Tarrant did not reappear till Monday evening. He had telephoned to his wife from Boston that on returning to New York he would go straight to the office of The Hour, and that she was not to expect him till dinner. They were dining alone at home, and she had already got into her tea gown and was waiting to hear his latchkey before ringing for dinner. She knew that Lewis, who liked to arrive late when he chose, also liked his food to be as perfectly1 cooked as when he was on time; and she sometimes felt despairingly that only her mother could have dealt with such a problem.
He came in, hurried and animated2, with the slight glow which took the chill from his face when things were prospering3. “All he wants to make him really handsome,” his wife mused5, “is to have real things to do.”
“Hullo, my dear; not late, am I? Well, put off dinner a bit, will you? I’ve been on the jump ever since I left. Here’s something to amuse you while I’m changing.” He threw a manuscript into her lap, and she saw Vance Weston’s name across the page.
“Oh, Lewis! He turned up, then?”
“He condescended6 to, yes — about an hour ago.”
“Well — is it good? You’ve had time to read it?”
Little non-committal wrinkles formed themselves about his smile as he stood looking down at her. “Yes, I’ve read it; but I’d rather wait till you have before I tell you what I think. I want your unbiassed opinion — and I also want to jump into my bath.” The door closed on him, and she sat absently fingering the pages on her knee. How well she knew that formula: “Your unbiassed opinion.” What it meant was, invariably, that he wasn’t sure of himself, that he wanted someone else to support his view, or even to provide him with one. After that his judgments7 would ring out with such authority that people said: “One good thing about Tarrant is that he always knows his own mind.”
Hélo?se sent the cook a disarming8 message — she knew how long it took Lewis to dress. Then she drew her armchair to the lamp. She was aware, as she began to read, of a certain listlessness. Was it possible that her opinion would not be as unbiassed as her husband supposed? Had she felt an interest in Vance’s literary career only because she hoped to renew her old relation with the eager boy who had touched her imagination, to resume the part of monitress and muse4 which she had played during their long sessions at the Willows9? When he had said: “You were the first to show me what there was in books,” her contracted heart had glowed and unfolded; when, a moment later, he told her he was engaged, and she had seen an unknown figure intrude10 between them, something in her shrank back, a door was closed. Well, why not? She was lonely; she had looked forward to the possibility of such comradeship as he might give her. But though she had been fated to disappointment that was surely not a reason for feeling less interest in his work. . . . As she took up the manuscript she tried to arouse in herself the emotion she had felt a few days earlier, when her eyes lit on the opening paragraph of “One Day.”
The new tale was different; less vehement11, less emotional, above all less personal. Was he already arriving at an attitude of detachment from his subject? If so, Halo knew, Frenside would see a future novelist in him. “If he goes on retailing12 the successive chapters of his own history, as they happen to him, they’ll be raw autobiography13, or essays disguised as novels; but not real novels. And he probably won’t be able to keep it up long.” That would be what Frenside would say in such a case. It was his unalterable conviction that the “me-book,” as he called it, however brilliant, was at best sporadic14, with little reproductive power. Well, the charge of subjectivity15 could hardly be brought against the tale she had just read. Boy as he was, the writer had moved far enough away from his subject to see several sides of it. And it was an odd story to have interested a beginner. It was called “Unclaimed,” and related an episode brought about by the sending home of the bodies of American soldiers fallen in France. Myra Larcom, the beauty of her prairie village, had become engaged in 1917 to Ben Purchase, a schoolmate and neighbour. Ben Purchase was killed at the front, and Myra became the heroine as well as the beauty of Green Lick, which happened to have no other fallen son to mourn. When the government offered to restore its dead soldiers to their families for burial, Myra of course accepted. Her Ben was an orphan16, with no relations near enough to assume the expense of his translation; and besides, she said, she would never have allowed anyone else to have the privilege. . . . But the dead heroes were slow in returning. Months passed, and before there was any news of the warrior’s approach, another hero — and alive — had come back and won her. It appeared that her engagement to Ben Purchase had been a last-minute affair, the result of a moonlight embrace the night he started; indeed, she was no longer very sure that there had been an actual engagement; and when at length his body reached New York there was no one to claim it; and no one to pay for its transport, much less for the funeral and gravestone. But Tullia Larcom, Myra’s elder sister, had always been secretly in love with Ben, though he had never given her a glance. She was a plain girl, a predestined old maid, the drudge17 and butt18 of the family. She had put by a little money as the village seamstress, but not much — there were so many demands on her. And it turned out to be an expensive business — a terribly expensive business — to bring home and bury a dead hero. And the longer you left him in the care of his grateful government the more expensive it became. . . . “Unclaimed” was the simple and unsentimental relation of how Tullia Larcom managed to bring Ben Purchase’s body back to Green Lick and give him a grave and a headstone. . . . When Halo finished reading she had forgotten about her husband, forgotten about the cook, forgotten even about her own little emotional flutter over Vance Weston. . . . All her thoughts were with Tullia at Ben Purchase’s grave . . . .
