Mrs. Kronborg had said that Thea was not to be disturbed on Sunday morning, and she slept until noon. When she came downstairs the family were just sitting down to dinner, Mr. Kronborg at one end of the long table, Mrs. Kronborg at the other. Anna, stiff and ceremonious, in her summer silk, sat at her father’s right, and the boys were strung along on either side of the table. There was a place left for Thea between her mother and Thor. During the silence which preceded the blessing1, Thea felt something uncomfortable in the air. Anna and her older brothers had lowered their eyes when she came in. Mrs. Kronborg nodded cheerfully, and after the blessing, as she began to pour the coffee, turned to her.
“I expect you had a good time at that dance, Thea. I hope you got your sleep out.”
“High society, that,” remarked Charley, giving the mashed2 potatoes a vicious swat. Anna’s mouth and eyebrows3 became half-moons.
Thea looked across the table at the uncompromising countenances4 of her older brothers. “Why, what’s the matter with the Mexicans?” she asked, flushing. “They don’t trouble anybody, and they are kind to their families and have good manners.”
“Nice clean people; got some style about them. Do you really like that kind, Thea, or do you just pretend to? That’s what I’d like to know.” Gus looked at her with pained inquiry5. But he at least looked at her.
“They’re just as clean as white people, and they have a perfect right to their own ways. Of course I like ’em. I don’t pretend things.”
“Everybody according to their own taste,” remarked Charley bitterly. “Quit crumbing6 your bread up, Thor. Ain’t you learned how to eat yet?”
“Children, children!” said Mr. Kronborg nervously7, looking up from the chicken he was dismembering. He glanced at his wife, whom he expected to maintain harmony in the family.
“That’s all right, Charley. drop it there,” said Mrs. Kronborg. “No use spoiling your Sunday dinner with race prejudices. The Mexicans suit me and Thea very well. They are a useful people. Now you can just talk about something else.”
Conversation, however, did not flourish at that dinner. Everybody ate as fast as possible. Charley and Gus said they had engagements and left the table as soon as they finished their apple pie. Anna sat primly8 and ate with great elegance9. When she spoke10 at all she spoke to her father, about church matters, and always in a commiserating11 tone, as if he had met with some misfortune. Mr. Kronborg, quite innocent of her intentions, replied kindly12 and absent-mindedly. After the dessert he went to take his usual Sunday afternoon nap, and Mrs. Kronborg carried some dinner to a sick neighbor. Thea and Anna began to clear the table.
“I should think you would show more consideration for father’s position, Thea,” Anna began as soon as she and her sister were alone.
Thea gave her a sidelong glance. “Why, what have I done to father?”
“Everybody at Sunday-School was talking about you going over there and singing with the Mexicans all night, when you won’t sing for the church. Somebody heard you, and told it all over town. Of course, we all get the blame for it.”
“Anything disgraceful about singing?” Thea asked with a provoking yawn.
“I must say you choose your company! You always had that streak13 in you, Thea. We all hoped that going away would improve you. Of course, it reflects on father when you are scarcely polite to the nice people here and make up to the rowdies.”
“Oh, it’s my singing with the Mexicans you object to?” Thea put down a tray full of dishes. “Well, I like to sing over there, and I don’t like to over here. I’ll sing for them any time they ask me to. They know something about what I’m doing. They’re a talented people.”
“Talented!” Anna made the word sound like escaping steam. “I suppose you think it’s smart to come home and throw that at your family!”
Thea picked up the tray. By this time she was as white as the Sunday tablecloth14. “Well,” she replied in a cold, even tone, “I’ll have to throw it at them sooner or later. It’s just a question of when, and it might as well be now as any time.” She carried the tray blindly into the kitchen.
Tillie, who was always listening and looking out for her, took the dishes from her with a furtive15, frightened glance at her stony16 face. Thea went slowly up the back stairs to her loft17. Her legs seemed as heavy as lead as she climbed the stairs, and she felt as if everything inside her had solidified18 and grown hard.
