He had an instinctive2 and rather charitable knowledge of the weaknesses of men and women, and, like a priest, it made him the more concerned for the maintenance of outward forms. It was typical of him that every Sunday morning he taught in a fashionable Episcopal Sunday-school—even though a cold shower and a quick change into a cutaway coat were all that separated him from the wild night before.
After his father's death he was the practical head of his family, and, in effect, guided the destinies of the younger children. Through a complication his authority did not extend to his father's estate, which was administrated by his Uncle Robert, who was the horsey member of the family, a good-natured, hard-drinking member of that set which centres about Wheatley Hills.
Uncle Robert and his wife, Edna, had been great friends of Anson's youth, and the former was disappointed when his nephew's superiority failed to take a horsey form. He backed him for a city club which was the most difficult in America to enter—one could only join if one's family had "helped to build up New York" (or, in other words, were rich before 1880)—and when Anson, after his election, neglected it for the Yale Club, Uncle Robert gave him a little talk on the subject. But when on top of that Anson declined to enter Robert Hunter's own conservative and somewhat neglected brokerage house, his manner grew cooler. Like a primary teacher who has taught all he knew, he slipped out of Anson's life.
There were so many friends in Anson's life—scarcely one for whom he had not done some unusual kindness and scarcely one whom he did not occasionally embarrass by his bursts of rough conversation or his habit of getting drunk whenever and however he liked. It annoyed him when any one else blundered in that regard—about his own lapses3 he was always humorous. Odd things happened to him and he told them with infectious laughter.
I was working in New York that spring, and I used to lunch with him at the Yale Club, which my university was sharing until the completion of our own. I had read of Paula's marriage, and one afternoon, when I asked him about her, something moved him to tell me the story. After that he frequently invited me to family dinners at his house and behaved as though there was a special relation between us, as though with his confidence a little of that consuming memory had passed into me.
I found that despite the trusting mothers, his attitude toward girls was not indiscriminately protective. It was up to the girl—if she showed an inclination4 toward looseness, she must take care of herself, even with him.
"Life," he would explain sometimes, "has made a cynic of me."
By life he meant Paula. Sometimes, especially when he was drinking, it became a little twisted in his mind, and he thought that she had callously5 thrown him over.
This "cynicism," or rather his realization6 that naturally fast girls were not worth sparing, led to his affair with Dolly Karger. It wasn't his only affair in those years, but it came nearest to touching7 him deeply, and it had a profound effect upon his attitude toward life.
Dolly was the daughter of a notorious "publicist" who had married into society. She herself grew up into the Junior League, came out at the Plaza8, and went to the Assembly; and only a few old families like the Hunters could question whether or not she "belonged," for her picture was often in the papers, and she had more enviable attention than many girls who undoubtedly9 did. She was dark-haired, with carmine10 lips and a high, lovely color, which she concealed11 under pinkish-gray powder all through the first year out, because high color was unfashionable—Victorian-pale was the thing to be. She wore black, severe suits and stood with her hands in her pockets leaning a little forward, with a humorous restraint on her face. She danced exquisitely—better than anything she liked to dance—better than anything except making love. Since she was ten she had always been in love, and, usually, with some boy who didn't respond to her. Those who did—and there were many—bored her after a brief encounter, but for her failures she reserved the warmest spot in her heart. When she met them she would always try once more—sometimes she succeeded, more often she failed.
It never occurred to this gypsy of the unattainable that there was a certain resemblance in those who refused to love her—they shared a hard intuition that saw through to her weakness, not a weakness of emotion but a weakness of rudder. Anson perceived this when he first met her, less than a month after Paula's marriage. He was drinking rather heavily, and he pretended for a week that he was falling in love with her. Then he dropped her abruptly12 and forgot—immediately he took up the commanding position in her heart.
Like so many girls of that day Dolly was slackly and indiscreetly wild. The unconventionality of a slightly older generation had been simply one facet14 of a post-war movement to discredit15 obsolete16 manners—Dolly's was both older and shabbier, and she saw in Anson the two extremes which the emotionally shiftless woman seeks, an abandon to indulgence alternating with a protective strength. In his character she felt both the sybarite and the solid rock, and these two satisfied every need of her nature.
She felt that it was going to be difficult, but she mistook the reason—she thought that Anson and his family expected a more spectacular marriage, but she guessed immediately that her advantage lay in his tendency to drink.
