He still lived there, shiftlessly and uncomfortably—for Mariette had never come back from Lille. She had not come back, and there was no news of her. Lille had become a part of the “occupied provinces,” from which there was no escape; and people were beginning to find out what that living burial meant.
Adele Anthony had urged Campton to go back to the hotel, but he obstinately1 refused. What business had he to be living in expensive hotels when, for the Lord knew how long, his means of earning a livelihood3 were gone, and when it was his duty to save up for George—George, who was safe, who was definitely out of danger, and whom he longed more than ever, when the war was over, to withdraw from the stifling4 atmosphere of his stepfather’s millions?
He had been so near to having the boy to himself when the war broke out! He had almost had in sight the proud day when he should be able to say: “Look here: this is your own bank-account. Now you’re independent—for God’s sake stop and consider what you want to do with your life.”
The war had put an end to that—but only for a time. If victory came before long, Campton’s reputation would survive the eclipse, his chances of money-making 123would be as great as ever, and the new George, the George matured and disciplined by war, would come back with a finer sense of values, and a soul steeled against the vulgar opportunities of wealth.
Meanwhile, it behoved his father to save every penny. And the simplest way of saving was to go on camping in the studio, taking his meals at the nearest wine-shop, and entrusting6 his bed-making and dusting to old Mme. Lebel. In that way he could live for a long time without appreciably7 reducing his savings8.
Mme. Lebel’s daughter-in-law, Mme. Jules, who was in the Ardennes with the little girl when the war broke out, was to have replaced Mariette. But, like Mariette, Mme. Jules never arrived, and no word came from her or the child. They too were in an occupied province. So Campton jogged on without a servant. It was very uncomfortable, even for his lax standards; but the dread9 of letting a stranger loose in the studio made him prefer to put up with Mme. Lebel’s intermittent10 services.
So far she had borne up bravely. Her orphan11 grandsons were all at the front (how that word had insinuated12 itself into the language!) but she continued to have fairly frequent reassuring13 news of them. The Chasseur Alpin, slightly wounded in Alsace, was safe in hospital; and the others were well, and wrote cheerfully. Her son Jules, the cabinetmaker, was guarding 124a bridge at St. Cloud, and came in regularly to see her; but Campton noticed that it was about him that she seemed most anxious.
He was a silent industrious14 man, who had worked hard to support his orphaned15 nephews and his mother, and had married in middle age, only four or five years before the war, when the lads could shift for themselves, and his own situation was secure enough to permit the luxury of a wife and baby.
Mme. Jules had waited patiently for him, though she had other chances; and finally they had married and the baby had been born, and blossomed into one of those finished little Frenchwomen who, at four or five, seem already to be musing16 on the great central problems of love and thrift17. The parents used to bring the child to see Campton, and he had made a celebrated18 sketch19 of her, in her Sunday bonnet20, with little earrings21 and a wise smile. And these two, mother and child, had disappeared on the second of August as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them.
As Campton entered he glanced at the old woman’s den5, saw that it was empty, and said to himself: “She’s at St. Cloud again.” For he knew that she seized every chance of being with her eldest22.
He unlocked his door and felt his way into the dark studio. Mme. Lebel might at least have made up the fire! Campton lit the lamp, found some wood, and 125knelt down stiffly by the stove. Really, life was getting too uncomfortable....
“Really, you know——” he turned to rebuke24 her; but the words died on his lips. She stood before him, taking no notice; then her shapeless black figure doubled up, and she sank down into his own armchair. Mme. Lebel, who, even when he offered her a seat, never did more than rest respectful knuckles25 on its back!
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” he exclaimed.
She lifted her aged26 face. “Monsieur, I came about your fire; but I am too unhappy. I have more than I can bear.” She fumbled27 vainly for a handkerchief, and wiped away her tears with the back of her old laborious28 hand.
“Jules has enlisted30, Monsieur; enlisted in the infantry31. He has left for the front without telling me.”
“Good Lord. Enlisted? At his age—is he crazy?”
“No, Monsieur. But the little girl—he’s had news——”
She waited to steady her voice, and then fishing in another slit32 of her multiple skirts, pulled out a letter. “I got that at midday. I hurried to St. Cloud—but he left yesterday.”
