The snow lay so deep outside the bungalow1 that Vance had had to interrupt his work (he seemed to be always interrupting it nowadays) to clear a path from the door to the lane. The shovelling3 of heavy masses of frozen snow put a strain on muscles relaxed by long hours at his desk, and he stood still in the glittering winter sunshine, leaning on his shovel2, while the cold and the hard exercise worked like a drug in his brain.
Weeks had gone by since his last visit to New York. He had not returned there since the evening of the Beethoven concert. His talk with his friends at the Cocoanut Tree and his long evening of musical intoxication4 had set his imagination working, and he had come home as from an adventure in far countries, laden5 with treasure to be transmuted6 into the flesh and blood of his creations. He had often noticed how small a spark of experience or emotion sufficed to provoke these explosions of activity, and with his booty in his breast he hurried back to his solitude7 as impatiently as he had left it.
But though he came home full of spiritual treasure, it was without material results. He had found no way of raising money, and he knew he must have some before the end of the month. For a fortnight past the woman who came to help Laura Lou had not shown herself. She lived some distance away, and when Vance went to hunt her up she excused herself on the plea of the cold weather and the long snowy walk down the lane from the trolley8 terminus. But Vance knew it was because he owed her several weeks’ wages, and when she said: “I’d never have come all that way, anyhow, if it hadn’t been I was sorry for your wife,” he received the rebuke9 meekly10, conscious that it was a way of reminding him of his debt.
With the coming of the dry cold Laura Lou seemed to revive, and for a while she and Vance managed to carry on the housekeeping between them, though the meals grew more and more sketchy11, and it became clear even to Vance’s inattentive eyes that the house was badly in need of cleaning. Carrying in the bags of coal (which he now had to fetch from the end of the lane) left on the floors a trail of black dust that Laura Lou had not the strength to scrub away, and the soil was frozen so hard that Vance could no longer bury the daily refuse at the foot of the orchard13, but had to let it accumulate in an overflowing14 barrel. All that mattered little when she began to sing again about the house; but his nerves were set on edge by the continual interruptions to his work while he was still charged with creative energy, and often, when he got back to his desk, he would sit looking blankly at the blank page, frightened by the effort he knew his brain would refuse to make.
But today, after his labour in the snow, brain and nerves were quiescent15. He would have liked to put more coal on the stove and then stretch out on the broken-down divan16 for a long sleep. But he knew he had to get the kitchen ready for Laura Lou, and after that . . . there was always an “after” to every job, he mused17 impatiently. He leaned the shovel against the door, stamped the snow off his feet, and went in.
Laura Lou was not in the kitchen. The fire was unlit, and no preparations had been made for their simple breakfast. He called out her name. She did not answer; and thinking somewhat resentfully of his hard work in the snow while she slept warm between the sheets, he opened the bedroom door. She lay where he had left her; her head was turned away, facing the wall, and the blankets and his old overcoat were drawn18 up to her chin.
“Laura Lou!” he called again. She stirred and slowly turned to him.
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?” he exclaimed; for her face wore the same painful smile which had struck him on the day when he had found her pushing the mysterious rags into the kitchen fire.
“Time to get up?” she asked in a scarcely audible whisper.
He sat down on the bed and took her hand; it was dry and trembling. His heart began to beat with apprehension19. “Do you feel as if you were too tired to get up?”
“Yes, I’m tired.”
“See here, Laura Lou — ” He slipped down on his knees, and slid his arm under her thin back. “Why is it you always feel so tired?” Her eyes, which were fixed20 on his, widened like a suspicious animal’s, and he drew her closer to whisper: “Is it — it isn’t because you’re going to have a baby?”
She started in his arms, and drew back a little instead of yielding to his embrace. Her tongue ran furtively21 over her dry lips, as if to moisten them before she spoke22. “A baby —?” she echoed. Vance pressed her tighter.
“I’d — we’ll manage somehow; you’ll see! I guess it would be great, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t you be less lonely, sweet?” he hurried on, stringing random23 words together to hide the confused rush of his feelings.
She drew her head back, and her free hand, slipping from under the blankets, pushed the hair off his forehead. “Poor old Vanny,” she whispered.
“Were you afraid I’d be bothered if you told me? Is that why —?” She made a faint negative motion.
“What was it then, dear? Why didn’t you tell me?”
The painful smile drew up her lip again. “It’s not that.” She looked at him with an expression so strangely, lucidly24 maternal25, that he felt as he sometimes had when, as a little boy, he brought his perplexities to his mother. It was the first time that Laura Lou had ever seemed to stoop to him from heights of superior understanding, and he was queerly awed26 by the mystery of her gaze. “Not that, darling?” he echoed.
