Now that they had made friends with me, I liked them both. When we met the following Wednesday evening, and I had taken them to a commonplace restaurant, I was a little puzzled to know what to do with them, rarely having a whole evening to myself. Finally I invited them to my room, wondering if they would come. It seemed a great adventure to me, most daring, but I could not quite make up my mind which of the two I preferred. Just the same they came with me, looking on the proceeding2 as a great and delicious adventure. As we came along Broadway in the dark after dinner they hung on my arms, laughing and jesting at what their parents would think, and when we went up the dimly lighted stair, an old, wide, squeaky flight, they chortled over the fun and mystery of it all. The room was nothing much—the same old books, hangings and other trifles—but it seemed to please them greatly. What pleased them most was the fact that one could go and come without attracting any attention. They browsed3 about at first, and I, never having been confronted by just this situation before and being still backward, did little or nothing save discuss generalities. The one I had most favored (the heroine) was more retiring than the younger, less feverish4 but still gay. I could only be with them from seven to ten-thirty, but they intimated that they would come again when they could stay as late as I chose. The suggestion was too obvious and I lost interest. Soon I told them I had to go back to the office and took them to a car. A few days later I took the medal to Gunda at the store, where she received it with much pleasure, asking where I had been and when she was to see me again. I made an appointment for another day, which I never kept. It meant, as I reasoned it out, that I should have to go further with her and her sister, but not being sufficiently5 impelled6 or courageous7 I dropped the whole matter. Then, because Miss W—— now seemed more significant than ever, I returned to her with a fuller devotion than ever before.
Owing to a driving desire to get on, to do something, to be more than I was and have all the pleasures I craved8 at once, there now set in a period of mental dissatisfaction and unrest which eventually took me out of St. Louis and the West, and resulted in a period of stress and distress9. Sometimes I really believe that certain lives are predestined to undergo a given group of experiences, else why the unconscionable urge to move and be away which drives some people like the cuts of a lash11? Aside from the question of salary, there was, as I see it now, little reason for the fierce and gnawing12 pains that assailed13 me, and toward the last even this question of salary was not a factor; for my employers, learning that I was about to leave, were quick enough to offer me more money as well as definite advancement14. By then, however, my self-dissatisfaction had become so great that nothing short of a larger salary and higher position than they could afford to give me would have detained me. Toward the last I seemed to be obsessed15 by the idea of leaving St. Louis and going East. New York—or, at least other cities east of this one, seemed to call me far more than anything the West had to offer.
And now, curiously16, various things seemed to combine to drive or lure17 me forth18, things as clear in retrospect19 as they were indistinguishable and meaningless then. One of these forces, aside from that of being worthy20 of my new love and lifting her to some high estate which then possessed21 me, was John Maxwell who had done me such an inestimable service in Chicago when I was trying to break into the newspaper business, and who had now arrived on the scene with the hope of connecting with St. Louis journalism22. Fat, cynical23, Cyclopean John! Was ever a more Nietzschean mind in a more amiable24 body! His doctrine25 of ruthless progress, as I now clearly saw, was so tall and strident, whereas his personal modus operandi was so compellingly genial26, human, sympathetic. He was forever talking about burning, slaying27, shoving people out of one’s path, doing the best thing by oneself and the like, while at the same time actually extending a helping29 hand to almost everybody and doing as little to advantage himself personally as any man I ever knew. It was all theory, plus an inherent desire to expound30. His literary admirations were of a turgidly sentimental31 or romantic character, as, for instance, Jean Valjean of Les Misérables, and the good bishop32; Père Goriot, Camille, poor Smike in Nicholas Nickleby; and, of all things, and yet quite like him in judgment33, the various novels of Hall Caine (The Bondman, The Christian34, The Deemster).
“My boy!” he used to say to me, with a fat and yet wholly impressive vehemence35 that I could not help admiring whether I agreed with him or not, “that character of Jean Valjean is one of the greatest in the world—a masterpiece—and I’ll tell you why—” and he would then begin to enlarge upon the moral beauty of Valjean carrying the wounded Marius through the sewer36, his taking up and caring for the poor degraded mother, abandoned by the students of Paris, his gentle and forgiving attitude toward all poverty and crime.
