Glennard dropped the Spectator and sat looking into the fire. The club was filling up, but he still had to himself the small inner room, with its darkening outlook down the rain-streaked prospect3 of Fifth Avenue. It was all dull and dismal4 enough, yet a moment earlier his boredom5 had been perversely6 tinged7 by a sense of resentment8 at the thought that, as things were going, he might in time have to surrender even the despised privilege of boring himself within those particular four walls. It was not that he cared much for the club, but that the remote contingency9 of having to give it up stood to him, just then, perhaps by very reason of its insignificance10 and remoteness, for the symbol of his increasing abnegations; of that perpetual paring-off that was gradually reducing existence to the naked business of keeping himself alive. It was the futility12 of his multiplied shifts and privations that made them seem unworthy of a high attitude; the sense that, however rapidly he eliminated the superfluous13, his cleared horizon was likely to offer no nearer view of the one prospect toward which he strained. To give up things in order to marry the woman one loves is easier than to give them up without being brought appreciably14 nearer to such a conclusion.
Through the open door he saw young Hollingsworth rise with a yawn from the ineffectual solace15 of a brandy-and-soda and transport his purposeless person to the window. Glennard measured his course with a contemptuous eye. It was so like Hollingsworth to get up and look out of the window just as it was growing too dark to see anything! There was a man rich enough to do what he pleased—had he been capable of being pleased—yet barred from all conceivable achievement by his own impervious16 dulness; while, a few feet off, Glennard, who wanted only enough to keep a decent coat on his back and a roof over the head of the woman he loved Glennard, who had sweated, toiled17, denied himself for the scant18 measure of opportunity that his zeal19 would have converted into a kingdom—sat wretchedly calculating that, even when he had resigned from the club, and knocked off his cigars, and given up his Sundays out of town, he would still be no nearer attainment20.
The Spectator had slipped to his feet and as he picked it up his eye fell again on the paragraph addressed to the friends of Mrs. Aubyn. He had read it for the first time with a scarcely perceptible quickening of attention: her name had so long been public property that his eye passed it unseeingly, as the crowd in the street hurries without a glance by some familiar monument.
“Information concerning the period previous to her coming to England....” The words were an evocation21. He saw her again as she had looked at their first meeting, the poor woman of genius with her long pale face and short-sighted eyes, softened22 a little by the grace of youth and inexperience, but so incapable23 even then of any hold upon the pulses. When she spoke24, indeed, she was wonderful, more wonderful, perhaps, than when later, to Glennard’s fancy at least, the consciousness of memorable25 things uttered seemed to take from even her most intimate speech the perfect bloom of privacy. It was in those earliest days, if ever, that he had come near loving her; though even then his sentiment had lived only in the intervals27 of its expression. Later, when to be loved by her had been a state to touch any man’s imagination, the physical reluctance28 had, inexplicably29, so overborne the intellectual attraction, that the last years had been, to both of them, an agony of conflicting impulses. Even now, if, in turning over old papers, his hand lit on her letters, the touch filled him with inarticulate misery30....
“She had so few intimate friends... that letters will be of special value.” So few intimate friends! For years she had had but one; one who in the last years had requited31 her wonderful pages, her tragic32 outpourings of love, humility33, and pardon, with the scant phrases by which a man evades the vulgarest of sentimental34 importunities. He had been a brute35 in spite of himself, and sometimes, now that the remembrance of her face had faded, and only her voice and words remained with him, he chafed36 at his own inadequacy37, his stupid inability to rise to the height of her passion. His egoism was not of a kind to mirror its complacency in the adventure. To have been loved by the most brilliant woman of her day, and to have been incapable of loving her, seemed to him, in looking back, the most derisive38 evidence of his limitations; and his remorseful39 tenderness for her memory was complicated with a sense of irritation40 against her for having given him once for all the measure of his emotional capacity. It was not often, however, that he thus probed the past. The public, in taking possession of Mrs. Aubyn, had eased his shoulders of their burden. There was something fatuous41 in an attitude of sentimental apology toward a memory already classic: to reproach one’s self for not having loved Margaret Aubyn was a good deal like being disturbed by an inability to admire the Venus of Milo. From her cold niche42 of fame she looked down ironically enough on his self-flagellations.... It was only when he came on something that belonged to her that he felt a sudden renewal44 of the old feeling, the strange dual11 impulse that drew him to her voice but drove him from her hand, so that even now, at sight of anything she had touched, his heart contracted painfully. It happened seldom nowadays. Her little presents, one by one, had disappeared from his rooms, and her letters, kept from some unacknowledged puerile45 vanity in the possession of such treasures, seldom came beneath his hand....