Her hand was still moving in his hair. “Wouldn’t you have liked it, dear?” he repeated.
“I might have — only I’m too tired.” Her hand dropped back to her side. It was always the same old refrain: “I’m too tired.” Yet she did not cough any longer, she ate with appetite, she had seemed lately to do her work with less fatigue27.
“What makes you so tired, do you suppose?” But he felt the futility28 of the question. “I’ll run down to the grocer’s and call up the doctor,” he said energetically, clutching at the idea of doing something definite. But Laura Lou sat up in bed and stretched her thin arms out to him. “No, no, no — Vanny, no!”
“But why not, darling?”
“Because I’m not sick — because I don’t want him — because there’d be nothing to tell him . . .” He knew it was on her lips to add: “Because there’d be nothing to pay him with.”
“Nonsense, Laura Lou. You must see a doctor.”
“What would he say? He’d tell me to take a tonic29. I’m all right, Vanny — I’ll be up and have breakfast ready in half an hour. . . . Can’t you give me till then?” she pleaded, sobbing30; and full of contrition31 and perplexity he hurried back to the bed. “There, there, child; don’t cry . . . .”
“You’ll promise not?”
“I promise . . . .”
He left her to go and make up the kitchen fire, and get out the condensed milk and the tin of prepared coffee. Inwardly he said to himself: “As soon as she’s up I’ll go to New York and not come home till I’ve raised money enough to get back the hired woman and pay the doctor. She’s probably right; it’s nothing but worry and fatigue that’s the matter with her.” He fastened his mind on this conviction like a shipwrecked man clinging to a bit of wreckage32. “She’s anaemic, that’s what she is. . . . What she needs is good food and rest, and a tonic.” The more he repeated it to himself the stronger his conviction grew. He felt instinctively33 that he could not get on with his work without reassurance34, and yet his work must be got on with to buy the reassurance. . . . The last gleam of inner light faded from his brain as it struggled with this dilemma35. For a moment a vision brushed his eyes of the long summer afternoons at the Willows36, with the sound of the bees in the last wistaria flowers, and Halo Tarrant sitting silent on the other side of the green velvet37 table, waiting for the pages as he passed them over. . . . But he dragged his thoughts away from the picture. . . . As soon as Laura Lou was up they breakfasted together; then he hurried off to the trolley . . . .
At “Storecraft” they told him the manager was in his office, and Vance flew up in the mirror-lined lift. He had not been in the place since he had taken Laura Lou there to see his bust38 at the “Tomorrowists’” exhibition. In the distorted vista39 of his life all that seemed to be years away from him. The lift shot him out on the manager’s floor and he was shown into an office where Bunty Hayes throned before a vast desk of some rare highly polished wood. Vance was half aware of the ultramodern fittings, the sharp high lights and metallic40 glitter of the place; then he saw only Bunty Hayes, stout41 and dominant42 behind a shining telephone receiver and a row of electric bells.
“I want to know if you’ve got a job for me,” Vance said.
Bunty Hayes rested both his short arms on the desk.
With a stout hairy hand he turned over a paperweight two or three times, and his round mouth framed the opening bar of an inaudible whistle.
“See here — take a seat.” He leaned forward, fixing his attentive12 eyes on his visitor. “Fact is, I’ve been thinking we ought to start a publishing department of our own before long — if it was only to show the old fossils how literature ought to be handled. But I haven’t had time to get round to it yet. Seems as if Providence43 had sent you round to help me get a move on. My idea is that we might begin with a series of translations of the snappiest foreign fiction, in connection with our Foreign Fashions’ Department . . . .” He leaned forward eagerly, no longer aware of Vance except as a recipient44 intelligence. “Get my idea, do you? We say to the women: ‘Read that last Geed45 or Morant novel in our “Storecraft” Series? Well, if you want to know the way the women those fellows write about are dressed, and the scents46 they use, and the facial treatment they take, all you got to do is to step round to our Paris Department’ — you see my idea? Of course translations would be just a beginning; after we got on our legs we’d give ’em all the best in our own original fiction, and then I’d be glad to call on you for anything you wanted to dispose of. Fact is, I’ve got an idea already for a first ‘Storecraft’ novel — ”
He stopped, and Vance once more became an individual for him. “Maybe you don’t get my idea?” he said with a sudden shyness.
