The office was so old and rattletrap that it was discouraging. The elevator was a slow and wheezy box, bumping and creaking and suggesting immediate3 collapse4. The boards of the entrance-hall and the city editorial room squeaked5 under one’s feet. The city reportorial room, where I should work if I secured a place, was larger than that of the Globe and higher-ceiled, but beyond that it had no advantage. The windows were tall but cracked and patched with faded yellow copy-paper; the desks, some fifteen or twenty all told, were old, dusty, knife-marked, smeared6 with endless ages of paste and ink. There was waste paper and rubbish on the floor. There was no sign of either paint or wallpaper. The windows facing east looked out upon a business court or alley7 where trucks and vans creaked all day but which at night was silent as the grave, as was this entire wholesale8 neighborhood. The buildings directly opposite were decayed wholesale houses of some unimportant kind where in slimsy rags of dresses or messy trousers and shirts girls and boys of from fourteen to twenty worked all day, the girls’ necks in summer time open to their breasts and their sleeves rolled to their shoulders, the boys in sleeveless undershirts and tight-belted trousers and with tousled hair. What their work was I forget, but flirting10 with each other or with the reporters and printers of this paper occupied a great deal of their time.
The city editor, H. B. Wandell, was one of those odd, forceful characters who because of my youth and extreme impressionability perhaps and his own vigor11 and point of view succeeded in making a deep impression on me at once. He was such a queer little man, so different from Mitchell and McCullagh, nervous, jumpy, restless, vigorous, with eyes so piercing that they reminded one of a hawk’s and a skin so swarthy that it was Italian in quality and made all the more emphatic12 by a large, humped, protruding13 nose pierced by big nostrils14. His hands were wrinkled and claw-like, and he had large yellowish teeth which showed rather fully15 when he laughed. And that laugh! I can hear it yet, a cross between a yelp16 and a cackle. It always seemed to me to be a mirthless laugh, insincere, and yet also it had an element of appreciation17 in it. He could see a point at which others ought to laugh without apparently18 enjoying it himself. He was at once a small and yet a large man mentally, wise and incisive19 in many ways, petty and even venomous in others, a man to coddle and placate20 if you were beholden to him, one to avoid if you were not, but on the whole a man above the average in ability.
And he had the strangest, fussiest21, bossiest love of great literature of any one I have ever known, especially in the realm of the newspapers. Zola at this time was apparently his ideal of what a writer should be, and after him Balzac and Loti. He seemed to know them well and to admire and even love them, after his fashion. He was always calling upon me to imitate Zola’s vivid description of the drab and the gross and the horrible if I could, assuming that I had read him, which I had not, but I did not say so. And Balzac’s and Loti’s sure handling of the sensual and the poignant22! How often have I heard him refer to them with admiration23, giving me the line and phrase of certain stark24 pictures, and yet at the same time there was a sneaking25 bending of the knee to the middle West conventions of which he was a part, a kind of horror of having it known that he approved of these things. He was a Shriner and very proud of it, as he was of various other local organizations to which he belonged. He had the reputation of being one of the best city editors in the city, far superior to my late master. Previously26 he had been city editor of the Globe itself for many years and was still favorably spoken of in that office. After I left St. Louis he returned to the Globe for a time and once more became its guide in local news.
But that is neither here nor there save as it illustrates27 what is a cardinal28 truth of the newspaper world: that the best of newspaper men are occasionally to be found on the poorest of papers, and vice29 versa. Just at this time, as I understood, he was here because the Republic was making a staggering effort to build itself up in popular esteem30, which it finally succeeded in doing after McCullagh’s death, becoming once more the leading morning paper as it had been before the Globe, under McCullagh, arose to power. Just now, however, in my despondent31 mood, it seemed an exceedingly sad affair.
Mr. Wandell, as I now learned, had heard of me and my recent faux pas, as well as some of the other things I had been doing.
“Been working on the Globe, haven’t you?” he commented when I approached him. “What did they pay you?”
I told him.
“When did you leave there?”
“About a week ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Perhaps you saw those notices of three shows that didn’t come to town? I’m the man who wrote them up.”
“Oho! ho! ho!” and he began eyeing me drily and slapping his knee. “I saw those. Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha! Yes, that was very funny—very. We had an editorial on it. And so McCullagh fired you, did he?”
“No, sir,” I replied indignantly. “I quit. I thought he might want to, and I put a letter on his desk and left.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Quite right! That’s very funny! I know just how they do over there. I was city editor there myself once. They write them up in advance sometimes. We do here. Where do you come from?”
