Anson was the eldest1 of six children who would some day divide a fortune of fifteen million dollars, and he reached the age of reason—is it seven?—at the beginning of the century when daring young women were already gliding2 along Fifth Avenue in electric "mobiles." In those days he and his brother had an English governess who spoke3 the language very clearly and crisply and well, so that the two boys grew to speak as she did—their words and sentences were all crisp and clear and not run together as ours are. They didn't talk exactly like English children but acquired an accent that is peculiar4 to fashionable people in the city of New York.
In the summer the six children were moved from the house on 71st Street to a big estate in northern Connecticut. It was not a fashionable locality—Anson's father wanted to delay as long as possible his children's knowledge of that side of life. He was a man somewhat superior to his class, which composed New York society, and to his period, which was the snobbish5 and formalized vulgarity of the Gilded6 Age, and he wanted his sons to learn habits of concentration and have sound constitutions and grow up into right-living and successful men. He and his wife kept an eye on them as well as they were able until the two older boys went away to school, but in huge establishments this is difficult—it was much simpler in the series of small and medium-sized houses in which my own youth was spent—I was never far out of the reach of my mother's voice, of the sense of her presence, her approval or disapproval7.
Anson's first sense of his superiority came to him when he realized the half-grudging American deference8 that was paid to him in the Connecticut village. The parents of the boys he played with always inquired after his father and mother, and were vaguely9 excited when their own children were asked to the Hunters' house. He accepted this as the natural state of things, and a sort of impatience10 with all groups of which he was not the centre—in money, in position, in authority—remained with him for the rest of his life. He disdained11 to struggle with other boys for precedence—he expected it to be given him freely, and when it wasn't he withdrew into his family. His family was sufficient, for in the East money is still a I somewhat feudal12 thing, a clan-forming thing. In the snobbish West, money separates families to form "sets."
At eighteen, when he went to New Haven13, Anson was tall and thick-set, with a clear complexion14 and a healthy color from the ordered life he had led in school. His hair was yellow and grew in a funny way on his head, his nose was beaked—these two things kept him from being handsome—but he had a confident charm and a certain brusque style, and the upper-class men who passed him on the street knew without being told that he was a rich boy and had gone to one of the best schools. Nevertheless, his very superiority kept him from being a success in college—the independence was mistaken for egotism, and the refusal to accept Yale standards with the proper awe15 seemed to belittle16 all those who had. So, long before he graduated, he began to shift the centre of his life to New York.
He was at home in New York—there was his own house with "the kind of servants you can't get any more"—and his own family, of which, because of his good humor and a certain ability to make things go, he was rapidly becoming the centre, and the débutante parties, and the correct manly17 world of the men's clubs, and the occasional wild spree with the gallant18 girls whom New Haven only knew from the fifth row. His aspirations19 were conventional enough—they included even the irreproachable20 shadow he would some day marry, but they differed from the aspirations of the majority of young men in that there was no mist over them, none of that quality which is variously known as "idealism" or "illusion." Anson accepted without reservation the world of high finance and high extravagance, of divorce and dissipation, of snobbery21 and of privilege. Most of our lives end as a compromise—it was as a compromise that his life began.
He and I first met in the late summer of 1917 when he was just out of Yale, and, like the rest of us, was swept up into the systematized hysteria of the war. In the blue-green uniform of the naval22 aviation he came down to Pensacola, where the hotel orchestras played "I'm sorry, dear," and we young officers danced with the girls. Every one liked him, and though he ran with the drinkers and wasn't an especially good pilot, even the instructors23 treated him with a certain respect. He was always having long talks with them in his confident, logical voice—talks which ended by his getting himself, or, more frequently, another officer, out of some impending24 trouble. He was convivial25, bawdy26, robustly27 avid28 for pleasure, and we were all surprised when he fell in love with a conservative and rather proper girl.
Her name was Paula Legendre, a dark, serious beauty from somewhere in California. Her family kept a winter residence just outside of town, and in spite of her primness29 she was enormously popular; there is a large class of men whose egotism can't endure humor in a woman. But Anson wasn't that sort, and I couldn't understand the attraction of her "sincerity"—that was the thing to say about her—for his keen and somewhat sardonic30 mind.
Nevertheless, they fell in love—and on her terms. He no longer joined the twilight31 gathering32 at the De Sota bar, and whenever they were seen together they were engaged in a long, serious dialogue, which must have gone on several weeks. Long afterward33 he told me that it was not about anything in particular but was composed on both sides of immature34 and even meaningless statements—the emotional content that gradually came to fill it grew up not out of the words but out of its enormous seriousness. It was a sort of hypnosis. Often it was interrupted, giving way to that emasculated humor we call fun; when they were alone it was resumed again, solemn, low-keyed, and pitched so as to give each other a sense of unity35 in feeling and thought. They came to resent any interruptions of it, to be unresponsive to facetiousness36 about life, even to the mild cynicism of their contemporaries. They were only happy when the dialogue was going on, and its seriousness bathed them like the amber37 glow of an open fire. Toward the end there came an interruption they did not resent—it began to be interrupted by passion.
Oddly enough, Anson was as engrossed38 in the dialogue as she was and as profoundly affected39 by it, yet at the same time aware that on his side much was insincere, and on hers much was merely simple. At first, too, he despised her emotional simplicity40 as well, but with his love her nature deepened and blossomed, and he could despise it no longer. He felt that if he could enter into Paula's warm safe life he would be happy. The long preparation of the dialogue removed any constraint—he taught her some of what he had learned from more adventurous41 women, and she responded with a rapt holy intensity42. One evening after a dance they agreed to marry, and he wrote a long letter about her to his mother. The next day Paula told him that she was rich, that she had a personal fortune of nearly a million dollars.
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1
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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7
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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8
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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9
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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belittle
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| v.轻视，小看，贬低 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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bawdy
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| adj.淫猥的，下流的；n.粗话 | |
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robustly
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| adv.要用体力地，粗鲁地 | |
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avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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40
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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41
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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42
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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