They did not believe, as I still did, that there was a fixed8 moral order in the world which one contravened9 at his peril10. Heaven only knows where they had been or what they had seen, but they misdoubted the motives11, professed12 or secret, of nearly every man. No man, apparently13, was utterly14 and consistently honest, that is, no man in a powerful or dominant15 position; and but few were kind or generous or truly public-spirited. As I sat in the office between assignments, or foregathered with them at dinner or at midnight in some one of the many small restaurants frequented by newspaper men, I heard tales of all sorts of scandals: robberies, murders, fornications, incendiarisms, not only in low life but in our so-called high life. Most of these young men looked upon life as a fierce, grim struggle in which no quarter was either given or taken, and in which all men laid traps, lied, squandered16, erred17 through illusion: a conclusion with which I now most heartily18 agree. The one thing I would now add is that the brigandage19 of the world is in the main genial20 and that in our hour of success we are all inclined to be more or less liberal and warm-hearted.
But at this time I was still sniffing21 about the Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes, expecting ordinary human flesh and blood to do and be those things. Hence the point of view of these men seemed at times a little horrific, at other times most tonic22.
“People make laws for other people to live up to,” Maxwell once said to me, “and in order to protect themselves in what they have. They never intend those laws to apply to themselves or to prevent them from doing anything they wish to do.”
There was a youth whose wife believed that he did not drink. On two occasions within six weeks I was sent as envoy23 to inform his wife that he had suddenly been taken ill with indigestion and would soon be home. Then Maxwell and Brady would bundle him into a hack24 and send him off, one or two of us going along to help him into his house. So solemnly was all this done and so well did we play our parts that his wife believed it for a while—long enough for him to pull himself together a year later and give up drinking entirely25. Another youth boasted that he was syphilitic and was curing himself with mercury; another there was whose joy it was to sleep in a house of prostitution every Saturday night, and so on. I tell these things not because I rejoice in them but merely to indicate the atmosphere into which I was thrown. Neither sobriety nor virtue27 nor continence nor incontinence was either a compelling or preventive cause of either success or failure or had anything to do with true newspaper ability; rather men succeeded by virtue of something that was not intimately related to any of these. If one could do anything which the world really wanted it would not trouble itself so much about one’s private life.
Another change that was being brought about in me was that which related to my personal opinion of myself, the feeling I was now swiftly acquiring that after all I amounted to something, was somebody. A special or two that I wrote, thanks largely to Maxwell’s careful schooling28, brought me to the forefront among those of the staff who were writing for the Sunday supplement. A few news stories fell to my lot and I handled them with a freedom which won me praise on all sides. Not that I felt at the time that I was writing them so well or differently as that I was most earnestly concerned to state what I saw or felt or believed. I even essayed a few parables29 of my own, mild, poetic30 commentaries on I scarcely recall what, which Maxwell scanned with a scowling31 eye at first but later deigned32 to publish, affixing33 the signature of Carl Dreiser because he had decided34 to nickname me “Carl.” This grieved me, for I was dying to see my own name in print; but when they appeared I had the audacity35 to call upon the family and show them, boasting of my sudden rise in the world and saying that I had used the name Carl as a compliment to a nephew.
During this time I was taking a rather lofty hand with Alice because of my great success, unmindful of the fact that I had been boasting for months that I was connected with one of the best of the local papers and telling her that I did not think it so wonderful. But now I began to think that I was to be called to much higher realms, and solemnly asked myself if I should ever want to marry. A number of things helped to formulate36 this question in me. For one thing, I had no sooner been launched into general assignments than one afternoon, in seeking for the pictures of a group of girls who had taken part in some summer-night festival, I encountered one who seemed to be interested in me, a little blonde of about my own age, very sleek37 and dreamy. She responded to my somewhat timid advances when I called on her and condescended38 to smile as she gave me her photograph. I drew close to her and attempted a flirtation39, to which she was not averse40, and on parting I asked if I might call some afternoon or evening, hoping to crowd it in with my work. She agreed, and for several Sundays and week-nights I was put to my utmost resources to keep my engagements and do my work, for the newspaper profession that I knew, tolerated neither week-days nor Sundays off. I had to take an assignment and shirk it in part or telephone that I was delayed and could not come at all. Thus early even I began to adopt a cavalier attitude toward this very exacting41 work. Twice I took her to a theater, once to an organ recital42, and once for a stroll in Jackson Park; by which time she seemed inclined to yield to my blandishments to the extent of permitting me to put my arms about her and even to kiss her, protesting always that I was wanton and forward and that she did not know whether she cared for me so much or not. Charming as she was, I did not feel that I should care for her very much. She was beautiful but too lymphatic, too carefully reared. Her mother, upon hearing of me, looked into the fact of whether I was truly connected with the Globe and then cautioned her daughter to be careful about making new friends. I saw that I was not welcome at that house and thereafter met her slyly. I might have triumphed in this case had I been so minded and possessed43 of a little more courage, but as I feared that I should have to undergo a long courtship with marriage at the end of it, my ardor44 cooled. Because she was new to me and comfortably stationed and better dressed than either Alice or N—— had ever been, I esteemed45 her more highly, made invidious comparisons from a material point of view, and wished that I could marry some such well-placed girl without assuming all the stern obligations of matrimony.
