Life, as I had seen and felt from my earliest thinking period, used people, sometimes to their advantage, sometimes not. Occasionally, as I could see, I was used to my advantage as well as to that of some one or something else. Occasionally I was used, as I thought, to my disadvantage. Now and then when I imagined I was being used most disadvantageously it was not so at all, as when for a period I found myself unable to write and so compelled to turn to other things—a turning which resulted in better material later on. At this time, however, I felt that whatever the quality of the gifts handed me or the favors done me, they were as nothing compared to some; and, again, I was honestly and sympathetically interested in the horrible deprivations3 inflicted4 upon others, their weaknesses of mind and body, afflictions of all sizes and sorts, the way so often they helplessly blundered or were driven by internal chemic fires, as in the case of the fascinating and beautiful-minded John T. McEnnis, to their own undoing5. That great idealistic soul, that warm, ebullient6 heart!
The opportunity for indulging in these moods was due to the fact that I had plenty of time on my hands, that just at this time I was more interested in seeing than in reading, and that the three principal hotels here, Southern-fashion, were most hospitable7, equipping their lobbies and even their flanking sidewalks with comfortable rocking-chairs where one might sit and dream or read or view the passing scene with idle or analytic8 eye. My favorite hotel was the Lindell, rather large and not impressive but still successful and popular, which stood at the northwest corner of Sixth and Washington Avenue. Here I would repair whenever I had a little time and rock in peace and watch the crowd of strangers amble9 to and fro. The manager of this hotel, a brisk, rather interesting and yet job-centered American, seeing me sit about every afternoon between four-thirty and six and knowing that I was from the Globe, finally began to greet me and ask occasionally if I did not want to go up to dinner. (How lonely and forlorn I must have looked!) On Thanksgiving and Christmas afternoons of this my first season there, seeing me idle and alone, he asked me to be his guest. I accepted, not knowing what else to do. To make it seem like a real invitation he came in after I was seated at the table and sat down with me for a few minutes. He was so charming and the hotel so brisk and crowded that I soon felt at home.
The daily routine of my work seemed to provide ample proof of my suspicions that life was grim and sad. Regularly it would be a murder, a suicide, a failure, a defalcation10 which I would be assigned to cover, and on the same day there would be an important wedding, a business or political banquet, a ball or a club entertainment of some kind, which would provide just the necessary contrast to prove that life is haphazard11 and casual and cruel; to some lavish12, to others niggardly13.
Mere14 money, often unworthily inherited or made by shabby methods, seemed to throw commonplace and even wretched souls into such glittering and condescending15 prominence16, in this world at least. Many of the business men with whom I came in contact were vulgarians, their wives and daughters vain and coarse and inconsiderate. I was constantly impressed by the airs of the locally prominent, their craving17 for show and pleasure, their insane greed for personal mention, their hearty19 indifference20 to anything except money plus a keen wish to seem to despise it. I remember going one afternoon to an imposing21 residence where some function was in progress. I was met by an ostentatious butler who exclaimed most nobly: “My dear sir, who sent you here? The Globe knows we never give lists to newspaper men. We never admit reporters,” and then stiffly closed the door on me. I reported as much to the city editor, who remarked meekly22, “Well, that’s all right,” and gave me something else to do. But the next day a list of the guests at this function was published, and in this paper. I made inquiry23 of Hartung, who said: “Oh, the society editor must have turned that in. These society women send in their lists beforehand and then say they don’t receive reporters.”
Another time it was the residence of the Catholic archbishop of St. Louis, a very old but shrewd man whom, so it was rumored24 in newspaper circles, the local priests were plotting to make appear infirm and weakminded in order that a favorite of theirs might be made coadjutor. I was sent to inquire about his health, to see him if possible. At the door I was met by a sleek25 dark priest who inquired what I wished, whereupon he assured me that the archbishop was too feeble to be seen.
“That is exactly why I am here,” I insisted. “The Globe wishes to inform the public of his exact condition. There seems to be a belief on the part of some that he is not as ill as is given out.”
“What! You accuse us of concealing26 something in connection with the archbishop! This is outrageous27!” and he firmly shut me out.
It seemed to me that the straightforward28 thing would have been to let me meet the archbishop. He was a public official, the state of whose health was of interest to thousands. But no; official control regulated that. Shortly afterward29 he was declared too feeble to perform his duties and a coadjutor was appointed.