Vance felt the nausea47 in his throat. He began: “Oh, I don’t believe it’s any good — ”
“What isn’t?” Hayes interrupted.
“I mean, my coming here.” His only thought now was how to get away; he could find no further words of explanation. But Hayes, still leaning across the desk, said mildly: “You haven’t told me yet what you came for. But I guess there’s hardly any case ‘Storecraft’ isn’t ready to deal with.”
Vance was silent. In a flash he pictured his plight48 if he let his disgust get the better of him and turned away from this man’s coarse friendliness49. After all, it was not Hayes the man who disgusted him any longer, but the point of view he represented; and what business had a fellow who didn’t know where to turn for his next day’s dinner to be squeamish about aesthetic50 differences? He swallowed quickly, and said: “Fact is, I thought perhaps you might be willing to take me on in your advertising51 department.”
The whistle which had been lurking52 behind Hayes’s lips broke forth53 in an astonished trill. “See here — ” he exclaimed, and sat inarticulately contemplating54 his visitor.
His gaze was friendly and even reverential; Vance guessed that he was not beyond being impressed by the idea of a successful novelist offering his services to “Storecraft.” “I suppose you’ve had some practice with book blurbs55?” he began at last, hopefully.
Vance shook his head. “Not even.”
“Oh, well — ”
Vance had recovered his self-possession. He set forth, in as few words as possible, his business relations with the New Hour and Dreck and Saltzer, and his urgent need of raising money. He explained that he was debarred from selling his literary work to other bidders56, and that he wanted to try his hand at publicity57. It hardly seemed to be his own voice speaking — he felt more as if he were making a character talk in one of his books. When Hayes opened a parenthesis58 to ease his mind on the subject of Tarrant and the New Hour, Vance recalled the drunken row in the office — but that too had become far-off and inoffensive. The only thing that was actual and urgent was what this man on the other side of the desk was going to say in reply to his appeal for help. He stiffened59 himself inwardly and waited.
Hayes leaned back and drummed on the desk. “Cigarette?” he queried60, pushing a box across the table. Vance shook his head, and there was another silence. Then: “How’s your wife?” Hayes asked abruptly61.
The blood rushed to Vance’s temples. “She’s fairly well,” he said coldly.
“I see. Living at the same old stand?”
“No. We’re out in the country now.”
“Say — are you?” Hayes lit his cigarette, took a puff62 or two, and then stood up. “See here, Mr. Weston, I guess we can fix you up some way or other. Come round with me now to our Publicity Department — ” He opened the glass door and led the way down a corridor to another glazed63 enclosure . . . .
When Vance got into the elevated to return home he had five hundred dollars in his pocket. He had spent an hour with “Storecraft’s” publicity agent, and besides the money his pockets were bulging64 with models of advertisements — “blurbs” and puffs65 of every conceivable sort, from an advertisement of silk stockings or face cream, or “Storecraft’s” insurance policies, to circulars and prospectuses66 featuring the lecture tours managed by “Storecraft’s” Arts and Letters Department. In the bunch, as Vance glanced over them, he found his grandmother’s advance circular, and thrust it disgustedly under the others; but the disgust was easily dominated. He had the money in his pocket, a retaining fee, Hayes had explained to him. It was worth the money to “Storecraft” to have a well-known novelist on their publicity list; and he’d soon pick up the hang of the thing sufficiently67 to earn his advance, and more too. Fellows who knew how to sling68 words were what they were after, Hayes continued; many of the literary people didn’t seem to realize yet that writing a good advertisement was just as much of an art as turning out Paradise Lost or Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Vance hardly noticed at the time that the pecuniary69 transaction did not take place in the Publicity Department, but in Hayes’s private office, to which the manager invited him back for a cocktail70 and a final talk. He had the money in his pocket, and he was going to turn to and try to earn it, and as much more as he could. Compared with these monumental facts everything else seemed remote and negligible; and when Hayes, at the close of their talk, said a little awkwardly: “Well, so long. . . . Glad to hear your wife’s all well again, anyhow,” Vance felt a sudden compunction, as if he had been deliberately71 deceiving the first person who had really befriended him. “Well, she hasn’t been very bright lately,” he confessed with an effort at frankness.
“That so? Sorry to hear it.” Hayes paused uncertainly, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t believe I know just where your burg is. Maybe I could call round one day and see how she’s getting on — bring her a little grapefruit and so on, eh?”
