Vance Weston had started from Euphoria with two hundred dollars; and to what was left of that sum there was added the money Mrs. Tracy had thrust back at him as they started. After he had sat for a while in the train, dazed from the shock of his last hour at the Willows1, he remembered that henceforth he must subsist2 on the balance of his funds, and he drew the money out and counted it. He had bought a ten-dollar wristwatch for Upton in New York, the day they went to the ball game, and a rainbow-coloured scarf for Laura Lou, to console her for not coming; the scarf, he thought, had cost about three-seventy-five. On the eve of their ill-fated expedition he had lent ten dollars to Lorburn Spear; and at the ball game, and afterward3 at the Crans’, had stood drinks, soft and hard, a good many times. He remembered also that the fellows, with a lot of laughing and joking, had clubbed together to buy the Cran girls a new watchdog; and good watchdogs, it appeared, came pretty high. Still, it gave him an unpleasant shock of surprise to find that he had only ninety-two dollars left, including the money returned by Mrs. Tracy. He could not recall where the rest had gone; his memory of what had happened at the Crans’ was too vague.
Ninety dollars would have carried him a long way at Euphoria. In New York he didn’t know how far it would go — much less, assuredly. And he didn’t even know where to turn when he got out of the train, where to find a lodging4 for the night. In the car there were people who could no doubt have told him, friendly experienced~looking people; but no familiar face was among them, and a rustic5 caution kept him from questioning strangers on the approach to a big city. As the train entered the Grand Central he hurriedly consulted the black porter, and the latter, after looking him over with a benevolent6 eye, gave him an address near the station. He found a narrow brick hotel squeezed in between tall buildings, with a dingy7 black-and-gold sign over the door. It looked dismal8 and unappetizing enough; but his bed there, and his coffee next morning, cost him so much that he decided9 he must not remain for another night, and wandered out early in search of a rooming house.
The noise and rush of traffic, the clamour of the signboards, the glitter of the innumerable shops distracted him from his purpose, and hours passed as he strayed on curiously10 from street to street. Some faculty11 separate from mind or heart, something detached and keen, was roused in him by this tumult12 of life and wealth and energy, this ceaseless outpour of more people, more noises, more motors, more shopfuls of tempting13 and expensive things. He thought what fun it would be to write a novel of New York and call it Loot — and he began to picture how different life would have seemed that morning had he had the typescript of the finished novel under his arm, and been on his way to the editorial offices of one of the big magazines. The idea for a moment swept away all his soreness and loneliness, and made his heart dilate14 with excitement. “Well, why not? . . . I’ll stay here till I’ve done it,” he swore to himself in a fever of defiance15.
He halted before a shop window displaying flowers in gilt16 baskets, or mounted in clusters tied with big pink bows. The money Mrs. Tracy had returned was burning in his pocket, and he said to himself that he could not keep it another minute. In one corner of the window was an arrangement which particularly took his fancy: a stuffed dove perched on the gilt handle of a basket of sweet peas and maidenhair fern. It recalled to him Miss Spear’s description of that temple to Apollo, somewhere in Greece, which had been built by the birds and bees; and looking at the burnished17 neck of the dove he thought: “That might have been one of the birds.” There was a good-natured-looking woman in the shop, and he ventured to ask her the price of the object he coveted18. She smiled a little, as if surprised. “Why, that’s twenty-five dollars.”
Vance crimsoned19. “I was looking for something for thirty.”
“Oh, were you?” said the woman, still smiling. “Well, there’s those carnations20 over there.”
Vance didn’t care for the carnations; the bird on the basket handle was what attracted him. “Laura Lou’ll like it anyhow,” he thought. And suddenly an idea occurred to him, and he asked the woman whether, for thirty dollars, she would have the basket carried for him that very morning to the house of a lady at Paul’s Landing. She looked still more surprised, and then amused, and after they had hunted up Paul’s Landing in the telephone book, she said, yes, she guessed she could, and Vance, delighted, pulled out thirty dollars, and his pen to write the address. She pushed a card toward him, and after a moment’s perplexity he wrote: “I thank you, Cousin Lucilla,” addressed the envelope, and walked out with a lighter21 step. The woman was already wrapping up the dove.
He was beginning to feel hungry, and the instinct of clinging to the relatively22 familiar drew him back to the Grand Central, where he knew he could lunch. As he entered he almost ran into a motherly-looking woman with a large yellowish face and blowsy gray hair, who wore a military felt hat with a band inscribed23: “The Travellers’ Friend.” Vance went up to her, and her smile of welcome reassured24 him before he had spoken. He wanted to know of a nice quiet rooming house? Why, surely — that was just what she was there for. Country boy, she guessed? Well, why wouldn’t he bring his things right round to Friendship House, just a little way off, down in East Fiftieth — she fumbled25 in her bag and handed him the address on a card with: “Bring your friend along — always room for one more,” in red letters across the top. That, she explained, was the men’s house; she herself was in the station to look after women and girls, and there was another house for them not far off; but Vance had only to mention her name to Mr. Jakes and they’d find a room for him, and give him the addresses of some respectable rooming houses. She shook his hand, beamed on him maternally26, and turned away to deal with a haggard bewildered-looking woman who was saying: “My husband said he’d sure be at the station to meet me, but I can’t find him, and the baby’s been sick in the cars all night . . . .”
