It was November: rain fell coldly and drearily3. He buttoned himself in his long raincoat and went to meet her. She had promised to wear a red carnation4; the suggestion was her own, and tickled5 him hugely. As the pink-faced suburbanites poured, in an icy stream, into the hot waiting-room, he looked for her. Presently he saw her: she came toward him immediately, since his height was unmistakable. They talked excitedly flustered6, but gradually getting some preliminary sense of each other.
She was a rather tall, slender girl, dressed in garments that seemed to have been left over, in good condition, from the early part of the century. She wore a flat but somehow towering hat: it seemed to perch7 upon her head as do those worn by the Queen of England. She was covered with a long blue coat, which flared8 and bustled9 at the hips10, and had screws and curls of black corded ornament11; she looked respectable and antiquated12, but her costume, and a na?ve stupidity in her manner, gave her a quaintness13 that he liked. He took her to the subway, having arranged a meeting at her home for the following night.
The girl, whose name was Genevieve Simpson, lived with her mother and her brother, a heavy young lout14 of nineteen years, in a two-family house at Melrose. The mother, a small, full, dumpling-face woman, whose ordinary expression in repose15, in common with that of so many women of the middle class in America who have desired one life and followed another and found perhaps that its few indispensable benefits, as security, gregariousness16, decorum, have not been as all-sufficient as they had hoped, was one of sullen17, white, paunch-eyed discontent.
It was this inner petulance18, the small carping disparagement19 of everyone and everything that entered the mean light of her world, that made absurdly palpable the burlesque20 mechanism21 of social heartiness22. Looking at her while she laughed with shrill23 falsity at all the wrong places, he would rock with huge guffaws24, to which she would answer with eager renewal25, believing that both were united in their laughter over something of which she was, it is true, a little vague.
It was, she felt, her business to make commercially attractive to every young man the beauty and comfort of the life she had made for her family, and although the secret niggling discontent of their lives was plainly described on both her own and her daughter’s face, steeped behind their transparent26 masks in all the small poisons of irritability27 and bitterness, they united in their pretty tableau28 before the world — a tableau, he felt, something like those final exhibitions of grace and strength with which acrobats29 finish the act, the strained smile of ease and comfort, as if one could go on hanging by his toes for ever, the grieving limbs, the whole wrought30 torture which will collapse31 in exhausted32 relief the second the curtain hides it.
“We want you to feel absolutely at home here,” she said brightly. “Make this your headquarters. You will find us simple folk here, without any frills,” she continued, with a glance around the living-room, letting her eye rest with brief satisfaction upon the striped tiles of the hearth33, the flowered vases of the mantel, the naked doll, tied with a pink sash, on the piano, and the pictures of “The Horse Fair,” the lovers flying before the storm, Maxfield Parrish’s “Dawn,” and Leonardo da Vinci’s “Last Supper,” which broke the spaces of the wall, “but if you like a quiet family life, a welcome is always waiting for you here. Oh, yes — everyone is for each other here: we keep no secrets from each other in our little family.”
Eugene thought that this was monstrous34 if it was true; a swift look at Genevieve and Mama convinced him, however, that not everything was being told. A mad exultancy35 arose in him: the old desire returned again to throw a bomb into the camp, in order to watch its effect; to express murderous opinions in a gentle Christian36 voice, further entrenched37 by an engaging matter-of-factness, as if he were but expressing the commonplace thought of all sensible people; bawdily38, lewdly39, shockingly with a fine assumption of boyish earnestness, sincerity40, and na?veté. So, in a voice heavily coated with burlesque feeling, he said: “Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Simpson. You have no idea what it means to me to be able to come to a place like this.”
“I know,” said Genevieve with fine sympathy, “when you’re a thousand miles from home —”
“A thousand!” he cried, with a bitter laugh, “a thousand! Say rather a million.” And he waited, almost squealing41 in his throat, until they should bite.
“But — but your home is in the South, isn’t it?” Mrs. Simpson inquired doubtfully.
“Home! Home!” cried he, with raucous42 laugh. “I have no home!”
“Oh, you poor boy!” said Genevieve.
“But your parents — are they BOTH dead?”
