Laura Lou’s convalescence1 was slow, her illness expensive. Upton, appealed to by Mrs. Tracy, said all his savings2 had gone into buying a Ford3, and he could do nothing for them for the present. Vance knew that his mother-in-law expected his family to come to his aid. She ascribed Laura Lou’s illness to his imprudence, and felt that, since his endless scribbling4 brought in so little, he ought to get help from home. But Vance could not bring himself to ask for money, and his reports of Laura Lou’s illness produced only letters of sympathy from his mother and grandmother, and knitted bed jackets from the girls. His father wrote that times were bad in real estate, and offered again to try and get him a job on the Free Speaker if he would come back to live at Euphoria. And there the matter ended.
At odds5 with himself, he ground out a dull article on “The New Poetry,” the result of random6 reading among the works of the Cocoanut Tree poets; but it satisfied neither him nor the poets. He tried to make a plan for Loot, but it crumbled7 to nothing. He was too ignorant of that tumultuous metropolitan8 world to picture it except through other eyes. If he could have lived in it for a while, if somebody like Mrs. Tarrant had let him into its secrets, perhaps he could have made a book of it; but anything he did unaided would have to be borrowed from other books. Besides, he did not want to denounce or to show up, as most of the “society” novelists did, but to take apart the works of the machine, and find out what all those people behind the splendid house fronts signified in the general scheme of things. Until he understood that, he couldn’t write about them. He brought his difficulty to Eric Rauch. “Unless I can think their thoughts it’s no use,” he said. Rauch looked puzzled, and seemed to regard the difficulty as an imaginary one. “Funny to me you can’t get hold of a subject,” he said; and Vance rejoined: “Oh, but I can — hundreds; they swarm9. Only they’re all subjects I don’t know enough about to tackle them.” “Well, I guess you’re in the doldrums,” Rauch commented; and the talk ended.
One day someone related in Vance’s presence a tragic10 episode which had happened in a group of strolling actors. The picturesqueness11 of it seized on his imagination, and he tried to bring it to life; but here again he lacked familiarity with the conditions, and his ardour flagged. Fellows at the Cocoanut Tree talked a lot about working up a subject, about documentation and so forth12; but Vance obscurely felt that he could not go out on purpose to hunt for local colour, and that inspiration must come to him in other ways. Perhaps a talk with a man like Tristram Fynes would given him his clue. He wrote and asked Fynes for an appointment; but he received no answer to his letter.
Mrs. Pulsifer did write again. She asked why he hadn’t been back to see her, and suggested his coming to dine, giving him the choice of two evenings. The letter reached him on the day when he had taken his watch and his evening clothes to a pawnbroker13. He wrote that he couldn’t come to dine, but would call some afternoon; and she wired naming the next day. When he presented himself he found the great drawing rooms empty, and while he waited he wandered from one to another, gazing and dreaming. Art had hitherto figured in his mind as something apart from life, inapplicable to its daily uses; something classified, catalogued, and buried in museums. Here for the first time it became a breathing presence, he saw its relation to life, and caught a glimpse of the use of riches and leisure — advanced even to the assumption that it might be the task of one class to have these things and preserve them, to live like a priestly caste isolated15 for the purpose. The stuffed dove on the gilt16 basket, he thought, reverting17 again to his old symbol of the mysterious utility of the useless. . . . Mrs. Pulsifer’s arrival interrupted his musings, and gave him a surprised sense of the incongruity18 between the treasures and their custodian19.
She looked worried and excited; drew him at once into the circular sitting room, and impetuously accused him of being sorry she’d come back, because now he’d have to talk to her instead of looking at the pictures. Vance had no conversational20 parries; he could only have kissed her or questioned her about her possessions; the latter course he saw would be displeasing21, and he felt no temptation to the former, for she had a cold, and her face, in the spring light, looked sallow and elderly. “I do like wandering about this house first-rate,” he confessed.
“Well, then, why don’t you come oftener? I know I’m not clever; I can’t talk to you; but if you’d come and dine I’d have just a few of the right people; brilliant people — Frenside, and Lewis and Halo Tarrant, and Sibelius, from the Metropolitan, who’d tell you ever so much more than I can about my pictures.” She became pathetic in her self-effacement, and when she repeated: “Why won’t you come? Why do you always refuse?” he lost his head, and stammered22: “I . . . no. . . . I can’t — I can’t dine with you.”