After shutting her door and locking it, she sat down on the edge of her bed. This place had always been her refuge, but there was a hostility19 in the house now which this door could not shut out. This would be her last summer in that room. Its services were over; its time was done. She rose and put her hand on the low ceiling. Two tears ran down her cheeks, as if they came from ice that melted slowly. She was not ready to leave her little shell. She was being pulled out too soon. She would never be able to think anywhere else as well as here. She would never sleep so well or have such dreams in any other bed; even last night, such sweet, breathless dreams—Thea hid her face in the pillow. Wherever she went she would like to take that little bed with her. When she went away from it for good, she would leave something that she could never recover; memories of pleasant excitement, of happy adventures in her mind; of warm sleep on howling winter nights, and joyous20 awakenings on summer mornings. There were certain dreams that might refuse to come to her at all except in a little morning cave, facing the sun—where they came to her so powerfully, where they beat a triumph in her!
The room was hot as an oven. The sun was beating fiercely on the shingles21 behind the board ceiling. She undressed, and before she threw herself upon her bed in her chemise, she frowned at herself for a long while in her looking-glass. Yes, she and It must fight it out together. The thing that looked at her out of her own eyes was the only friend she could count on. Oh, she would make these people sorry enough! There would come a time when they would want to make it up with her. But, never again! She had no little vanities, only one big one, and she would never forgive.
Her mother was all right, but her mother was a part of the family, and she was not. In the nature of things, her mother had to be on both sides. Thea felt that she had been betrayed. A truce22 had been broken behind her back. She had never had much individual affection for any of her brothers except Thor, but she had never been disloyal, never felt scorn or held grudges23. As a little girl she had always been good friends with Gunner and Axel, whenever she had time to play. Even before she got her own room, when they were all sleeping and dressing25 together, like little cubs27, and breakfasting in the kitchen, she had led an absorbing personal life of her own. But she had a cub26 loyalty28 to the other cubs. She thought them nice boys and tried to make them get their lessons. She once fought a bully29 who “picked on” Axel at school. She never made fun of Anna’s crimpings and curlings and beauty-rites.
Thea had always taken it for granted that her sister and brothers recognized that she had special abilities, and that they were proud of it. She had done them the honor, she told herself bitterly, to believe that though they had no particular endowments, they were of her kind, and not of the Moonstone kind. Now they had all grown up and become persons. They faced each other as individuals, and she saw that Anna and Gus and Charley were among the people whom she had always recognized as her natural enemies. Their ambitions and sacred proprieties30 were meaningless to her. She had neglected to congratulate Charley upon having been promoted from the grocery department of Commings’s store to the drygoods department. Her mother had reproved her for this omission31. And how was she to know, Thea asked herself, that Anna expected to be teased because Bert Rice now came and sat in the hammock with her every night? No, it was all clear enough. Nothing that she would ever do in the world would seem important to them, and nothing they would ever do would seem important to her.
Thea lay thinking intently all through the stifling32 afternoon. Tillie whispered something outside her door once, but she did not answer. She lay on her bed until the second church bell rang, and she saw the family go trooping up the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, Anna and her father in the lead. Anna seemed to have taken on a very story-book attitude toward her father; patronizing and condescending33, it seemed to Thea. The older boys were not in the family band. They now took their girls to church. Tillie had stayed at home to get supper. Thea got up, washed her hot face and arms, and put on the white organdie dress she had worn last night; it was getting too small for her, and she might as well wear it out. After she was dressed she unlocked her door and went cautiously downstairs. She felt as if chilling hostilities34 might be awaiting her in the trunk loft, on the stairway, almost anywhere. In the dining-room she found Tillie, sitting by the open window, reading the dramatic news in a Denver Sunday paper. Tillie kept a scrapbook in which she pasted clippings about actors and actresses.
“Come look at this picture of Pauline Hall in tights, Thea,” she called. “Ain’t she cute? It’s too bad you didn’t go to the theater more when you was in Chicago; such a good chance! Didn’t you even get to see Clara Morris or Modjeska?”
“No; I didn’t have time. Besides, it costs money, Tillie,” Thea replied wearily, glancing at the paper Tillie held out to her.
Tillie looked up at her niece. “Don’t you go and be upset about any of Anna’s notions. She’s one of these narrow kind. Your father and mother don’t pay any attention to what she says. Anna’s fussy35; she is with me, but I don’t mind her.”
“Oh, I don’t mind her. That’s all right, Tillie. I guess I’ll take a walk.”
