“Look here,” he would say resentfully. “What do you mean by telling all these people that I represent The New York Times? What if The New York Times should hear about it and have me thrown in jail for fraud — for using their name when I had no right to do it? — You’d be safe — you would,” he said bitterly. “I’d be the one to suffer — YOU could always get out of it by saying that you acted in good faith, that you really thought I DID work for The Times.”
“But you DO, don’t you?” She looked at him with a surprised and puzzled face.
“No!” he shouted. “Of course I don’t! And I never told you so, either! It’s something you made up out of your own head five minutes after I met you, and nothing I could say would stop you. — Now you’ve told people all over the town that I’m writing stories about Orléans for The New York Times, and am going to put THEM in the stories. We’ve accepted favours, got things at reduced prices and been entertained by these people all because you told them I am working for The Times and that they are going to get some free publicity6 out of it. Don’t you realize what that is?” he said angrily, glaring at her. “That’s fraud. That’s getting something by false pretence7. You can be put in jail for that! . . . Why, the next thing I know you’ll be getting money from them — collecting a commission from them for getting me to write them up. Perhaps you have already, for all I know,” he concluded bitterly.
“But you did tell me that you were a journalist, my boy,” the old woman said gently. “You told me that, you know.”
“Well — yes,” he sullenly8 admitted. “I did tell you that. I said that because I want to be a writer, and I’ve done nothing yet — and somehow it didn’t seem so big to say I was a journalist. . . . Besides,” he blundered on uncertainly, “I thought the word had a kind of different meaning here from what it has at home —”
She nodded her head briskly with a satisfied air:
“Exactly. . . . A journalist is one who contributes articles and sketches9 on timely subjects to current publications. . . . And you’ve done that, haven’t you?”
“Well,” he conceded, “I wrote some pieces for the university magazine when I was at college —”
“Ah-h! Exactly!”— this with an air of triumph.
“And I was editor of the college newspaper.”
“But of course! Just as I say!”
“And I suppose I did write news stories about the university once in a while and send them to the paper back home.”
“Of course you did, my boy! Of course!”
“And I did write what they call a feature article one time and sold it to a paper. . . . And I wrote a one-act play and it was published in a book and I’ve had so far eight dollars royalty10 on it,” he concluded his recital11 with a meagre glow of hope, a lame12 belief that his journalistic pretensions13 were not wholly fraudulent.
“But —” the Countess lifted astounded14 eyebrows15 and looked about her with a fine gesture of the hands expressive16 of bewilderment —“just as I SAY, my boy! Just as I SAY. From what you tell me there’s no doubt of it! You are a journalist.”
“Well,” he conceded gloomily, “I guess if you can establish my reputation from that, I could swear to what I’ve told you. . . . Oh, yes,” he added ironically, “and I forgot to tell you that I got up early in the morning and delivered papers when I was a kid.”
“Exactly! Exactly!” she nodded seriously —“you showed a talent for your present work right from the start. You have been trained in your profession since childhood.”
“Oh, my God!” he groaned17. “What’s the use? Have it your own way, then. I can’t argue with you. . . . Only, for God’s sake, Countess, stop telling people around here that I am working for The New York Times.”
“Now, my boy, see here; you mustn’t be so modest about things. If you don’t learn to blow your own trumpet18 a little no one else will do it for you. As clever and brilliant as you are, you mustn’t be so self-effacing. What if you are not yet editor of The New York Times —?”
“Editor! Editor, hell! I’m not even office-boy!”
“But, of COURSE, my dear!” she said patiently. “You will be some day. But at the present time you are a rising young journalist of great gifts, for whom all of your confrères of The Times are expecting a brilliant career —”
“Now, Countess, you look here —”
She waved her hand tolerantly with a dismissing gesture, and went on:
“All that will come,” she said. “You are still young — no one expects you to be editor yet.”