“You say you got thirty dollars there? I couldn’t pay anybody that much here—not to begin with. We never give more than eighteen to begin with. Besides, I have a full staff just now, and it’s summer. I might use another man if eighteen would be enough. You might think it over and come in and see me again some time.”
Although my spirits fell at so great a drop in salary I hastened to explain that I would be glad to accept eighteen. I needed to be at work again.
“Whatever you would consider fair would suit me,” I said.
He smiled. “The newspaper market is low just now. If your work proves satisfactory I may raise you a little later on.” He must have seen that he had a soft and more or less unsophisticated boy to deal with.
“Suppose you write me a little article about something, just to show me what you can do,” he added.
I went away insulted by this last request. In spite of all he said I could feel that he wanted me; but I had no skill in manipulating my own affairs. To drop from thirty dollars as dramatic editor to eighteen as a mere33 reporter was terrible. With a grain of philosophic34 melancholy35 I faced it, however, feeling that if I worked hard I might yet get a start in some way or other. I must work and save some money and if I did not better myself I would leave St. Louis. My ability must be worth something somewhere; it had been on the Globe.
I went home and wrote the article (a mere nothing about some street scene), went back to the office and left it. Next day I called again.
“All right,” he said. “You can go to work.”
I went back into that large shabby room and took a seat. In a few minutes the place filled up with the staff, most of whom I knew and all of whom eyed me curiously—reporters, special editors, the city editor and his assistant, Mr. Williams of blessed memory, one-eyed, sad, impressive, intelligent, who had nothing but kind things to say of what I wrote and who was friendly and helpful until the day I left.
In a little while the assignment book was put out, with the task I was to undertake. Before I left I was called in and advised concerning it. I went and looked into it (I have forgotten what it was) and reported later in the day. What I wrote I turned over to Mr. Williams, and later in the day when I asked him if it was all right he said: “Yes, quite all right. It reads all right to me,” and then gave me a kindly36, one-eyed smile. I liked him from the first day; he was a better editor than Wandell, with more taste and discrimination, and later rose to a higher position elsewhere.
Meanwhile I strolled about thinking of my great fall. It seemed as though I should never get over this. But in a few days I was back in my old reportorial routine, depressed37 but secure, convinced that I could write as well as ever, and for any newspaper.
For the romance of my own youth was still upon me, my ambitions and my dreams coloring it all. Does the gull38 sense the terrors of the deep, or the butterfly the traps and snares39 of the woods and fields? Roaming this keen, new, ambitious mid-Western city, life-hungry and love-hungry and underpaid, eager and ambitious, I still found so much in the worst to soothe40, so much in the best to torture me. In every scene of ease or pleasure was both a lure41 and a reproach; in every aspect of tragedy or poverty was a threat or a warning. I was never tired of looking at the hot, hungry, weary slums, any more than I was of looking at the glories of the mansions42 of the west end. Both had their lure, their charm; one because it was a state worse than my own, the other because it was a better—unfairly so, I thought. Amid it all I hurried, writing and dreaming, half-laughing and half-crying, with now a tale to move me to laughter and now another to send me to bottomless despairs. But always youth, youth, and the crash of the presses in the basement and a fresh damp paper laid on my desk of a morning with “the news” and my own petty achievements or failures to cheer or disappoint me; so it went, day in and day out.
The Republic, while not so successful as the Globe-Democrat, was a much better paper for me to work on. For one thing, it took me from under the domination of Mr. Mitchell (one can hate some people most persistently), and placed me under one who, whatever may have been his defects, provided me with far greater opportunities for my pen than ever the Globe had and supplied a better judgment43 as to what constituted a story and a news feature. Now that I think of him, Wandell was far and away the best judge of news, from a dramatic or story point of view, of any for whom I ever worked.
“A good story, is it?” I can see him smirking44 and rubbing his hands miser45 or gourmet46 fashion, as over a pot of gold or a fine dish. “She said that, did she? Ha! ha! That’s excellent, excellent! You saw him yourself, did you? And the brother too? By George, we’ll make a story of that! Be careful how you write that now. All the facts you know, just as far as they will carry you; but we don’t want any libel suits, remember. We don’t want you to say anything we can’t substantiate47, but I don’t want you to be afraid either. Write it strong, clear, definite. Get in all the touches of local color you can. And remember Zola and Balzac, my boy, remember Zola and Balzac. Bare facts are what are needed in cases like this, with lots of color as to the scenery or atmosphere, the room, the other people, the street, and all that. You get me?”