“No!” he answered, with a sad smile. “They are both living.”
There was a pregnant silence.
“They do not live together,” he added after a moment, feeling he could not rely on their deductive powers.
“O-o-oh,” said Mrs. Simpson significantly, running the vowel43 up and down the vocal44 scale. “O-o-oh!”
“Nasty weather, isn’t it?” he remarked, deliberately45 drawing a loose cigarette from his pocket. “I wish it would snow: I like your cold Northern winters as only a Southerner can like them; I like the world at night when it is muffled46, enclosed with snow; I like a warm secluded47 house, sheltered under heavy fir trees, with the curtains drawn48 across a mellow49 light, and books, and a beautiful woman within. These are some of the things I like.”
“Gee!” said the boy, his heavy blond head leaned forward intently. “What was the trouble?”
“Jimmy! Hush50!” cried Genevieve, and yet they all looked toward Eugene with eager intensity51.
“The trouble?” said he, vacantly. “What trouble?”
“Between your father and mother?”
“Oh,” he said carelessly, “he beat her.”
“Aw-w! He hit her with his fist?”
“Oh, no. He generally used a walnut52 walking-stick. It got too much for her finally. My mother, even then, was not a young woman — she was almost fifty, and she could not stand the gaff so well as she could in her young days. I’ll never forget that last night,” he said, gazing thoughtfully into the coals with a smile. “I was only seven, but I remember it all very well. Papa had been brought home drunk by the mayor.”
“The MAYOR?”
“Oh, yes,” said Eugene casually53. “They were great friends. The mayor often brought him home when he was drunk. But he was very violent that time. After the mayor had gone, he stamped around the house smashing everything he could get his hands on, cursing and blaspheming at the top of his voice. My mother stayed in the kitchen and paid no attention to him when he entered. This, of course, infuriated him. He made for her with the poker54. She saw that at last she was up against it; but she had realized that such a moment was inevitable55. She was not unprepared. So she reached in the flour bin56 and got her revolver —”
“Did she have a revolver?”
“Oh, yes,” he said nonchalantly, “my Uncle Will had given it to her as a Christmas present. Knowing my father as he did, he told her it might come in handy sometime. Mama was forced to shoot at him three times before he came to his senses.”
There was a silence.
“Gee!” said the boy, finally. “Did she hit him?”
“Only once,” Eugene replied, tossing his cigarette into the fire. “A flesh wound in the leg. A trifle. He was up and about in less than a week. But, of course, Mama had left him by that time.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Simpson, after a yet longer silence, “I’ve never had to put up with anything like THAT.”
“No, thank heaven!” said Genevieve fervently57. Then, curiously58: “Is — is your mother Mr. Pentland’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“And the uncle who gave her the revolver — Mr. Pentland’s brother?”
“Oh, yes,” Eugene answered readily. “It’s all the same family.” He grinned in his entrails, thinking of Uncle Bascom.
“Mr. Pentland seems a very educated sort of man,” said Mrs. Simpson, having nothing else to say.
“Yes. We went to see him when we were hunting for a house,” Genevieve added. “He was very nice to us. He told us he had once been in the ministry59.”
“Yes,” said Eugene. “He was a Man of God for more than twenty years — one of the most eloquent60, passionate61, and gifted soul-savers that ever struck fear into the hearts of the innumerable sinners of the American nation. In fact, I know of no one with whom to compare him, unless I turn back three centuries to Jonathan Edwards, the Puritan divine, who evoked62, in a quiet voice like the monotonous63 dripping of water, a picture of hell-fire so near that the skins of the more imaginative fanatics64 on the front rows visibly blistered65. However, Edwards spoke1 for two and a half hours: Uncle Bascom, with his mad and beautiful tongue, has been known to drive people insane with terror in twenty-seven minutes by the clock. There are still people in the asylums66 that he put there,” he said piously67. “I hope,” he added quickly, “you didn’t ask him why he had left the Church.”
“Oh, no!” said Genevieve. “We never did that.”
“Why did he?” asked Mrs. Simpson bluntly, who felt that now she had only to ask and it would be given. She was not disappointed.
