Mrs. weston, turning over old Christmas cards in the course of the spring cleaning (which Vance’s illness had deplorably delayed), came on one giving a view of Iceboating On The Hudson, and said: “Lucilla Tracy — why, now, I don’t know’s anybody’s ever acknowledged that card . . . .”
The doctors said that Vance ought to get away for the hot weather — clear away, to a new place with new air and new associations. Nineteen was a nasty age to have a shake-up of that kind, they said; it took time to build up a growing body after such a tumble. The family’d better not talk to the boy about looking round for a job till the autumn — just let him lie fallow through the hot months, somewhere by the sea if it could be managed.
The sea seemed a long way off to the Weston family, and especially to Mrs. Weston, who could never understand why anybody whose parlour windows looked out on Mapledale Avenue, Euphoria, should ever want to go anywhere else, even to Chicago. But she had been frightened about the boy, and her husband, she knew, was frightened still. After consultation2 between the two it was decided3 to ask Vance himself where he would like to go. His father put the question, and Vance immediately said: “New York.”
The announcement was staggering. New York was almost as far away as Europe; it was ten times more expensive; it was as hot in summer as Chicago; it was a place a man went to when he’d made his pile; a place you took your family to for a week’s blow-out when you’d been on the right side of the market. It was Mr. Weston who piled up these definitions; his wife, with nervous frowning lips, remarked that such a long journey would wear Vance out, and do away beforehand with all the good of the rest he had been ordered to take; and that, if the sea was too far off, she didn’t see why the air of the Lakes wasn’t just as bracing4. And there he’d have the family to look after him; if he went, that would make Father decide to take them all to the Lakes, she guessed. She looked at her husband in a way that made him so decide on the spot.
But Vance said, in that pale obstinate5 way he had acquired since his illness: “I want to go to New York. It’s easy enough to get down to the sea from there.”
Mr. Weston laughed. “Yes, but it ain’t so darned easy to get there first.” Vance was silent, and the family exchanged perturbed6 glances. But just then Mrs. Scrimser came lumbering7 in, cured of her rheumatism8 (by the “Spirit of Service” prayers — which unhappily had not succeeded with her husband), but moving heavily, as usual, with a stick to support her big rambling9 frame. She sat down among them in the sleeping porch, where Vance now took his daily rest cure, listened to their perplexity, and said with her dreamy prophetic smile: “There’s only once in a life when anybody wants one particular thing so bad that nothing else on earth’ll do instead. I wouldn’t wonder if wanting a thing that way wasn’t about the nearest we ever get to happiness.” She turned her softly humorous eyes on her grandson. “I guess Vanny’ll have to go East.”
It was then that Mrs. Weston remembered her cousin Lucilla Tracy’s postcard. “That place of Lorburn Tracy’s isn’t so far from New York,” she remarked, “up there on the Hudson. And Vance’d have good country air, anyhow, and good milk. May be Lucilla’d be glad to take him in as a boarder for a few weeks. I don’t believe they’re any too well off, from what she said last time she wrote to me. Since Lorburn’s death I guess she and the children have had pretty hard times making the two ends meet. Anyhow, I ought to answer that card . . . .”
Vance said nothing: the suggestion came to him as a surprise. He knew that Paul’s Landing, where his mother’s cousin lived, was not above an hour and a half by rail from New York, and his heart was beginning to beat excitedly, though he maintained an air of indifference10.
But Lorin Weston was not indifferent. He seized on the suggestion as an unforseen way of indulging his son without too great an expenditure11 of money — an important consideration in view of the heavy cost of Vance’s illness, and the complications and embarrassments12 likely to result from Weston’s move in raising again the vexed13 question of the Crampton water supply.
“Say — why don’t we ring Lucilla up right now,” he suggested, getting to his feet with the haste of a man accustomed to prompt solution. Mrs. Weston raised no objection, and Mrs. Scrimser nodded approvingly. “That’s great, Lorin. I guess Lucilla’ll be only too glad. Her boy must be about Vanny’s age, mustn’t he, Marcia?” Marcia thought he must, and mother and daughter lost themselves in reminiscences of the early history of Lucilla Tracy, whom they had not seen since she had come out on a visit to them at Advance, years before, when Vance was a baby. The Tracys had been well-off then, and the young couple had been on their wedding trip to the Grand Canyon14, and had stopped off on the way to see the bride’s western relatives. Mrs. Scrimser and Mrs. Weston recalled Lucilla as having been very pretty, with stylish15 New York clothes; they thought Mr. Tracy’s father owned a big “works” of some sort, on the Hudson; and he himself was editor of the principal newspaper at Paul’s Landing, where there had always been Tracys and Lorburns, since long before the Revolution, so he told them.