And quite truly I got him, as he was pleased to admit, even though I got but little cash out of it. I always felt, perhaps unjustly, that he made but small if any effort to advantage me in any way except that of writing. But what of it? He was nearly always enthusiastic over my work, in a hard, bright, waspish way, nearly always excited about the glittering realistic facts which one might dig up and which he was quite determined48 that his paper should present. The stories! The scandals! That hard, cruel cackle of his when he had any one cornered! He must have known what a sham49 and a fake most of these mid-Western pretensions50 to sanctity and purity were, and yet if he did and was irritated by them he said little to me. Like most Americans of the time, he was probably confused by the endless clatter51 concerning personal perfection, the Christ ideal, as opposed to the actual details of life. He could not decide for himself which was true and which false, the Christ theory or that of Zola, but he preferred Zola when interpreting the news. When things were looking up from a news point of view and great realistic facts were coming to the surface regardless of local sentiment, facts which utterly52 contradicted all the noble fol-de-rol of the puritans and the religionists, he was positively53 transformed. In those hours when the loom54 of life seemed to be weaving brilliant dramatic or tragic55 patterns of a realistic, Zolaesque character he was beside himself with gayety, trotting56 to and fro in the local room, leaning over the shoulders of scribbling57 scribes and interrupting them to ask details or to caution them as to certain facts which they must or must not include, beaming at the ceiling or floor, whistling, singing, rubbing his hands—a veritable imp9 or faun of pleasure and enthusiasm. Deaths, murders, great social or political scandals or upheavals58, those things which presented the rough, raw facts of life, as well as its tenderer aspects, seemed to throw him into an ecstasy—not over the woes59 of others but over the fact that he was to have an interesting paper tomorrow.
“Ah, it was a terrible thing, was it? He killed her in cold blood, you say? There was a great crowd out there, was there? Well, well, write it all up. Write it all up. It looks like a pretty good story to me—doesn’t it to you? Write a good strong introduction for it, you know, all the facts in the first paragraph, and then go on and tell your story. You can have as much space for it as you want—a column, a column and a half, two—just as it runs. Let me look at it before you turn it in, though.” Then he would begin whistling or singing, or would walk up and down in the city room rubbing his hands in obvious satisfaction.
And how that reportorial room seemed to thrill or sing between the hours of five and seven in the evening, when the stories of the afternoon were coming in, or between ten-thirty and midnight, when the full grist of the day was finally being ground out. How it throbbed60 with human life and thought, quite like a mill room full of looms61 or a counting house in which endless records and exchanges are being made. Those reporters, eighteen or twenty of them, bright, cheerful, interesting, forceful youths, each bent62 upon making a name for himself, each working hard, each here bending over his desk scratching his head or ear and thinking, his mind lost in the mazes63 of arrangement and composition.
Wandell had no tolerance64 for any but the best of newspaper reporters and would discharge a man promptly65 for falling down on a story, especially if he could connect it with the feeling that he was not as good a newspaper man as he should be. He hated commonplace men, and once I had become familiar with the office and with him, he would often ask me in a spirit of unrest if I knew of an especially good one anywhere with whom he could replace some one else whom he did not like; a thought which jarred me but which did not prevent me from telling him. Somehow I had an eye and a taste for exceptional men myself, and I wanted his staff to be as good as any. So it was not long before he began to rely on me to supply him with suitable men, so much so that I soon had the reputation of being a local arbiter66 of jobs, one who could get men in or keep them out—a thing which made me some enemies later. And it really was not true for I could not have kept any good man out.
In the meantime, while he was trying me out to suit himself, he had been giving me only routine work: the North Seventh Street police station afternoons and evenings, where one or two interesting stories might be expected every day, crimes or sordid67 romances of one kind or another. Or if there was nothing much doing there I might be sent out on an occasional crime story elsewhere. Once I had handled a few of these for him, and to his satisfaction, I was pushed into the topnotch class and given only the most difficult stories, those which might be called feature crimes and sensations, which I was expected to unravel68, sometimes single-handed, and to which always I was expected to write the lead. This realistic method of his plus a keen desire to unload all the heavy assignments on me was in no wise bad for me. He liked me, and this was his friendly way of showing it.