Thea knew that Tillie hoped she would stay and talk to her for a while, and she would have liked to please her. But in a house as small as that one, everything was too intimate and mixed up together. The family was the family, an integral thing. One couldn’t discuss Anna there. She felt differently toward the house and everything in it, as if the battered36 old furniture that seemed so kindly, and the old carpets on which she had played, had been nourishing a secret grudge24 against her and were not to be trusted any more.
She went aimlessly out of the front gate, not knowing what to do with herself. Mexican Town, somehow, was spoiled for her just then, and she felt that she would hide if she saw Silvo or Felipe coming toward her. She walked down through the empty main street. All the stores were closed, their blinds down. On the steps of the bank some idle boys were sitting, telling disgusting stories because there was nothing else to do. Several of them had gone to school with Thea, but when she nodded to them they hung their heads and did not speak. Thea’s body was often curiously37 expressive38 of what was going on in her mind, and to-night there was something in her walk and carriage that made these boys feel that she was “stuck up.” If she had stopped and talked to them, they would have thawed39 out on the instant and would have been friendly and grateful. But Thea was hurt afresh, and walked on, holding her chin higher than ever. As she passed the Duke Block, she saw a light in Dr. Archie’s office, and she went up the stairs and opened the door into his study. She found him with a pile of papers and accountbooks before him. He pointed40 her to her old chair at the end of his desk and leaned back in his own, looking at her with satisfaction. How handsome she was growing!
“I’m still chasing the elusive41 metal, Thea,”—he pointed to the papers before him,—“I’m up to my neck in mines, and I’m going to be a rich man some day.”
“I hope you will; awfully42 rich. That’s the only thing that counts.” She looked restlessly about the consulting-room. “To do any of the things one wants to do, one has to have lots and lots of money.”
Dr. Archie was direct. “What’s the matter? Do you need some?”
Thea shrugged43. “Oh, I can get along, in a little way.” She looked intently out of the window at the arc streetlamp that was just beginning to sputter44. “But it’s silly to live at all for little things,” she added quietly. “Living’s too much trouble unless one can get something big out of it.”
Dr. Archie rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, dropped his chin on his clasped hands and looked at her. “Living is no trouble for little people, believe me!” he exclaimed. “What do you want to get out of it?”
“Oh—so many things!” Thea shivered.
“But what? Money? You mentioned that. Well, you can make money, if you care about that more than anything else.” He nodded prophetically above his interlacing fingers.
“But I don’t. That’s only one thing. Anyhow, I couldn’t if I did.” She pulled her dress lower at the neck as if she were suffocating45. “I only want impossible things,” she said roughly. “The others don’t interest me.”
Dr. Archie watched her contemplatively, as if she were a beaker full of chemicals working. A few years ago, when she used to sit there, the light from under his green lampshade used to fall full upon her broad face and yellow pigtails. Now her face was in the shadow and the line of light fell below her bare throat, directly across her bosom46. The shrunken white organdie rose and fell as if she were struggling to be free and to break out of it altogether. He felt that her heart must be laboring47 heavily in there, but he was afraid to touch her; he was, indeed. He had never seen her like this before. Her hair, piled high on her head, gave her a commanding look, and her eyes, that used to be so inquisitive48, were stormy.
“Thea,” he said slowly, “I won’t say that you can have everything you want—that means having nothing, in reality. But if you decide what it is you want most, you can get it.” His eye caught hers for a moment. “Not everybody can, but you can. Only, if you want a big thing, you’ve got to have nerve enough to cut out all that’s easy, everything that’s to be had cheap.” Dr. Archie paused. He picked up a paper-cutter and, feeling the edge of it softly with his fingers, he added slowly, as if to himself:—
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win...or lose it all.”
Thea’s lips parted; she looked at him from under a frown, searching his face. “Do you mean to break loose, too, and—do something?” she asked in a low voice.
“I mean to get rich, if you call that doing anything. I’ve found what I can do without. You make such bargains in your mind, first.”
Thea sprang up and took the paper-cutter he had put down, twisting it in her hands. “A long while first, sometimes,” she said with a short laugh. “But suppose one can never get out what they’ve got in them? Suppose they make a mess of it in the end; then what?” She threw the paper-cutter on the desk and took a step toward the doctor, until her dress touched him. She stood looking down at him. “Oh, it’s easy to fail!” She was breathing through her mouth and her throat was throbbing49 with excitement.
