So much for a free press in Pittsburgh, A.D. 1893!
And I found that the city itself, possibly by reason of the recent defeat administered to organized labor and the soft pedal of the newspapers, presented a most quiescent4 and somnolent5 aspect. There was little local news. Suicides, occasional drownings, a wedding or death in high society, a brawl6 in a saloon, the enlargement of a steel plant, the visit of a celebrity7 or the remarks of some local pastor8, provided the pabulum on which the local readers were fed. Sometimes an outside event, such as the organization by General Coxey, of Canton, Ohio, of his “hobo” army, at that time moving toward Washington to petition congress against the doings of the trusts; or the dictatorial9 and impossible doings of Grover Cleveland, opposition10 President to the dominant11 party of the State; or the manner in which the moribund12 Democratic party of this region was attempting to steal an office or share in the spoils—these and the grand comments of gentlemen in high financial positions here and elsewhere as to the outlook for prosperity in the nation or the steel mills or the coal fields, occupied the best places in the newspapers. For a great metropolis13 as daring, forceful, economically and socially restless as this, it seemed unbelievable that it could be so quiescent or say so little about the colossal14 ambitions animating15 the men at the top. But when it came to labor or the unions, their restlessness or unholy anarchistic16 demands, or the trashy views of a third-rate preacher complaining of looseness in dress or morals, or an actor voicing his views on art, or a politician commenting on some unimportant phase of our life, it was a very different matter. These papers were then free enough to say their say.
I recall that Thomas B. Reed, then Speaker of the House, once passed through the city and stopped off to visit some friendly steel magnate. I was sent to interview him and obtain his views as to “General” Coxey’s army, a band of poor mistaken theorists who imagined that by marching to Washington and protesting to Congress they could compel a trust-dictated American Senate and House to take cognizance of their woes18. This able statesman—and he was no fool, being at the time in the councils and favor of the money power and looked upon as the probable Republican Presidential nominee—pretended to me to believe that a vast national menace lay in such a movement and protest.
“Why, it’s the same as revolution!” he ranted19, washing his face in his suite20 at the Monongahela, his suspenders swaying loosely about his fat thighs21. “It’s an unheard-of proceeding22. For a hundred years the American people have had a fixed23 and constitutional and democratic method of procedure. They have their county and State and national conventions, and their power of instructing delegates to the same. They can write any plank24 they wish into any party platform, and compel its enforcement by their votes. Now comes along a man who finds something that doesn’t just suit his views, and instead of waiting and appealing to the regular party councils, he organizes an army and proceeds to march on Washington.”
“But he has been able to muster25 only three or four hundred men all told,” I suggested mildly. “He doesn’t seem to be attracting many followers26.”
“The number of his followers isn’t the point,” he insisted. “If one man can gather an army of five hundred, another can gather an army of ten or five hundred thousand. That means revolution.”
“Yes,” I ventured. “But what about the thing of which they are complaining?”
“It doesn’t matter what their grievance27 is,” he said somewhat testily28. “This is a government of law and prescribed political procedure. Our people must abide29 by that.”
I was ready to agree, only I was thinking of the easy manner in which delegates and elected representatives everywhere were ignoring the interests if not the mandates30 of the body politic17 at large and listening to the advice and needs of financiers and trust-builders. Already the air was full of complaints against monopoly. Trusts and combinations of every kind were being organized, and the people were being taxed accordingly. All property, however come by, was sacred in America. The least protest of the mass anywhere was revolutionary, or at least the upwellings of worthless and never-to-be-countenanced malcontents. I could not believe this. I firmly believed then, as I do now, that the chains wherewith a rapidly developing financial oligarchy31 or autocracy32 meant to bind33 a liberty-deluded mass were then and there being forged. I felt then, as I do now, that the people of that day should have been more alive to their interests, that they should have compelled, at Washington or elsewhere, by peaceable political means if possible, by dire34 and threatening uprisings if necessary, a more careful concern for their interests than any congressman35 or senator or governor or President, at that time or since, was giving them. As I talked to this noble chairman of the House my heart was full of these sentiments, only I did not deem it of any avail to argue with him. I was a mere36 cub37 reporter and he was the Speaker of the House of Representatives, but I had a keen contempt for the enthusiasm he manifested for law. When it came to what the money barons38 wished, the manufacturers and trust organizers hiding behind a huge and extortionate tariff39 wall, he was one of their chief guards and political and congressional advocates. If you doubt it look up his record.
