Why was it? What was this grievous lack or loss — if lack or loss it was — in his own life? Why was it that, with his fierce, bitter, and insatiate hunger for life, his quenchless4 thirst for warmth, joy, love, and fellowship, his constant image, which had blazed in his heart since childhood, of the enchanted5 city of the great comrades and the glorious women, that he grew weary of people almost as soon as he met them? Why was it that he seemed to squeeze their lives dry of any warmth and interest they might have for him as one might squeeze an orange, and then was immediately filled with boredom6, disgust, dreary7 tedium8, and an impatient weariness and desire to escape so agonizing9 that it turned his feeling almost into hatred10?
Why was it that his spirit was now filled with this furious unrest and exasperation11 against people because none of them seemed as good as they should be? Where did it come from — this improvable and yet unshakable conviction that grew stronger with every rebuff and disappointment — that the enchanted world was here around us ready to our hand the moment that we chose to take it for our own, and that the impossible magic in life of which he dreamed, for which he thirsted, had been denied us not because it was a phantom12 of desire, but because men had been too base and weak to take what was their own?
Now, with Starwick, and for the first time, he felt this magic constantly — this realization13 of a life for ever good, for ever warm and beautiful, for ever flashing with the fires of passion, poetry and joy, for ever filled with the swelling14 and triumphant15 confidence of youth, its belief in new lands, morning, and a shining city, its hope of voyages, its conviction of a fortunate, good and happy life — an imperishable happiness and joy — that was impending16, that would be here at any moment.
For a moment he looked at the strange and delicate face of the young man beside him, reflecting, with a sense of wonder, at his communion with this other life, so different from his own in kind and temper. What was it? Was it the sharp mind, that original and penetrating17 instrument which picked up the old and weary problems of the spirit by new handles, displaying without labour planes and facets18 rarely seen? With what fierce joy he welcomed those long walks together in the night, along the quiet streets of Cambridge, or by the marvellous river that wound away small and magical in the blazing moonlight into the sweet, dark countryside! What other pleasure, what other appeasement19 of his mind and sense had been so complete and wonderful as that which came from this association as, oblivious20 of the world, they carried on their fierce debate about all things under heaven; his own voice, passionate3, torrential, and wild, crying out against the earth, the moon, invoking21 all the gods of verse and magic while his mind played rivers of lightning across the vast fields of reading and experience!
And how eagerly he waited for the answers of that other voice, quiet, weary, drawling — how angrily he stormed against its objections, how hungrily and gratefully he fed upon its agreement! What other tongue had had the power to touch his pride and his senses as this one had — how cruelly had its disdain22 wounded him, how magnificently had its praise filled his heart with glory! On these nights when he and Starwick had walked along the river in these vehement23, passionate, and yet affectionate debates, he would relive the scene for hours after it had ended, going over their discussion again and again, remembering every gesture, every intonation24 of the voice, every flash of life and passion in the face. Late in the night he would pace up and down his room, or pause dreaming by his window, still carrying on in his mind the debate with his friend, inventing and regretting splendid things he might have said, exulting25 in those he had said and in every word of approval or burst of laughter he had provoked. And he would think: Ah, but I was GOOD there! I could see how he admired me, how high a place I have in his affection. For when he says a thing he MEANS it: he called me a poet, his voice was quiet and full of passion; he said my like had never been, that my destiny was great and sure.
Was this, then, the answer?
Until this period of his life he had drunk very little: in spite of the desperate fear his mother had that each of her children inherited the whisky disease —“the curse of liquor,” as she called it — from their father, he felt no burning appetite for stimulant26. Alone, he never sought it out, he never bought a bottle for himself: solitary27 as his life had become, the idea of solitary drinking, of stealthy alley28 potations from a flask29, filled him with sodden30 horror.
Now, in the company of Starwick, he was drinking more frequently than he had ever done before. Alcohol, indeed, until his twentieth year had been only a casual and infrequent spirit — once, in his seventeenth year, when he had come home from college at the Christmas vacation, he had got very drunk on various liquors which his brother Luke had brought home to his father, and which he had mixed together in a tumbler and drunk without discretion31. And there had been one or two casual sprees during his years at college, but until this time he had never known the experience of frequent intoxication32.
But now, in the company of Frank Starwick, he went every week or so to a little restaurant which was situated33 in the Italian district of the eastern quarter of town, beyond Scollay Square and across Washington Street. The place was Starwick’s own discovery, he hoarded34 his knowledge of it with stern secrecy35, yielding it up only to a few friends — a few rare and understanding spirits who would not coarsely abuse the old-world spirit of this priceless place, because, he said:
“It would be a pity if it ever got known about. It really would, you know. . . . I mean, the kind of people who would begin to go there would ruin it. . . . They really would. . . . I mean, it’s QUITE astonishing to find a place of that sort here in Boston.”
