There was something repetitive about it—why, Paula and Dolly had belonged to different generations. He had a foretaste of the sensation of a man of forty who hears that the daughter of an old flame has married. He wired congratulations and, as was not the case with Paula, they were sincere—he had never really hoped that Paula would be happy.
When he returned to New York, he was made a partner in the firm, and, as his responsibilities increased, he had less time on his hands. The refusal of a life-insurance company to issue him a policy made such an impression on him that he stopped drinking for a year, and claimed that he felt better physically4, though I think he missed the convivial5 recounting of those Celliniesque adventures which, in his early twenties, had played such a part of his life. But he never abandoned the Yale Club. He was a figure there, a personality, and the tendency of his class, who were now seven years out of college, to drift away to more sober haunts was checked by his presence.
His day was never too full nor his mind too weary to give any sort of aid to any one who asked it. What had been done at first through pride and superiority had become a habit and a passion. And there was always something—a younger brother in trouble at New Haven6, a quarrel to be patched up between a friend and his wife, a position to be found for this man, an investment for that. But his specialty7 was the solving of problems for young married people. Young married people fascinated him and their apartments were almost sacred to him—he knew the story of their love-affair, advised them where to live and how, and remembered their babies' names. Toward young wives his attitude was circumspect8: he never abused the trust which their husbands—strangely enough in view of his unconcealed irregularities—invariably reposed9 in him.
He came to take a vicarious pleasure in happy marriages, and to be inspired to an almost equally pleasant melancholy10 by those that went astray. Not a season passed that he did not witness the collapse11 of an affair that perhaps he himself had fathered. When Paula was divorced and almost immediately remarried to another Bostonian, he talked about her to me all one afternoon. He would never love any one as he had loved Paula, but he insisted that he no longer cared.
"I'll never marry," he came to say; "I've seen too much of it, and I know a happy marriage is a very rare thing. Besides, I'm too old."
But he did believe in marriage. Like all men who spring from a happy and successful marriage, he believed in it passionately—nothing he had seen would change his belief, his cynicism dissolved upon it like air. But he did really believe he was too old. At twenty-eight he began to accept with equanimity12 the prospect13 of marrying without romantic love; he resolutely14 chose a New York girl of his own class, pretty, intelligent, congenial, above reproach—and set about falling in love with her. The things he had said to Paula with sincerity15, to other girls with grace, he could no longer say at all without smiling, or with the force necessary to convince.
"When I'm forty," he told his friends, "I'll be ripe. I'll fall for some chorus girl like the rest."
Nevertheless, he persisted in his attempt. His mother wanted to see him married, and he could now well afford it—he had a seat on the Stock Exchange, and his earned income came to twenty-five thousand a year. The idea was agreeable: when his friends—he spent most of his time with the set he and Dolly had evolved—closed themselves in behind domestic doors at night, he no longer rejoiced in his freedom. He even wondered if he should have married Dolly. Not even Paula had loved him more, and he was learning the rarity, in a single life, of encountering true emotion.
Just as this mood began to creep over him a disquieting16 story reached his ear. His aunt Edna, a woman just this side of forty, was carrying on an open intrigue17 with a dissolute, hard-drinking young man named Cary Sloane. Every one knew of it except Anson's Uncle Robert, who for fifteen years had talked long in clubs and taken his wife for granted.
Anson heard the story again and again with increasing annoyance18. Something of his old feeling for his uncle came back to him, a feeling that was more than personal, a reversion toward that family solidarity19 on which he had based his pride. His intuition singled out the essential point of the affair, which was that his uncle shouldn't be hurt. It was his first experiment in unsolicited meddling20, but with his knowledge of Edna's character he felt that he could handle the matter better than a district judge or his uncle.
His uncle was in Hot Springs. Anson traced down the sources of the scandal so that there should be no possibility of mistake and then he called Edna and asked her to lunch with him at the Plaza21 next day. Something in his tone must have frightened her, for she was reluctant, but he insisted, putting off the date until she had no excuse for refusing.
She met him at the appointed time in the Plaza lobby, a lovely, faded, gray-eyed blonde in a coat of Russian sable22. Five great rings, cold with diamonds and emeralds, sparkled on her slender hands. It occurred to Anson that it was his father's intelligence and not his uncle's that had earned the fur and the stones, the rich brilliance23 that buoyed24 up her passing beauty.
"Edna, I'm astonished at the way you've been acting," he said in a strong, frank voice. "At first I couldn't believe it."
"Believe what?" she demanded sharply.
"You needn't pretend with me, Edna. I'm talking about Cary Sloane. Aside from any other consideration, I didn't think you could treat Uncle Robert——"
"Now look here, Anson—" she began angrily, but his peremptory27 voice broke through hers:
"—and your children in such a way. You've been married eighteen years, and you're old enough to know better."
"You can't talk to me like that! You——"
"Yes, I can. Uncle Robert has always been my best friend." He was tremendously moved. He felt a real distress28 about his uncle, about his three young cousins.
"This is the silliest thing——"
"Very well, if you won't listen to me I'll go to Uncle Robert and tell him the whole story—he's bound to hear it sooner or later. And afterward30 I'll go to old Moses Sloane."
"Don't talk so loud," she begged him. Her eyes blurred32 with tears. "You have no idea how your voice carries. You might have chosen a less public place to make all these crazy accusations33."
He didn't answer.
"Oh, you never liked me, I know," she went on. "You're just taking advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the only interesting friendship I've ever had. What did I ever do to make you hate me so?"