“Dear me, don’t it take you right back to Historic Times, hearing about things like that?” Grandma glowed reminiscently; but Mrs. Weston shivered a little at the opening of such interminable vistas16. She liked to think of everybody living compactly and thrivingly, as she did herself, hemmed17 in by a prosperous present, and securely shut off from the icy draughts18 of an unknown past. “I guess the family’s going way back like that don’t always help the children to go forward,” she said sententiously; and at that very moment her husband reappeared with an announcement which seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. It was simply that the Tracys had no telephone.
No telephone! The Westons had never heard of such a case before. Mrs. Weston began by saying it couldn’t be possible, it must be a mistake, they were always making mistakes at the Information office; had Lorin said it was Mrs. LORBURN Tracy, at Paul’s Landing, New York? Was he sure he’d heard right? It simply couldn’t be, she reiterated19, beginning to think that if it were, the Tracys must be “peculiar,” and she wouldn’t want to trust any child of hers to them, least of all Vance, after such an illness. She thought they’d better give up the idea altogether.
But Mrs. Scrimser was older, and her mind could reach back to days when, even in the enlightened West, she had known cases of people living in out-of-the-way places, or who were just simply too poor . . . .
“But I don’t want Vance to go to an out-of-the-way place. Suppose he was sick, how’d they ever get hold of a doctor?”
“Well, if it’s because they’re not well enough off,” her husband interrupted, “it’ll be a godsend to them to have Vance as a boarder, and I guess, from what I remember of Lucilla, she’ll be real good to him, and get a doctor somehow, as quick as his own mother would.”
Mrs. Weston looked at him witheringly. “What you know of Lucilla Tracy is exactly nothing, Lorin; and you say that only because you remember she was pretty, and had on a showy pink dress with ruffles20.” But Mr. Weston, unperturbed, said, well, he didn’t know as those were such bad points in a woman; and anyhow he’d go along to the telegraph office and wire, and then they’d see. He guessed they’d be pretty well able to judge by the answer.
At the Grand Central Station, a week later, Vance was met by his young cousin, Upton Tracy. Upton was a spindly boy of about sixteen, with wistful gray eyes and a pleasant smile. He told Vance he had a job with a nurseryman at Paul’s Landing, but the manager had let him off for the afternoon so that he could come to New York to meet his cousin.
Vance hoped that Upton would not see how glad he was to be met. He was still weak after his illness, and the long railway journey — the first of that length that he had ever taken — had exhausted21 him more than he had expected. When he got into the train at Chicago his heart was beating so excitedly at the idea of seeing New York that he had nearly forgotten all his disgusts and disillusionments, and had secretly made up his mind to stop over for a night in the metropolis22 before going on to join his relatives at Paul’s Landing. But now, in his tired state, and oppressed as he was by the sense of inferiority produced by untired conditions and surroundings, he felt unequal to coping with this huge towering wilderness23 of masonry24 where Vance Weston of Euphoria was of no more account to any one among the thousands inhabiting it than a single raindrop to the ocean.
He had been furious with his mother for suggesting that one of the Tracys should meet him at the station in New York, and had sworn that he would never again let his family treat him like a “softy”; but when Upton’s wistful face appeared in the heedless indifferent throng25 on the platform, Vance felt the relief of a frightened child that has lost its way. “Comes of being sick,” he grumbled26 to himself as his cousin pointed27 to the red carnation28 which was to identify him. Vance, who, at Euphoria, would have condescended29 to the shy boy at his side, now felt still shyer himself, and was grateful to Upton for having so little to say, and for assuming as a matter of course that they were just to wait in the station till the next train left for Paul’s Landing. Luckily it left in half an hour.
His mother had said: “You just let me know if you see anything over there that’s so much better than Euphoria,” and he had smiled and made no answer. But the request came back to him with a shock of something like humiliation30 when he and Upton stepped out of the station at Paul’s Landing. There was the usual bunch of Fords waiting there, and next to them, under the pale green shade of some crooked32-boughed locust33 trees, a queer-looking group of old carts and carryalls, with drooping34 horses swishing off the flies and mournfully shaking their heads. The scene was like something in a film of the Civil War, one of those films that were full of horses with swishing tails and draggly manes. One of the horses, the oldest and mournfullest looking, with a discoloured white mane like a smoker’s beard, was tied to a chewed-off post; Upton went up and unhitched him, and the horse shook his head in melancholy35 recognition.