The letter was grim reading. The poor father had accidentally run across an escaped prisoner who had 126regained the French lines near the village where Mme. Jules and the child were staying. The man, who knew the wife’s family, had been charged by them with a message to the effect that Mme. Jules, who was a proud woman, had got into trouble with the authorities, and been sent off to a German prison on the charge of spying. The poor little girl had cried and clung to her mother, and had been so savagely33 pushed aside by the officer who made the arrest that she had fallen on the stone steps of the “Kommandantur” and fractured her skull35. The fugitive36 reported her as still alive, but unconscious, and dying.
Jules Lebel had received this news the previous day; and within twenty-four hours he was at the front. Guard a bridge at St. Cloud after that? All he asked was to kill and be killed. He knew the name and the regiment37 of the officer who had denounced his wife. “If I live long enough I shall run the swine down,” he wrote. “If not, I’ll kill as many of his kind as God lets me.”
Mme. Lebel sat silent, her head bowed on her hands; and Campton stood and watched her. Presently she got up, passed the back of her hand across her eyes, and said: “The room is cold. I’ll fetch some coal.”
Campton protested. “No, no, Mme. Lebel. Don’t worry about me. Make yourself something warm to drink, and try to sleep——”
“Oh, Monsieur, thank God for the work! If it were 127not for that——” she said, in the same words as the physician.
She hobbled away, and presently he heard her bumping up again with the coal.
When his fire was started, and the curtains drawn38, and she had left him, the painter sat down and looked about the studio. Bare and untidy as it was, he did not find the sight unpleasant: he was used to it, and being used to things seemed to him the first requisite39 of comfort. But to-night his thoughts were elsewhere: he saw neither the tattered40 tapestries41 with their huge heroes and kings, nor the blotched walls hung with pictures, nor the canvases stacked against the chair-legs, nor the long littered table at which he wrote and ate and mixed his colours. At one moment he was with Fortin-Lescluze, speeding through the night toward fresh scenes of death; at another, in the loge downstairs, where Mme. Lebel, her day’s work done, would no doubt sit down as usual by her smoky lamp and go on with her sewing. “Thank God for the work——” they had both said.
And here Campton sat with idle hands, and did nothing——
It was not exactly his fault. What was there for a portrait-painter to do? He was not a portrait-painter only, and on his brief trip to Chalons some of the scenes by the way—gaunt unshorn faces of territorials42 at railway bridges, soldiers grouped about a provision-lorry, 128a mud-splashed company returning to the rear, a long grey train of “seventy-fives” ploughing forward through the rain—at these sights the old graphic43 instinct had stirred in him. But the approaches of the front were sternly forbidden to civilians45, and especially to neutrals (Campton was beginning to wince46 at the word); he himself, who had been taken to Chalons by a high official of the Army Medical Board, had been given only time enough for his interview with Fortin, and brought back to Paris the same night. If ever there came a time for art to interpret the war, as Raffet, for instance, had interpreted Napoleon’s campaigns, the day was not yet; the world in which men lived at present was one in which the word “art” had lost its meaning.
And what was Campton, what had he ever been, but an artist?... A father; yes, he had waked up to the practice of that other art, he was learning to be a father. And now, at a stroke, his only two reasons for living were gone: since the second of August he had had no portraits to paint, no son to guide and to companion.
Other people, he knew, had found jobs: most of his friends had been drawn into some form of war-work. Dastrey, after vain attempts to enlist29, thwarted47 by an untimely sciatica, had found a post near the front, on the staff of a Red Cross Ambulance. Adele Anthony was working eight or nine hours a day in a Depot48 which 129distributed food and clothing to refugees from the invaded provinces; and Mrs. Brant’s name figured on the committees of most of the newly-organized war charities. Among Campton’s other friends many had accepted humbler tasks. Some devoted49 their time to listing and packing hospital supplies, keeping accounts in ambulance offices, sorting out refugees at the railway-stations, and telling them where to go for food and help; still others spent their days, and sometimes their nights, at the bitter-cold suburban50 sidings where the long train-loads of wounded stopped on the way to the hospitals of the interior. There was enough misery51 and confusion at the rear for every civilian44 volunteer to find his task.
Among them all, Campton could not see his place. His lameness52 put him at a disadvantage, since taxicabs were few, and it was difficult for him to travel in the crowded métro. He had no head for figures, and would have thrown the best-kept accounts into confusion; he could not climb steep stairs to seek out refugees, nor should he have known what to say to them when he reached their attics53. And so it would have been at the railway canteens; he choked with rage and commiseration54 at all the suffering about him, but found no word to cheer the sufferers.