It was the beginning of that dark time of blood, and crime, and terror which the years of prohibition36 brought and which was to leave its hideous37 mutilation not only upon the soul and conscience of the nation, but upon the lives of millions of people — particularly the young everywhere. At this time, however, the ugly, jeering38, open arrogance39 of the later period — the foul40 smell of privilege and corruption42, the smirk43 of protection, and the gangster’s sneer44, were not so evident as they became in the years that followed. At this time, it was by no means easy “to get a drink”: the speak-easy had already started on its historic career, but was still more or less what its name suggested — a place to be got at quietly and by stealth, a place of low voices, furtive45 and suspicious eyes, and elaborate precautions.
The place which Starwick had “discovered,” and which he hoarded with such precious secrecy, was a small Italian restaurant known as Posillippo’s, which occupied the second floor of an old brick building in an obscure street of the Italian quarter. Frank pronounced the name strongly and lovingly —“Pothillippo’s”— in the mannered voice, and with the affected46 accent which all foreign and exotic names — particularly those that had a Latin flavouring — inspired in him.
Arrived at “Pothillippo’s,” Frank, who even at this time did all things with the most lavish47 and lordly extravagance, and who tipped generously at every opportunity, would be welcomed obsequiously48 by the proprietor49 and the waiters, and then would order with an air of the most refined and sensual discrimination from his favourite waiter, a suave50 and fawning51 servitor named Nino. There were other waiters just as good as Nino, but Frank expressed an overwhelming preference for him above all others because, he said, Nino had the same face as one of the saints in a painting by Giotto, and because he professed52 to find all of the ancient, grave and exquisite53 rhythm of the ancient Tuscan nobility composed in the one figure of this waiter.
“But have you noticed the way he uses his hands while talking?” Frank would say in a tone of high impassioned earnestness. —“Did you notice that last gesture? It is the same gesture that you find in the figure of the disciple54 Thomas in Leonardo’s painting of ‘The Last Supper.’ It really is, you know. . . . Christ!” he would cry, in his high, strange, and rather womanish tone. “The centuries of art, of living, of culture — the terrific knowledge ALL these people have — the kind of thing you’ll never find in people in this country, the kind of thing that no amount of college education or books can give you — all expressed in a single gesture of the hands of this Italian waiter. . . . The whole thing’s QUITE astonishing, it really is, you know.”
The real reason, however, that Frank preferred Nino to all the other waiters in “Pothillippo’s” establishment was that he liked the sound of the word “Nino” and pronounced it beautifully.
“Nino!” Frank would cry, in a high, strange, and rather womanish voice —“Nino!”
“Sì, signor,” Nino would breathe unctuously55, and would then stand in an attitude of heavy and prayerful adoration56, awaiting the young lord’s next commands.
“Nino,” Frank would then go on in the tone and manner of a sensuous57 and weary old-world sophisticate. “Quel vin avez-vous? . . . Quel vin — rouge58 — du — très — bon. Vous — comprenez?” said Frank, using up in one speech most of his French words, but giving a wonderful sense of linguistic59 mastery and complete eloquence60 in two languages.
“Mais si, signer!” Nino would answer immediately, skilfully61 buttering Frank on both sides — the French and the Italian — with three masterly words.
“Le Chianti est TRèS, TRèS bon! . . . C’est parfait, monsieur,” he whispered, with a little ecstatic movement of his fingers. “Admirable!”
“Bon,” said Frank with an air of quiet decision. “Alors, Nino,” he continued, raising his voice as he pronounced these two words, which were among his favourites. “Alors, une bouteille du Chianti — n’est-ce pas —”
“Mais si, signor!” said Nino, nodding enthusiastically. “Si — et pour manger?” he went on coaxingly62.
“Pour manger?” Frank began —“Ecoute, Nino — vous pouvez recommander quelque chose — quelque chose D’EXTRAORDINAIRE!” Frank cried in a high impassioned tone. “Quelque chose de la MAISON!” he concluded triumphantly63.
“Mais si!” Nino cried enthusiastically. “Sì, signor. . . . Permettez-moi! . . . Le spaghetti,” he whispered seductively, rolling his dark eyes rapturously aloft, and making a little mincing64 movement, indicative of speechless ecstasy65, of his thumb and forefinger66. “Le spaghetti . . . de la . . . maison . . . ah, signor,” Nino breathed —“le spaghetti avec la sauce de la maison est merveilleux . . . merveilleux!” he whispered.