“You’ll have me editor if you talk much longer,” he said sarcastically19. “I wouldn’t put it past you. But if you’re determined20 to tell people I’m a journalist, why drag in The New York Times? After all, I could pretend to be a journalist without feeling an utter fraud. So why drag in The Times?”
“Ah,” she said. “The Times is a great newspaper. People have heard of The Times. To say you are connected with The Times means something, carries prestige.”
“Well, if it’s prestige you want, why don’t you tell them I’m a college professor? You know, I did work as an instructor21 for a year in New York. If you told them I’m a professor I could at least feel a little less guilty.”
“Oh,” she said seriously, “but no one here would believe such a story as that. You are too young to be a professor. Besides,” she added practically, “it is much better, anyway, to tell them you are working for The Times.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she patiently explained, “they can see some value in that. The power of the press is great. A professor could do nothing for them. A clever young man writing articles for The Times might do much.”
“But, damn it,” he cried, in an exasperated23 tone, “I’ve never written articles for The Times. Can’t you understand that?”
“Now, see here, my boy,” she said quietly. “Try to be reasonable about this thing. What’s the use of confusing these people here with needless explanations? What does it matter if you haven’t written articles for The Times? You ARE writing them now —”
“Oh, hell, Countess!”
“You are going to write these very brilliant and interesting articles about Orléans,” she went on calmly, “and they will be published in The New York Times, because they will be so very clever that The New York Times will want to publish them. So why tell these simple people here anything more than that? It would only confuse them. I have told them nothing but the truth,” she said virtuously24, “I have told them you are writing a series of articles about Orléans for the great newspaper, The New York Times, and that, my boy, is all they need to know.” She smiled tranquilly25 at him. He gave up.
“All right,” he said. “You win. Have it your own way. I’m anything you like — the white-haired boy, the prize performer, the crown jewel of The New York Times.”
She nodded with approval.
The farce26 grew more extravagant27 day by day. And because this fantastic chance had somewhat dulled the smothering28 ache that had been almost constant since his parting with Ann, Elinor, and Starwick, he stayed on from day to day, not knowing why he stayed or why he should depart, but held with a kind of hypnotic interest by this web of absurd circumstance in which he had so swiftly been involved.
In the morning, when he came downstairs, the old woman would be waiting for him and would sharply and eagerly catechize him about his conduct the night before.
“Did you go to the café last night, my dear? . . . How much did you have to drink? Eh? . . . A Pernod, four cognacs, coffee, a packet of cigarettes. . . . What did that come to, eh? . . . How much did you spend? . . . Twenty-one francs! . . . Ah, my dear, too much, too much!” she clucked sadly and regretfully. “You will spend all your money in café‘s and have nothing to go on with! . . . Tell me, now, my dear,” her old eyes had an eager glint of curiosity, “were there many people there? . . . Was the place crowded? . . . Were there many women? . . . You didn’t talk to any of the girls, did you?” she said sharply.
He said that he had.
“You should not have done that!” she said reproachfully. “And what did she want? She wanted you to come with her, eh?”
“No; we didn’t get that far. She asked me for a cigarette.”
“And did you give it to her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But no money! You didn’t give her any money?” she said feverishly29.
“No.”
“Did you buy her a drink? . . . Was that what all the cognac was for?”
“No. It was for me.”
“How much money have you left, my boy? . . . Are you keeping track of your expenses? . . . Did you get another of those express cheques cashed yesterday?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What kind? A ten-dollar one?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, you shouldn’t have done that,” she said regretfully. “Once you cash it, it goes quickly.” She snapped her fingers, “like that! ?a file! ?a file! — You do not watch your money as you should. You do not keep track of what you spend. . . . My boy, promise me something, will you?” she went on in a low, earnest tone. “Promise me you won’t spend all your money and get stranded30 here. . . . You won’t do that, will you? . . . How much money have you left? . . . Tell me,” she said eagerly. “How many of those express cheques have you left? . . . Count it, count it,” she demanded greedily. “Take the book out and let me see what you have left.”