“We’re a good way from the trolley36, so one of the neighbours lent me his team to come and get you,” Upton explained, lifting Vance’s luggage into the back of a buggy which seemed at least coeval37 with the horse. Vance could not have walked a step at that moment, much less carried the smallest of his two bags, so he was grateful to the unknown neighbour; but when he remembered how, if you went to stay with a chum at Swedenborg or Dakin, or anywhere in his home state, you buzzed away from the station in a neat Ford31 (if it wasn’t in a stylish Chevrolet or the family Buick), a sense of dejection was added to his profound fatigue38. His mother had said: “You wait and see — ” and he was seeing.
The old horse jogged them through Paul’s Landing, a long crooked sort of town on a high ridge39, with gardens full of big trees, and turfy banks sloping down from rambling shabby-looking houses. Now and then a narrower street dipped downhill to their left, and Vance caught a glimpse of lustrous40 gray waters spreading lakelike to distant hills. “The Hudson,” Upton said, flicking41 his stump42 of a whip; and at the moment the name stirred Vance more than the sight of the outspread waters. They drove on down a long street between shops, garages, business buildings, all more or less paintless and dilapidated, with sagging43 awnings44 lowered against the premature45 spring heat; then uphill along a rutty lane between trees and small frame houses even shabbier than the others, though some had pretty flowers before them, and lilacs and syringas blooming more richly than Grandma Scrimser’s.
“This is it,” said Upton, in a voice still shyer and more apologetic. “It” was a small wooden house, painted dark brown, with the paint peeling off, and a broken-down trellis arbour in a corner of the front yard. There were shade trees over the house, and a straggling rose on the verandah; but the impression made by the whole place was of something neglected and dingy46, something left in a backwater, like the sad Delaney house from which Vance still averted47 his thoughts.
“You seem to have lots of trees around everywhere,” he remarked to Upton, wishing he could think of something more striking to say.
“Aren’t there as many out your way?” Upton rejoined.
“I dunno,” Vance mumbled48, suddenly on his guard against admitting any inferiority in Euphoria, even to the amount of shade afforded by its trees. “I suppose they’re just different — the way everything else is,” he added.
Mrs. Tracy, who now appeared on the doorstep, was certainly different — not only from the gay bride in showy pink who had dazzled her western relatives on her wedding tour, but also from any of the women of Vance’s family. She was small and slight, like Mrs. Weston, but without the latter’s sharpness of outline and incisiveness49 of manner. There was something fluctuant and shadowy about Mrs. Tracy, as there was about her overshaded dooryard; but she had a kind of phantom50 prettiness, something seen through a veil not so much of years as of failure. She looked, not careless of her beauty, like Grandma Scrimser, but disheartened about it, as Vance suspected she was about everything else in life. But the sweetness of her smile of welcome was something his own mother could not have compassed. “I guess it’ll be all right here,” Vance thought, his contracted nerves relaxing.
“You look very tired; the journey must have been awful. Come right in and have some supper,” Mrs. Tracy said, slipping her arm through his.
It was funny — but pleasant, too, as a novelty — sitting around a table lit by a queer smelly oil lamp with an engraved51 globe on it, in a little dining room with a dark brown wallpaper and an unwieldy protruding52 sideboard which had evidently been picked up at a bargain because it wouldn’t fit in anywhere. Mrs. Tracy sat opposite, smiling at Vance wistfully across the teacups, and asking gentle questions about everybody out at Euphoria. She remembered what a pretty little house the Westons had lived in at Advance, when she’d gone there on her honeymoon53, and Vance was a baby; and when Vance smiled away her commendation, and said they’d got a much bigger house now at Euphoria, she replied that she supposed his mother’d made it all lovely, and then rambled54 off to questions about the wonderful Grandma Scrimser and Aunt Saidie Toler. Vance noticed that she remembered a great deal more about all of them than they did about her, and he said to himself that she had what Grandma Scrimser called a Family Bible sort of mind.
Upton dropped into the seat between his mother and Vance, and while the meal was in progress a thin fair girl in a pale blue blouse and a very short skirt wandered into the room, shook hands awkwardly with the newcomer, and seated herself in the remaining chair.
“Laura Lou’s always late — aren’t you?” Mrs. Tracy said, in her tone of smiling acceptance. “I presume your sisters aren’t always on time for meals, are they, Vance?”