As he looked up at her, Dr. Archie’s hands tightened50 on the arms of his chair. He had thought he knew Thea Kronborg pretty well, but he did not know the girl who was standing51 there. She was beautiful, as his little Swede had never been, but she frightened him. Her pale cheeks, her parted lips, her flashing eyes, seemed suddenly to mean one thing—he did not know what. A light seemed to break upon her from far away—or perhaps from far within. She seemed to grow taller, like a scarf drawn52 out long; looked as if she were pursued and fleeing, and—yes, she looked tormented53. “It’s easy to fail,” he heard her say again, “and if I fail, you’d better forget about me, for I’ll be one of the worst women that ever lived. I’ll be an awful woman!”
In the shadowy light above the lampshade he caught her glance again and held it for a moment. Wild as her eyes were, that yellow gleam at the back of them was as hard as a diamond drill-point. He rose with a nervous laugh and dropped his hand lightly on her shoulder. “No, you won’t. You’ll be a splendid one!”
She shook him off before he could say anything more, and went out of his door with a kind of bound. She left so quickly and so lightly that he could not even hear her footstep in the hallway outside. Archie dropped back into his chair and sat motionless for a long while.
So it went; one loved a quaint54 little girl, cheerful, industrious55, always on the run and hustling56 through her tasks; and suddenly one lost her. He had thought he knew that child like the glove on his hand. But about this tall girl who threw up her head and glittered like that all over, he knew nothing. She was goaded57 by desires, ambitions, revulsions that were dark to him. One thing he knew: the old highroad of life, worn safe and easy, hugging the sunny slopes, would scarcely hold her again.
After that night Thea could have asked pretty much anything of him. He could have refused her nothing. Years ago a crafty58 little bunch of hair and smiles had shown him what she wanted, and he had promptly59 married her. To-night a very different sort of girl—driven wild by doubts and youth, by poverty and riches—had let him see the fierceness of her nature. She went out still distraught, not knowing or caring what she had shown him. But to Archie knowledge of that sort was obligation. Oh, he was the same old Howard Archie!
That Sunday in July was the turning-point; Thea’s peace of mind did not come back. She found it hard even to practice at home. There was something in the air there that froze her throat. In the morning, she walked as far as she could walk. In the hot afternoons she lay on her bed in her nightgown, planning fiercely. She haunted the post-office. She must have worn a path in the sidewalk that led to the post-office, that summer. She was there the moment the mail-sacks came up from the depot60, morning and evening, and while the letters were being sorted and distributed she paced up and down outside, under the cottonwood trees, listening to the thump61, thump, thump of Mr. Thompson’s stamp. She hung upon any sort of word from Chicago; a card from Bowers62, a letter from Mrs. Harsanyi, from Mr. Larsen, from her landlady,—anything to reassure63 her that Chicago was still there. She began to feel the same restlessness that had tortured her the last spring when she was teaching in Moonstone. Suppose she never got away again, after all? Suppose one broke a leg and had to lie in bed at home for weeks, or had pneumonia64 and died there. The desert was so big and thirsty; if one’s foot slipped, it could drink one up like a drop of water.
This time, when Thea left Moonstone to go back to Chicago, she went alone. As the train pulled out, she looked back at her mother and father and Thor. They were calm and cheerful; they did not know, they did not understand. Something pulled in her—and broke. She cried all the way to Denver, and that night, in her berth65, she kept sobbing66 and waking herself. But when the sun rose in the morning, she was far away. It was all behind her, and she knew that she would never cry like that again. People live through such pain only once; pain comes again, but it finds a tougher surface. Thea remembered how she had gone away the first time, with what confidence in everything, and what pitiful ignorance. Such a silly! She felt resentful toward that stupid, good-natured child. How much older she was now, and how much harder! She was going away to fight, and she was going away forever.
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1
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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crumbing
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| 捏碎，弄碎（crumb的现在分词形式） | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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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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commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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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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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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41
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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42
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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43
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
sputter
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| n.喷溅声；v.喷溅 | |
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45
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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46
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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47
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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48
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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49
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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50
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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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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52
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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53
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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54
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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56
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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57
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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58
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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59
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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60
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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61
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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62
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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63
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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64
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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65
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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