During the second month of my work on the Globe there arrived on the scene a man who was destined46 to have a very marked effect on my career. He was a tall, dark, broad-shouldered, slender-legged individual of about forty-five or fifty, with a shock of curly black hair and a burst of smuggler-like whiskers. He was truly your Bret Harte gold-miner type, sloven47, red-eyed at times, but amazingly intelligent and genial, reminding me not a little of my brother Rome in his best hours. He wore a long dusty, brownish-black frockcoat and a pair of black trousers specked, gummed, shined and worn by tobacco, food, liquor and rough usage. His feet were incased in wide-toed shoes of the old “boot-leather” variety, and the swirl48 of Jovian locks and beard was surmounted49 by a wide-brimmed black hat such as Kentucky colonels were wont50 to affect. His nose and cheeks were tinted51 a fiery52 red by much drinking, the nose having a veinous, bulbous, mottled and strawberry texture53.
This man was John T. McEnnis, a well-known middle-West newspaper man of that day, a truly brilliant writer whose sole fault was that he drank too much. Originally from St. Louis, the son of a well-known politician there, he had taken up journalism54 as the most direct avenue to fame and fortune. At forty-five he found himself a mere26 hanger-on in this profession, tossed from job to job because of his weakness, his skill equaled if not outrivaled by that of younger men! It was commonly said that he could drink more and stand it better than any other man in Chicago.
“Why, he can’t begin to work unless he’s had three or four drinks to limber him up,” Harry55 Dunlap once said to me. “He has to have six or seven more to get through till evening.” He did not say how many were required to carry him on until midnight, but I fancy he must have consumed at least a half dozen more. He was in a constant state of semi-intoxication, which was often skillfully concealed56.
During my second month on the Globe McEnnis was made city editor in place of Sullivan, who had gone to a better paper. Later he was made managing editor. I learned from Maxwell that he was well known in Chicago newspaper circles for his wit, his trenchant57 editorial pen, and that once he had been considered the most brilliant newspaper editor in St. Louis. He had a small, spare, intellectual wife, very homely58 and very dowdy59, who still adored him and had suffered God knows what to be permitted to live with him.
The first afternoon I saw him sitting in the city editorial chair I was very much afraid of him and of my future. He looked raucous60 and uncouth61, and Maxwell had told me that new editors usually brought in new men. As it turned out, however, much to my astonishment62, he took an almost immediate63 fancy to me which ripened64 into a kind of fatherly affection and even, if you will permit me humbly65 to state a fact, a kind of adoration66. Indeed he swelled67 my head by the genial and hearty68 manner in which almost at once he took me under his guidance and furthered my career as rapidly as he could, the while he borrowed as much of my small salary as he could. Please do not think that I begrudged69 this then or that I do now. I owe him more than a dozen such salaries borrowed over a period of years could ever repay. My one grief is, that I had so little to give him in return for the very great deal he did for me.
The incident from which this burst of friendship seemed to take its rise was this. One day shortly after he arrived he gave me a small clipping concerning a girl on the south side who had run away or had been kidnaped from one of the dreariest70 homes it has ever been my lot to see. The girl was a hardy71 Irish creature of about sixteen. A neighborhood street boy had taken her to some wretched dive in South Clark Street and seduced72 her. Her mother, an old, Irish Catholic woman whom I found bending over a washtub when I called, was greatly exercised as to what had become of her daughter, of whom she had heard nothing since her disappearance73. The police had been informed, and from clews picked up by a detective I learned the facts first mentioned. The mother wept into her wash as she told me of the death of her husband a few years before, of a boy who had been injured in such a way that he could not work, and now this girl, her last hope——
From a newspaper point of view there was nothing much to the story, but I decided to follow it to the end. I found the house to which the boy had taken the girl, but they had just left. I found the parents of the youth, simple, plain working people, who knew nothing of his whereabouts. Something about the wretched little homes of both families, the tumbledown neighborhoods, the poverty and privation which would ill become a pretty sensuous74 girl, impelled75 me to write it out as I saw and felt it. I hurried back to the office that afternoon and scribbled76 out a kind of slum romance, which in the course of the night seemed to take the office by storm. Maxwell, who read it, scowled77 at first, then said it was interesting, and then fine.
“Carl,” he interpolated at one point as he read, “you’re letting your youthful romantic mood get the best of you, I see. This will never do, Carl. Read Schopenhauer, my boy, read Schopenhauer.”
The city editor picked it up when he returned, intending, I presume, to see if there was any sign of interest in the general introduction; finding something in it to hold him, he read on carefully to the end, as I could see, for I was not a dozen feet away and could see what he was reading. When he finished he looked over at me and then called me to come to him.
“I want to say to you,” he said, “that you have just done a fine piece of writing. I don’t go much on this kind of story, don’t believe in it as a rule for a daily paper, but the way you have handled this is fine. You’re young yet, and if you just keep yourself well in hand you have a future.”
Thereafter he became very friendly, asked me out one lunch-time to have a drink, borrowed a dollar and told me of some of the charms and wonders of journalistic work in St. Louis and elsewhere. He thought the Globe was too small a paper for me, that I ought to get on a larger one, preferably in another city, and suggested how valuable would be a period of work on the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, of which he had once been city editor.
“You haven’t any idea how much you need all this,” he said. “You’re young and inexperienced, and a great paper like the Globe-Democrat or the New York Sun starts a boy off right. I would like to see you go first to St. Louis, and then to New York. Don’t settle down anywhere yet, don’t drink, and don’t get married, whatever you do. A wife will be a big handicap to you. You have a future, and I’m going to help you if I can.” Then he borrowed another dollar and left me.
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1
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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9
contravened
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| v.取消，违反( contravene的过去式 ) | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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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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17
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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brigandage
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| n.抢劫；盗窃；土匪；强盗 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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28
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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32
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affixing
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| v.附加( affix的现在分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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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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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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46
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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sloven
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| adj.不修边幅的 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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49
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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50
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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51
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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53
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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56
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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57
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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58
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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59
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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60
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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67
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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71
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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72
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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75
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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