The amusing thing about all this was, of course, that in the next breath he would reiterate37 that all men were dogs and thieves, that in all cases one had to press one’s advantage to the limit and trust nobody, that one must burn, cut, slay28, if one wished to succeed. Once I said to him, still under the delusion38 that the world might well be full of tenderness, charity, honesty and the like: “John, you don’t really believe all that. You’re not as hard as you say.”
“The hell I’m not! The trouble with you is that you don’t know me. You’re just a cub39 yet, Theodore,” and his face wore that adorable, fat, cynical smirk40, “full of college notions of virtue41 and charity, and all that guff. You think that because I helped you a little in Chicago all men are honest, kind, and true. Well, you’ll have to stow that pretty soon. You’re getting along now, and whatever you think other people ought to do you’ll find it won’t be very convenient to do it yourself—see?” And he smirked42 angelically once more. To me, in spite of what he said, he seemed anything but hard or mean.
Being in hard lines, he had come to St. Louis, not at my suggestion but at that of Dunlap and Brady, both of whom no doubt assured him that I could secure him a position instanter. I began to think what if anything I could do to help him, but so overawed was I still by his personality that I felt that nothing would do for him less than a place as copy-reader or assistant city editor—and that was a very difficult matter indeed, really beyond my local influence. I was too young and too inexperienced to recommend anybody for such a place, although my Chicago friends had come to imagine that I could do anything here. I had the foolish notion that John would speak to me about it, but so sensitive was he, I presume, on the subject of what was due from me to him that he thought (I am merely guessing) that I should bestir myself without any direct word. He had been here for days, I later learned, without even coming near me. He had gone to a hotel, and in a few days sent word by Dunlap, with whom he was now on the most intimate terms, that he was in town and looking for a place. I assume now that it was but the part of decency44 for me to have hurried to call on him, but so different was my position now and so hurried was I with a number of things that I never even thought of doing it at once. I fancied that he would come to the office with Dunlap, or that a day or two would make no difference. At the end of the second day after Dunlap spoke45 to me of his being here the latter said: “Don’t you want to come along with me and see John?”
I was delighted at the invitation and that same evening followed Dunlap to John’s hotel room. It was a curious meeting, full of an odd diffidence on my part and I know not what on his. From others he had gathered the idea that I was successful here and therefore in a position to be uppish, whereas I was really in a most humble46 and affectionate frame of mind toward him. He met me with a most cynical, leering expression, which by no means put me at case. He seemed at once reproachful, antagonistic47 and contemptuous.
“Well,” he began at once, “I hear you’re making a big hit down here, Theodore. Everything’s coming your way now, eh?”
“Oh, not so good as that, John,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve done so wonderfully well. I hear you want to stay here; have you found anything yet?”
“Not a thing,” he smiled. “I haven’t been trying very hard, I guess.”
I told him what I knew of St. Louis, how things went generally, and offered to give him letters or personal introductions to McCullagh, a managing editor on the Chronicle, to Wandell, and several others. He thanked me, and then I invited him to come and live in my room, which he declined at the time, taking instead a room next door to mine on the same floor—largely because it was inexpensive and central and not, I am sure, because it was near me. Here he stayed nearly a month, during which time he doubtless made efforts to find something to do, which I also did. Suddenly he was gone, and a little later, and much to my astonishment48, Dunlap informed me that he had concluded that I had been instrumental in keeping him from obtaining work here! This he had deduced not so much from anything he knew or had heard, but by some amazing process of reversal; since I was much beholden to him and in a position to assist him, I, by some perversion49 of nature, would resent his coming and would do everything in my power to keep him out!
No event in my life ever gave me a queerer sense of being misunderstood and defeated. Of all the people I knew, I would rather have aided Maxwell than any one else. Because I felt so sure that I could not recommend him for anything good enough for him, I felt ashamed to try. I did the little I could, but after a while he left without bidding me good-by.