“You mean you’ve got more amusing things to do?” she insinuated23; and he answered: “Lord, no, not that. It’s — I’m too poor,” he finally blurted24 out.
There was a silence.
“Too poor —?” she echoed, with an uncomprehending look.
He laughed. “For one thing I’ve got no evening clothes. I’ve had to pawn14 them.”
Mrs. Pulsifer, who was sitting near him, and leaning forward in her solicitous25 way, involuntarily drew back. “Oh — ” she faltered26, and he divined that her embarrassment27 was greater than his. The discovery somehow put him at his ease.
“Oh, you don’t need to look so frightened. It’s a thing that happens to people,” he joked. She murmured: “I’m so sorry,” and her lips seemed shaping themselves for the expression of further sympathy. She leaned nearer again, and he saw she was feverishly29 wondering what she ought to say. Her helplessness touched him; in her place he would have known so well! She seemed a creature whose impulses of pity had become atrophied30, and who was vainly trying to give him a sign of human feeling across the desert waste of her vast possessions. “I’m so sorry,” she began again, in a whisper, as if her voice was unable to bridge the distance. Vance stood up and took a few steps across the room. If she WAS sorry, really — as sorry as all that. . . . He stopped in front of her, and began to speak in a low confused voice. “Fact is, I’m down and out — oh just temporarily, of course; I’ve had unexpected expenses . . . .” He paused, wondering desperately31 why he had ever begun. Mrs. Pulsifer sat before him without moving. Even her eyes were motionless, and her startled hands. He wondered if no one had ever spoken to her of such a thing as poverty. “Look here,” he broke out, “if you really believe in me, will you lend me two thousand dollars?”
His question echoed through the room as if he had shouted it. A slight tremor33 passed over Mrs. Pulsifer’s face; then her immobility became rigid34. The situation clearly had no parallel in her experience, and she felt herself pitifully unequal to it. The fact exasperated35 Vance. It was all wrong that these people, the chosen custodians36 of knowledge and beauty, should be so stupid, so unfitted for their task. He hung before her irresolute37, angry with himself and her. “I’d better go,” he muttered at length.
She looked up, disconcerted. “Oh, no . . . please don’t. I’m so sorry . . . .”
The meaningless repetition irritated him. “I don’t suppose you ever before met a fellow who was dead broke, did you? I suppose that young man who opens the door has orders not to let them in,” he jeered38, flushed with his own humiliation39.
She grew pale, and her hands moved uneasily. “I— oh, you don’t understand; you don’t. I try to . . . to live up to my responsibilities. . . . These things . . . I have advisers40 . . . a most efficient staff who deal with them. . . . Every case is — is conscientiously41 investigated.” She seemed to be quoting a social service report.
“Oh, I’m not a case,” Vance interrupted drily. “I thought you acted as if you wanted me for a friend — that’s all.”
“I did — I do. I only mean . . . .” She lifted horrified42 eyes to his. “You see, there’s the prize. . . . If anyone knew that . . . that you’d come to me for assistance . . . that I . . . .”
“Oh, damn the prize! Excuse me; I’m sorry for my blunder. There are times when a man sees a big ditch in front of him and doesn’t know how he’s going to get across. I’m that man — and I spoke32 without thinking.”
Her eyes, still on his, grew moist with tears. “It’s so dreadful — your being in such trouble. I had no idea . . . .” She glanced about her, almost furtively43, as if the efficient staff who dealt with her “cases” might be listening behind a screen. “I do want to help you if I can,” she went on, hardly above a whisper. “If you’ll give me time I . . . I think I could arrange . . . but of course it would have to be quite privately44 . . . .”
He softened45 at the sight of her distress46. “You’re very kind. But I guess we won’t talk of it anymore. I’ve been tired and worried and I started thinking out loud.”
“But it’s so wrong, so cruel, that you, with your genius, should have such worries. I don’t understand.” She drew her brows together in anxious conjecture47. “I thought there was such a demand for what you write, and that you had a permanent job in the New Hour.”
