It was one of Tarrant’s accomplishments1 to be able to go imperturbably2 through a scene where his advantage depended on his keeping his temper; but it was one of his weaknesses to collapse3 afterward4, his overtaxed self-control abandoning him to womanish tremors5, damp hands, and brittle6 nerves.
When he turned up that evening, his wife knew at once that he was in the throes of one of these reactions. Something had gone wrong again at the office. Of late, on such occasions, he had taken to seeking comfort in the society of Mrs. Pulsifer. Halo knew this and was faintly amused. She knew also that he was losing interest in the New Hour because it had not succeeded as he had hoped, and that he had begun to write a novel — probably under Mrs. Pulsifer’s inspiration. An important Pulsifer Prize for First Novels was to be added to the one already established for the Best Short Story; and it was like Tarrant, to whom the money was utterly8 indifferent, to be tempted9 to compete for the sake of publicity10. His restless vanity could never find sufficient pasturage, and as the years passed without the name of Lewis Tarrant becoming a household word on two continents (or even figuring in the English Who’s Who), his wife noticed that his appetite for praise grew coarser.
All this Halo marked with the lucid12 second sight of married experience. As long as she had continued to be fond of her husband she had seen him incompletely and confusedly; but under the X ray of her settled indifference13 every muscle and articulation14 had become visible. At times she was almost frightened by the accuracy with which she could calculate the movements of his mind and plot out his inevitable15 course of action. Because really she no longer cared to do so. . . . She would have been glad enough to impart the unneeded gift to Mrs. Pulsifer; and one day when Mrs. Spear, after various tentative approaches, had put a maternal16 arm about her and asked ever so gently: “Darling, has it never occurred to you that Lewis is being seen about rather too much with Jet Pulsifer?” Halo had burst into hysterical17 laughter, and caught her bewildered parent to her bosom18 . . . .
But no. There was no escape that way. Lewis still needed her, and she knew it. Mrs. Pulsifer ministered to his thirsting egotism, but Halo managed his life for him, and that was even more important. Some day, perhaps . . . But she shook off the insinuating19 vision. Penny by penny, hour by hour, she was still paying back the debt she had assumed when she found out that, all through his courtship, her family had been secretly and shamelessly borrowing from him. And since then the debt had gone on increasing much faster than she could possibly reduce it. The comfort he had given to Mr. and Mrs. Spear since he had become their son-in-law, the peace and security assured to them by his lavish20 allowance — how many years of wifely devotion and fidelity21 would it take to wipe out such a score?
Musing22 fruitlessly on these things she sat alone, waiting for her husband to join her and go in to dinner. She had refused several invitations for that evening, thinking that Lewis would probably dine out (as he did nowadays on most nights), and hoping rather absurdly that Vance Weston might come in and see her . . . .
The poor boy must have calmed down by this time; it would be safe to see him; and she was eager to hear more of the novel. Her sympathy with him, she told herself again and again, was all intellectual; she was passionately23 in love with his mind. It was a pity that he had not understood this; had tried to mix up “the other thing” with their intellectual ardours. And yet — no, certainly, she did not want him to make love to her; but would it not have mortified24 her to be treated forever like a disembodied intelligence? She had to confess to herself that she could not wish undone25 that foolish scene of the other evening . . . that the incident in it she most obstinately26 remembered was his despairing boy’s cry: “I want to kiss you . . . .”
Oh, but what folly27! Of course, if she was really to help him with his work, all those other ideas must be put aside and forgotten. And she did so want to help him; it was her greatest longing28, the need of her blood. The thought of it fed her lonely hours, filled her empty life — or nearly filled it. And she hoped he would feel the same longing, the same urgent necessity, and would come back to her soon for more companionship, more encouragement. . . . Perhaps she had not encouraged him enough, that last evening, about his work, that is. It was well to remember that authors, even the least fatuous29 and the most intelligent of them, were nervous, irritable30, self-conscious: the slightest unfavourable criticism flayed31 them alive. In that respect certainly (she smiled) Tarrant seemed qualified32 to join the brotherhood33. But poor Vance’s sensitiveness was of a different kind, the result of inexperience and humility34. Under it she always felt an inarticulate awareness35 of his powers; his doubts, she was sure, concerned only his aptitude36 for giving those powers full expression. She could almost picture him, in some glorious phase of future achievement, flinging down his pen to cry out like a great predecessor37: “My God, but this is genius —!”