Secretly, too, he feared the demands that would be made on him if he once let himself be drawn into the network of war charities. Tiresome55 women would come 130and beg for money, or for pictures for bazaars56: they were already getting up bazaars.
Money he could not spare, since it was his duty to save it for George; and as for pictures—why, there were a few sketches57 he might give, but here again he was checked by his fear of establishing a precedent58. He had seen in the papers that the English painters were already giving blank canvases to be sold by auction59 to millionaires in quest of a portrait. But that form of philanthropy would lead to his having to paint all the unpaintable people who had been trying to bribe60 a picture out of him since his sudden celebrity61. No artist had a right to cheapen his art in that way: it could only result in his turning out work that would injure his reputation and reduce his sales after the war.
So far, Campton had not been troubled by many appeals for help; but that was probably because he had kept out of sight, and thrown into the fire the letters of the few ladies who had begged a sketch for their sales, or his name for their committees.
One appeal, however, he had not been able to avoid. About two months earlier he had had a visit from George’s friend Boylston, the youth he had met at Dastrey’s dinner the night before war was declared. In the interval62 he had entirely63 forgotten Boylston; but as soon as he saw the fat brown young man with a twinkle in his eyes and his hair, Campton recalled him, and held out a cordial hand. Had not George said that Boylston was the best fellow he knew?
131Boylston seemed much impressed by the honour of waiting on the great man. In spite of his cool twinkling air he was evidently full of reverence64 for the things and people he esteemed65, and Campton’s welcome sent the blood up to the edge of his tight curls. It also gave him courage to explain his visit.
He had come to beg Campton to accept the chairmanship of the American Committee of “The Friends of French Art,” an international group of painters who proposed to raise funds for the families of mobilised artists. The American group would naturally be the most active, since Americans had, in larger numbers than any other foreigners, sought artistic66 training in France; and all the members agreed that Campton’s name must figure at their head. But Campton was known to be inaccessible67, and the committee, aware that Boylston was a friend of George’s, had asked him to transmit their request.
“You see, sir, nobody else represents....”
Campton thought as seldom as possible of what followed: he hated the part he had played. But, after all, what else could he have done? Everything in him recoiled68 from what acceptance would bring with it: publicity69, committee meetings, speechifying, writing letters, seeing troublesome visitors, hearing harrowing stories, asking people for money—above all, having to give his own; a great deal of his own.
He stood before the young man, abject70, irresolute71, chinking a bunch of keys in his trouser-pocket, and 132remembering afterward72 that the chink must have sounded as if it were full of money. He remembered too, oddly enough, that as his own embarrassment73 increased Boylston’s vanished. It was as though the modest youth, taking his host’s measure, had reluctantly found him wanting, and from that moment had felt less in awe74 of his genius. Illogical, of course, and unfair—but there it was.
The talk had ended by Campton’s refusing the chairmanship, but agreeing to let his name figure on the list of honorary members, where he hoped it would be overshadowed by rival glories. And, having reached this conclusion, he had limped to his desk, produced a handful of notes, and after a moment’s hesitation75 held out two hundred francs with the stereotyped76: “Sorry I can’t make it more....”
He had meant it to be two hundred and fifty; but, with his usual luck, all his fumbling77 had failed to produce a fifty-franc note; and he could hardly ask Boylston to “make the change.”
On the threshold the young man paused to ask for the last news of George; and on Campton’s assuring him that it was excellent, added, with evident sincerity78: “Still hung up on that beastly staff-job? I do call that hard luck——” And now, of all the unpleasant memories of the visit, that phrase kept the sharpest sting.
Was it in fact hard luck? And did George himself 133think so? There was nothing in his letters to show it. He seemed to have undergone no change of view as to his own relation to the war; he had shown no desire to “be in it,” as that mad young Upsher said.
For the first time since he had seen George’s train pull out of the Gare de l’Est Campton found himself wondering at the perfection of his son’s moral balance. So many things had happened since; war had turned out to be so immeasurably more hideous79 and abominable80 than those who most abhorred81 war had dreamed it could be; the issues at stake had become so glaringly plain, right and wrong, honour and dishonour82, humanity and savagery83 faced each other so squarely across the trenches84, that it seemed strange to Campton that his boy, so eager, so impressionable, so quick on the uptake, should not have felt some such burst of wrath85 as had driven even poor Jules Lebel into the conflict.