“How did he know . . . how did he know?” she murmured to herself. And the fact that he did know seemed warrant of future achievement.
“Halo, are you never coming?” her husband’s voice called from the dining room. “You seem to forget that a hard day’s work makes a fellow hungry . . . .”
At dinner he went into all sorts of details about his new printing contract, and his interviews in Boston, where he had gone to secure various literary collaborations. All that he said was interesting to Halo. She began to see that The Hour would bring a new breath of life into her world as well as her husband’s. It would be exciting to get hold of the budding geniuses; and once she had let Lewis discover them, she knew they would be handed over to her to be tamed and amused. She had inherited her mother’s liking19 for the company of clever people, people who were doing things and making things, and she saw the big room in which she now spent so many solitary20 hours peopled by a galaxy21 of new authors and artists, gathered together under the banner of The Hour.
“If only nobody calls it a SALON22 Lewis won’t mind,” she thought.
There was so much to hear and to say that Vance Weston was not mentioned again till dinner was over and they returned to the library. Tarrant lit his cigar and settled down in his own particular easy chair, which had a broad shelf for his coffee cup and ashtray23. “Well, how does it strike you?” he said, nodding in the direction of the manuscript.
“Oh, Lewis, you’ve discovered a great novelist!” She prided herself on the tactfulness of the formula; but enthusiasm for others was apt to excite her husband’s suspicions, even when it implied praise for himself.
“Novelist? Well — we’ll let the future take care of itself. But this particular thing — ”
“I think it’s remarkable24. The simplicity25, the unselfconsciousness . . . .”
“H’m.” He puffed26 at his cigar and threw back his head in meditation27. “To begin with, war stories are a drug in the market.”
She flashed back: “Whose market?” and he replied, with a hint of irritation28: “You know perfectly well that we can’t afford to disregard entirely29 what the public wants.”
“I thought you were going to teach it what it ought to want.”
As this phrase was taken from his own prospectus30 it was too unanswerable to be welcome, and his frown deepened. “Little by little — certainly. But anyhow, doesn’t it strike you that this story — which has its points, of course — is . . . well, rather lacking in relief? A trifle old-fashioned . . . humdrum31? The very title tells you what it’s about.”
“And you want to have it called ‘What Time Chronos?’ or ‘Ants and Archangels’?” She broke off, remembering the risk of accusing him of wanting anything but the rarest and highest. “Of course I know what you mean . . . but isn’t there another point of view? I mean for a review like The Hour? Why not try giving your readers the exact opposite of what all the other on-the-spot editors are straining to provide? Something quiet, logical, Jane Austen-y . . . obvious, almost? A reaction from the universal paradox32? At the very moment when even Home and Mother is feeding its million readers with a novel called Jerks and Jazzes, it strikes me that the newest note to sound might be the very quiet — something beginning: ‘In the year 1920 there resided in the industrial city of P—— a wealthy manufacturer of the name of Brown . . . .’ That’s one of the reasons why I’ve taken such a fancy to Vance’s story.”