She was thus softly pondering, in a mood of moral beatitude, when Tarrant turned up with his usual nervous: “I’m not late, am I? Well, put off dinner a few minutes, will you?” And now here he was again, fresh from his dressing38 room, brushed, glossy39, physically40 renovated41, but nervously42 on edge and obviously in need of consolation43. . . . Goodbye to her moral beatitude!
Since their one quarrel about Vance Weston — the quarrel which had resulted in Halo’s deciding not to accompany her husband to Europe — the young man’s name had seldom figured in their talk. The unexpected success of Instead had been balm to Tarrant’s editorial vanity, and Halo had not suspected that there had been a subsequent difference between the two men till the evening, a few months previously44, when Vance had told her of his asking Tarrant to raise his salary or annul45 their contract. She had suffered bitterly on hearing of this, but she had suffered in silence. She could not give Vance the clandestine46 help she would have wished to; she had neither money of her own, nor means of raising any. And she knew it would only injure him if she betrayed his confession47 and appealed to her husband’s generosity48. Tarrant had no generosity of that kind; he would simply have said: “I suppose he’s been trying to borrow of YOU now, after failing to pull it off with Mrs. Pulsifer”; and if he had said that she thought she would have got up and walked out of his house — forever.
No; that was not the way to help Vance. Her only intervention49 on his behalf had been a failure. All she could do was to hold her tongue, and do what she could to contribute to the success of his new book. It flattered her (far more than she knew) to feel that in that way she really could be of use to him. To be his Muse7, his inspiration — then there really was some meaning in the stale old image! She knew she had had a real share in the making of Instead, and she wore the secret knowledge like a jewel . . . .
“Well? — ” she questioned her husband, when they had returned to the library after dinner. She knew it was necessary for his digestion50 (an uncertain function) that he should unburden himself of the grievance51 she read in every look and intonation52. And sometimes, when she rendered him this service, she felt as impersonal53 as a sick nurse smoothing out a fractious invalid54.
Tarrant gave his short retrospective laugh — like the scratch of a match throwing back a brief flare55 on his grievance. “Oh, it’s only your protégé again — ”
She felt a little shiver of apprehension56. Usually a cool harmony reigned57 between Tarrant and herself. Since the day of her great outburst, when she had refused to accompany him to Europe, she had carefully avoided anything approaching a disagreement. She had learned her lesson that day; and futile58 wrangles59 were humiliating to her. But whenever Vance Weston’s name was pronounced between them the air seemed to become electric. Was it her husband’s fault or hers? She was always on the alert to defend Vance, she hardly knew from what. Or was it herself she was defending . . .?
“What protégé?” she asked carelessly.
“I didn’t know you had more than one. Weston, of course — yes, he’s been treating me to another of his scenes. Really, the fellow’s not housebroken. And a sneak60 too . . . can’t run straight . . . .”
“Lewis!”
“Dirty sneak. He’s after more money, as usual, and he’s been trying to get Lambart to buy his book from Dreck and Saltzer without first consulting me. Buy up our double contract with him . . . behind my back! But women can never see the enormity of these things . . . .”
He paused, and stirred his coffee angrily. “I daresay you see nothing in it,” he challenged her.
Halo’s heart had subsided61 to a more regular measure. It was not what she had feared . . . she was ashamed to think how much! She assured herself hastily that her fears had been for Vance, and not for herself. If he had lost his head and betrayed his feeling for her to her husband it would have meant ruin for him. She knew the deadly patience of Tarrant’s retaliations.
“Of course,” Tarrant continued, “things aren’t done that way between men. But the fact is I know only one woman who has a man’s sensitiveness in money matters” — he paused — “and that is Jet Pulsifer . . . .” He brought the name out with a touch of defiance62 which amused his wife.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured, with increasing relief.
“You don’t see anything in it yourself?” he insisted.
“I see what I always have — that your contract’s not fair to Vance; I’ve told you so before.”
“That’s neither here nor there — ”
“Surely it’s very much HERE, if the poor boy’s in want of money.”
“Ah, he’s been whining64 to you again about money, has he?”
She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. She remembered the uselessness of her previous intervention in Vance’s behalf, and wondered again by what curious coincidence it happened that his name always brought to a climax65 the latent tension between herself and Tarrant.
“Look here, Halo — I can see you still think I’ve treated him badly.”
“I think you’ve treated him — indifferently. What you call business is essentially66 an affair of indifference, isn’t it? It’s designed to exclude the emotions.”