Indeed, with a ruthless inconsiderateness, as I then thought, he piled on story after story, until I was a little infuriated at first, seeing how little I was being paid. When nothing of immediate importance was to be had, he proceeded to create news, studying out interesting phases of past romances or crimes which he thought might be worth while to work up and publish on Sunday, and handing them to me to do over. He even created stories when the general news was dull, throwing me into the most delicate and dangerous fields of arson69, murder, theft, marital70 unhappiness, and tragedies of all kinds, things not public but which by clever detective work could be made so, and where libel and other suits and damages lurked71 on either hand. Without cessation, Sunday and every other day, he called upon me to display sentiment, humor or cold, hard, descriptive force, as the case might be, quoting now Hugo, now Balzac, now Dickens, and now Zola to me to show me just what was to be done. In a little while, despite my reduced salary and the fact that I had lost my previous place in disgrace and was not likely to get a raise here soon, I was as much your swaggering newspaper youth as ever, strolling about the city with the feeling that I was somebody and looking up all my old friends, with the idea of letting them know that I was by no means such a failure as they might imagine. Dick and Peter of course, seeing me ambling72 in on them late one hot night, received me with open arms.
“Well, you’re a good one!” yelped73 Dick in his high, almost falsetto voice when I came in. I could see that he had been sitting before his open window, which commanded Broadway, where he had been no doubt meditating—your true romancer. “Where the hell have you been keeping yourself? You’re a dandy? We’ve been looking for you for weeks. We’ve been down to your place a dozen times, but you wouldn’t let us in. You’re a dandy, you are! McCord has some more of those opera cartoons done. Why didn’t you ever come around, anyhow?”
“I’m working down on the Republic now,” I replied, blushing, “and I’ve been busy.”
“Oho!” laughed Dick, slapping his knees. “That’s a good one on you! I heard about it. Those shows written up, and not one in town! Oho! That’s good!” He coughed a consumptive cough or two and relaxed.
I laughed with him. “It wasn’t really all my fault,” I said apologetically.
“I know it wasn’t. Don’t I know the Globe? Didn’t Carmichael get me to work the same racket for him? Ask Hazard. It wasn’t your fault. Sit down. Peter’ll be here in a little while; then we’ll go out and get something.”
We fell to discussing the attitude of the people on the Globe after I had left. Wood insisted that he had not heard much. He knew instinctively74 that Mitchell was glad I was gone, as he might well have been. Hartung had reported to him that McCullagh had raised Cain with Mitchell and that two or three of the boys on the staff had manifested relief.
“You know who they’d be,” continued Wood. “The fellows who can’t do what you can but would like to.”
I smiled. “I know about who they are,” I said.
We talked about the world in general—literature, the drama, current celebrities75, the state of politics, all seen through the medium of youth and aspiration76 and inexperience. While we were talking McCord came in. He had been to his home in South St. Louis, where he preferred to live in spite of his zest77 for Bohemia, and the ground had all to be gone over with him. We settled down to an evening’s enjoyment78: Dick went for beer; Peter lit a rousing pipe. Accumulated short stories were produced and plans for new ones recounted. At one point Peter exclaimed: “You know what I’m going to do, Dreiser?”
“Well, what?”
“I’m going to study for the leading rôle in that opera of yours. I can play that, and I’m going to if you don’t object—do you?”
“Object? Why should I object?” I replied, doubtful however of the wisdom of this. Peter had never struck me as quite the actor type. “I’d like to see you do it if you can, Peter.”
“Oh, I can, all right. That old rube appeals to me. I bet that if I ever get on the stage I can get away with that.” He eyed Dick for confirmation79.
“I’ll bet you could,” said Dick loyally. “Peter makes a dandy rube. Oh, will you ever forget the time we went down to the old Nickelodeon and did a turn, Peter? Oho!”
Later the three of us left for a bite and I could see that I was as high in their favor as ever, which restored me not a little. Peter seemed to think that my escapades and mishaps80, coupled with the attention and discussion which my name evoked81 among local newspaper men, were doing me good, making me an interesting figure. I could scarcely believe that but I was inclined to believe that I had not fallen as low as at first I had imagined.
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1
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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7
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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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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yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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placate
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| v.抚慰，平息(愤怒) | |
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fussiest
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| adj.瞎忙的( fussy的最高级 )；紧张不安的；过分琐碎的；装饰太多的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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41
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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42
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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43
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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44
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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45
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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46
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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47
substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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48
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(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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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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58
upheavals
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| 突然的巨变( upheaval的名词复数 )； 大动荡； 大变动； 胀起 | |
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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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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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arson
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| n.纵火，放火 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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yelped
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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