They met at the large débutante dances, but as her infatuation increased they managed to be more and more together. Like most mothers, Mrs. Karger believed that Anson was exceptionally reliable, so she allowed Dolly to go with him to distant country clubs and suburban17 houses without inquiring closely into their activities or questioning her explanations when they came in late. At first these explanations might have been accurate, but Dolly's worldly ideas of capturing Anson were soon engulfed18 in the rising sweep of her emotion. Kisses in the back of taxis and motor-cars were no longer enough; they did a curious thing:
They dropped out of their world for a while and made another world just beneath it where Anson's tippling and Dolly's irregular hours would be less noticed and commented on. It was composed, this world, of varying elements—several of Anson's Yale friends and their wives, two or three young brokers19 and bond salesmen and a handful of unattached men, fresh from college, with money and a propensity20 to dissipation. What this world lacked in spaciousness21 and scale it made up for by allowing them a liberty that it scarcely permitted itself. Moreover, it centred around them and permitted Dolly the pleasure of a faint condescension22—a pleasure which Anson, whose whole life was a condescension from the certitudes of his childhood, was unable to share.
He was not in love with her, and in the long feverish23 winter of their affair he frequently told her so. In the spring he was weary—he wanted to renew his life at some other source—moreover, he saw that either he must break with her now or accept the responsibility of a definite seduction. Her family's encouraging attitude precipitated24 his decision—one evening when Mr. Karger knocked discreetly13 at the library door to announce that he had left a bottle of old brandy in the dining-room, Anson felt that life was hemming25 him in. That night he wrote her a short letter in which he told her that he was going on his vacation, and that in view of all the circumstances they had better meet no more.
It was June. His family had closed up the house and gone to the country, so he was living temporarily at the Yale Club. I had heard about his affair with Dolly as it developed—accounts salted with humor, for he despised unstable26 women, and granted them no place in the social edifice27 in which he believed—and when he told me that night that he was definitely breaking with her I was glad. I had seen Dolly here and there, and each time with a feeling of pity at the hopelessness of her struggle, and of shame at knowing so much about her that I had no right to know. She was what is known as "a pretty little thing," but there was a certain recklessness which rather fascinated me. Her dedication28 to the goddess of waste would have been less obvious had she been less spirited—she would most certainly throw herself away, but I was glad when I heard that the sacrifice would not be consummated29 in my sight.
Anson was going to leave the letter of farewell at her house next morning. It was one of the few houses left open in the Fifth Avenue district, and he knew that the Kargers, acting30 upon erroneous information from Dolly, had foregone a trip abroad to give their daughter her chance. As he stepped out the door of the Yale Club into Madison Avenue the postman passed him, and he followed back inside. The first letter that caught his eye was in Dolly's hand.
He knew what it would be—a lonely and tragic31 monologue32, full of the reproaches he knew, the invoked33 memories, the "I wonder if's"—all the immemorial intimacies34 that he had communicated to Paula Legendre in what seemed another age. Thumbing over some bills, he brought it on top again and opened it. To his surprise it was a short, somewhat formal note, which said that Dolly would be unable to go to the country with him for the week-end, because Perry Hull35 from Chicago had unexpectedly come to town. It added that Anson had brought this on himself: "—if I felt that you loved me as I love you I would go with you at any time, any place, but Perry is so nice, and he so much wants me to marry him——"
Anson smiled contemptuously—he had had experience with such decoy epistles. Moreover, he knew how Dolly had labored36 over this plan, probably sent for the faithful Perry and calculated the time of his arrival—even labored over the note so that it would make him jealous without driving him away. Like most compromises, it had neither force nor vitality37 but only a timorous38 despair.
Suddenly he was angry. He sat down in the lobby and read it again. Then he went to the phone, called Dolly and told her in his clear, compelling voice that he had received her note and would call for her at five o'clock as they had previously39 planned. Scarcely waiting for the pretended uncertainty40 of her "Perhaps I can see you for an hour," he hung up the receiver and went down to his office. On the way he tore his own letter into bits and dropped it in the street.
He was not jealous—she meant nothing to him—but at her pathetic ruse41 everything stubborn and self-indulgent in him came to the surface. It was a presumption42 from a mental inferior and it could not be overlooked. If she wanted to know to whom she belonged she would see.
He was on the door-step at quarter past five. Dolly was dressed for the street, and he listened in silence to the paragraph of "I can only see you for an hour," which she had begun on the phone.
"Put on your hat, Dolly," he said, "we'll take a walk."
They strolled up Madison Avenue and over to Fifth while Anson's shirt dampened upon his portly body in the deep heat. He talked little, scolding her, making no love to her, but before they had walked six blocks she was his again, apologizing for the note, offering not to see Perry at all as an atonement, offering anything. She thought that he had come because he was beginning to love her.
"I'm hot," he said when they reached 71st Street. "This is a winter suit. If I stop by the house and change, would you mind waiting for me down-stairs? I'll only be a minute."
She was happy; the intimacy43 of his being hot, of any physical fact about him, thrilled her. When they came to the iron-grated door and Anson took out his key she experienced a sort of delight.