“Do you want me to be emotional about Weston?”
“I want you to be generous, Lewis — as you know how to be . . . .” She paused to let this take effect. “He’s young and unhappy and bewildered. Perhaps he did make a mistake in going to Lambart about his book without telling you.” (Tarrant snorted.) “But surely you can afford to overlook that. He’s given the New Hour one good book — and I believe he’s going to give you another. This last novel is a very fine thing — ”
Tarrant shifted his position slightly, and looked at his wife. “Ah — so you’ve read it, then?” he said, a sudden jealous edge in his voice.
“The first chapters — yes.”
“Well, there are no more first chapters — or last ones, either.” He saw her startled movement, and laughed. “When I refused to let the young gentleman off his bargain he tore up the manuscript before my eyes and said he’d never write another line for any of us. Good old-fashioned melodrama67, eh?” He waited, and then added with a touch of flatness: “He swore he had no other copy — but I wouldn’t trust him about that.”
Halo sat speechless. The scene had evidently been more violent than she had imagined. She knew Tarrant’s faculty68 for provoking violent scenes — his cool incisiveness69 cutting into the soul like a white-hot blade into flesh. The pound of flesh nearest the heart — that was what he always exacted. And she knew too that Vance had spoken the truth: to her also he had said that he had no duplicate of those first chapters. He still kept to his boyish habit of scribbling70 the pages with his own hand, and usually did not trouble to type them out till the book he was doing was well advanced. The mechanical labour of copying his own work was hateful to him, and he had never been able to pay for having it done. In the first months Laura Lou had tried to act as amanuensis; but she found his writing hard to decipher, her spelling drove him frantic71, and she had nearly destroyed his Remington. Since her illness there had been no question of her continuing to render these doubtful services. The doctor said that stooping over was bad for her, and the manuscripts piled themselves up uncopied, in spite of Halo’s frequent protests. Why, she thought, had she not insisted on typing his work for him herself? But it was too late now; she could only try to swallow back the useless tears.
“Well, what do you think of that?” Tarrant insisted. It always annoyed him to have his climaxes72 fall flat, and he behaved like a conscientious73 actor whose careless partner had missed the cue. “You don’t seem to have heard what I’ve been saying,” he insisted.
“Oh, yes. And I’m sorry — dreadfully sorry.”
“Well, that’s not much use.” She saw that he was reaching the moment of reaction. It was the moment when, after he had produced his effect, brought out and aired his grievance, his taut74 nerves gave way, and he secretly asked himself what to do next, like a naughty child after a tantrum. The hour always came when he had to pay for the irresistible75 enjoyment76 of making somebody angry and unhappy, and there was something at once ludicrous in his surprise when it arrived, and slightly pitiful in his distress77. “These things take it out of me,” he said, and drew his handkerchief across his damp forehead.
Usually Halo had some murmur63 of reassurance78 ready; but on this occasion none came. Vance had destroyed his manuscript — those pages in which she had indeed found things to criticise79, but so much more to praise! She remembered now only what was admirable in them, and felt helplessly indignant at the cruelty which had driven him to such an act.
“The fact is, I’m not used to treating with people of that kind,” Tarrant went on, with rising self-pity.
“No — you’re not!” she retorted, carried away by sudden indignation. “It’s your only excuse,” she added ironically.
He stopped short, and looked at her with the injured eyes of a child who had expected compassion81 and gets a box on the ear.
“You’ve destroyed a fine thing — a great thing, perhaps. It’s an act of vandalism, as much as slashing82 a picture or breaking a statue — things people get arrested for,” she continued recklessly.
“I— I? Destroyed —? But, Halo, you haven’t even been listening. You think I tore up the manuscript? It was that damned fool who — ”
“Yes, because you hurt him, wounded his pride as an artist. You don’t know what it is to respect other people’s work, the creation of their souls. . . . You don’t know anything about anything, unless it happens to yourself!”
She saw the beads83 of perspiration84 come out again on his forehead, and while he felt for his handkerchief she knew he was anxiously asking himself how he was to go through another painful discussion so soon after the previous one. Usually he required twenty-four hours to recover after he had given somebody hell — and here was his own wife, who knew better than anyone else how sensitive he was, how heavily he had to pay for every nervous strain, and who was ruthlessly forcing him into a second scene before he had recovered from the first!