He took out the little leather folder31 of express cheques and opened it. It was getting very thin. Then he thumbed rapidly through the little sheaf of cheques, trying to get it over as quickly as he could because of its distasteful reminder32 of a harsh reality he wanted to forget. He not only lacked by nature the sense of money, he was also at the blissful period in a young man’s life when one hundred dollars is as good as a million. In fact, with twenty dollars in bright, flimsy fifty-franc notes in his pocket, the pleasant terrace of a good café, a drink, the knowledge of delicious food and wine within, and the slow, sensual meditations33 of desire, he felt as rich as any millionaire on earth. At such a time, the whole earth lay before him in winding34 vistas35 of pleasure, joy, and mystery: in the huge unreason of this enchantment36 he was sure that there was nothing ahead of him but a beautiful and fortunate life, filled with success and happiness, and if by any chance he thought of money, it was only to dismiss the thought impatiently with the irrational37 conviction that it would always be ready when he needed it, that it would come to him miraculously38 and wonderfully like manna out of heaven, that he could get great sums of money, in many strange, delightful39 ways, at any time he wanted it.
Now the Countess, by the harsh worldliness of her insistence40, had jarred him back to a disquieting41 reality for which he had no relish42. While the old woman followed every movement with greedy, avaricious43 eyes glued on the cheques, he thumbed them over quickly and sullenly, told her curtly44 their amount, and thrust the book brusquely back into his pocket.
When he had finished, she shook her head at him with sad reproach.
“Ah!” she said, “what extravagance! A French family could have lived comfortably for a month on what you have spent here in the last week.”
He winced45 and stirred restlessly, pierced suddenly with a nameless sense of guilt22 and shame, and personal unworthiness, a sudden evocation46 of the infinite toil47 and minute saving of his mother’s life. And he felt this despite the fact that his mother had now acquired a considerable estate, a large sum of money, and, in spite of her parsimonious48 economies in innumerable small ways, displayed in her real estate investments a riotous49 extravagance that far surpassed any of his own on the sensual pleasures of food and drink and books, on voyages and women. And this curious and irrational sense of guilt and shame was, he knew, not peculiar50 to himself, but rooted somehow in the structure of the lives of most of the Americans he had known. It was something that went back almost past time and memory, that they had always had, that was distilled51 out of their blood and drawn52 from the very air they breathed: a feeling that any life not based on gainful labour, any life devoted53 openly and nakedly to pleasure, idleness and leisure, and the gratification of one’s own desires, was, somehow, an ignoble54 and shameful55 life.
Now, suddenly torn with this old and irremediable sense of guilt, he scowled56 suddenly, fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and then spoke57 sharply and angrily to the old woman, who sat with her sad, reproachful gaze upon him.
“Well, it’s spent now, it’s gone, it can’t be helped. What do you expect people to do with money, anyway?” he said irritably58. “Count it and kiss it and say good night to it every time they go to sleep — and kiss it and count it over again every time they wake up, to see none of it has got away from them in the night? What’s it for, anyway, if it’s not to spend? What are you living for?” he said bitterly. “What are you waiting for? Are you saving your money so you can have a nice coffin59 when they bury you?”
“Yes, my boy, but you spend so much on food and drink and on the girls,” the old woman said in a sad tone. “So much of it goes on things like that.”
“And why not?” he said resentfully. “Will you please tell me what else I should spend it on? Is there anything better than that to spend it on?”
“Don’t spend it on those girls in the café,” she said. “They are bad — bad — they will bring you nothing but misfortune and trouble. Come,” she said, getting up briskly. “I shall take you with me this morning and introduce you to two nice girls. You will be better off with them than with those women in the café.”