Down-stairs it was dark, and after he ascended44 in the lift Dolly raised a curtain and looked out through opaque45 lace at the houses over the way. She heard the lift machinery46 stop, and with the notion of teasing him pressed the button that brought it down. Then on what was more than an impulse she got into it and sent it up to what she guessed was his floor.
"Anson," she called, laughing a little.
"Just a minute," he answered from his bedroom ... then after a brief delay: "Now you can come in."
He had changed and was buttoning his vest. "This is my room," he said lightly. "How do you like it?"
She caught sight of Paula's picture on the wall and stared at it in fascination47, just as Paula had stared at the pictures of Anson's childish sweethearts five years before. She knew something about Paula—sometimes she tortured herself with fragments of the story.
Suddenly she came close to Anson, raising her arms. They embraced. Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight48 already hovered49, though the sun was still bright on a back roof across the way. In half an hour the room would be quite dark. The uncalculated opportunity overwhelmed them, made them both breathless, and they clung more closely. It was eminent50, inevitable51. Still holding one another, they raised their heads—their eyes fell together upon Paula's picture, staring down at them from the wall.
Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk tried the drawer with a bunch of keys.
"Like a drink?" he asked in a gruff voice.
"No, Anson."
He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and then opened the door into the hall.
"Come on," he said.
Dolly hesitated.
"Anson—I'm going to the country with you to-night, after all. You understand that, don't you?"
"Of course," he answered brusquely.
In Dolly's car they rode on to Long Island, closer in their emotions than they had ever been before. They knew what would happen—not with Paula's face to remind them that something was lacking, but when they were alone in the still, hot Long Island night they did not care.
The estate in Port Washington where they were to spend the week-end belonged to a cousin of Anson's who had married a Montana copper52 operator. An interminable drive began at the lodge53 and twisted under imported poplar saplings toward a huge, pink, Spanish house. Anson had often visited there before.
After dinner they danced at the Linx Club. About midnight Anson assured himself that his cousins would not leave before two—then he explained that Dolly was tired; he would take her home and return to the dance later. Trembling a little with excitement, they got into a borrowed car together and drove to Port Washington. As they reached the lodge he stopped and spoke54 to the night-watchman.
"When are you making a round, Carl?"
"Right away."
"Then you'll be here till everybody's in?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Listen: if any automobile55, no matter whose it is, turns in at this gate, I want you to phone the house immediately." He put a five-dollar bill into Carl's hand. "Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Anson." Being of the Old World, he neither winked56 nor smiled. Yet Dolly sat with her face turned slightly away.
Anson had a key. Once inside he poured a drink for both of them—Dolly left hers untouched—then he ascertained57 definitely the location of the phone, and found that it was within easy hearing distance of their rooms, both of which were on the first floor.
Five minutes later he knocked at the door of Dolly's room.
"Anson?" He went in, closing the door behind him. She was in bed, leaning up anxiously with elbows on the pillow; sitting beside her he took her in his arms.
"Anson, darling."
He didn't answer.
"Anson.... Anson! I love you.... Say you love me. Say it now—can't you say it now? Even if you don't mean it?"
He did not listen. Over her head he perceived that the picture of Paula was hanging here upon this wall.
He got up and went close to it. The frame gleamed faintly with thrice-reflected moonlight—within was a blurred58 shadow of a face that he saw he did not know. Almost sobbing59, he turned around and stared with abomination at the little figure on the bed.
"This is all foolishness," he said thickly. "I don't know what I was thinking about. I don't love you and you'd better wait for somebody that loves you. I don't love you a bit, can't you understand?"
His voice broke, and he went hurriedly out. Back in the salon60 he was pouring himself a drink with uneasy fingers, when the front door opened suddenly, and his cousin came in.
"Why, Anson, I hear Dolly's sick," she began solicitously61. "I hear she's sick...."
"It was nothing," he interrupted, raising his voice so that it would carry into Dolly's room. "She was a little tired. She went to bed."
For a long time afterward62 Anson believed that a protective God sometimes interfered63 in human affairs. But Dolly Karger, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, never again believed in anything at all.
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2
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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3
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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4
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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5
callously
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6
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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7
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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8
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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9
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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10
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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11
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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12
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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13
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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14
facet
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| n.(问题等的)一个方面；(多面体的)面 | |
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15
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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16
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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17
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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18
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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20
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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21
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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22
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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23
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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24
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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25
hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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26
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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28
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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29
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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30
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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31
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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32
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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33
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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34
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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35
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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36
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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37
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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38
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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39
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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40
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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41
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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42
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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43
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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44
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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46
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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47
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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48
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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49
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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50
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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51
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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52
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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53
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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54
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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55
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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56
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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57
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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59
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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60
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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61
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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62
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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63
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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