Thea never went into shops unless she had to, and she felt no interest in them. Indeed, she shunned1 them, as places where one was sure to be parted from one’s money in some way. She was nervous about counting her change, and she could not accustom2 herself to having her purchases sent to her address. She felt much safer with her bundles under her arm.
During this first winter Thea got no city consciousness. Chicago was simply a wilderness3 through which one had to find one’s way. She felt no interest in the general briskness4 and zest5 of the crowds. The crash and scramble6 of that big, rich, appetent Western city she did not take in at all, except to notice that the noise of the drays and street-cars tired her. The brilliant window displays, the splendid furs and stuffs, the gorgeous flower-shops, the gay candy-shops, she scarcely noticed. At Christmas-time she did feel some curiosity about the toy-stores, and she wished she held Thor’s little mittened7 fist in her hand as she stood before the windows. The jewelers’ windows, too, had a strong attraction for her—she had always liked bright stones. When she went into the city she used to brave the biting lake winds and stand gazing in at the displays of diamonds and pearls and emeralds; the tiaras and necklaces and earrings8, on white velvet9. These seemed very well worth while to her, things worth coveting10.
Mrs. Lorch and Mrs. Andersen often told each other it was strange that Miss Kronborg had so little initiative about “visiting points of interest.” When Thea came to live with them she had expressed a wish to see two places: Montgomery Ward11 and Company’s big mail-order store, and the packing-houses, to which all the hogs12 and cattle that went through Moonstone were bound. One of Mrs. Lorch’s lodgers13 worked in a packing-house, and Mrs. Andersen brought Thea word that she had spoken to Mr. Eckman and he would gladly take her to Packingtown. Eckman was a toughish young Swede, and he thought it would be something of a lark15 to take a pretty girl through the slaughter-houses. But he was disappointed. Thea neither grew faint nor clung to the arm he kept offering her. She asked innumerable questions and was impatient because he knew so little of what was going on outside of his own department. When they got off the street-car and walked back to Mrs. Lorch’s house in the dusk, Eckman put her hand in his overcoat pocket—she had no muff—and kept squeezing it ardently16 until she said, “Don’t do that; my ring cuts me.” That night he told his roommate that he “could have kissed her as easy as rolling off a log, but she wasn’t worth the trouble.” As for Thea, she had enjoyed the afternoon very much, and wrote her father a brief but clear account of what she had seen.
One night at supper Mrs. Andersen was talking about the exhibit of students’ work she had seen at the Art Institute that afternoon. Several of her friends had sketches17 in the exhibit. Thea, who always felt that she was behindhand in courtesy to Mrs. Andersen, thought that here was an opportunity to show interest without committing herself to anything. “Where is that, the Institute?” she asked absently.
Mrs. Andersen clasped her napkin in both hands. “The Art Institute? Our beautiful Art Institute on Michigan Avenue? Do you mean to say you have never visited it?”
“Oh, is it the place with the big lions out in front? I remember; I saw it when I went to Montgomery Ward’s. Yes, I thought the lions were beautiful.”
“But the pictures! Didn’t you visit the galleries?”
“No. The sign outside said it was a pay-day. I’ve always meant to go back, but I haven’t happened to be down that way since.”
Mrs. Lorch and Mrs. Andersen looked at each other. The old mother spoke14, fixing her shining little eyes upon Thea across the table. “Ah, but Miss Kronborg, there are old masters! Oh, many of them, such as you could not see anywhere out of Europe.”
“And Corots,” breathed Mrs. Andersen, tilting18 her head feelingly. “Such examples of the Barbizon school!” This was meaningless to Thea, who did not read the art columns of the Sunday Inter-Ocean as Mrs. Andersen did.
One bleak20 day in February, when the wind was blowing clouds of dirt like a Moonstone sandstorm, dirt that filled your eyes and ears and mouth, Thea fought her way across the unprotected space in front of the Art Institute and into the doors of the building. She did not come out again until the closing hour. In the street-car, on the long cold ride home, while she sat staring at the waistcoat buttons of a fat strap-hanger, she had a serious reckoning with herself. She seldom thought about her way of life, about what she ought or ought not to do; usually there was but one obvious and important thing to be done. But that afternoon she remonstrated21 with herself severely22. She told herself that she was missing a great deal; that she ought to be more willing to take advice and to go to see things. She was sorry that she had let months pass without going to the Art Institute. After this she would go once a week.