The comparison, of course, was absurd. Lebel had been parted from his dearest, his wife dragged to prison, his child virtually murdered: any man, in his place, must have felt the blind impulse to kill. But what was Lebel’s private plight86 but a symbol of the larger wrong? This war could no longer be compared to other wars: Germany was conducting it on methods that civilization had made men forget. The occupation of Luxembourg; the systematic87 destruction of Belgium; the savage34 treatment of the people of the invaded regions; 134the outrages88 of Louvain and Rheims and Ypres; the voice with which these offences cried to heaven had waked the indignation of humanity. Yet George, in daily contact with all this woe89 and ruin, seemed as unmoved as though he had been behind a desk in the New York office of Bullard and Brant.
If there were any change in his letters it was rather that they were more indifferent. His reports of himself became drier, more stereotyped, his comments on the situation fewer: he seemed to have been subdued90 to the hideous business he worked in. It was true that his letters had never been expressive91: his individuality seemed to dry up in contact with pen and paper. It was true also that letters from the front were severely92 censored93, and that it would have been foolish to put in them anything likely to prevent their delivery. But George had managed to send several notes by hand, and these were as colourless as the others; and so were his letters to his mother, which Mrs. Brant always sent to Miss Anthony, who privately94 passed them on to Campton.
Besides, there were other means of comparison. People with sons at the front were beginning to hand about copies of their letters; a few passages, strangely moving and beautiful, had found their way into the papers. George, God be praised, was not at the front; but he was in the war-zone, far nearer the sights and sounds of death than his father, and he had comrades 135and friends in the trenches. Strange that what he wrote was still so cold to the touch....
“It’s the scientific mind, I suppose,” Campton reflected. “These youngsters are all rather like beautifully made machines....” Yet it had never before struck him that his son was like a beautifully made machine.
He remembered that he had not dined, and got up wearily. As he passed out he noticed on a pile of letters and papers a brand-new card: he could always tell the new cards by their whiteness, which twenty-four hours of studio-dust turned to grey.
Campton held the card to the light. It was large and glossy95, a beautiful thick pre-war card; and on it was engraved96:
HARVEY MAYHEW
Déléguê des Etats Unis au Congrès de la Paix
with a pen-stroke through the lower line. Beneath was written an imperative97 “p.t.o.”; and reversing the card, Campton read, in an agitated98 hand: “Must see you at once. Call up Nouveau Luxe”; and, lower down: “Excuse ridiculous card. Impossible get others under six weeks.”
So Mayhew had turned up! Well, it was a good thing: perhaps he might bring news of that mad Benny Upsher whose doings had caused Campton so much trouble in the early days that he could never recall the boy’s obstinate2 rosy99 face without a stir of irritation100.
136“I want to be in this thing——” Well, young Upsher had apparently101 been in it with a vengeance102; but what he had cost Campton in cables to his distracted family, and in weary pilgrimages to the War Office, the American Embassy, the Consulate103, the Prefecture of Police, and divers104 other supposed sources of information, the painter meant some day to tell his young relative in no measured terms. That is, if the chance ever presented itself; for, since he had left the studio that morning four months ago, Benny had so completely vanished that Campton sometimes wondered, with a little shiver, if they were ever likely to exchange words again in this world.
Harvey Mayhew—Harvey Mayhew with a pen-stroke through the title which, so short a time since, it had been his chief ambition to display on his cards! No wonder it embarrassed him now. But where on earth had he been all this time? As Campton pondered on the card a memory flashed out. Mayhew? Mayhew? Why, wasn’t it Mayhew who had waylaid106 him in the Crillon a few hours before war was declared, to ask his advice about the safest way of travelling to the Hague? And hadn’t he, Campton, in all good faith, counselled him to go by Luxembourg “in order to be out of the way of trouble”?
The remembrance swept away the painter’s sombre 137thoughts, and he burst into a laugh that woke the echoes of the studio.
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1
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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appreciably
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| adv.相当大地 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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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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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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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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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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territorials
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| n.（常大写）地方自卫队士兵( territorial的名词复数 ) | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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51
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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52
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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53
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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56
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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57
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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58
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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59
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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60
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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61
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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63
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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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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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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82
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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84
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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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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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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censored
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| 受审查的，被删剪的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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96
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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100
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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101
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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102
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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103
consulate
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| n.领事馆 | |
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104
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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105
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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