Still Anson waited. There would be the appeal to his chivalry34, then to his pity, finally to his superior sophistication—when he had shouldered his way through all these there would be admissions, and he could come to grips with her. By being silent, by being impervious35, by returning constantly to his main weapon, which was his own true emotion, he bullied36 her into frantic37 despair as the luncheon38 hour slipped away. At two o'clock she took out a mirror and a handkerchief, shined away the marks of her tears and powdered the slight hollows where they had lain. She had agreed to meet him at her own house at five.
When he arrived she was stretched on a chaise-longue which was covered with cretonne for the summer, and the tears he had called up at luncheon seemed still to be standing39 in her eyes. Then he was aware of Cary Sloane's dark anxious presence upon the cold hearth40.
"What's this idea of yours?" broke out Sloane immediately. "I understand you invited Edna to lunch and then threatened her on the basis of some cheap scandal."
Anson sat down.
"I have no reason to think it's only scandal."
"I hear you're going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my father."
Anson nodded.
"Either you break it off—or I will," he said.
"What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter?"
"Don't lose your temper, Cary," said Edna nervously41. "It's only a question of showing him how absurd——"
"For one thing, it's my name that's being handed around," interrupted Anson. "That's all that concerns you, Cary."
"Edna isn't a member of your family."
"She most certainly is!" His anger mounted. "Why—she owes this house and the rings on her fingers to my father's brains. When Uncle Robert married her she didn't have a penny."
They all looked at the rings as if they had a significant bearing on the situation. Edna made a gesture to take them from her hand.
"I guess they're not the only rings in the world," said Sloane.
"Oh, this is absurd," cried Edna. "Anson, will you listen to me? I've found out how the silly story started. It was a maid I discharged who went right to the Chilicheffs—all these Russians pump things out of their servants and then put a false meaning on them." She brought down her fist angrily on the table: "And after Tom lent them the limousine42 for a whole month when we were South last winter——"
"Do you see?" demanded Sloane eagerly. "This maid got hold of the wrong end of the thing. She knew that Edna and I were friends, and she carried it to the Chilicheffs. In Russia they assume that if a man and a woman——"
He enlarged the theme to a disquisition upon social relations in the Caucasus.
"If that's the case it better be explained to Uncle Robert," said Anson dryly, "so that when the rumors43 do reach him he'll know they're not true."
Adopting the method he had followed with Edna at luncheon he let them explain it all away. He knew that they were guilty and that presently they would cross the line from explanation into justification44 and convict themselves more definitely than he could ever do. By seven they had taken the desperate step of telling him the truth—Robert Hunter's neglect, Edna's empty life, the casual dalliance that had flamed up into passion—but like so many true stories it had the misfortune of being old, and its enfeebled body beat helplessly against the armor of Anson's will. The threat to go to Sloane's father sealed their helplessness, for the latter, a retired45 cotton broker46 out of Alabama, was a notorious fundamentalist who controlled his son by a rigid47 allowance and the promise that at his next vagary48 the allowance would stop forever.
They dined at a small French restaurant, and the discussion continued—at one time Sloane resorted to physical threats, a little later they were both imploring49 him to give them time. But Anson was obdurate50. He saw that Edna was breaking up, and that her spirit must not be refreshed by any renewal51 of their passion.
At two o'clock in a small night-club on 53d Street, Edna's nerves suddenly collapsed52, and she cried to go home. Sloane had been drinking heavily all evening, and he was faintly maudlin53, leaning on the table and weeping a little with his face in his hands. Quickly Anson gave them his terms. Sloane was to leave town for six months, and he must be gone within forty-eight hours. When he returned there was to be no resumption of the affair, but at the end of a year Edna might, if she wished, tell Robert Hunter that she wanted a divorce and go about it in the usual way.
He paused, gaining confidence from their faces for his final word.
"Or there's another thing you can do," he said slowly, "if Edna wants to leave her children, there's nothing I can do to prevent your running off together."
"I want to go home!" cried Edna again. "Oh, haven't you done enough to us for one day?"
Outside it was dark, save for a blurred glow from Sixth Avenue down the street. In that light those two who had been lovers looked for the last time into each other's tragic54 faces, realizing that between them there was not enough youth and strength to avert55 their eternal parting. Sloane walked suddenly off down the street and Anson tapped a dozing56 taxi-driver on the arm.
It was almost four; there was a patient flow of cleaning water along the ghostly pavement of Fifth Avenue, and the shadows of two night women flitted over the dark façade of St. Thomas's church. Then the desolate57 shrubbery of Central Park where Anson had often played as a child, and the mounting numbers, significant as names, of the marching streets. This was his city, he thought, where his name had flourished through five generations. No change could alter the permanence of its place here, for change itself was the essential substratum by which he and those of his name identified themselves with the spirit of New York. Resourcefulness and a powerful will—for his threats in weaker hands would have been less than nothing—had beaten the gathering58 dust from his uncle's name, from the name of his family, from even this shivering figure that sat beside him in the car.
Cary Sloane's body was found next morning on the lower shelf of a pillar of Queensboro Bridge. In the darkness and in his excitement he had thought that it was the water flowing black beneath him, but in less than a second it made no possible difference—unless he had planned to think one last thought of Edna, and call out her name as he struggled feebly in the water.
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1
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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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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7
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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9
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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11
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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12
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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16
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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17
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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18
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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19
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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20
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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21
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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24
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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25
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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26
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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28
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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29
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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30
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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31
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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32
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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33
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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34
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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38
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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39
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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40
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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41
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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42
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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43
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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44
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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45
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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47
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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48
vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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49
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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50
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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51
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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52
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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53
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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54
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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55
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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56
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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57
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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58
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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