Again I was sent to a fashionable west end hotel to interview a visiting governor who was attending a reception of some kind and who, as we understood, was leaving the next day.
“My dear young fellow,” said a functionary30 connected with the entertainment committee, “you cannot do anything of the sort. This is no time to be coming around for anything of this kind.”
“But he is leaving tomorrow....”
“I cannot help that. You cannot see him now.”
“How about taking him my card and asking him about tomorrow?”
“No, no, no! I cannot do anything of the sort. You cannot see him,” and once again I was shunted briskly forth31.
I recall being sent one evening to attend a great public ball of some kind—The Veiled Prophets—which was held in the general selling-room of the stock exchange at Third and Walnut32, and which followed as a rule some huge autumnal parade. The city editor sent me for a general view or introduction or pen picture to be used as a lead to the full story, which was to be done by others piecemeal33. For this occasion I was ordered to hire a dress-suit (the first I had ever worn), which cost the paper three dollars. I remember being greatly disturbed by my appearance once I got in it and feeling very queer and conspicuous34. I was greatly troubled as to what sort of impression my garb35 would make on the various members of the staff. As to the latter I was not long in doubt.
“Say, look at our friend in the claw-hammer, will you?” this from Hazard. “He looks like a real society man to me!”
“Usher, you mean,” called Bellairs. “Who is he? I don’t seem to remember him.”
“Those pants come darned near being a fit, don’t they?” this from some one who had laid hold of the side lines of the trousers.
I could not make up my mind whether I wanted to fight or laugh or whether I was startlingly handsome or a howling freak.
But the thing that weighed on me most was the luxury, tawdry enough perhaps to those intimately connected with it, which this ball presented, contrasted with my own ignoble36 state. After spending three hours there bustling37 about examining flowers, decorations, getting names, details of costumes, and drinking various drinks with officiating floormasters whose sole duty appeared to be to look after the press and see that they got all details straight, I returned to the office and began to pour forth a glowing account of how beautiful it all was, how gorgeous, how perfect the women, how marvelous their costumes, how gracious and graceful38 the men, how oriental or occidental or Arabic, I forget which, were the decorations, outdoing the Arabian Nights or the fabled39 splendors40 of the Caliphate. Who does not recognize this indiscriminate newspaper tosh, poured forth from one end of America to another for everything from a farmers’ reunion or an I. O. O. F. Ladies’ Day to an Astor or a Vanderbilt wedding?
As I was writing, my head whirring with the imaginary and impossible splendors of the occasion, I was informed by my city editor that when I was done I should go to a number in South St. Louis where only an hour before a triple or quadruple murder had been committed. I was to go out on a street-car and if I could not get back in time by street-car I was to get a carriage and drive back at breakneck speed in order to get the story into the last edition. The great fear was that the rival paper, the Republic, would get it or might already have it and we would not. And so, my head full of pearls, diamonds, silks, satins, laces, a world of flowers and lights, I was now hustled41 out along the dark, shabby, lonely streets of South St. Louis to the humblest of cottages, in the humblest of streets where, among unpainted shacks42 with lean-tos at the back for kitchens, was one which contained this story.
An Irish policeman, silent and indifferent, was already at the small dark gate in the dark and silent street, guarding it against intruders; another was inside the door, which stood partially43 open, and beyond in the roadway in the darkness, their faces all but indistinguishable, a few horrified44 people. A word of explanation and I was admitted. A faint glow from a small smoky glass lamp illuminated45 the front room darkly. It turned out that a very honest, simple, religious and good-natured Irish-American of about fifty, who had been working by the day in this neighborhood, had recently been taken ill with brain fever and had on this night arisen from his feverish46 sickbed, seized a flatiron, crept into the front room where his wife and two little children slept and brained all three. He had then returned to the rear room, where a grown daughter slept on a couch beside him, and had first felled her with the iron and then cut her throat with a butcher knife. Murderous as the deed seemed, and apparently47 premeditated, it was the result of fever. The policeman at the gate informed me that the father had already been taken to the Four Courts and that a hospital ambulance was due any moment.
“But he’s out av his mind,” he insisted blandly48. “He’s crazy, sure, or sick av the fever. No man in his right sinses would do that. I tried to taalk to him but he couldn’t say naathin’, just mumble49 like.”