Vance hesitated. Since they had left New York he had given his address to no one; even Eric Rauch had not been able to wheedle72 it out of him. In reply to Hayes he mumbled73 that he was hard at work on his novel, and had to keep away from people as much as he could — and he saw Hayes redden at the rebuff, and was sorry, yet could not bring himself to say more. “Well, you’ll be round again soon with something to show us, I suppose?”
Vance said yes, and after another awkward moment the hands of the two men met.
“You’ve done me a mighty74 good turn,” Vance stammered75, and the other replied: “Oh, well — call on me if there’s any other way I can be of use.” Then the lift received Vance, and he dropped down the long flights, dizzy with what he had achieved, and a little ashamed at the poor return he had made for it. But Hayes with his damned grapefruit spying out the misery76 of the bungalow — no.
On the way home he felt a sudden buoyancy, combined with a new steadiness and composure of mind. He was even able to enjoy the humour of the situation as he ran over the list of subjects the publicity agent had given him to try his hand on. At a newstand he bought a handful of picture magazines, and plunged77 into the advertising pages, comparing, criticising, mentally touching78 them up. Evidently what “Storecraft” wanted was a combination of Sinclair Lewis, Kathleen Norris, and Mrs. Eddy79. Well, he thought he could manage that, and even go them one better. . . . He longed for someone to share his laugh, and the thought of Halo Tarrant flashed out, as it always did when the human comedy or tragedy held up a new mask to him. Poor Laura Lou would not be able to see the joke. Her admiration80 for Bunty Hayes was based on his scholarship and eloquence81 — Vance remembered how much she had been impressed by the literary quality of Mrs. Scrimser’s advance circular. Her simplicity82 had irritated him at the moment; now he saw it through a rosy83 gleam of amusement. After all, he decided84 he would tell Laura Lou about his visit to Hayes and their arrangement. It would please her to know that the two men were friends; and somehow he felt he owed it to her not to conceal85 Hayes’s generosity86. He had never forgotten the crumpled87 love letter he had picked up in her room, in the early days at Paul’s Landing. He reached his journey’s end, and swung down the lane whistling and singing through the night . . . .
He banged on the front door, but there was no answer. He tried the handle and it opened. How often he had told Laura Lou to lock up in his absence! Really, her carelessness . . . The room was pitch~dark and cold. He stumbled over something and fell to his knees. “Laura Lou — Laura Lou!” he cried out in deadly terror.
By the light of his electric torch he saw her lying almost across the threshold. She was quite still, her face ashy white under the faint yellow hair. At first in his horror he imagined an accident, a crime; but as he bent88 over, whispering and crying her name, and chafing89 her icy hands in his, her lids lifted and she gave him the comforted look of a tired child.
“Laura Lou! Darling! What’s the matter?”
“Carry me back to bed, Vanny. I’ll be all right.” She spoke so quietly that he was half reassured90.
Her head fell back on his shoulder as he lifted her to his breast. In the darkness he stumbled across the room, groped his way to the bed, and laid her down on it. Then he found a match and lit the lamp. His hands were shaking so that he could hardly carry it. He held the light over the bed and saw, on the floor beside it, a basin half full of blood, and a crumpled pile of rags, such as he had seen her push into the kitchen range.
“Laura Lou — you’ve had a hemorrhage?”
Her lids fluttered open again. “Ever since that day I caught cold — ”
“It’s not the first?”
Her lips shaped an inaudible: “Never mind.”
“But, child, child — how could you hide it from me? In God’s name, why didn’t you get the doctor?”
The old terror returned to her eyes as she clutched his sleeve with her weak fingers. “No, no, no . . .” She lifted herself up haggardly, her eyes wide with fear, like a dead body raising itself out of its grave. “Never, Vanny, never! You’ve got to promise me. . . . They’d take me away from you to some strange place, with nurses and people, where I’d never see you. . . . I won’t go, I won’t . . . but if the doctor comes he’ll make me . . . and I’d rather die here. . . . You promise me . . . .”
“Of course I promise. But you won’t die — you won’t, I tell you!” He held her tight, burning with her fever, straining to pour his warmth and strength into her poor shuddering91 body; and after a while her head drooped92 back on the pillow, and her lids fell over her quieted eyes.
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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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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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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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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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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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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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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lucidly
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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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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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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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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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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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geed
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| 驭马快走或向右(gee的过去式，过去分词) | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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52
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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55
blurbs
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| n.（尤指印在书籍等护封上的）简介，推荐广告( blurb的名词复数 ) | |
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bidders
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| n.出价者，投标人( bidder的名词复数 ) | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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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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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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87
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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88
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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89
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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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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91
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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