At Friendship House Vance was received by an amiable27 man with gold teeth, given supper of coffee and bread and butter, and assigned to a spotless cubicle28. Not till he was falling asleep did it occur to him that Mrs. Tracy had a row of sweet peas in her own garden, and that a stuffed dove could hardly compensate29 her for the cost of his fortnight’s board. He felt ashamed of his stupidity, and was haunted all night by the vision of the dreary30 smile with which she would receive his inappropriate tribute. Probably even Laura Lou would not know what to do with a stuffed dove. Yet that basket, with the lustrous31 bird so lightly poised32 on it, had seemed all poetry when he chose it . . . .
The weeks passed. After Vance’s regulation twenty-four hours at Friendship House he was recommended to a rooming house which was certainly as respectable as they had promised, but offered few other attractions, at least in hot weather. During those first lonely suffocating33 days and nights Vance’s weak body and sore spirit yearned34 for his neat room at home, the glitter of the bath, the shade of the Mapledale Avenue trees. But since he was determined35 to hold on till he got a job he dared not risk taking a better room; and the thought of going home was more hateful than his present misery36. Yet loneliness was the core of that misery; incessant37 gnawing38 loneliness of mind and heart. He was benumbed by the feeling that in the huge wilderness39 of people about him not one had ever heard of him, or would take the least interest in his case if he should appeal for understanding; not one would care a straw that within him all the forces of the universe were boiling. He felt the same desolation, the sense of life being over for him, as when he had staggered down the passage to his parents’ room and groped for the absent revolver . . . .
But the returning tide of vitality40 did not mount as rapidly as it had then. The situation was different. Then he had made up his mind to wait till life gave him another chance; and life had given him that chance — magnificently — and what had he made of it? His rage against Mrs. Tracy, against Upton and the Spears, was a mere41 passing flare-up; it soon gave place to a lasting42 sense of failure. He had been at fault, and he only. Upton was a sly little fool, but he, Vance, was the older of the two, and being the more experienced should have been the stronger. He should have resisted the temptation to loaf and drink with those wasters and flashy girls, should have remembered his promise to Mrs. Tracy to come home with Upton after the game. If he had, everything might have been different, for early the next morning he would have hurried back to the Willows, have noticed that the books were gone, and perhaps prevented his own disgrace and Miss Spear’s unhappiness. . . . He could not forget how unhappy she had looked when it first flashed on her that her brother had probably taken the books. Vance ached with that more than his own wretchedness. His only comfort was that he had seen at once what was passing through her mind, had caught her signal and obeyed it. He knew she had perceived this, and been grateful; and the fact that she had sacrificed him to her brother did not offend him — it seemed to create a new tie between them . . . .
All this worked out gradually in his mind, and meanwhile he waited, and reflected on his situation. His first impulse had been not to let his whereabouts be known to anyone. He lived in dread43 of being dragged back to Euphoria when his parents learned that he had left the Tracys. What he longed for was to vanish into space, to get off into a universe of his own where nothing associated with his former life could reach him. It was what he had tried to do after he had seen his grandfather and Floss Delaney by the river; only this time his suicide would have taken the form of losing himself in a big city, to re-emerge from it when he had made himself a new existence. But he soon came to his senses and realized that Mrs. Tracy, frightened by his departure, would be sure to write to his family, and that, if he gave them no sign, they would be frightened also, and would set all the machinery44 of police research in motion. It was not easy for a fellow with an anxious family to lose himself in these times; and Vance had not had the presence of mind to give a fictitious45 name at his lodgings46.
He wrote briefly47 to his mother, telling her he was doing well; and wouldn’t his folks please let him alone and give him a show in New York, now he’d got there? He said he’d left Paul’s Landing because he felt quite strong enough to take a job on a paper, and didn’t care to loaf around any longer at the Tracys’, where it was a good deal hotter than in the city, anyhow. He added that he had money enough left, and had already made the acquaintance of a famous editor (and so he had, though he would rather have starved than appeal to George Frenside); and he arranged with the good-natured secretary at Friendship House to receive his letters, so that his family should be reassured by the address.
Accident favoured him. His sister Mae wrote that his father had just left for a Realtors’ Congress at Seattle and would not return for a month or more; and that though Mrs. Weston was upset and anxious at the idea of his being alone in New York she had been persuaded by Grandma Scrimser not to interfere48, but to let him try his luck, at any rate till his father got back. This being settled, Vance turned his mind to the means of holding out — for he was sure that, until he got a job, his father would not think of sending him more money. His promised allowance had been meant to see him through his convalescence49 at Paul’s Landing; if he didn’t choose to stay there, and was strong enough to work — well, let him.
