Yet in Spite of my profound infatuation I was still able to see beauty in other women and be moved by it. The chemical attractions and repulsions which draw us away from one and to another are beginning to be more clearly understood in these days and to undermine our more formal notions of stability and order, but even at that time this variation in myself might have taught me to look with suspicion on my own emotions. I think I did imagine that I was a scoundrel in harboring lusts8 after other women, when I was so deeply involved with this one, but I told myself that I must be peculiarly afflicted10 in this way, that all men were not so, that I myself should and probably would hold myself in check eventually, etc.; all of which merely proves how disjointed and non-self-understanding can be the processes of the human mind. Not only do we fail to see ourselves as others see us but we have not the faintest conception of ourselves as we really are.
An incident which might have proved to me how shallow was the depth of my supposed feeling, and that it was nothing more than a strong sex-desire, was this: One night about twelve a telephone message to the Republic stated that on a branch extension of one of the car lines, about seven or eight miles from the city, a murder had just been committed. Three negroes entering a lone11 “Owl” car, which ran from the city terminus to a small village had shot and killed the conductor and fired on the motorman. A young girl who had been on board, the only passenger, had escaped by the front door and had not since been heard of—or so the telephone message stated. As I happened to be in the office at the time, the story was assigned to me.
By good luck I managed to catch a twelve o’clock theater car and arrived at the end of the line at twelve forty, where I learned that the body of the dead man had been transferred to his home at some point farther out, and that a posse of male residents of the region had already been organized and were now helping12 the police to search this country round for the negroes. When I asked about the girl who had been on board one of the men at the barn exclaimed: “Sure, she’s a wonder! You want to tell about her. She hunted up a house, borrowed a horse, and notified everybody along the route. She’s the one that first phoned the news.”
Here was a story indeed. Midnight, a murder, dark woods, lonely country. A girl flees from three murderous, drunken negroes, borrows a horse, and tells all the countryside. What more could a newspaper man want? I was all ears. Now if she were only good-looking!
I now realized that my first duty was not so much to see the body of the dead man and interview his wife, although that was an item not to be neglected, or the motorman who had escaped with his life, although he was here and told me all that had happened quite accurately13, but this girl, this heroine, who, they said, was no more than seventeen or eighteen.
The car in which the murder had been committed was here in the barn. The blood-stains of the victim were still to be seen on the floor. I took this car, which was now carrying a group of detectives, a doctor and some other officials, to the dead man’s house, or to the house of the girl, I forget which. When I arrived there I discovered that a large comfortable residence some little distance beyond the home of the dead man was the scene of all news and activity, for here it was that the body of the conductor had been carried, and from here the girl had taken a horse and ridden far and wide to call others to her aid. When I hurried up to the door she had returned and was holding a sort of levee. The large livingroom was crowded, and in the center, under the flare14 of a hanging lamp, was this maiden15, rather pretty, with her hair brushed straight back from her forehead, and her face alight with the intensity16 of her recent experiences and actions. I drew near and surveyed her over the shoulders of the others as she talked, finally getting close enough to engage her in direct conversation, as was my duty. She was very simple in manner and speech—not quite the dashing heroine I had imagined yet attractive enough. For my benefit, and possibly for the dozenth time, she narrated17 all that had befallen her from the time she boarded the car until she had leaped from the front step after the shot and hid in the wood, finding her way to this house eventually and borrowing a horse to notify others, because, for one thing, there was no telephone here, and for another there was no man at home at the time who could have gone for her. With a kind of naïf enthusiasm she explained to me that once the shot had been fired and the conductor had fallen face down in the car (he had come in to rebuke18 these boisterous19 blacks, who were addressing bold remarks to her), she was cold with fright, but that after she had left the car she felt calmer and determined20 to do something to aid in the capture of the murderers. Hiding behind bushes, she had seen the negroes dash out of the rear door of the car and run back along the track into the darkness, and had then hurried in the other direction, coming to this house and summoning aid.... It was a fine story, her ride in the darkness and how people rose to come out and help her. I made copious21 notes in my mind, took her name and address, visited the conductor’s wife, who was a little distance away, and then hurried to the nearest telephone to communicate my news.