But before he went there were many gatherings50 in his room or mine, and always he assumed the same condescending51 and bantering52 tone toward me that he had used in Chicago, which made me feel as though he thought my present standing53 a little too good for me. And yet at times, in his more cheerful moods, he seemed the same old John, tender, ranting54, filled with a sincere desire for the welfare of any untutored beginner, and only so restless and irritable55 now because he was meshed56 in financial difficulties.
At that, he attempted to do me one more service, which, although I did not resent it very much, I completely misunderstood. This was in regard to Miss W——, whose photograph he now saw and whose relation to me he gathered to be serious, although what he said related more to my whole future than to her. One day he walked into my room and saw the picture of my love hanging on the wall. He paused first to examine it.
“Who’s this?” he inquired curiously.
I can see him yet, without coat or waistcoat, suspenders down, his fat stomach pulled in tightly by the waistband of his trousers, his fat face pink with health, his hair tousled on his fine round head.
“That’s the girl I’m engaged to,” I announced proudly. “I’m going to marry her one of these days when I get on my feet.” Then, lover-like, I began to expatiate57 on her charms, while he continued to study the photograph.
“Have you any idea how old she is?” he queried58, looking up with that queer, cynical, unbelieving look of his.
“Oh, about my age.”
“Oh hell!” he said roughly. “She’s older than that. She’s five or six years older than you. What do you want to get married for anyhow? You’re just a kid yet. Everything’s before you. You’re only now getting a start. Now you want to go and tie yourself up so you can’t move!”
He ambled59 over to the window and stared out. Then he sank comfortably into one of my chairs, while I uttered some fine romantic bosh about love, a home, not wanting to wander around the world all my days alone. As I talked he contemplated60 me with one of those audacious smirky61 leers of his, as irritating and disconcerting an expression as I have seen on any face.
“Oh hell, Theodore!” he remarked finally, as if to sweep away all I had said. Then after a time he added, as if addressing the world in general: “If there’s a bigger damn fool than a young newspaper man in or out of love, let me know. Here you are, just twenty-one, just starting out. You come down here from Chicago and get a little start, and the first thing you want to do is to load yourself up with a wife, and in a year or so two or three kids. Now I know damned well,” he went on, no doubt noting the look of easy toleration on my part, “that what I’m going to say won’t make you like me any better, but I’m going to say it anyhow. You’re like all these young newspaper scouts62: the moment you get a start you think you know it all. Well, Theodore, you’ve got a long time to live and a lot of things to learn. I had something to do with getting you into this game, and that’s the only reason I’m talking to you now. I’d like to see you go on and not make a mistake. In the first place you’re too young to get married, and in the second, as I said before, that girl is five years older than you if she’s a day. I think she’s older,” and he went over and re-examined the picture, while I spluttered, insisting that he was crazy, that she was no more than two years older if so much. “Along with this,” he went on, completely ignoring my remarks, “she’s one of these middle-West girls, all right for life out here but no good for the newspaper game or you. I’ve been through all that myself. Just remember, my boy, that I’m ten years older than you. She belongs to some church, I suppose?”
“Methodist,” I replied ruefully.
“I knew it! But I’m not knocking her; I’m not saying that she isn’t pretty and virtuous63, but I do say that she’s older than you, and narrow. Why, man, you don’t know your own mind yet. You don’t know where you’ll want to go or what you’ll want to do. In ten years from now you’ll be thirty-two, and she’ll be thirty-seven or more, believing and feeling things that will make you tired. You’ll never agree with her—or if you do, so much the worse for you. What she wants is a home and children and a steady provider, and what you really want is freedom to go and do as you please, only you don’t know it.
“Now I’ve watched you, Theodore, and I hear what people down here say about you, and I think you have something ahead of you if you don’t make a fool of yourself. But if you marry now—and a conventional and narrow woman at that, one older than you—you’re gone. She’ll cause you endless trouble. In three or four years you’ll have children, and you’ll get a worried, irritated point of view. Take my advice. Run with girls if you want to, but don’t marry. Now I’ve said my say, and you can do as you damned please.”