“Yes, I have. But they’re just starting and can’t pay much. And I’m pledged to give them whatever I write. But I’d have pulled through all right if other things hadn’t gone wrong. And I will anyhow.” He held his hand out. “You’ve helped me a lot, just letting me look at those pictures. Thank you for it. Good-bye.”
The decision of his manner seemed to communicate itself to her, and she stood up also, pale and almost beautiful under the stress of an unknown emotion. “No, no, not goodbye, I do want to help you — I want you to tell me what it is that’s wrong. . . . I know young men are sometimes foolish.” She laid on his arm a bejewelled hand of which one ring would have bought his freedom.
Vance gave an impatient laugh. “Foolish? Is that what you people call not having enough money to keep alive on? What’s wrong with me is that my wife’s been desperately sick . . . sick for weeks. That costs.”
There was a silence. Mrs. Pulsifer’s hand slipped away. She drew back a step and slowly repeated: “Your wife? You mean to say you’re married?” Vance made a gesture of assent48.
“But I don’t understand. You never told me . . . .”
“Didn’t I? Maybe I didn’t.”
She continued to look at him uncertainly. “How could I know? I never thought . . . you never spoke. . . . But perhaps,” she faltered, a curious light of expectancy49 in her tired eyes, “it’s because your marriage is — unhappy?”
Vance coloured hotly. “God, no! I’m only unhappy because I can’t do all I want for her.” He thought afterward50 that he had never loved Laura Lou as he did at that moment.
“Oh. . . . I see . . . .” he heard Mrs. Pulsifer murmur28; and he was vaguely51 conscious of the fading of the light from her eyes.
“Well, good-bye,” he repeated. She seemed about to speak, to make some sign to detain him; but her narrowed lips let pass only a faint echo of his good-bye. It drifted mournfully after him as he walked down the endless perspective of tapestried52 and gilded53 emptiness to the hall below, where the tall young man in dark clothes and silver buttons was waiting with a perfectly54 matched twin to throw back the double doors. Vance wondered ironically whether they added to their other mysterious duties that of investigating Mrs. Pulsifer’s cases; but he knew that his own, at any rate, would never be brought up for examination.
One of the fellows at the Cocoanut Tree gave him the name of a moneylender; and a few days later he had a thousand dollars in his pocket. He told Mrs. Tracy he had enough to pay off Hayes, and asked for his address. She gave it without comment, and Vance, thankful to avoid explanations, returned to New York the next day to discharge his debt. He had no idea how he was going to meet the interest on the loan; but he put that out of his mind with the ease of an inexperienced borrower.
The address led to a narrow office building in an uptown street, where, across the front of an upper floor, he read: “STORECRAFT,” and underneath55: “Supplies Taste and saves Money.” He was admitted to a small room with roughcast walls, a sham56 Marie Laurencin, slender marquetry chairs, and a silvered mannequin in a Spanish shawl. There he waited till a fluffy-headed girl in a sports suit introduced him to an inner office, where Bunty Hayes, throned at a desk, was explaining to another girl: “Chanel, six almond-green Engadines: Vionnet, duplicate order apricot charmeuse pyjamas57 . . . .” He broke off and sat staring. “Patou, six pastel-blue Rivieras — ” he went on automatically; then, with a change of tone: “All right, Gladys; we’ll finish up later.” The girl vanished, and he turned to Vance. “Say, I didn’t see it was you, first off.”
“Maybe you’re too busy,” Vance began.
“No, but I was expecting a fellow with a new style of bust~restrainer. Never mind; sit down.” He pushed a chair forward. His manner was curt58 and businesslike, but not unfriendly; and Vance felt less at ease than if he had not been met with anathemas59.
“You’re on a new job,” he said tentatively.
