Thus, although they said little to Eugene at this time about his plans for the future, and what they did say was meant to hearten him, their doubt and disbelief were evident, and sometimes when he came into the house he could hear them talking in a troubled way about him.
“Mama,” he heard his sister say one day, as she sat talking with his mother in the kitchen, “what does Gene2 intend to do? Have you heard him say yet?”
“Why, no-o-o!” his mother answered slowly, in a puzzled and meditative3 tone. “He hasn’t said. At least he says he’s goin’ to write plays — of course, I reckon he’s waiting to hear from those people in New York about that play he’s written,” she added quickly.
“Well, I know,” his sister answered wearily. “That’s all very fine — if he can do it. But, good heavens, Mama!” she cried furiously —“you can’t live on hope like that! Gene’s only one out of a million! Can’t you realize that? — Why, they used to think I had some talent as a singer”— here she laughed ironically, a husky high falsetto, “I used to think so myself — but you don’t notice that it ever got me anywhere, do you? No, sir!” she said positively4. “There are thousands more just like Gene, who are trying to get ahead and make a name for themselves. Why should he think he’s any better than the rest of them? Why, it might be years before he got a play produced — and even then, how can he tell that it would be a success? — What’s he going to live on? How’s he going to keep going until all this happens? What’s he going to do? — You know, Mama, Gene’s no little boy any more. Please get that into your head,” she said sharply, as if her mother had questioned the accuracy of her remark. “No, sir! No, sir!” she laughed ironically and huskily. “Your baby is a grown man, and it’s time he waked up to the fact that he’s got to support himself from now on. — Mama, do you realize that it has been over four months since Gene left Harvard and, so far as I can see, he has made no effort yet to get a job? What does he intend to do?” she said angrily. “You know, he just can’t mope around like this ALL his days! Sooner or later he’s got to find some work to do!”
In all these words there was apparent not so much hostility5 and antagonism6 as the driving fury and unrest of Helen’s nervous, exacerbated7, dissonant8, and unhappy character, which could lavish9 kindness and affection one moment and abuse and criticism the next. These were really only signs of the frenzy and unrest in her large, tortured, but immensely generous spirit. Thus, she would rage and storm at her husband at one moment for “moping about the house,” telling him, “for heaven’s sake am I never to be left alone? Am I never to get a moment’s peace or quiet? Must I have you around me every moment of my life? In God’s name, Hugh — go! go! go! — Leave me alone for a few minutes, I beg of you!”— and by this time his sister’s voice would be cracked and strident, her breath coming hoarsely10 and almost with a sob12 of hysteria. And yet, she could be just as violent in her sense of wrong and injustice13 done to her if she thought he was giving too much time to business, rushing through his meals, reading a book when he should be listening to her tirade14, or staying away from home too much.
Poor, tortured, and unhappy spirit, with all the grandeur15, valour, and affection that Eugene knew so well, it had found, since her father’s death, no medicine for the huge and constant frenzy of its own unrest, no guide or saviour16 to work for it the miracle of salvation17 it must work itself, and it turned and lashed19 out at the world, demanding a loneliness which it could not have endured for three days running, a peace and quiet from its own fury, a release from its own injustice. And it was for this reason — because her own unrest and frenzy made her lash18 out constantly against the world, praising one week, condemning20 the next, accusing life and people of doing her some injury or wrong that she had done herself — it was for this reason, more than for any other, that Helen now lashed out about Eugene to their mother.
And because Eugene was strung on the same wires, shaped from the same clay, cut from the same kind and plan and quality, he stood there in the hall as he heard her, his face convulsed and livid, his limbs trembling with rage, his bowels21 and his heart sick and trembling with a hideous22 grey nausea23 of hopelessness and despair, his throat choking with an intolerable anguish24 of resentment25 and wrong, as he heard Helen’s voice, and before he rushed back into the kitchen to quarrel with her and his mother.
“Well, now,” he heard his mother say in a diplomatic and hopeful tone that somehow only served to increase his feeling of rage and exasperation26 —“well, now — well, now,” she said, “let’s wait and see! Let’s wait and see what happens with this play. Perhaps he’ll hear tomorrow that they have taken it. Maybe it’s going to be all right, after all!”