During this conversation with the girl I made an impression on her. As we talked I had drawn22 quite close and my enthusiasm for her deed had drawn forth23 various approving smiles and exclamations24. When I took her address I said I should like to know more of her, and she smiled and said: “Well, you can see me any time tomorrow.” This was Saturday night.
The Republic at this time had instituted what it called a “reward for heroism” medal to be given to whosoever should perform a truly heroic deed during the current year within the city or its immediate25 suburbs. Thinking over this girl’s deed as I went along, and wondering how I should proceed in the matter of retaining her interest, I thought of this medal and asked myself why it should not be given to her. She was certainly worthy26 of it. Plainly she was a hero, riding thus in the darkness and in the face of such a crime—and good-looking too!—and eighteen! After I had reached the office and written a most glowing account of all this for the late edition, I decided27 to speak to Wandell the next day, and did. He fell in with the idea at once.
“A fine idea,” he squeaked28 shrilly29. “Bully—we’ll do that! You’ll have to go back, though, and see whether she’ll accept it. Sometimes these people won’t stand for all this notoriety stuff, you know. But if she does——By the way,” he asked quickly, “is she good-looking?”
“Sure,” I replied enthusiastically. “She’s very good-looking—a beauty, I think.”
“Well, if that’s the case all the better. She must be made to give you a picture. Don’t let her crawl out of that, even if you have to bring her down here or take her to a photographer. If she accepts I’ll order the medal tomorrow, and you can write the whole thing up. It’ll make a fine Sunday feature, eh? Dreiser’s girl hero! What!”
This medal idea was just the thing to take me back to her, the excuse I needed and one that ought to bring her close to me if anything could. For the time being, I had forgotten all about Miss W—— and her charms. She came into my mind, but it was so all-important for me to follow up this new interest—one that I could manage quite as well as not, along with the other. I dressed in my very best clothes the next morning, excluding the amazing coat, and sallied forth to find my heroine. After considerable difficulty I managed to place her in a very simple home on what had once been a farm. Her father, who opened the door, was a German of the most rigid30 and austere31 mien—a Lutheran, I think—her mother a simple and pleasant-looking fat hausfrau. In the garish32 noon light my heroine was neither so melodramatic nor so poignant33 as she had seemed the night before. There was something less alive and less delicate in her composition, mental and physical, and yet she was by no means dull. Perhaps she lacked the excitement and the crowd. She had a peculiar9 mouth, a little wide but sweet, and a most engaging smile. Incidentally, it now developed that she had a younger sister, darker, more graceful34, almost more attractive than herself.
The two of them, as I soon found upon entering into conversation, offered that same problem in American life that so many children of foreign-born parents do. Although by no means poor, they were restless, if not unhappy, in their state. The old German father was one of those stern religionists and moralists who plainly had always held, or tried to hold, his two children in severest check. At the same time, as was obvious, this keen strident American life was calling to them as never had his fatherland to him. They were both intensely alive and eager for adventure. Never before, apparently35, had they seen a reporter, never been so close to a really truly thrilling tragedy. And Gunda—that was my heroine’s name—had actually been a part of it—how, she could now scarcely think. Her parents were not at all stirred by her triumph or the publicity36 that attached to it. In spite of the fact that her father owned this property and was sufficiently37 well-placed to maintain her in school or idleness (American style), she was already a clerk in one of the great stores of the city, and her sister was also preparing to go to work, having just left school.
I cannot tell how, but in a few moments we three were engaged in a most ardent38 conversation. There was an old fire-place in this house with some blazing wood in it, and before this we sat and laughed and chattered39, while I explained just what was wanted. Their mother and father did not even remain in the room. I could see that the younger sister was for urging Gunda on to any gayety or flirtation40, and was herself eager to share in one. It ended by my suggesting that they both come down to dinner with me some evening—a suggestion which they welcomed with enthusiasm but explained that it would have to be done under the rose. Their father was so old-fashioned that he would not allow them to take up with any one so swiftly, would not even allow them to have any beaux in the house. But they could meet me, and stay in town all night with friends. Gunda laughed, and the younger sister clapped her hands for joy.
I made a most solemn statement of what was wanted to the parents, secured two photographs of Gunda, and departed, having arranged to see them the following Wednesday at seven at one of the prominent corners of the city.
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1
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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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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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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39
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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