The Institute proved, indeed, a place of retreat, as the sand hills or the Kohlers’ garden used to be; a place where she could forget Mrs. Andersen’s tiresome23 overtures24 of friendship, the stout25 contralto in the choir26 whom she so unreasonably27 hated, and even, for a little while, the torment28 of her work. That building was a place in which she could relax and play, and she could hardly ever play now. On the whole, she spent more time with the casts than with the pictures. They were at once more simple and more perplexing; and some way they seemed more important, harder to overlook. It never occurred to her to buy a catalogue, so she called most of the casts by names she made up for them. Some of them she knew; the Dying Gladiator she had read about in “Childe Harold” almost as long ago as she could remember; he was strongly associated with Dr. Archie and childish illnesses. The Venus di Milo puzzled her; she could not see why people thought her so beautiful. She told herself over and over that she did not think the Apollo Belvedere “at all handsome.” Better than anything else she liked a great equestrian29 statue of an evil, cruel-looking general with an unpronounceable name. She used to walk round and round this terrible man and his terrible horse, frowning at him, brooding upon him, as if she had to make some momentous30 decision about him.
The casts, when she lingered long among them, always made her gloomy. It was with a lightening of the heart, a feeling of throwing off the old miseries31 and old sorrows of the world, that she ran up the wide staircase to the pictures. There she liked best the ones that told stories. There was a painting by Gérôme called “The Pasha’s Grief” which always made her wish for Gunner and Axel. The Pasha was seated on a rug, beside a green candle almost as big as a telegraph pole, and before him was stretched his dead tiger, a splendid beast, and there were pink roses scattered32 about him. She loved, too, a picture of some boys bringing in a newborn calf33 on a litter, the cow walking beside it and licking it. The Corot which hung next to this painting she did not like or dislike; she never saw it.
But in that same room there was a picture—oh, that was the thing she ran upstairs so fast to see! That was her picture. She imagined that nobody cared for it but herself, and that it waited for her. That was a picture indeed. She liked even the name of it, “The Song of the Lark.” The flat country, the early morning light, the wet fields, the look in the girl’s heavy face—well, they were all hers, anyhow, whatever was there. She told herself that that picture was “right.” Just what she meant by this, it would take a clever person to explain. But to her the word covered the almost boundless34 satisfaction she felt when she looked at the picture.
Before Thea had any idea how fast the weeks were flying, before Mr. Larsen’s “permanent” soprano had returned to her duties, spring came; windy, dusty, strident, shrill35; a season almost more violent in Chicago than the winter from which it releases one, or the heat to which it eventually delivers one. One sunny morning the apple trees in Mrs. Lorch’s back yard burst into bloom, and for the first time in months Thea dressed without building a fire. The morning shone like a holiday, and for her it was to be a holiday. There was in the air that sudden, treacherous36 softness which makes the Poles who work in the packing-houses get drunk. At such times beauty is necessary, and in Packingtown there is no place to get it except at the saloons, where one can buy for a few hours the illusion of comfort, hope, love,—whatever one most longs for.
Harsanyi had given Thea a ticket for the symphony concert that afternoon, and when she looked out at the white apple trees her doubts as to whether she ought to go vanished at once. She would make her work light that morning, she told herself. She would go to the concert full of energy. When she set off, after dinner, Mrs. Lorch, who knew Chicago weather, prevailed upon her to take her cape37. The old lady said that such sudden mildness, so early in April, presaged38 a sharp return of winter, and she was anxious about her apple trees.
The concert began at two-thirty, and Thea was in her seat in the Auditorium39 at ten minutes after two—a fine seat in the first row of the balcony, on the side, where she could see the house as well as the orchestra. She had been to so few concerts that the great house, the crowd of people, and the lights, all had a stimulating40 effect. She was surprised to see so many men in the audience, and wondered how they could leave their business in the afternoon. During the first number Thea was so much interested in the orchestra itself, in the men, the instruments, the volume of sound, that she paid little attention to what they were playing. Her excitement impaired41 her power of listening. She kept saying to herself, “Now I must stop this foolishness and listen; I may never hear this again”; but her mind was like a glass that is hard to focus. She was not ready to listen until the second number, Dvorak’s Symphony in E minor42, called on the programme, “From the New World.” The first theme had scarcely been given out when her mind became clear; instant composure fell upon her, and with it came the power of concentration. This was music she could understand, music from the New World indeed! Strange how, as the first movement went on, it brought back to her that high tableland above Laramie; the grass-grown wagon43 trails, the far-away peaks of the snowy range, the wind and the eagles, that old man and the first telegraph message.
When the first movement ended, Thea’s hands and feet were cold as ice. She was too much excited to know anything except that she wanted something desperately44, and when the English horns gave out the theme of the Largo45, she knew that what she wanted was exactly that. Here were the sand hills, the grasshoppers46 and locusts47, all the things that wakened and chirped48 in the early morning; the reaching and reaching of high plains, the immeasurable yearning49 of all flat lands. There was home in it, too; first memories, first mornings long ago; the amazement50 of a new soul in a new world; a soul new and yet old, that had dreamed something despairing, something glorious, in the dark before it was born; a soul obsessed51 by what it did not know, under the cloud of a past it could not recall.