“Bon,” said Starwick nodding. “Alors, Nino — le spaghetti pour deux — vous comprenez?”
“Mais si, signor! Si,” Nino breathed. “Parfaitement”— and wrote the miraculous67 order on his order pad. “Et puis, monsieur,” said Nino coaxingly, and with complete humility68. “Permettez-moi de recommander — le poulet,” he whispered rapturously —“le poulet r?ti,” he breathed, as if unveiling the rarest secrets of cookery that had been revealed since the days of Epicurus —“le poulet r?ti . . . de la maison,” again he made the little speechless movement of the finger and the thumb, and rolled his rapturous eyes around — “ah, signor,” said Nino, “Vous n’aurez pas de regrets si vous commandez le poulet.”
“Bon. . . . Bon,” said Starwick quietly and profoundly. “Alors, Nino — deux poulets r?tis, pour moi et pour monsieur,” he commanded.
“Bon, bon,” said Nino, nodding vigorously and writing with enthusiasm —“et pour la salade, messieurs,” he paused — looking inquiringly and yet hopefully at both his lordly young patrons.
And so it went, until the menu had all been gone through in mangled69 French and monosyllabic Italian. When this great ceremony was over, Frank Starwick had done nothing more nor less than order the one-dollar table-d’h?te dinner which Signor “Pothillippo” provided for all the patrons of his establishment and whose order — soup, fish, spaghetti, roasted chicken, salad, ice-cream, cheese, nuts and bitter coffee — was unchangeable as destiny, and not to be altered by the whims70 of common men, whether they would or no.
And yet Frank’s manner of ordering his commonplace rather dreary meal was so touched by mystery, strangeness, an air of priceless rarity and sensual refinement71, that one would smack72 his lips over the various dishes with a gourmandizing gusto, as if the art of some famous chef had really been exhausted73 in their preparation.
And this element of Frank Starwick’s character was one of the finest and most attractive things about him. It was, perhaps as much as anything else, the reason why people of all kinds were drawn74 to him, delighted to be with him, and why Frank could command the boundless75 affection, devotion, and support of people more than anyone the other boy had ever known.
For, in spite of all Frank’s affectations of tone, manner, gesture, and accent, in spite of the elaborately mannered style of his whole life — no! really BECAUSE of them (for what were all these manners and affectations except the evidence of Frank’s constant effort to give qualities of strangeness, mystery, rareness, joy and pleasure to common things that had none of these qualities in themselves?)— the deep and passionate desire in Frank’s spirit to find a life that would always be good, beautiful, and exciting was apparent.
And to an amazing degree, Frank Starwick succeeded in investing all the common and familiar acts and experiences of this world with this strange and romantic colour of his own personality.
When one was with him, everything —“le Chianti de la maison,” a cigarette, the performance of a play, a poem or a book, a walk across the Harvard Yard, or along the banks of the Charles River — became strange and rare and memorable76, and for this reason Frank, in spite of the corrupt41 and rotten spot which would develop in his character and eventually destroy him, was one of the rarest and highest people that ever lived, and could never be forgotten by anyone who had ever known him and been his friend.
For, by a baffling paradox77, these very affectations of Frank’s speech and dress and carriage, the whole wrought78 manner of his life, which caused many people who disbelieved him to dismiss him bitterly as an affected and artificial poseur79, really came from something innocent and na?ve and good in Frank’s character — something as innocent and familiar as the affectations of Tom Sawyer when he told tall stories, invented wild, complicated, and romantic schemes, when none was necessary, or used big words to impress his friends, the nigger Jim, or Huckleberry Finn.
Thus, the two young men would stay in “Pothillippo’s” until late at night when the place closed, drinking that wonderful “Chianti de la maison,” so preciously and lovingly described, which was really nothing but “dago red,” raw, new, and instantaneous in its intoxication, filled with headaches and depression for tomorrow morning, but filled now with the mild, soaring, jubilant and triumphant drunkenness that only youth can know.
And they would leave this place of Latin mystery and languor80 at one o’clock in the morning, Frank shouting in a high drunken voice before he left, “Nino! Nino! — Il faut quelque chose à boire avant de partir — Nino! — Nino! — Encora! Encora!”— pronouncing his last Italian word victoriously81.
“Mais si, signor,” Nino would answer, smiling somewhat anxiously. “Du vin?”
“Mais non, mais non, Nino” Frank would cry violently. “Pas de vin — du wis-kee, Nino! Du wis-kee!”