But it was owing to this very careful interpretation40 of what was and what was not news that I experienced some of the most delightful41 newspaper hours of my life. Large features being scarce, I was assigned to do “city hall and police, Allegheny,” as the assignment book used to read, and with this mild task ahead of me I was in the habit of crossing the Allegheny River into the city of Allegheny, where, ensconced in a chair in the reporters’ room of the combined city hall and central police station or in the Carnegie Public Library over the way, or in the cool, central, shaded court of the Allegheny General Hospital, with the head interne of which I soon made friends, I waited for something to turn up. As is usual with all city and police and hospital officials everywhere, the hope of favorable and often manufactured publicity42 animating them, I was received most cordially. All I had to do was to announce that I was from the Dispatch and assigned to this bailiwick, and I was informed as to anything of importance that had come to the surface during the last ten or twelve hours. If there was nothing—and usually there was not—I sat about with several other reporters or with the head interne of the hospital, or, having no especial inquiry43 to make, I crossed the street to Squire44 Daniels, whose office was in the tree-shaded square facing this civic45 center, and here (a squire being the equivalent of a petty police magistrate), inquired if anything had come to his notice.
Squire Daniels, a large, bald, pink-faced individual of three hundredweight, used of a sunny afternoon these warm Spring days to sit out in front of his office, his chair tilted46 against his office wall or a tree, and, with three or four cronies, retail47 the most delicious stories of old-time political characters and incidents. He was a mine of this sort of thing and an immense favorite in consequence with all the newspaper men and politicians. I was introduced to him on my third or fourth day in Allegheny as he was sitting out on his tilted chair, and he surveyed me with a smile.
“From the Dispatch, eh? Well, take a chair if you can find one; if you can’t, sit on the curb48 or in the doorway49. Many’s the man I seen from the Dispatch in my time. Your boss, Harry50 Gaither, used to come around here before he got to be city editor. So did your Sunday man, Funger. There ain’t much news I can give you, but whatever there is you’re welcome to it. I always treat all the boys alike,” and he smiled. Then he proceeded with his tale, something about an old alderman or politician who had painted a pig once in order to bring it up to certain prize specifications51 and so won the prize, only to be found out later because the “specifications” wore off. He had such a zestful52 way of telling his stories as to compel laughter.
And then directly across the street to the east from the city hall was the Allegheny Carnegie library, a very handsome building which contained, in addition to the library, an auditorium53 in which had been placed the usual “one of the largest” if not “the largest” pipe organ in the world. This organ had one advantage: it was supplied with a paid city organist, who on Sundays, Wednesdays and Saturdays entertained the public with free recitals54, and so capable was he that seats were at a premium55 and standing-room only the rule unless one arrived far ahead of time. This manifestation56 of interest on the part of the public pleased me greatly and somehow qualified57, if it did not atone58 for, Mr. Carnegie’s indifference59 to the welfare of his employees.
But I was most impressed with the forty or fifty thousand volumes so conveniently arranged that one could walk from stack to stack, looking at the labels and satisfying one’s interest by browsing60 in the books. The place had most comfortable window-nooks and chairs between stacks and in alcoves61. One afternoon, having nothing else to do, I came here and by the merest chance picked up a volume entitled The Wild Ass’s Skin by the writer who so fascinated Wandell—Honoré de Balzac. I examined it curiously63, reading a preface which shimmered64 with his praise. He was the great master of France. His Comédie Humaine covered every aspect of the human welter. His interpretations65 of character were exhaustive and exact. His backgrounds were abundant, picturesque66, gorgeous. In Paris his home had been turned into a museum, and contained his effects as they were at the time of his death.
