I was aroused by a ray of sunshine in my eyes. I lifted one of my blinds and saw the cornfields of Northern Ohio, the brown stumps6 of last year’s crop protruding7 through the snow. Commonplace little towns, the small brown or red railway stations with the adjoining cattle-runs, and tall gas-well derricks protruding out of dirty, snowless soil, made me realize that I was approaching the end of my journey. I found that I had ample time to shave, dress and breakfast in the adjoining buffet—a thing I proposed to do if it proved the last pretentious8, liberal, courageous9 deed of my life.
For I was not too well provided with cash, and was I not leaving civilization? Though I had but a hundred dollars, might not my state soon be much worse? I have often smiled since over the awe10 in which I then held the Pullman car, its porter, conductor, and all that went with it. To my inexperienced soul it seemed to be the acme11 of elegance12 and grandeur13. Could life offer anything more than the privilege of riding about the world in these mobile palaces? And here was I this sunny winter morning with enough money to indulge in a breakfast in one of these grand ambling14 chambers15, though if I kept up this reckless pace there was no telling where I should end.
I selected a table adjoining one at which sat two drummers who talked of journeys far and wide, of large sales of binders16 and reapers17 and the condition of trade. They seemed to me to be among the most fortunate of men, high up in the world as positions go, able to steer18 straight and profitable courses for themselves. Because they had half a broiled19 spring chicken, I had one, and coffee and rolls and French fried potatoes, as did they, feeling all the while that I was indulging in limitless grandeur. At one station at which the train stopped some poor-looking farmer boys in jeans and “galluses” and wrinkled hats looking up at me with interest as I ate, I stared down at them, hoping that I should be taken for a millionaire to whom this was little more than a wearisome commonplace. I felt fully20 capable of playing the part and so gave the boys a cold and repressive glance, as much as to say, Behold21! I assured myself that the way to establish my true worth was to make every one else feel small by comparison.
The town of Grand Rapids lay in the extreme northwestern portion of Ohio on the Maumee, a little stream which begins somewhere west of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and runs northeast to Toledo, emptying into Lake Erie. The town was traversed by this one railroad, which began at St. Louis and ended at Toledo, and consisted of a number of small frame houses and stores, with a few brick structures of one and two stories. I had not arranged with Michaelson that he should meet me at any given time, having been uncertain as to the time of my departure from St. Louis, and so I had to look him up. As I stepped down at the little depot22. I noted23 the small houses with snow-covered yards, the bare trees and the glimpse of rolling country which I caught through the open spaces between. There was the river, wide and shallow, flowing directly through the heart of the town and tumbling rapidly and picturesquely24 over gray stones. I was far more concerned as to whether I should sometime be able to write a poem or a story about this river than I was to know if a local weekly could subsist25 here. And after the hurry and bustle26 of St. Louis, the town did not impress me. I felt now that I had made a dreadful mistake and wondered why I had been so foolish as to give up the opportunities suggested by my friends on the Republic, and my sweetheart, when I might have remained and married her under the new editorial conditions proffered27 me.
Yet I walked on to the main corner and inquired where my friend lived, then out a country road indicated to me as leading toward his home. I found an old rambling28 frame house, facing the Maumee River, with a lean-to and kitchen and springhouse, corncribs, a barn twice the size of the house, and smaller buildings, all resting comfortably on a rise of ground. Apple and pear trees surrounded it, now leafless in the wind. A curl of smoke rose from the lean-to and told me where the cookstove was. As I entered the front gate I felt the joy of a country home. It told of simple and plain things, food, warmth, comfort, minds content with routine. Michaelson appeared at the door and greeted me most enthusiastically. He introduced me to his family with the exuberant29 youthfulness of a schoolboy.
I met the father, a little old dried-up quizzical man, who looked at me over his glasses in a wondering way and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. I met the mother, small, wizened30, middle-aged31, looking as though she had gone through a thousand worries. Then I met Michaelson’s wife, a dark, chubby32, brown-skinned woman, stocky and not over-intelligent. They asked me to make myself at home, listened to an account of my experiences in getting there, and then Michaelson volunteered to show me about the place.
My mind revolted at the thought of such a humdrum33 life as this for myself, though I was constantly touched by its charm—for others. I followed the elder Mrs. Michaelson into the lean-to and watched her cook, went with Michaelson to the barn to look over the live stock and returned to talk with Michaelson senior about the prospects34 of the Republican party in Ohio. He was much interested in a man named McKinley, a politician of Ohio, who had been a congressman35 for years and who was now being talked of as the next candidate of the Republican party for the Presidency36. I had scarcely heard of him up to that time, but I gave my host my opinion, such as it was. We sat about the big drum sheet-iron stove, heated by natural gas, then but newly discovered and piped in that region. After dinner I proposed to my friend that we go into the village and inspect the printing plant which he had said was for sale. We walked along the road discussing the possibilities, and it seemed to me as we walked that he was not as enthusiastic as he had been in St. Louis.
“I’ve been looking at this fellow’s plant,” he said vaguely37, “and I don’t know whether I want to give him two hundred down for it. He hasn’t got anything. That old press he has is in pretty bad shape, and his type is all worn down.”
“Can we get it for two hundred?” I asked innocently.
“Sure, two hundred down. I wouldn’t think of giving him more. All he wants now is enough to get out of here, some one to take it off his hands. He can’t run it.”
We went to the office of the Herald38, a long dark loft39 over a feed store, and found there a press and some stands of type, and a table before the two front windows, which looked west. The place was unlighted except by these windows and two in the back, and contained no provision for artificial light except two or three tin kerosene40 lamps. Slazey, the youthful editor, was not in. We walked about and examined the contents of the room, all run down. The town was small and slow, and even an idealist could see that there was small room here for a career.