Vance laughed, and said no, they drove his mother wild sometimes, and Laura Lou laughed too, but without looking at him, though his one glimpse of her heavy-lidded gray eyes with thick dark lashes55 made him desirous of another. Her face, however, was not pretty; too drawn56 and thin, like her brother’s, and with rather high cheekbones which Vance thought ugly, and ash blonde hair flopping57 untidily over her forehead. She was not more than fifteen, he conjectured58, an age essentially59 uninteresting to him; and as she refused to talk, and drooped60 her head sheepishly over her plate of cold meat and potatoes (which he saw she hardly touched), Vance’s attention soon wandered from her. He had reached the stage of fatigue when everything about one is at once exciting and oppressive, and in spite of his friendly feeling toward his hosts he longed desperately61 for solitude62 and sleep.
But sleep was after all impossible. It was not the musty shut-up smell of his queer little room, nor the surprise of being unable to have a hot bath after his long cindery63 journey (the Tracy water supply being as primitive64 as their lighting65 and their means of locomotion); what kept him awake was something stronger even than youth’s exhaustless faculty66 of self-repair, of sleeping through, and in spite of, any number of anxieties and discomforts68 — a burning inward excitement shadowed but not overcome by his sense of vague disappointment.
Vance did not know exactly what he had expected of the East, except a general superabundance of all the things he had been taught to admire — taller houses, wider streets, fresher paint, more motors, telephones, plumbing69, than Euphoria possessed70, or could ever imagine achieving. Yet here he was in a town close to New York, and in a house belonging to people of his own standing71 — and he had been brought thither72 in a broken-down buggy, and the house was the shabbiest he had ever seen except Harrison Delaney’s, with none of the conveniences of civilized73 life, and kindly74 people who appeared too used to doing without them to make any excuse for their absence. Vance knew, by hearsay75, of poverty; but almost all the people he had grown up among, if not as prosperous as his own family, were at least beyond any appearance of want; or rather, what they wanted, and felt the privation of, and hustled76 around to get were luxuries evidently not even aspired77 to by the Tracys. Vance supposed it came from the mysterious lack of vitality78 he felt in both Mrs. Tracy and her son; perhaps if Mr. Tracy hadn’t died years ago it would have been different. Certainly they wouldn’t have gone on ever since living in the same place and the same house — proof in itself of an absence of initiative which no Euphorian could understand. No, if Mr. Tracy had lived he would have got Upton onto a better job by this time (they left truck gardens to Poles and Dagoes at Euphoria), and he himself would have got a drive on, and moved to a live place, and done something to lift his family to the level where electric light, hot water, the telephone, a wireless79, and a Ford in a cement garage are no longer privileges but necessities.
Not that Vance was a “softy”; he would have been indignant at the suggestion. Holiday camping in the backwoods had not only made him familiar with a rough life in the open but given him a passionate80 taste for it. When America had entered the war, Euphoria, true to her slogan — “Me for the Front Row” — had also entered it with energy, and Vance, aged1 fifteen, had drilled, shouted, and scouted81 with all the other boys. Two or three times since then he had gone with his father prospecting82 in remote districts, in search of real estate ventures of a speculative83 kind, and they had lodged84 in the roughest of farmhouses85, miles away from telephone or city water, and Vance had gloried in the discomfort67 and enjoyed his morning wash under the pump. But that was in the wilderness, the new country not yet captured and tamed by business enterprise; whereas Paul’s Landing was like a place that enterprise of every sort had passed by, as if all its inhabitants had slept through the whole period of industrial development which Vance Weston had been taught to regard as humanity’s supreme86 achievement. If Euphoria values were the right ones — and he had no others to replace them with — then the people who did not strive for them were predestined down~and-outers, as repugnant to the religion of business as the thief and the adulterer to the religion of Christianity. And here, in the very part of his immense country which represented all that western wealth strove for and western ambition dreamed of, Vance found himself in a community apparently87 unaware88 that such strivings and ambitions existed. “Seems as if they’d all slept right round the clock,” Vance thought, remembering the torpid89 look of the main street, its draggled awnings and horse-drawn vehicles, and beginning to feel as if the Tracy house were not an isolated90 phenomenon but part of some huge geological accident. “As if they’d been caught centuries ago under a landslide91, and just gone on living there, like those toads92 they find alive inside a stone — ” and on this confused analogy the young traveller fell asleep.
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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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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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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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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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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canyon
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| n.峡谷，溪谷 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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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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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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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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coeval
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| adj.同时代的；n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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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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incisiveness
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| n.敏锐，深刻 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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cindery
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| adj.灰烬的，煤渣的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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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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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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landslide
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| n.(竞选中)压倒多数的选票；一面倒的胜利 | |
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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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