I turned to the first page and began reading, and from then on until dusk I sat in this charming alcove62 reading. A new and inviting67 door to life had been suddenly thrown open to me. Here was one who saw, thought, felt. Through him I saw a prospect68 so wide that it left me breathless—all Paris, all France, all life through French eyes. Here was one who had a tremendous and sensitive grasp of life, philosophic69, tolerant, patient, amused. At once I was personally identified with his Raphael, his Rastignac, his Bixiou, his Bianchon. With Raphael I entered the gaming-house in the Palais Royal, looked despairingly down into the waters of the Seine from the Pont Royal, turned from it to the shop of the dealer70 in antiques, was ignored by the perfect young lady before the shop of the print-seller, attended the Taillefer banquet, suffered horrors over the shrinking skin. The lady without a heart was all too real. It was for me a literary revolution. Not only for the brilliant and incisive71 manner with which Balzac grasped life and invented themes whereby to present it, but for the fact that the types he handled with most enthusiasm and skill—the brooding, seeking, ambitious beginner in life’s social, political, artistic72 and commercial affairs (Rastignac, Raphael, de Rubempre, Bianchon)—were, I thought, so much like myself. Indeed, later taking up and consuming almost at a sitting The Great Man from the Provinces, Père Goriot, Cousin Pons, Cousin Bette, it was so easy to identify myself with the young and seeking aspirants73. The brilliant and intimate pictures of Parisian life, the exact flavor of its politics, arts, sciences, religions, social goings to and fro impressed me so as to accomplish for me what his imaginary magic skin had done for his Raphael: transfer me bodily and without defect or lack to the center as well as the circumference74 of the world which he was describing. I knew his characters as well as he did, so magical was his skill. His grand and somewhat pompous75 philosophical76 deductions77, his easy and offhand78 disposition79 of all manner of critical, social, political, historical, religious problems, the manner in which he assumed as by right of genius intimate and irrefutable knowledge of all subjects, fascinated and captured me as the true method of the seer and the genius. Oh, to possess an insight such as this! To know and be a part of such a cosmos80 as Paris, to be able to go there, to work, to study, suffer, rise, and even end in defeat if need be, so fascinatingly alive were all the journeys of his puppets! What was Pittsburgh, what St. Louis, what Chicago?—and yet, in spite of myself, while I adored his Paris, still I was obtaining a new and more dramatic light on the world in which I found myself. Pittsburgh was not Paris, America was not France, but in truth they were something, and Pittsburgh at least had aspects which somehow suggested Paris. These charming rivers, these many little bridges, the sharp contrasts presented by the east end and the mill regions, the huge industries here and their importance to the world at large, impressed me more vividly81 than before. I was in a workaday, begrimed, and yet vivid Paris. Taillefer, Nucingen, Valentin were no different from some of the immense money magnets here, in their case, luxury, power, at least the possibilities which they possessed82.
Coming out of the library this day, and day after day thereafter, the while I rendered as little reportorial service as was consistent with even a show of effort, I marveled at the physical similarity of the two cities as I conceived it, at the chance for pictures here as well as there. American pictures here, as opposed to French pictures there. And all the while I was riding with Lucien to Paris, with his mistress, courting Madame Nucingen with Rastignac, brooding over the horror of the automatically contracting skin with Raphael, poring over his miseries83 with Goriot, practicing the horrible art of prostitution with Madame Marneffe. For a period of four or five months I ate, slept, dreamed, lived him and his characters and his views and his city. I cannot imagine a greater joy and inspiration than I had in Balzac these Spring and Summer days in Pittsburgh. Idyllic84 days, dreamy days, poetic85 days, wonderful days, the while I ostensibly did “police and city hall” in Allegheny.
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1
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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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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moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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anarchistic
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| 无政府主义的 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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ranted
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的过去式和过去分词 )；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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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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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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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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mandates
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| 托管（mandate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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oligarchy
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| n.寡头政治 | |
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autocracy
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| n.独裁政治，独裁政府 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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Congressman
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| n.（美）国会议员 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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46
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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50
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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specifications
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| n.规格；载明；详述；（产品等的）说明书；说明书( specification的名词复数 )；详细的计划书；载明；详述 | |
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52
zestful
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| adj.有滋味 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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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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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；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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alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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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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shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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78
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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79
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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80
cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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81
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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82
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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83
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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84
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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85
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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