Bunty Hayes leaned back, swung around in his swivel chair, and thrust out his legs, displaying perfectly creased60 trousers. He had grown stouter61, and had large yellow horn spectacles and carefully varnished62 hair. “Why, yes,” he said. “Fact is, there’s more in it. Folks want to tour in the holidays; but they want to shop all the year round, and they all want to shop in New York. Hundred and fifty million of ’em do. Storecraft’s the answer to that. Here: seen one of our cards? We’re going to move to Fifth Avenue next year. If you want to DO big, you got to SEE big. That’s my motto. See here, now; you live in the suburbs: well, we’re the commuter’s Providence63. Supply you with everything you like, from your marketing64 to a picture gallery. We’re going to have an art guild65 next year: buy your old masters for you, and all you got to do is to drive the hooks into your parlour wall and invite the neighbours.”
Vance had not seated himself. He drew out the money and laid it on the desk. “Here’s what we owe you,” he said.
“Oh, hell — ” said Hayes. The two men faced each other uneasily. At length Hayes nodded and said: “A’right,” and put his hand out toward the money. “Who’ll I make the receipt out to?” he asked, evidently not knowing what to say next. Vance said to Mrs. Tracy, and stood with his hands in his pockets leaning against the door. Hayes wrote the receipt rapidly, blotted66 and handed it to Vance. “Well, that’s over,” he remarked with an attempt at ease. Vance put the paper in his pocket. As he was turning to go Hayes stood up, and began, in an embarrassed voice: “See here — ”
“Yes?”
“I— your wife was sick when I called the other day. I was real sorry. Wish you’d tell her.”
“Sure,” said Vance, nodding and swinging out of the door. On the stairs, it came over him that he had behaved like an oaf, and he was half minded to turn back and tell Hayes — Tell him what? He didn’t know. But he vaguely felt there was a score between them which the money, after all, hadn’t wiped out . . . .
He had never yet spoken to Laura Lou about Hayes. On his return that evening, when he went to her room, he made up his mind to do so. The room looked pleasant. There was a fire in the stove and a bunch of spring flowers on the table. Laura Lou’s bed was neatly67 made, and she lay on the old steamer chair which he had brought up from the porch. Mrs. Tracy was below, preparing supper, and the house, sometimes so dreary68 and repellent to him, seemed peaceful and homelike. Laura Lou’s face lit up at his entrance. “Here — I brought you these. They’re good and juicy,” he said, pulling a couple of oranges out of his overcoat pockets. He bent69 to kiss her, and she pressed her cheek against his. “Oh, they’re beauties, Vanney; but you oughtn’t to have spent all that money.”
He sat down beside her, laughed, and said: “I’ve spent a lot more; I’ve paid off what was owing to Hayes.”
She flushed a tender rose colour. “Oh, Vanny! The whole of it? Isn’t that great?” Her hands tightened70 in his. “Mother’ll be crazy glad. But it’s such a lot of money; how in the world did you manage?”
“Oh I . . . I fixed71 it up. It was easy enough. I got an advance.”
The vague answer seemed to satisfy her, and she rested her head against his shoulder and stroked the oranges with her free hand. “Well, that’s just great. I guess they must think the world of you at the office,” she said placidly72.
Vance held her to him. After a pause he said: “I always felt sorry for the fellow, somehow.”
Through her deep lashes73 she looked up, as though wondering a little. “Well, you don’t have to any longer, do you?”
Vance felt as if she had moved away from him; but in reality her light body was pressed more closely to his. “Why, I don’t know,” he said, “I guess we didn’t act any too square to him, apart from the money. I wish now we’d given him warning . . . or something . . .”
She gave a little wriggle74 of contentment. “Well, yes, I wish we had too; but I guess it was safer, the way we did it.” For her, at least, the old score had been completely wiped out. He wondered, as he clasped her, if anyone would ever feel about the deep invisible things as he did.
To stifle75 conjecture he bent down and kissed her lids shut, one after the other. That funny lonely woman in the big house, who had imagined he was unhappily married . . .!
Next morning the expressman deposited at the door a big basket with the “Storecraft” label, full of perfumed grapefruit and polished mandarins and boxes of Californian delicacies76.
收听单词发音 |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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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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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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picturesqueness
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy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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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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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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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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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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anathemas
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| n.（天主教的）革出教门( anathema的名词复数 )；诅咒；令人极其讨厌的事；被基督教诅咒的人或事 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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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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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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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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wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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