Meanwhile he had New York to himself, and his first business was to collect his wits and try not to miss this chance as he had the other. The main thing was to see how long he could make his remaining dollars last; and he bent50 his mind on this, foregoing all amusements which had to be paid for, eating at the cheapest places he could find, often going without a midday meal, and wandering about the streets for hours staring at the strange confused spectacle which remained so mockingly unaware51 of him.
But all his moments were not lonely. A few days after his arrival he happened to emerge upon Fifth Avenue just opposite the public library. Awed52 by its rhetorical fa?ade, so unlike a haunt of studious peace, he stood wondering if it were one of the swell53 hotels he’d heard about — the Ritz or the St. Regis — till looking more closely he read its designation. Instantly he dashed up the vast steps, entered the doors unabashed, and asked the first official he met if he could go in and read. . . . He could, it appeared, and without paying a cent, and for many hours of the day. At first he was perplexed54 as to his next step; but where books were concerned some instinct seemed to guide him, and presently he had been made free of a series of card catalogues, and was lost in them as in the murmurs55 of a forest. . . . True, the place lacked the magic of the Willows, since the reader had to know beforehand what he wanted, and could not roam at will from shelf to shelf, subject to the mysterious, the almost physical appeal of books actually visible and accessible. That joy was one he could not hope to find again till — well, till he had made money enough to have his own library. But meanwhile it was wonderful enough to sit in a recess56 of a quiet room, with a pile of volumes in front of him, his elbows on the table, his hands plunged57 in his hair, his soul immersed in a new world . . . .
The weeks passed, and though his hours at the public library cost him nothing, those spent in his rooming house were using up his funds. In spite of what he had written to his mother he had not as yet looked up a newspaper job. He wanted first to acquaint himself a little more with New York, its aspect, its ways, its language; to appear less of a hayseed and an ignoramus. That, at least, was what he told himself; but in reality his hours at the library were so engrossing58, and his ignorance had revealed itself on a scale so unsuspected and overwhelming, that each day drew him back to the lion-guarded gates of knowledge. To cheat himself into thinking that he could live thus indefinitely he began to plan his novel of New York; nor did it strike him till afterward that a raw boy whose experience was bounded by a rooming house and a library would find it even harder to weave a tale out of the millions of strands59 of a great city’s activities than to evolve copy for a newspaper. Everything that appealed to his creative instinct always seemed to become a part of his experience, and he sat down with a passionate60 eagerness to block out his dream. But he knew that this novel, even if he could do it, would take an immense time in the doing; and meanwhile he must find the means to live.
Drifting from dream to dream, eating daily less, studying daily for longer hours, he entered into the state of strange illumination which comes to ardent61 youth when the body hungers while the intelligence is fed. His shaking fingers filled page after page with verse and prose; it seemed as though every difficulty of thought and language were overcome, and he could conceive and formulate62 whatever his restless intellect willed. The veil of matter had grown so transparent63 that the light of eternity64 shone through it, and in that pure radiance he could see with supernatural clearness the images of gods walking among men, and angels going up and down the heavenly ladder. But Jacob’s pillow is a hard one for a young head still weak from fever; and one morning when after a night of tossing misery he crawled to his table and pulled out his papers, his mind was a blank, and he could hardly decipher what he had written the day before. He looked up and saw in the blotched looking glass a face so bloodless and shrunken that he thought he must be on the verge65 of another illness; and when he counted his money he found he could not hold out, even on a starvation diet, for more than a week.
The world grew light and dizzy about him, as if the air had turned into millions of shimmering66 splinters. He managed to dress and get out to the nearest eating house, and for the first time in days he ordered hot coffee and a couple of eggs. After eating he felt better, but so tired and heavy that he crawled home and threw himself on his unmade bed; and there he slept dreamlessly for hours. When he woke he understood that he must have more food, and that the only way to get it was to try for a job. He felt too weak to think much more than that; but he gave himself another good meal, and the next day started out on his round. He went from one newspaper to another, was received either civilly or the reverse, was asked to state his qualifications, and saw his name and address taken down; but no one showed any interest in him, and he turned away hopeless from the last threshold. With no one to recommend him, and no past experience of newspaper work, what chance was there of his getting a job? The only alternative was Euphoria; but he was too disheartened to let his mind dwell on that.
There was just one other chance; that Mr. Frenside, in spite of his gruff sneering67 way, had not been unfriendly. He knew of Vance’s aspirations68, and perhaps would be willing to advise him — unless unfavourable rumours69 had reached him from Eaglewood. But Vance remembered Halo Spear’s kindly70 glance when she took leave of him, heard her say: “Go now — but come back some day,” and guessed that, however bent she was on screening her brother, she would not let Vance suffer unjustly. He had found out by this time that The Hour, as he had suspected, was a mere highbrow review, and therefore not to his purpose; but Frenside must have relations with the newspaper world, and would be able to tell him where there was hope of an opening for an untrained outsider. At any rate, it was the only thing left to try.
收听单词发音 |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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maternally
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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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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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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62
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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63
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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64
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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65
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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66
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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67
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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68
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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69
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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70
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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