“It was the centuries-old conflict between organized authority and the individual,” said Eugene. “No doubt you have felt it in your own lives. Uncle Bascom was a poet, a philosopher, a mystic — he had the soul of an artist which must express divine love and ideal beauty in corporeal68 form. Such a man as this is not going to be shackled69 by the petty tyrannies of ecclesiastical convention. An artist must love and be loved. He must be swept by the Flow of Things, he must be a constantly expanding atom in the rhythmic70 surges of the Life Force. Who knew this better than Uncle Bascom when he first met the choir71 contralto?”
“Contralto!” gasped72 Genevieve.
“Perhaps she was a soprano,” said Eugene. “It skills not. Suffice it to say they lived, they loved, they had their little hour of happiness. Of course, when the child came —”
“The child!” screamed Mrs. Simpson.
“A bouncing boy. He weighed thirteen pounds at birth and is at the present a Lieutenant73 Commander in the United States Navy.”
“What became of — her?” said Genevieve.
“Of whom?”
“The — the contralto.”
“She died — she died in childbirth.”
“But — but Mr. Pentland?” inquired Mrs. Simpson in an uncertain voice. “Didn’t he — marry her?”
“How could he?” Eugene answered with calm logic74. “He was married to someone else.”
And casting his head back, suddenly he sang: “You know I’m in love with some-boddy else, so why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Well, I NEVER!” Mrs. Simpson stared dumbly into the fire.
“Well, HARDLY ever,” Eugene became allusively75 Gilbertian. “She hardly ever has a Big, Big B.” And he sang throatily: “Oh, yes! Oh, yes, indeed!” relapsing immediately into a profound and moody76 abstraction, but noting with delight that Genevieve and her mother were looking at him furtively77, with frightened and bewildered glances.
“Say!” The boy, whose ponderous78 jowl had been sunken on his fist for ten minutes, now at length distilled79 a question. “Whatever became of your father? Is he still living?”
“No!” said Eugene, after a brief pause, returning suddenly to fact. “No! He’s still dying.”
And he fixed80 upon them suddenly the battery of his fierce eyes, lit with horror:
“He has a cancer.” After a moment, he concluded: “My father is a very great man.”
They looked at him in stricken bewilderment.
“Gee!” said the boy, after another silence. “That guy’s worse than our old man!”
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” whispered Genevieve scathingly.
There was a very long, for the Simpson family, a very painful, silence.
“Aha! Aha!” Eugene’s head was full of ahas.
“I suppose you have thought it strange,” Mrs. Simpson began with a cracked laugh, which she strove to make careless, “that you have never seen Mr. Simpson about when you called?”
“Yes,” he answered with a ready dishonesty, for he had never thought of it at all. But he reflected at the same moment that this was precisely81 the sort of thing people were always thinking of: suddenly before the embattled front of that little family, its powers aligned82 for the defence of reputation, he felt lonely, shut out. He saw himself looking in at them through a window: all communication with life grouped and protected seemed for ever shut off.
“Mother decided83 some months ago that she could no longer live with Father,” said Genevieve, with sad dignity.
“Sure,” volunteered Jimmy, “he’s livin’ with another woman!”
“Jimmy!” said Genevieve hoarsely84.
Eugene had a momentary85 flash of humorous sympathy with the departed Simpson; then he looked at her white bickering86 face and felt sorry for her. She carried her own punishment with her.
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1
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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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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6
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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11
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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12
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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gregariousness
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| 集群性；簇聚性 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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21
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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24
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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25
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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26
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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30
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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bawdily
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| adv.淫秽地 | |
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lewdly
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40
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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41
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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42
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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43
vowel
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| n.元音；元音字母 | |
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44
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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45
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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46
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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47
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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50
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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51
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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52
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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53
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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54
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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55
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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56
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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57
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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58
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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59
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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60
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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61
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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62
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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63
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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64
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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65
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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66
asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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67
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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68
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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69
shackled
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| 给（某人）带上手铐或脚镣( shackle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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71
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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72
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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73
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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74
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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75
allusively
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| adj.暗指的，影射，间接提到 | |
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76
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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77
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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78
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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79
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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80
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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81
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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82
aligned
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| adj.对齐的，均衡的 | |
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83
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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84
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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85
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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86
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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