If Thea had had much experience in concert-going, and had known her own capacity, she would have left the hall when the symphony was over. But she sat still, scarcely knowing where she was, because her mind had been far away and had not yet come back to her. She was startled when the orchestra began to play again—the entry of the gods into Walhalla. She heard it as people hear things in their sleep. She knew scarcely anything about the Wagner operas. She had a vague idea that “Rhinegold” was about the strife52 between gods and men; she had read something about it in Mr. Haweis’s book long ago. Too tired to follow the orchestra with much understanding, she crouched53 down in her seat and closed her eyes. The cold, stately measures of the Walhalla music rang out, far away; the rainbow bridge throbbed54 out into the air, under it the wailing55 of the Rhine daughters and the singing of the Rhine. But Thea was sunk in twilight56; it was all going on in another world. So it happened that with a dull, almost listless ear she heard for the first time that troubled music, ever-darkening, ever-brightening, which was to flow through so many years of her life.
When Thea emerged from the concert hall, Mrs. Lorch’s predictions had been fulfilled. A furious gale57 was beating over the city from Lake Michigan. The streets were full of cold, hurrying, angry people, running for street-cars and barking at each other. The sun was setting in a clear, windy sky, that flamed with red as if there were a great fire somewhere on the edge of the city. For almost the first time Thea was conscious of the city itself, of the congestion58 of life all about her, of the brutality59 and power of those streams that flowed in the streets, threatening to drive one under. People jostled her, ran into her, poked60 her aside with their elbows, uttering angry exclamations61. She got on the wrong car and was roughly ejected by the conductor at a windy corner, in front of a saloon. She stood there dazed and shivering. The cars passed, screaming as they rounded curves, but either they were full to the doors, or were bound for places where she did not want to go. Her hands were so cold that she took off her tight kid gloves. The street lights began to gleam in the dusk. A young man came out of the saloon and stood eyeing her questioningly while he lit a cigarette. “Looking for a friend to-night?” he asked. Thea drew up the collar of her cape and walked on a few paces. The young man shrugged62 his shoulders and drifted away.
Thea came back to the corner and stood there irresolutely63. An old man approached her. He, too, seemed to be waiting for a car. He wore an overcoat with a black fur collar, his gray mustache was waxed into little points, and his eyes were watery64. He kept thrusting his face up near hers. Her hat blew off and he ran after it—a stiff, pitiful skip he had—and brought it back to her. Then, while she was pinning her hat on, her cape blew up, and he held it down for her, looking at her intently. His face worked as if he were going to cry or were frightened. He leaned over and whispered something to her. It struck her as curious that he was really quite timid, like an old beggar. “Oh, let me Alone!” she cried miserably65 between her teeth. He vanished, disappeared like the Devil in a play. But in the mean time something had got away from her; she could not remember how the violins came in after the horns, just there. When her cape blew up, perhaps—Why did these men torment her? A cloud of dust blew in her face and blinded her. There was some power abroad in the world bent66 upon taking away from her that feeling with which she had come out of the concert hall. Everything seemed to sweep down on her to tear it out from under her cape. If one had that, the world became one’s enemy; people, buildings, wagons67, cars, rushed at one to crush it under, to make one let go of it. Thea glared round her at the crowds, the ugly, sprawling68 streets, the long lines of lights, and she was not crying now. Her eyes were brighter than even Harsanyi had ever seen them. All these things and people were no longer remote and negligible; they had to be met, they were lined up against her, they were there to take something from her. Very well; they should never have it. They might trample69 her to death, but they should never have it. As long as she lived that ecstasy70 was going to be hers. She would live for it, work for it, die for it; but she was going to have it, time after time, height after height. She could hear the crash of the orchestra again, and she rose on the brasses71. She would have it, what the trumpets72 were singing! She would have it, have it,—it! Under the old cape she pressed her hands upon her heaving bosom73, that was a little girl’s no longer.
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收听单词发音
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1
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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mittened
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| v.（使）变得潮湿，变得湿润( moisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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coveting
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的现在分词 ) | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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12
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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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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15
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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16
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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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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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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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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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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presaged
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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40
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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41
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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43
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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44
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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45
largo
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| n.广板乐章；adj.缓慢的，宽广的；adv.缓慢地，宽广地 | |
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46
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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47
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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48
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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49
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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50
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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51
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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52
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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53
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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55
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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56
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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57
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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58
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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60
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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61
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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62
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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64
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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65
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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66
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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67
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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68
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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69
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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70
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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71
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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72
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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73
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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