“Going to be all right!” Eugene fairly screamed at this juncture27, rushing in upon them in the kitchen. “You’re God-damned right it’s going to be all right. I’ll tell you what’s all right!” he panted, because his breath was labouring against his ribs28 as if he had run up a steep hill —“if it was some damned real-estate man, that would be all right! If it’s some cheap low-down lawyer, that would be all right! If it was some damned rascal29 sitting on his tail up here in the bank, cheating you out of all you’ve got, that would be all right — hey?” he snarled30, conscious that his words had no meaning or coherence31, but unable to utter any of the things he wished to say and that welled up in that wave of hot and choking resentment. “O yes! The big man! The great man! The big deacon — Mr. Scroop Pegram — the big bank president — that would be all right, wouldn’t it?” he cried in a choked and trembling voice. “You’d get down on your hands and knees, and crawl if he spoke32 to you, wouldn’t you? —‘O thank you, Mr. Pegram, for letting me put my money in your bank so you can loan it out to a bunch of God-damn real-estate crooks,’” he sneered34, in an infuriated parody35 of whining36 servility. “‘Thank you, sir,’” he said, and in spite of the fact that these words made almost no coherent meaning, his mother began to purse her lips rapidly in an excited fashion, and his sister’s big-boned face reddened with anger.
“Now,” his mother said sternly, as she levelled her index finger at him, “I want to tell you something! You may sneer33 all you please, sir, at Scroop Pegram, but he’s a man who has worked all his life for everything he has —”
“Yes,” Eugene said bitterly, “and for everything YOU have, too — for that’s where it’s going in the end.”
“He has made his OWN way since his childhood,” Eliza continued sternly and deliberately37 —“no one ever did anything for him, for there’s one thing sure:— there was no one in his family who was in a position to do it. — What he’s done he’s done for himself, without assistance and,” his mother said in a stern and telling voice, “without education — for he never had three months’ schoolin’ in his life — and today he’s got the respect of the community as much as any man I know.”
“Yes! And most of their money, too,” Eugene cried.
“You’d better not talk!” Helen said. “If I were you I wouldn’t talk! Don’t criticize other people until you show you’ve got it in you to do something for yourself,” she said.
“You! You!” Eugene panted. “I’ll show you! Talking about me when my back is turned, hey? That’s the kind you are! All right! You wait and see! I’ll show you!” he said, in a choked and trembling whisper of fury and resentment.
“All right,” Helen said in a hard and hostile voice. “I’ll wait and see. I hope you do. But you’ve got to show me that you’ve got it in you. It’s time for you to quit this foolishness and get a job! Don’t criticize other people until you show you’ve got it in you to support yourself,” she said.
“No,” said Eliza, “for we’ve done as much for you as we are able to. You’ve had as good an education as anyone could want — and now the rest is up to you,” she said sternly. “I’ve got no more money to pay out on you, so you can make your mind up to it from now on,” she said. “You’ve got to shift for yourself.”
And in the warm and living silence of the kitchen they looked at one another for a moment, all three, breathing heavily, and with hard and bitter eyes.
“Well, Gene,” Helen said, “I know. Try to forget about it. You’ll change as you grow older,” she said wearily. “We’ve all been like that. We all have these wonderful ambitions to be somebody famous, but that all changes. I had them, too,” she said. “I was going to be a great singer, and have a career in opera, but that’s all over now, and I know I never will. You forget about it,” she said quietly and wearily. “It all seems wonderful to you, and you think that you can’t live without it, but you forget about it. Oh, of course you will!” she muttered, “of course! Why!” she cried, shaking Eugene furiously, and now her voice had its old hearty38 and commanding ring, “I’m going to beat you if you act like this! What if they don’t take your play! I’ll bet that has happened to plenty of people — Yes, sir!” she cried. “I’ll bet that has happened to all of them when they started out — and then they went on and made a big success of it later! Why, if those people didn’t take my play,” she said, “I’d sit down and write another one so good they’d be ashamed of themselves! Why, you’re only a kid yet!” she cried furiously, shaking Eugene, and frowning fiercely but with her tongue stuck out a little and a kind of grin on her big-boned liberal-looking face. “Don’t you know that! You’ve got LOADS of time yet! Your life’s ahead of you! Of course you will! Of course you will!” she cried, shaking him. “Don’t let a thing like this get you down! In ten years’ time you’ll look back on all this and laugh to think you were ever such a fool! Of course you will!”— and then as her husband, who had driven up before their mother’s house, now sounded on the horn for her, she said again, in the quiet and weary tone: “Well, Gene, forget about it! Life’s too short! I know,” she said mysteriously, “I know!”