After my grand ball this wretched front room presented a sad and ghastly contrast. The house and furniture were very poor, the dead wife and children homely50 and seemingly work-worn. I noticed the dim, smoky flame cast by the lamp, the cheap bed awry51 and stained red, the mother and two children lying in limp and painful disorder52, the bedding dragged half off. It was evident that a struggle had taken place, for a chair and table were upset, the ironing-board thrown down, a bureau and the bed pushed sidewise.
Shocked beyond measure, yet with an eye to color and to the zest54 of the public for picturesque55 details, I examined the three rooms with care, the officer in the house following me. Together we looked at the utensils56 in the kitchen, what was in the cupboard to eat, what in the closet to wear. I made notes of the contents of the rooms, their cheapness, then went to the neighbors on either hand to learn if they had heard anything. Then in a stray owl-car, no carriages being available, I hurried to the Four Courts, several miles cityward, to see the criminal. I found him, old, pale, sick, thin, walking up and down in his small iron cell, plainly out of his mind, a picture of hopeless, unconscious misery57. His hands trembled idly about his mouth; his shabby trousers bagged about his shoes; he was unshaven and weak-looking, and all the while he mumbled58 to himself some unintelligible59 sounds. I tried to talk with him but could get nothing. He seemed not even to know that I was there, so brain-sick was he. Then I questioned the jail attendants, those dull wiseacres of the law. Had he talked? Did they think he was sane18? With the usual acumen60 and delicacy61 of this tribe, they were inclined to think he was shamming62.
I hurried through dark streets to the office. It was an almost empty reportorial room in which I scribbled63 my dolorous64 picture. With the impetuosity of youth and curiosity and sorrow and wonder I told it all, the terror, the pity, the inexplicability65. As I wrote, each page was taken up by Hartung, edited and sent up. Then, having done perhaps a column and a half (Bellairs having arrived with various police theories), I was allowed finally to amble out into a dark street and seek my miserable66 little room with its creaky bed, its dirty coverlets, its ragged53 carpets and stained walls. Nevertheless, I lay down with a kind of high pride and satisfaction in my story of the murder and my description of the ball, and with my life in consequence! I was not so bad. I was getting along. I must be thought an exceptional man to be picked for two such difficult tasks in the same evening. Life itself was not so bad; it was just higgledy-piggledy, catch-as-catch-can, that was all. If one were clever, like myself, it was all right. Next morning, when I reached the office, McCord and Hazard and some others pronounced my stuff “pretty good,” and I was beside myself with glee. I strolled about as though I owned the earth, pretending simplicity67 and humility68 but actually believing that I was the finest ever, that no one could outdo me at this game of reporting.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
whoops
|
|
| int.呼喊声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
deprivations
|
|
| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
undoing
|
|
| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
ebullient
|
|
| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
hospitable
|
|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
analytic
|
|
| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
amble
|
|
| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
defalcation
|
|
| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
haphazard
|
|
| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
lavish
|
|
| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
niggardly
|
|
| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
condescending
|
|
| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
prominence
|
|
| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
craving
|
|
| n.渴望,热望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
sane
|
|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
hearty
|
|
| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
imposing
|
|
| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
meekly
|
|
| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
rumored
|
|
| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
sleek
|
|
| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
concealing
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
outrageous
|
|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
straightforward
|
|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
functionary
|
|
| n.官员；公职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
walnut
|
|
| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
piecemeal
|
|
| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
garb
|
|
| n.服装，装束 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
ignoble
|
|
| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
bustling
|
|
| adj.喧闹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
fabled
|
|
| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
splendors
|
|
| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
hustled
|
|
| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
shacks
|
|
| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
partially
|
|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
horrified
|
|
| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
illuminated
|
|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
feverish
|
|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
blandly
|
|
| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
mumble
|
|
| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
awry
|
|
| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
disorder
|
|
| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
ragged
|
|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
zest
|
|
| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
picturesque
|
|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
utensils
|
|
| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
mumbled
|
|
| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
unintelligible
|
|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
acumen
|
|
| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
shamming
|
|
| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
scribbled
|
|
| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
dolorous
|
|
| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
inexplicability
|
|
| n.无法说明，费解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
humility
|
|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |