3 Books To Know Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Edith WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Hello, young namesake,” said the uncle. “Why lingers the laggard heel of the dancer? Haven't you got a partner?”
“She's sitting around waiting for me somewhere,” said George. “See here: Who is this fellow Morgan that Aunt Fanny Minafer was dancing with a while?”
Amberson laughed. “He's a man with a pretty daughter, Georgie. Meseemed you've been spending the evening noticing something of that sort—or do I err?”
“Never mind! What sort is he?”
“I think we'll have to give him a character, Georgie. He's an old friend; used to practice law here—perhaps he had more debts than cases, but he paid 'em all up before he left town. Your question is purely mercenary, I take it: you want to know his true worth before proceeding further with the daughter. I cannot inform you, though I notice signs of considerable prosperity in that becoming dress of hers. However, you never can tell, it is an age when every sacrifice is made for the young, and how your own poor mother managed to provide those genuine pearl studs for you out of her allowance from father, I can't—”
“Oh, dry up!” said the nephew. “I understand this Morgan—”
“Mr. Eugene Morgan,” his uncle suggested. “Politeness requires that the young should—”
“I guess the 'young' didn't know much about politeness in your day,” George interrupted. “I understand that Mr. Eugene Morgan used to be a great friend of the family.”
“Oh, the Minafers?” the uncle inquired, with apparent innocence. “No, I seem to recall that he and your father were not—”
“I mean the Ambersons,” George said impatiently. “I understand he was a good deal around the house here.”
“What is your objection to that, George?”
“What do you mean: my objection?”
“You seemed to speak with a certain crossness.”
“Well,” said George, “I meant he seems to feel awfully at home here. The way he was dancing with Aunt Fanny—”
Amberson laughed. “I'm afraid your Aunt Fanny's heart was stirred by ancient recollections, Georgie.”
“You mean she used to be silly about him?”
“She wasn't considered singular,” said the uncle “He was—he was popular. Could you bear a question?”
“What do you mean: could I bear—”
“I only wanted to ask: Do you take this same passionate interest in the parents of every girl you dance with? Perhaps it's a new fashion we old bachelors ought to take up. Is it the thing this year to—”
“Oh, go on!” said George, moving away. “I only wanted to know—” He left the sentence unfinished, and crossed the room to where a girl sat waiting for his nobility to find time to fulfil his contract with her for this dance.
“Pardon f' keep' wait,” he muttered, as she rose brightly to meet him; and she seemed pleased that he came at all—but George was used to girls' looking radiant when he danced with them, and she had little effect upon him. He danced with her perfunctorily, thinking the while of Mr. Eugene Morgan and his daughter. Strangely enough, his thoughts dwelt more upon the father than the daughter, though George could not possibly have given a reason—even to himself—for this disturbing preponderance.
By a coincidence, though not an odd one, the thoughts and conversation of Mr. Eugene Morgan at this very time were concerned with George Amberson Minafer, rather casually, it is true. Mr. Morgan had retired to a room set apart for smoking, on the second floor, and had found a grizzled gentleman lounging in solitary possession.
“'Gene Morgan!” this person exclaimed, rising with great heartiness. “I'd heard you were in town—I don't believe you know me!”
“Yes, I do, Fred Kinney!” Mr. Morgan returned with equal friendliness. “Your real face—the one I used to know—it's just underneath the one you're masquerading in to-night. You ought to have changed it more if you wanted a disguise.”
“Twenty years!” said Mr. Kinney. “It makes some difference in faces, but more in behaviour!”
“It does so!” his friend agreed with explosive emphasis. “My own behaviour began to be different about that long ago—quite suddenly.”
“I remember,” said Mr. Kinney sympathetically. “Well, life's odd enough as we look back.”
“Probably it's going to be odder still—if we could look forward.”
“Probably.”
They sat and smoked.
“However,” Mr. Morgan remarked presently, “I still dance like an Indian. Don't you?”
“No. I leave that to my boy Fred. He does the dancing for the family.”
“I suppose he's upstairs hard at it?”
“No, he's not here.” Mr. Kinney glanced toward the open door and lowered his voice. “He wouldn't come. It seems that a couple of years or so ago he had a row with young Georgie Minafer. Fred was president of a literary club they had, and he said this young Georgie got himself elected instead, in an overbearing sort of way. Fred's red-headed, you know—I suppose you remember his mother? You were at the wedding—”
“I remember the wedding,” said Mr. Morgan. “And I remember your bachelor dinner—most of it, that is.”
“Well, my boy Fred's as red-headed now,” Mr. Kinney went on, “as his mother was then, and he's very bitter about his row with Georgie Minafer. He says he'd rather burn his foot off than set it inside any Amberson house or any place else where young Georgie is. Fact is, the boy seemed to have so much feeling over it I had my doubts about coming myself, but my wife said it was all nonsense; we mustn't humour Fred in a grudge over such a little thing, and while she despised that Georgie Minafer, herself, as much as any one else did, she wasn't going to miss a big Amberson show just on account of a boys' rumpus, and so on and so on; and so we came.”
“Do people dislike young Minafer generally?”
“I don't know about 'generally.' I guess he gets plenty of toadying; but there's certainly a lot of people that are glad to express their opinions about him.”
“What's the matter with him?”
“Too much Amberson, I suppose, for one thing. And for another, his mother just fell down and worshipped him from the day he was born. That's what beats me! I don't have to tell you what Isabel Amberson is, Eugene Morgan. She's got a touch of the Amberson high stuff about her, but you can't get anybody that ever knew her to deny that she's just about the finest woman in the world.”
“No,” said Eugene Morgan. “You can't get anybody to deny that.”
“Then I can't see how she doesn't see the truth about that boy. He thinks he's a little tin god on wheels—and honestly, it makes some people weak and sick just to think about him! Yet that high-spirited, intelligent woman, Isabel Amberson, actually sits and worships him! You can hear it in her voice when she speaks to him or speaks of him. You can see it in her eyes when she looks at him. My Lord! What does she see when she looks at him?”
Morgan's odd expression of genial apprehension deepened whimsically, though it denoted no actual apprehension whatever, and cleared away from his face altogether when he smiled; he became surprisingly winning and persuasive when he smiled. He smiled now, after a moment, at this question of his old friend. “She sees something that we don't see,” he said.
“What does she see?”
“An angel.”
Kinney laughed aloud. “Well, if she sees an angel when she looks at Georgie Minafer, she's a funnier woman than I thought