Then, as she started to go, she added casually39: “Honey, come on over for supper, if you want to. — Now it’s up to you. You can suit yourself! — You can do exactly as you please,” she said in the almost hard, deliberately indifferent tone with which she usually accompanied these invitations:
“What would you like to eat?” she now said meditatively40. “How about a nice thick steak?” she said juicily, as she winked41 at him. “I’ve got the whole half of a fried chicken left over from last night, that you can have if you come over! — Now it’s up to you!” she cried out again in that almost hard challenging tone, as if he had shown signs of unwillingness42 or refusal. “I’m not going to urge you, but you’re welcome to it if you want to come. — How about a big dish full of string beans — some mashed43 potatoes — some stewed44 corn, and asparagus? How’d you like some great big wonderful sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise? — I’ve got a big deep peach and apple pie in the oven — do you think that’d go good smoking hot with a piece of butter and a hunk of American cheese?” she said, winking45 at him and smacking46 her lips comically. “Would that hit the spot? Hey?” she said, prodding47 him in the ribs with her big stiff fingers and then saying in a hoarse11, burlesque48, and nasal tone, in extravagant49 imitation of a girl they knew who had gone to New York and had come back talking with the knowing, cock-sure nasal tone of the New Yorker.
“Ah, fine, boys!” Helen said, in this burlesque tone. “Fine! Just like they give you in New York!” she said. Then turning away indifferently, she went down the steps, and across the walk towards her husband’s car, calling back in an almost hard and aggressive tone:
“Well, you can do exactly as you like! No one is going to urge you to come if you don’t want to!”
Then she got into the car and they drove swiftly off down-hill, turned the corner and vanished.
The reason, in fact, which argued in Eugene’s family’s mind against his succeeding in the work he wished to do was the very thing that should have been all in his favour. But neither he nor his family thought so. It was this: a writer, they thought, should be a wonderful, mysterious, and remote sort of person — someone they had never known, like Irvin S. Cobb. “Now, this boy,” they argued in their minds, “our son and brother, is neither wonderful, mysterious, nor remote. We know all about him, we all grew up together here, and there’s no use talking — he’s the same kind of people that we are. His father was a stone-cutter — a man who was born on a farm and had to work all his life with his hands. And five of his father’s brothers were also stone-cutters, and had to earn their living in the same way — by the sweat of their brow. And his mother is a hard-working woman who brought up a big family, runs a boarding-house and has had to scrape and save and labour all her life. Everyone in this part of the country knows her family: her brothers are respected business men in town here, and there are hundreds of her kinsfolk — farmers, storekeepers, carpenters, lumber-dealers, and the like — all through this section. Now, they’re all good, honest, decent, self-respecting people — no one can say they’re not — but there’s never been a writer in the crowd. No — and no doctors or lawyers either. Now there may have been a preacher or two — his Uncle Bascom was a preacher and a highly educated man too, always poking50 his nose into a book and went to Harvard, and all — yes, and now that we remember, always had queer notions like this boy — had to leave the Church, you know, for being an agnostic, and was always writing poems, and all such as that. Well, this fellow is one of the same kind — a great book-reader but with no practical business sense — and it seems to us he ought to get a job somewhere teaching school, or maybe some newspaper work — which he could do — or, perhaps, he should have studied law.”
So did their minds work on this subject. Yet the very argument they made — that he was the same kind of person as the rest of them, and not remote, wonderful, or mysterious — should have been the chief thing in his favour. But none of them could see this. For where they thought there was nothing wonderful or mysterious about them, he thought that there was; and none of them could see that his greatest asset, his greatest advantage, if he had any, was that he was made out of the same earth — the same blood, bone, character, and fury — as the rest of them. For, could they only have known it, the reason he read all the books was not, as they all thought, because he was a bookish person, for he was not, but for the same reason that his mother was mad about property — talked, thought, felt, and dreamed about real estate all the time, and wanted to own the earth just as he wanted to devour51 it. Again, the fury that had made him read the books was the same thing that drove his brothers and his sisters around incessantly52, feeding the huge fury of their own unrest, and making them talk constantly and to everyone, until they knew all about the lives of all the butchers, bakers53, merchants, lawyers, doctors, Greek restaurant owners, and Italian fruit-dealers in the community.
If they had understood this — that he had the same thing in him that they all had in them — they would have understood about his wanting to be a writer, and even the trouble in which presently he would involve himself, and that seemed so catastrophic and disgraceful to him at that time, would not have seemed so bad to them, for his father, one of his brothers, and several of his kinsmen54 had been in this same trouble — and it had caused no astonishment55 at all. But now that he had done this thing — now that the one they looked on as the scholar, and the bookish person, had done it — it was as if the leading deacon of the Church had been caught in a raid on a bawdy-house.
