I
HE was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from the bewilderment of thinking. His wife and the neighbors were generous. Every evening he played bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face and silent.
In June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and Babbitt was free to do — he was not quite sure what.
All day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated2 house in which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without having to keep up a husbandly front. He considered, “I could have a reg’lar party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining afterwards. Cheers!” He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson. Both of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by having to take so much trouble to be riotous4.
He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly5 to Ted3 and Verona, hesitating but not disapproving6 when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott’s opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew’s opinion of the opinions of the evolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation, and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race, what he had said to the Old Grouch7, what he had said to the foreman about the future of wireless8 telephony.
Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the maid was out. Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening. He was restless. He vaguely9 wanted something more diverting than the newspaper comic strips to read. He ambled10 up to Verona’s room, sat on her maidenly11 blue and white bed, humming and grunting12 in a solid-citizen manner as he examined her books: Conrad’s “Rescue,” a volume strangely named “Figures of Earth,” poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken — highly improper13 essays, making fun of the church and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship. These authors — and he supposed they were famous ones, too — did not seem to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget his troubles. He sighed. He noted14 a book, “The Three Black Pennies,” by Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting15 — detectives sneaking16 up on the old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped18 down-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:
“A twilight19 like blue dust sifted20 into the shallow fold of the thickly wooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already stamped the maple21 trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening underbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above the hills, wavered against the serene22 ashen23 evening. Howat Penny, standing24 in the comparative clearing of a road, decided25 that the shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping26 of day his keenness had evaporated; an habitual27 indifference28 strengthened, permeating29 him....”
There it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid down the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the house were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting30. He roamed to the window. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire. The whole world was abnormal. While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to bed. Silence thickened in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his respectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the house, a portly, worthy31, unimaginative figure, humming “Silver Threads among the Gold.” He casually32 considered, “Might call up Paul.” Then he remembered. He saw Paul in a jailbird’s uniform, but while he agonized33 he didn’t believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this fog-enchanted evening.
If she were here Myra would be hinting, “Isn’t it late, Georgie?” He tramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom. Fog hid the house now. The world was uncreated, a chaos34 without turmoil35 or desire.
Through the mist came a man at so feverish36 a pace that he seemed to dance with fury as he entered the orb37 of glow from a street-lamp. At each step he brandished38 his stick and brought it down with a crash. His glasses on their broad pretentious39 ribbon banged against his stomach. Babbitt incredulously saw that it was Chum Frink.
Frink stopped, focused his vision, and spoke40 with gravity:
“There’s another fool. George Babbitt. Lives for renting howshes — houses. Know who I am? I’m traitor41 to poetry. I’m drunk. I’m talking too much. I don’t care. Know what I could ‘ve been? I could ‘ve been a Gene1 Field or a James Whitcomb Riley. Maybe a Stevenson. I could ‘ve. Whimsies42. ‘Magination. Lissen. Lissen to this. Just made it up:
Glittering summery meadowy noise
Of beetles43 and bums44 and respectable boys.
Hear that? Whimzh — whimsy45. I made that up. I don’t know what it means! Beginning good verse. Chile’s Garden Verses. And whadi write? Tripe46! Cheer-up poems. All tripe! Could have written — Too late!”
He darted47 on with an alarming plunge48, seeming always to pitch forward yet never quite falling. Babbitt would have been no more astonished and no less had a ghost skipped out of the fog carrying his head. He accepted Frink with vast apathy49; he grunted50, “Poor boob!” and straightway forgot him.
He plodded51 into the house, deliberately52 went to the refrigerator and rifled it. When Mrs. Babbitt was at home, this was one of the major household crimes. He stood before the covered laundry tubs, eating a chicken leg and half a saucer of raspberry jelly, and grumbling53 over a clammy cold boiled potato. He was thinking. It was coming to him that perhaps all life as he knew it and vigorously practised it was futile54; that heaven as portrayed55 by the Reverend Dr. John Jennison Drew was neither probable nor very interesting; that he hadn’t much pleasure out of making money; that it was of doubtful worth to rear children merely that they might rear children who would rear children. What was it all about? What did he want?
He blundered into the living-room, lay on the davenport, hands behind his head.
What did he want? Wealth? Social position? Travel? Servants? Yes, but only incidentally.
“I give it up,” he sighed.
But he did know that he wanted the presence of Paul Riesling; and from that he stumbled into the admission that he wanted the fairy girl — in the flesh. If there had been a woman whom he loved, he would have fled to her, humbled56 his forehead on her knees.
He thought of his stenographer57, Miss McGoun. He thought of the prettiest of the manicure girls at the Hotel Thornleigh barber shop. As he fell asleep on the davenport he felt that he had found something in life, and that he had made a terrifying, thrilling break with everything that was decent and normal.
II
He had forgotten, next morning, that he was a conscious rebel, but he was irritable58 in the office and at the eleven o’clock drive of telephone calls and visitors he did something he had often desired and never dared: he left the office without excuses to those stave-drivers his employees, and went to the movies. He enjoyed the right to be alone. He came out with a vicious determination to do what he pleased.
As he approached the Roughnecks’ Table at the club, everybody laughed.
“Well, here’s the millionaire!” said Sidney Finkelstein.
“Yes, I saw him in his Locomobile!” said Professor Pumphrey.
“Gosh, it must be great to be a smart guy like Georgie!” moaned Vergil Gunch. “He’s probably stolen all of Dorchester. I’d hate to leave a poor little defenseless piece of property lying around where he could get his hooks on it!”
They had, Babbitt perceived, “something on him.” Also, they “had their kidding clothes on.” Ordinarily he would have been delighted at the honor implied in being chaffed, but he was suddenly touchy59. He grunted, “Yuh, sure; maybe I’ll take you guys on as office boys!” He was impatient as the jest elaborately rolled on to its denouement60.
“Of course he may have been meeting a girl,” they said, and “No, I think he was waiting for his old roommate, Sir Jerusalem Doak.”
He exploded, “Oh, spring it, spring it, you boneheads! What’s the great joke?”
“Hurray! George is peeved61!” snickered Sidney Finkelstein, while a grin went round the table. Gunch revealed the shocking truth: He had seen Babbitt coming out of a motion-picture theater — at noon!
They kept it up. With a hundred variations, a hundred guffaws62, they said that he had gone to the movies during business-hours. He didn’t so much mind Gunch, but he was annoyed by Sidney Finkelstein, that brisk, lean, red-headed explainer of jokes. He was bothered, too, by the lump of ice in his glass of water. It was too large; it spun63 round and burned his nose when he tried to drink. He raged that Finkelstein was like that lump of ice. But he won through; he kept up his banter64 till they grew tired of the superlative jest and turned to the great problems of the day.
He reflected, “What’s the matter with me to-day? Seems like I’ve got an awful grouch. Only they talk so darn much. But I better steer65 careful and keep my mouth shut.”
As they lighted their cigars he mumbled66, “Got to get back,” and on a chorus of “If you WILL go spending your mornings with lady ushers67 at the movies!” he escaped. He heard them giggling68. He was embarrassed. While he was most bombastically69 agreeing with the coat-man that the weather was warm, he was conscious that he was longing70 to run childishly with his troubles to the comfort of the fairy child.
III
He kept Miss McGoun after he had finished dictating71. He searched for a topic which would warm her office impersonality72 into friendliness73.
“Where you going on your vacation?” he purred.
“I think I’ll go up-state to a farm do you want me to have the Siddons lease copied this afternoon?”
“Oh, no hurry about it.... I suppose you have a great time when you get away from us cranks in the office.”
She rose and gathered her pencils. “Oh, nobody’s cranky here I think I can get it copied after I do the letters.”
She was gone. Babbitt utterly74 repudiated75 the view that he had been trying to discover how approachable was Miss McGoun. “Course! knew there was nothing doing!” he said. IV
Eddie Swanson, the motor-car agent who lived across the street from Babbitt, was giving a Sunday supper. His wife Louetta, young Louetta who loved jazz in music and in clothes and laughter, was at her wildest. She cried, “We’ll have a real party!” as she received the guests. Babbitt had uneasily felt that to many men she might be alluring76; now he admitted that to himself she was overwhelmingly alluring. Mrs. Babbitt had never quite approved of Louetta; Babbitt was glad that she was not here this evening.
He insisted on helping77 Louetta in the kitchen: taking the chicken croquettes from the warming-oven, the lettuce78 sandwiches from the ice-box. He held her hand, once, and she depressingly didn’t notice it. She caroled, “You’re a good little mother’s-helper, Georgie. Now trot79 in with the tray and leave it on the side-table.”
He wished that Eddie Swanson would give them cocktails80; that Louetta would have one. He wanted — Oh, he wanted to be one of these Bohemians you read about. Studio parties. Wild lovely girls who were independent. Not necessarily bad. Certainly not! But not tame, like Floral Heights. How he’d ever stood it all these years —
Eddie did not give them cocktails. True, they supped with mirth, and with several repetitions by Orville Jones of “Any time Louetta wants to come sit on my lap I’ll tell this sandwich to beat it!” but they were respectable, as befitted Sunday evening. Babbitt had discreetly81 preempted82 a place beside Louetta on the piano bench. While he talked about motors, while he listened with a fixed83 smile to her account of the film she had seen last Wednesday, while he hoped that she would hurry up and finish her description of the plot, the beauty of the leading man, and the luxury of the setting, he studied her. Slim waist girdled with raw silk, strong brows, ardent84 eyes, hair parted above a broad forehead — she meant youth to him and a charm which saddened. He thought of how valiant85 a companion she would be on a long motor tour, exploring mountains, picnicking in a pine grove86 high above a valley. Her frailness87 touched him; he was angry at Eddie Swanson for the incessant88 family bickering89. All at once he identified Louetta with the fairy girl. He was startled by the conviction that they had always had a romantic attraction for each other.