They went out and walked along the streets of the old town, brisk with morning life, cheerful with the thin, musty yellow of a wintry sun. As they walked along those streets of morning, many people recognized the old woman and spoke respectfully to her. Sometimes shopkeepers spoke to her from doorways60, smiling good-naturedly at the sight of the little old woman trotting62 briskly along beside the towering height of the young man. Sometimes she would hear their laughter and bantering63 comment among themselves about the ludicrous disproportion of the pair, and then, turning to the young man, she would laugh in an abstracted and yet pleased way, saying:
“Ah — hah — hah! They are laughing at you and me, boy. They think it is very funny, the way we look together. . . . Un grand gar?on, eh?” she called out to a man standing64 in the doorway61 of a shop, who was measuring the boy up and down with a look of good-natured astonishment65.
“Mon Dieu!” the man cried. “Qu’il est grand! Il mange beaucoup de soupe!”
At length they stopped before a small millinery shop, where the old woman was having a hat made, and went in. A small bell tinkled66 thinly as they entered, and the milliner and her assistant came out from behind some curtains to greet them. The milliner was a competent-looking woman of thirty years, dark, with a wide face and a strong, compact, and yet seductive figure. The assistant was younger, taller, and fair in colouring. Both were attractive girls, and both greeted him with smiles and the exclamation67 of good-natured astonishment that he had heard upon the street. Then, for several minutes, the little shop was gay with the light, rapid French of the three women. All seemed to be talking and laughing at the same time, in excited tones; he saw that the Countess was eagerly publishing his merits to the two girls, he caught the magic phrase The New York Times now and then, the two girls kept glancing at him with smiling faces, and presently the older one, who was the proprietress, walked towards him, measured her height against his shoulder, and then, with a little laugh of astonishment, said:
“Mon Dieu! Qu’il est grand!”
The younger of the two girls, laughing, made a reply in rapid French which he could not follow, and the Countess, with a little chuckle68 of satisfaction, turned towards him, saying in an explanatory manner:
“They say they need you here, my dear, to get boxes down from the top shelf. It’s too tall for them.”
“Mon Dieu, oui!” the younger, taller girl, who had picked up the hat she had been making for the old woman and was shaping it in her hands, now answered instantly. “He can help Hélène now with the box while you try this on. Hélène,” she called to the other girl, “show Monsieur where the boxes are and have him get one down for you.”
He followed Hélène through the curtains to the rear of the shop, pursued by the laughter and chattering69 comment of the other two women. Upon a shelf in the rear a number of hat-boxes were stacked up, but when he looked inquiringly at Hélène, she smiled good-naturedly, and kindly70 said:
“Mais non, monsieur. Nous ne sommes pas sérieuses. Attendez,” and got up briskly on a chair, reaching for a box herself. It was, in fact, almost out of reach; she touched it with her outstretched finger-tips, dislodged it, it came tumbling down, and he caught it as it fell. And Hélène herself came close to falling. She teetered uncertainly on her unsteady balance, swayed towards him, and he lifted her down. For a moment her weight was strong and palpable in his arms. He put her down reluctantly, and for an instant or two she stood flat against him, her hands gently resting on his arms. Then, with a pleasant little laugh, she said:
“Oh, là, là! Qu’il est fort!”
They went out front again, the Countess finished trying on the hat, and presently, after another burst of gay and rapid talk, he and the old woman departed. As he went out, the little bell tinkled thinly and pleasantly again; he had to stoop to go through the door. He turned to say good-bye again, the two girls were looking towards him with gay and friendly smiles; he was sorry to go and wanted some excuse for staying. Hélène looked strong and competent and desirable, she smiled at him a friendly farewell: he thought if he came back again she would be glad to see him, but he never saw her after that.
Later the two girls stayed in his memory with a vivid, pleasant warmth: he thought of Hélène many times, her strong seductive figure and her wide, dark face, and he wondered what her life had been, if she had married, and what time had brought to her.
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1
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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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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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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53
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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54
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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56
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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58
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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59
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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60
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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61
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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62
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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63
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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64
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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65
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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66
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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67
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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68
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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69
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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70
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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