Presently the proprietor41 returned, and I saw a sad specimen42 of the country editor of those days: sleepy, sickly-looking, with a spare, gaunt face and a head which had the appearance of an egg with the point turned to the back. His hair was long and straight and thin, the back part of it growing down over his dusty coat-collar. He wore a pair of baggy43 trousers of no shape or distinguishable color, and his coat and waistcoat were greasy44. He extended a damp, indifferent hand to me.
“I hear you want to sell out,” I said.
“Yes, I’m willing to sell,” he replied sadly.
“Do you mind showing us what you have here?”
“Let me see that list of subscribers you showed me the other day,” said Michaelson, who now seemed eager to convince himself that there might be something in this affair.
Slazey brought it out from an old drawer and together we examined it, spreading it out on the dusty table and looking at the names checked off as paid. There were not more than a thousand. Some of them had another mark beside the check, and this excited my curiosity.
“What’s this cross here for?”
“That’s the one that’s paid for this year.”
“Isn’t this this year’s list?”
“No. I just thought I’d check up the new payments on the old list. I haven’t had time to make out a new one.”
“I’ll tell you what we’d better do,” observed Michaelson heavily, probably feeling that I had become suddenly depressed47. “Suppose we go around and see some of the merchants and ask them if they’ll support us with advertising48?”
I agreed, feeling all the while that the whole venture was ridiculous, and together we went about among the silent stores, talking with conservative men, who represented all that was discouraging and wearisome in life. Here they stood all day long calculating in pennies and dimes49, whereas the city merchant counted in hundreds and thousands. It was dispiriting. Think of living in a place like this, among such people!
“I might give a good paper my support,” said one, a long, lean, sanctimonious50 man who looked as though he had narrow notions and a firm determination to rule in his small world. “But it’s mighty51 hard to make a paper that would suit this community. We’re religious and hard-working here, and we like the things that interest religious and hard-working people. Course if it was run right it might pay pretty well, but I dunno as ’twould neither. You never can tell.”
I saw that he would be one hard customer to deal with anyhow. If there were many like him—— The poor, thin-blooded, calculating world which he represented frightened me.
“How much advertising do you think you could give to a paper that was ‘run’ right?”
“Well, that depends,” he said gloomily and disinterestedly52. “I’d have to see how it was run first. Some weeks I might give more than others.”
Michaelson nudged me and we left.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said, “that he’s a Baptist and a Republican. He’d expect you to run it in favor of those institutions if you got his support. But all the men around town won’t feel that way.”
In the dusty back room of a drugstore we found a chemist who did not know whether a weekly newspaper was of any value to him, and could not contribute more than fifty cents a week in advertising if it were. The proprietor of the village hotel, a thick-set, red-faced man with the air of a country evil-doer, said that he did not see that a local newspaper was particularly valuable to him. He might advertise, but it would be more as a favor than anything else.
I began to sum up the difficulties of our position. We should be handicapped, to begin with, by a wretched printing outfit53. We should be beholden to a company of small, lean-living, narrow men who would take offense54 at the least show of individuality and cut us off entirely55 from support. We should have to busy ourselves gathering56 trivial items of news, dunning hard-working, indifferent farmers for small amounts of money, and reduce all our thoughts and ambitions to the measure of this narrow world. I saw myself dying by inches. It gave me the creeps. Youth and hope were calling.
“I don’t see this,” I said to myself. “It’s horrible. I should die.” To Michaelson I said: “Suppose we give up our canvassing57 for today?”
“We might as well,” he replied. “There’s a paper over at Bowling58 Green for sale, and it’s a better paper. We might go over in a day or two and look at it. We might as well go home now.”
I agreed, and we turned down a street that led to the road, meditating59. I knew nothing of my destiny, but I knew that it had little to do with this. These great wide fields, many of them already sown to wheat under the snow, these hundreds of oil or gas-well derricks promising60 a new source of profit to many, the cleanly farmhouses61 and neatly62 divided farms all appealed to me, but this world was not for me. I was thinking of something different, richer, more poignant63, less worthy64 possibly, more terrible, more fruitful for the moods and the emotions. What could these bleak65 fields offer? I thought of St. Louis, the crowded streets, the vital offices of the great papers, their thrashing presses, the hotels, the theaters, the trains. What, bury myself here? I thought of the East—New York possibly, at least Cleveland, Buffalo66, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia.
“I like the country, but it’s a hard place to make a living, isn’t it?” I finally said.
“Yes,” he assented67 gloomily. “I’ve never been able to get anything out of it—but I haven’t done very well in the city either.”
I sensed the mood of an easily defeated man.
“I’m so used to the noise and bustle of the streets that these fields seem lonely,” I said.
“Yes, but you might get over that in time, don’t you think?”
Never, I thought, but did not say so; instead I said: “That’s a beautiful sky, isn’t it?” and he looked blankly to where a touch of purple was creeping into the background of red and gold.
We reached the house at dusk. Going through the gate I said: “I don’t see how I can go into this with you, Mich. There isn’t enough in it.”
“Well, don’t worry about it any more tonight. I’d rather the girl wouldn’t know. We’ll talk it over in the morning.”
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1
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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6
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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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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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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13
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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14
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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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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binders
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| n.（司机行话）刹车器；（书籍的）装订机( binder的名词复数 )；（购买不动产时包括预付订金在内的）保证书；割捆机；活页封面 | |
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reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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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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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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picturesquely
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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Congressman
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| n.（美）国会议员 | |
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presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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40
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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41
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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42
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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45
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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46
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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47
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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48
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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49
dimes
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| n.（美国、加拿大的）10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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50
sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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51
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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52
disinterestedly
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53
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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54
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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57
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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58
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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59
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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60
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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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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64
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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65
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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66
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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67
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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