Then they would gulp83 down drinks of the raw and powerful beverage84 to which the name of whisky had been given in that era, and leaving a dim blur85 of lights, a few dim blots86 of swarthy, anxiously smiling faces behind them, they would reel dangerously down the rickety stairs and out into the narrow, twisted streets, the old grimed web of sleeping quietness, the bewildering, ancient, and whited streets of Boston.
Above them, in the cool sweet skies of night, the great moons of the springtime, and New England, blazed with a bare, a lovely and enchanted radiance. And around them the great city and its thousand narrow twisted streets lay anciently asleep beneath that blazing moon, and from the harbour came the sound of ships, the wasting, fresh, half-rotten harbour-smells, filled with the thought of ships, the sea, the proud exultancy87 of voyages. And out of the cobbled streets and from the old grimed buildings — yes! from the very breast and bareness of that springtime moon and those lovely lilac skies, there came somehow — God knows how — all of the sweet wildness of New England in the month of May, the smell of the earth, the sudden green, the glorious blossoms — all that was wild, sweet, strange, simple, instantly familiar — that impossible loveliness, that irresistible88 magic, that unutterable hope for the magic that could not be spoken, but that seemed almost in the instant to be seized, grasped, and made one’s own for ever — for the hunger, possession and fulfilment — and for God knows what — for that magic land of green, its white and lovely houses, and the white flesh, the moon-dark hair, the depthless eyes and everlasting89 silence of its secret, dark, and lavish women.
Dark Helen in our hearts for ever burning — oh, no more!
Then the two young men would thread that maze90 of drunken moonlit streets, and feel the animate91 and living silence of the great city all around them, and look then at the moon with drunken eyes, and see the moon, all bare and drunken in the skies, the whole earth and the ancient city drunk with joy and sleep and springtime and the enchanted silences of the moon-drunk squares. And they would come at length to Cambridge, to find the moonlight dark upon the sleeping silence of the university and Harvard Square, and exultancy and joy welled up in them for ever; wild shouts and songs and laughter were torn from their throats and rang out through the sleeping streets of Cambridge, filling the moon-sweet air with jubilation92, for they were drunken, young, and twenty — immortal93 confidence and victorious82 strength possessed94 them — and they knew that they could never die.
Immortal drunkenness! What tribute can we ever pay, what song can we ever sing, what swelling praise can ever be sufficient to express the joy, the gratefulness, and the love which we, who have known youth and hunger in America, have owed to alcohol?
We are so lost, so lonely, so forsaken95 in America: immense and savage96 skies bend over us, and we have no door.
But you, immortal drunkenness, came to us in our youth when all our hearts were sick with hopelessness, our spirits maddened with unknown terrors, and our heads bowed down with nameless shame. You came to us victoriously, to possess us, and to fill our lives with your wild music, to make the goat-cry burst from our exultant97 throats, to make us know that here upon the wilderness98, the savage land, that here beneath immense, inhuman99 skies of time, in all the desolation of the cities, the grey unceasing flood-tides of the man-swarm, our youth would soar to fortune, fame, and love, our spirits quicken with the power of mighty100 poetry, our work go on triumphantly to fulfilment until our lives prevailed.
What does it matter, then, if since that time of your first coming, magic drunkenness, our head has grown bald, our young limbs heavy, and if our flesh has lain battered101, bleeding in the stews102?
You came to us with music, poetry, and wild joy when we were twenty, when we reeled home at night through the old moon-whitened streets of Boston and heard our friend, our comrade, and our dead companion shout through the silence of the moon-white square: “You are a poet and the world is yours.”
And victory, joy, wild hope, and swelling certitude and tenderness surged through the conduits of our blood as we heard that drunken cry, and triumph, glory, proud belief were resting like a chrysm around us as we heard that cry, and turned our eyes then to the moon-drunk skies of Boston, knowing only that we were young, and drunk, and twenty, and that the power of mighty poetry was within us, and the glory of the great earth lay before us — because we were young and drunk and twenty, and could never die!
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收听单词发音
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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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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quenchless
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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boredom
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dreary
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tedium
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agonizing
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hatred
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exasperation
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phantom
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realization
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swelling
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triumphant
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impending
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penetrating
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facets
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appeasement
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oblivious
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invoking
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disdain
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vehement
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intonation
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exulting
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stimulant
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solitary
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alley
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flask
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sodden
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discretion
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intoxication
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situated
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hoarded
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secrecy
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prohibition
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hideous
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jeering
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arrogance
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foul
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corrupt
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corruption
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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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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obsequiously
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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unctuously
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| adv.油腻地，油腔滑调地；假惺惺 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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linguistic
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| adj.语言的，语言学的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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poseur
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| n.装模作样的人 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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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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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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101
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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102
stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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