Finally, there was to be some irony56 for Eugene later in the fact that, had he only known it and grasped it, there was ready to his use in that one conflict all of the substance and energy of the human drama, and that the only thing that was wonderful or important was that they were all full of the passion, stupidity, energy, hope, and folly57 of living men — fools, angels, guiltless and guilty all together, not to be praised or blamed, but just blood, bone, marrow58, passion, feeling — the whole swarming59 web of life and error in full play and magnificently alive. As for the fancied woes60 and hardships of the young artist in conflict with the dull and brutal61 Philistines62 — that, he saw later, had had nothing to do with it, and was not worth a damn, any more than the plays that had been written in Professor Hatcher’s class, and in which a theatrical63 formula for living was presented in place of life. No; the conflict, the comedy, the tragedy — the pain, the pride, the folly and the error — might have been just the same had Eugene wanted to be an aviator64, a deep-sea diver, a bridge-builder, a professional pall-bearer, or a locomotive engineer. And the study of life was there in all its overwhelming richness, was right there in his grasp, but he could not see it, and would not use it. Instead he went snooping and prowling around the sterile65 old brothels of the stage, mistaking the glib66 concoctions67 of a counterfeit68 emotion for the very flesh and figure of reality. And this also has been true of every youth that ever walked the earth.
The letter came at length one grey day in late October; and instantly, when he had opened it, and read the first words “We regret,” his life went grey as that grey day, and he thought that he would never have heart or hope nor know the living joy of work again. His flesh went dead and cold and sick, yet he read the smooth lying phrases in the letter with the stolid69 face with which people usually receive bad news, and even tried to insinuate70 a thread of hope, to suck a kind of meagre and hopeless comfort from the hard, yet oily, words, “We are looking forward with great interest to reading your next play, and we hope you will send it to us as soon as it is completed.” . . . “Our members were divided in their opinion, four voting to reconsider it and five for rejection71 . . . although all were agreed on the freshness and vitality72 of the writing . . . while the power of some of the scenes is undeniable . . . we must reluctantly. . . . You are one of the young men whose work we are watching with the greatest interest . . .” and so on.
Those on whom the naked weight of shame has rested, who have felt its grey and hideous substance in their entrails, will not smile calmly and with comfort if their memory serves them.
Now a huge, naked, and intolerable shame and horror pressed down on Eugene with a crushing and palpable weight out of the wet, grey skies of autumn. The hideous grey stuff filled him from brain to bowels, was everywhere and in everything about him so that he breathed it out of the air, felt it like a naked stare from walls and houses and the faces of the people, tasted it on his lips, and endured it in the screaming and sickened dissonance of ten thousand writhing73 nerves so that he could no longer sit, rest, or find oblivion, exhaustion74, forgetfulness or repose75 anywhere he went, or release from the wild unrest that drove him constantly about. He went to bed only to get up and prowl again the wet and barren little streets of night; he ate, and instantly vomited76 up again all he had eaten, and then like a dull, distressed77 and nauseated78 brute79, he would sullenly80 and wretchedly eat again.
He saw the whole earth with the sick eyes, the sick heart, the sick flesh, and writhing nerves of this grey accursed weight of shame and horror in which his life lay drowned, and from which it seemed he could never more emerge to know the music of health and joy and power again; and from which, likewise, he could not die, but must live hideously81 and miserably82 the rest of his days, like a man doomed83 to live for ever in a state of retching and abominable84 nausea of heart, brain, bowels, flesh and spirit.
It seemed to him that all was lost, that he had been living in a fool’s dream for years, and that now he had been brutally85 wakened and saw himself as he was — a naked fool — who had never had an ounce of talent, and who no longer had an ounce of hope — a madman who had wasted his money and lost precious years when he might have learned some work consonant86 with his ability and the lives of average men. And it now seemed to him that his family had been terribly and mercilessly right in everything they had said and felt, and that he had been too great a fool to understand it. His sense of ruin and failure was abysmal87, crushing, and complete.
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1
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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exacerbated
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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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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hoarsely
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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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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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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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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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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48
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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52
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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53
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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aviator
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| n.飞行家，飞行员 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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concoctions
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| n.编造，捏造，混合物( concoction的名词复数 ) | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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vomited
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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83
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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84
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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85
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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86
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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