“Her letters will be of special value—” Her letters! Why, he must have hundreds of them—enough to fill a volume. Sometimes it used to seem to him that they came with every post—he used to avoid looking in his letter-box when he came home to his rooms—but her writing seemed to spring out at him as he put his key in the door—.
He stood up and strolled into the other room. Hollingsworth, lounging away from the window, had joined himself to a languidly convivial46 group of men to whom, in phrases as halting as though they struggled to define an ultimate idea, he was expounding47 the cursed nuisance of living in a hole with such a damned climate that one had to get out of it by February, with the contingent48 difficulty of there being no place to take one’s yacht to in winter but that other played-out hole, the Riviera. From the outskirts49 of this group Glennard wandered to another, where a voice as different as possible from Hollingsworth’s colorless organ dominated another circle of languid listeners.
“Come and hear Dinslow talk about his patent: admission free,” one of the men sang out in a tone of mock resignation.
Dinslow turned to Glennard the confident pugnacity50 of his smile. “Give it another six months and it’ll be talking about itself,” he declared. “It’s pretty nearly articulate now.”
“Can it say papa?” someone else inquired.
Dinslow’s smile broadened. “You’ll be deuced glad to say papa to it a year from now,” he retorted. “It’ll be able to support even you in affluence51. Look here, now, just let me explain to you—”
Glennard moved away impatiently. The men at the club—all but those who were “in it”—were proverbially “tired” of Dinslow’s patent, and none more so than Glennard, whose knowledge of its merits made it loom26 large in the depressing catalogue of lost opportunities. The relations between the two men had always been friendly, and Dinslow’s urgent offers to “take him in on the ground floor” had of late intensified52 Glennard’s sense of his own inability to meet good luck half way. Some of the men who had paused to listen were already in evening clothes, others on their way home to dress; and Glennard, with an accustomed twinge of humiliation53, said to himself that if he lingered among them it was in the miserable54 hope that one of the number might ask him to dine. Miss Trent had told him that she was to go to the opera that evening with her rich aunt; and if he should have the luck to pick up a dinner-invitation he might join her there without extra outlay55.
He moved about the room, lingering here and there in a tentative affectation of interest; but though the men greeted him pleasantly no one asked him to dine. Doubtless they were all engaged, these men who could afford to pay for their dinners, who did not have to hunt for invitations as a beggar rummages56 for a crust in an ash-barrel! But no—as Hollingsworth left the lessening57 circle about the table an admiring youth called out—“Holly, stop and dine!”
Hollingsworth turned on him the crude countenance58 that looked like the wrong side of a more finished face. “Sorry I can’t. I’m in for a beastly banquet.”
Glennard threw himself into an arm-chair. Why go home in the rain to dress? It was folly59 to take a cab to the opera, it was worse folly to go there at all. His perpetual meetings with Alexa Trent were as unfair to the girl as they were unnerving to himself. Since he couldn’t marry her, it was time to stand aside and give a better man the chance—and his thought admitted the ironical43 implication that in the terms of expediency60 the phrase might stand for Hollingsworth.
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1
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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2
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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7
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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9
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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10
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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11
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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12
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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appreciably
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| adv.相当大地 | |
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15
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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16
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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17
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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18
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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19
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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20
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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21
evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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22
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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23
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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24
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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25
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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27
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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28
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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29
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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30
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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31
requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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32
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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33
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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34
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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35
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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36
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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37
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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38
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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39
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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40
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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41
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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42
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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43
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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44
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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45
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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46
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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47
expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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48
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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49
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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50
pugnacity
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| n.好斗，好战 | |
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51
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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52
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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54
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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55
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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56
rummages
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的名词复数 ) | |
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57
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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58
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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59
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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60
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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