But Halo felt no pity. The sight of her husband’s discomfiture85 only exasperated86 her. Often and often she had helped him back to self-esteem after one of his collapses87; to do so was almost as necessary to her pride as to his, as long as they were to go on living together. But she was far past such considerations now, and pushed on without heeding88. “You’ve destroyed something rare . . . something beautiful . . . .” She could only uselessly go over the same words.
Suddenly Tarrant’s face became attentive89. “You thought as well of the book as all that?”
“I thought great things of it — ” The only thing that relieved her indignation was to rub into him the value of what he had lost. He should at least feel it commercially, if there was no other way of making him suffer.
He was looking at her rather shamefacedly. “Really, you might have dropped a hint of all this before . . . .”
“I read the chapters only a little while ago; and Vance didn’t want me to form an opinion till he’d got on further, or to say anything about it.”
“Saying anything about it hardly applies to telling me — your husband, and his editor.”
“I’ve no doubt he would have shown it to you if you’d asked him.”
“I did ask him, just now; and his answer was to tear the thing up.” There was a long pause, during which the two opponents rested rather helplessly on their resentment90. Halo was still too angry to speak, and her husband, she knew, was beginning to ask himself if he had made a mistake — if there were times when even the satisfaction of bullying91 someone who depended on one had better be foregone. He said sullenly92: “After all, it only means the loss of the time it’ll take him to rewrite the thing. I don’t believe there were more than sixty pages.”
“Creative writers can’t rewrite themselves. It would be mental torture if they could . . . and they can’t.”
“Oh, well, we’ll see.”
“Do you mean to say he told you he’d try?”
“Lord, no. On the contrary. He said he’d never write another line for us. . . . But of course he will — he’ll have to. He belongs to the review for another two years, as I reminded him.”
Halo pondered. At length she said, in a quieter tone: “You can’t make him write if he doesn’t choose to.”
“I can threaten him with a lawsuit93.”
“Oh, Lewis — ”
“Well, what about it? Here’s a fellow who’s destroyed something beautiful — pricelessly beautiful. You tell me artists can’t do the same thing twice over. Well, that makes it unique. And that unique thing that he’s destroyed belonged to me — belonged to the New Hour, and to Dreck and Saltzer. As I told him, it was partly paid for already — and how’s he going to make it up to us now, I ask you? I could see the young ass11 had never even thought of that.”
Halo suddenly felt ashamed of her own impotent anger. She could have rendered Vance no worse service than by harping94 to her husband on his blunder. For the sake of satisfying a burst of temper as useless as Tarrant’s she had risked what little hope there was of bringing him around to a kindlier view. But it was almost impossible for her to be adroit95 and patient when she dealt with anything near to her heart. Then generosity and frankness were her only weapons — and they were about as availing as bows and arrows against a machine-gun. At length she said: “I can understand Dreck and Saltzer taking this stand — I suppose, from a business point of view, it’s all right. But with you it’s so different, isn’t it? Fellow artists surely ought to look at the question from the same angle. Vance is terribly poor . . . his wife is ill . . . in some respects his collaboration96 hasn’t been of much use to the review, and I should think you’d be glad, if the New Hour can’t afford to raise his pay, to let him off his bargain, and get Dreck and Saltzer to do the same. What harm can it do either of you? And at any rate you’ll have given him the chance of trying his luck elsewhere. . . . I daresay he was stupid, and even rude, in his talk with you — he’s got no tact97, no cleverness of that kind — but you, who’ve got all the social experience he lacks, you ought to be generous . . . you can afford to be . . . .” Her lips were so parched98 that she had to stop. To go on talking like that was like chewing sawdust. And when she paused she understood in a flash the extent of her miscalculation. It is too easy to think that vain people are always stupid — and this was the mistake she had made. Yet she ought to have known that her husband, though he was vain, was not stupid . . . or at least not always so; and that flattery administered at the wrong time will not deceive even those who most thirst for it. Tarrant stood up and looked down on her with a faintly ironic80 smile.
“What you really think,” he said, “is that I’m a fool — but I’m not quite as an egregious99 one as all that. I leave that superiority to your young friend. Besides,” he added, “I ought not to forget that you’ve never understood anything about business. It was the only gift your fairy godmothers left out. I’m awfully100 obliged for your advice; but really, in matters of this kind, you must leave me to deal with our contributors myself . . . .”
收听单词发音 |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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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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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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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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incisiveness
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| n.敏锐，深刻 | |
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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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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climaxes
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| n.顶点( climax的名词复数 )；极点；高潮；性高潮 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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