He smirked genially64 and condescendingly once more, and I felt very much impressed and put down. After all, I feared, in spite of my slushy mood, that what he said was true, that it would be best for me to devote myself solely65 to work and study and let women alone. But also I knew that I couldn’t.
The next time my beloved came to the city I decided66 to sound her on the likelihood of my changing, differing. We were walking along a leaf-strewn street, the red, brown, yellow and green leaves thick on the brick walk, of a gray November afternoon.
“And what would you do then?” I asked, referring to my fear of changing, not caring for her any longer.
She meditated67 for a while, kicking the leaves and staring at the ground without looking up. Finally she surveyed me with clear appealing blue-gray eyes.
“But you won’t,” she said. “Let’s not think of anything like that any more. We won’t, will we?”
Her tone was so tender and appealing that it moved me tremendously. She had this power over me, and retained it for years, of appealing to my deepest emotions. I felt so sorry for her—for life—even then. It was as if all that Maxwell had said was really true. She was different, older; she might never understand me. But this craving68 for her—what to do about that? All love, the fiercest passions, might cool and die out, but how did that help me then? In the long future before me should I not regret having given her up, never to have carried to fruition this delicious fever? I thought so.
For weeks thereafter my thoughts were colored by the truth of all John had said. She would never give herself to me without marriage, and here I was, lonely and financially unable to take her, and spiritually unable to justify69 my marriage to her even if I were. The tangle70 of life, its unfairness and indifference71 to the moods and longings72 of any individual, swept over me once more, weighing me down far beyond the power of expression. I felt like one condemned73 to carry a cross, and very unwilling74 and unhappy in doing it. The delirious75 painful meetings went on and on. I suffered untold76 tortures from my desires and my dreams. And they were destined10 never to be fulfilled.... Glorious fruit that hangs upon the vine too long, and then decays!
Another thing that happened at this time and made a great impression, tending more firmly than even Maxwell’s remarks to alter my point of view and make me feel that I must leave St. Louis and go on, was the arrival in the city of my brother Paul, who, as the star of a claptrap melodrama77 entitled “The Danger Signal,” now put in an appearance. He was one of my four brothers now out in the world making their own way and of them all by far the most successful. I had not seen him since my newspaper days in Chicago two years before. He was then in another play, “The Tin Soldier,” by the reigning78 farceur, Hoyt. His had not been the leading rôle at that time, but somehow his skill as a comedian79 had pushed him into that rôle. Previously80 he had leading parts in such middle-class plays as “A Midnight Bell,” “The Two Johns” and other things of that sort, as well as being an end man in several famous minstrel shows.
Now in this late November or early December, walking along South Sixth Street in the region of the old Havlin Theater, where all the standard melodramas81 of the time played, I was startled to see his face and name staring at me from a billboard82. “Ah,” I thought, “my famous brother! Now these people will know whether our family amounts to anything or not! Wait’ll they hear he is my brother!”
His picture on the billboard recalled so many pleasant memories of him, his visits home, his kindness to and intense love for my mother, how in my tenth year he had talked of my being a writer (Heaven only knows why), and how once on one of his visits home, when I was fourteen, he had set me to the task of composing a humorous essay which he felt sure I could write! Willingly and singingly I essayed it, but when I chose the ancient topic of the mule83 and its tendency to kick his face fell, and he tried to show me in the gentlest way possible how hackneyed that was and to put me on the track of doing something original.... Now after all this time, and scarcely knowing whether or not he knew I was here, I was to see him once more, to make clear to him my worldly improvement. I do not say it to boast, but I honestly think there was more joy in the mere43 thought of seeing him again than there was in showing him off and getting a little personal credit because of his success.
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1
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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7
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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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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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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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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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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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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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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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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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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reiterate
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| v.重申，反复地说 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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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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smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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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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46
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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47
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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50
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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51
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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52
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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53
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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54
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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55
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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meshed
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| 有孔的，有孔眼的，啮合的 | |
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expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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smirky
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| adj.假笑的，傻笑的，得意地笑的 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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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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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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melodramas
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| 情节剧( melodrama的名词复数 ) | |
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billboard
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| n.布告板，揭示栏，广告牌 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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