-seventh Street; he recognized the neighborhood he traversed so often in visiting Ruby. He had not said good-bye to her and there in the distance were the rows of commonplace, two family frame dwellings25, one of which she occupied with her foster parents. Poor little Ruby! and she liked him. It was a shame, but what was he to do about it? He didn't care for her. It really hurt him to think and then he tried not to remember. These tragedies of the world could not be healed by thinking.
The train passed out into the flat fields of northern Indiana and as little country towns flashed past he thought of Alexandria and how he had pulled up his stakes and left it. What was Jonas Lyle doing and John Summers? Myrtle wrote that she was going to be married in the spring. She had delayed solely26 because she wanted to delay. He thought sometimes that Myrtle was a little like himself, fickle27 in her moods. He was sure he would never want to go back to Alexandria except for a short visit, and yet the thought of his father and his mother and his old home were sweet to him. His father! How little he knew of the real world!
As they passed out of Pittsburgh he saw for the first time the great mountains, raising their heads in solemn majesty28 in the dark, and great lines of coke ovens, flaming red tongues of fire. He saw men working, and sleeping towns succeeding one another. What a great country America was! What a great thing to be an artist here! Millions of people and no vast artistic29 voice to portray30 these things—these simple dramatic things like the coke ovens in the night. If he could only do it! If he could only stir the whole country, so that his name would be like that of Doré in France or Verestchagin in Russia. If he could but get fire into his work, the fire he felt!
He got into his berth31 after a time and looked out on the dark night and the stars, longing32, and then he dozed33. When he awoke again the train had already passed Philadelphia. It was morning and the cars were speeding across the flat meadows toward Trenton. He arose and dressed, watching the array of towns the while, Trenton, New Brunswick, Metuchen, Elizabeth. Somehow this country was like Illinois, flat. After Newark they rushed out upon a great meadow and he caught the sense of the sea. It was beyond this. These were tide-water streams, the Passaic and the Hackensack, with small ships and coal and brick barges34 tied at the water side. The thrill of something big overtook him as the brakeman began to call "Jersey35 City," and as he stepped out into the vast train shed his heart misgave36 him a little. He was all alone in New York. It was wealthy, cold and critical. How should he prosper37 here? He walked out through the gates to where low arches concealed38 ferry boats, and in another moment it was before him, sky line, bay, the Hudson, the Statue of Liberty, ferry boats, steamers, liners, all in a grey mist of fierce rain and the tugs39 and liners blowing mournfully upon great whistles. It was something he could never have imagined without seeing it, and this swish of real salt water, rolling in heavy waves, spoke40 to him as music might, exalting41 his soul. What a wonderful thing this was, this sea—where ships were and whales and great mysteries. What a wonderful thing New York was, set down by it, surrounded by it, this metropolis of the country. Here was the sea; yonder were the great docks that held the vessels42 that sailed to the ports of all the world. He saw them—great grey and black hulls43, tied to long piers44 jutting45 out into the water. He listened to the whistles, the swish of the water, saw the circling gulls46, realized emotionally the mass of people. Here were Jay Gould and Russell Sage47 and the Vanderbilts and Morgan—all alive and all here. Wall Street, Fifth Avenue, Madison Square, Broadway—he knew of these by reputation. How would he do here—how fare? Would the city ever acclaim48 him as it did some? He looked wide eyed, with an open heart, with intense and immense appreciation49. Well, he was going to enter, going to try. He could do that—perhaps, perhaps. But he felt lonely. He wished he were back with Angela where her soft arms could shut him safe. He wished he might feel her hands on his cheeks, his hair. He would not need to fight alone then. But now he was alone, and the city was roaring about him, a great noise like the sea. He must enter and do battle.
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1
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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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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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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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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7
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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8
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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14
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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19
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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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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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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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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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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31
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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36
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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37
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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39
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
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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41
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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42
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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43
hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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44
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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45
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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46
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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48
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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49
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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