“I suppose you’re leading a simply terrible life, now you’re a widower,” she said.
“You bet! I’m a bad little fellow and proud of it. Some evening you slip Eddie some dope in his coffee and sneak17 across the road and I’ll show you how to mix a cocktail,” he roared.
“Well, now, I might do it! You never can tell!”
“Well, whenever you’re ready, you just hang a towel out of the attic90 window and I’ll jump for the gin!”
Every one giggled91 at this naughtiness. In a pleased way Eddie Swanson stated that he would have a physician analyze92 his coffee daily. The others were diverted to a discussion of the more agreeable recent murders, but Babbitt drew Louetta back to personal things:
“That’s the prettiest dress I ever saw in my life.”
“Do you honestly like it?”
“Like it? Why, say, I’m going to have Kenneth Escott put a piece in the paper saying that the swellest dressed woman in the U. S. is Mrs. E. Louetta Swanson.”
“Now, you stop teasing me!” But she beamed. “Let’s dance a little. George, you’ve got to dance with me.”
Even as he protested, “Oh, you know what a rotten dancer I am!” he was lumbering93 to his feet.
“I’ll teach you. I can teach anybody.”
Her eyes were moist, her voice was jagged with excitement. He was convinced that he had won her. He clasped her, conscious of her smooth warmth, and solemnly he circled in a heavy version of the one-step. He bumped into only one or two people. “Gosh, I’m not doing so bad; hittin’ ’em up like a regular stage dancer!” he gloated; and she answered busily, “Yes — yes — I told you I could teach anybody — DON’T TAKE SUCH LONG STEPS!”
For a moment he was robbed of confidence; with fearful concentration he sought to keep time to the music. But he was enveloped94 again by her enchantment95. “She’s got to like me; I’ll make her!” he vowed96. He tried to kiss the lock beside her ear. She mechanically moved her head to avoid it, and mechanically she murmured, “Don’t!”
For a moment he hated her, but after the moment he was as urgent as ever. He danced with Mrs. Orville Jones, but he watched Louetta swooping97 down the length of the room with her husband. “Careful! You’re getting foolish!” he cautioned himself, the while he hopped98 and bent99 his solid knees in dalliance with Mrs. Jones, and to that worthy lady rumbled100, “Gee, it’s hot!” Without reason, he thought of Paul in that shadowy place where men never dance. “I’m crazy to-night; better go home,” he worried, but he left Mrs. Jones and dashed to Louetta’s lovely side, demanding, “The next is mine.”
“Oh, I’m so hot; I’m not going to dance this one.”
“Then,” boldly, “come out and sit on the porch and get all nice and cool.”
“Well —”
In the tender darkness, with the clamor in the house behind them, he resolutely101 took her hand. She squeezed his once, then relaxed.
“Louetta! I think you’re the nicest thing I know!”
“Well, I think you’re very nice.”
“Do you? You got to like me! I’m so lonely!”
“Oh, you’ll be all right when your wife comes home.”
“No, I’m always lonely.”
She clasped her hands under her chin, so that he dared not touch her. He sighed:
“When I feel punk and —” He was about to bring in the tragedy of Paul, but that was too sacred even for the diplomacy102 of love. “— when I get tired out at the office and everything, I like to look across the street and think of you. Do you know I dreamed of you, one time!”
“Was it a nice dream?”
“Lovely!”
“Oh, well, they say dreams go by opposites! Now I must run in.”
She was on her feet.
“Oh, don’t go in yet! Please, Louetta!”
“Yes, I must. Have to look out for my guests.”
“Let ’em look out for ‘emselves!”
“I couldn’t do that.” She carelessly tapped his shoulder and slipped away.
But after two minutes of shamed and childish longing to sneak home he was snorting, “Certainly I wasn’t trying to get chummy with her! Knew there was nothing doing, all the time!” and he ambled in to dance with Mrs. Orville Jones, and to avoid Louetta, virtuously103 and conspicuously104.
收听单词发音 |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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grouch
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| n.牢骚，不满；v.抱怨 | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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counterfeiting
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| n.伪造v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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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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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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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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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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whimsy
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| n.古怪，异想天开 | |
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tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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49
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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50
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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51
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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54
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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57
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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58
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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59
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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60
denouement
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| n.结尾，结局 | |
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61
peeved
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| adj.恼怒的，不高兴的v.（使）气恼，（使）焦躁，（使）愤怒( peeve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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64
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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65
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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66
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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69
bombastically
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70
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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71
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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72
impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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73
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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74
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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75
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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76
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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77
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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78
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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79
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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80
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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81
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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82
preempted
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| v.先占( preempt的过去式和过去分词 )；取代；先取；先发制人 | |
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83
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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84
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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86
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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87
frailness
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| n.脆弱，不坚定 | |
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88
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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89
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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90
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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91
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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93
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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94
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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96
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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98
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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99
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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100
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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101
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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102
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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103
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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104
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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