Adroitly33 as she had canalized her enthusiasm, she did not expect an immediate34 response. She knew that what she had said must first be transposed and become his own. He laughed at her tirade35, and said he’d make a note of her titles anyhow — they were too good to be lost; but the fact remained that, for the opening number of The Hour under its new management, he thought they ought to have something rather more showy. But he’d think it over . . . he’d told Weston to come back in a day or two. “Queer devil — says he wrote the thing white hot, in forty-eight hours after getting here; must be about ten thousand words. . . . And it jogs along so soberly.”
The bell rang, and Halo said: “That must be Frenny.” Frenside was incapable36 of spending an evening alone. His life of unsettled aspirations37 and inconsecutive work made conversation a necessity to him as soon as he had shaken off the daily task, and he often drifted in to sit with Halo for an hour after his club or restaurant dinner.
He entered with his usual dragging step, stooping and somewhat heavier, but with the same light smouldering under the thick lids behind his eyeglasses.
“Hallo, Lewis — didn’t know you were back,” he grumbled38 as Tarrant got up to welcome him.
“There’s a note of disappointment in your voice,” his host bantered39. “If you were led to think you’d find Halo alone I advise you to try another private enquiry man.”
“Would, if they weren’t so expensive,” Frenside bantered back, settling down into the armchair that Tarrant pushed forward. “But never mind — let’s hear about the new Hour. (Why not rechristen it that, by the way?) Have you come back with an argosy?”
“Well, I’ve done fairly well.” Tarrant liked to dole40 out his news in guarded generalities. “But I’m inclined to think the best of my spoils may be here at your elbow. Remember how struck I was by that story, ‘One Day,’ by the boy from the West whose other things you turned down so unmercifully?”
“Not unmercifully — lethally41. What about him?”
“Only that I rather believe he’s going to make people sit up. I’ve got something of his here that strikes an entirely new note — ”
“ANOTHER?” Frenside groaned42.
Tarrant’s lips narrowed; but after a moment he went on: “Yes, the phrase is overworked. But I don’t use it in the blurb43 sense. This boy has had the nerve to go back to a quiet, almost old-fashioned style: no jerks, no paradoxes44 — not even afraid of lingering over his transitions; why, even the title . . .”
Halo, mindful of Frenside’s expectation of a whiskey and soda45, rose and went into the dining room to remind the maid. She reflected, not ill-humouredly, that it would be easier for Lewis to get through with the business of appropriating her opinions if she stayed out of hearing while he was doing it; and she lingered a few minutes, musing46 pleasurably over the interest of their editorial venture, and of the part Vance Weston might be going to play in it. She had believed in him from the first; and her heart exulted47 at the thought that he was already fulfilling his promise.
“If he keeps up to this standard he may be the making of The Hour; and when he finds himself an important literary figure he’ll take a different view of his future. We’re not likely ever to hear of his engagement again,” she thought, irresistibly48 reassured49; and she decided50 that she must manage, as often as possible, to keep an evening free for their Dante readings. When Lewis went to his men’s dinners it would be easy . . . .
As she re-entered the library she heard Frenside’s gruff laugh, and her husband saying: “Damned cheek, eh? Just told me in so many words he couldn’t come to the office that day because he had to go and see his girl. . . . Seems the poor devil’s going to be married; and who do you suppose she is? Why, one of those down-at~the-heel Tracys at Paul’s Landing. . . . Halo, my dear, did you know you were going to have your new genius for a cousin?”
收听单词发音 |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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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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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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subjectivity
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| n.主观性（主观主义） | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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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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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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bantered
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| v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的过去式和过去分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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lethally
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| adv.致命地；危害地；极具威胁地 | |
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42
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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blurb
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| n.简介，短评 | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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45
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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47
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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49
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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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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