Chapter 3 third quarter

Fields was Harvard's publisher, and that was all he had to do with the university.Not so for other scholars: Longfellow, Harvard's most famous professor, stepped back to devote himself to poetry only about a decade ago; Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, George Washington Green is both an alumnus of Harvard; what's more, Holmes and Lowell are also famous professors at Harvard. He later became the chair of the Department of Modern Languages ​​and Literatures at Harvard College. "Dear Osgood, this book is a masterpiece from the soul of Boston and the heart of Harvard. Even Manning would not be so blind as to not see that."

Holmes, a professor of medicine and a poet, hurried across the manicured lanes of downtown Boston toward the offices of his publisher, walking so quickly that it seemed he was being pursued.In the pocket of his moiré silk waistcoat was a sheet of paper folded in a rectangle, and it was because of it that the little doctor strode up to the new street corner with terrified dread. Holmes burst into the spacious former showroom of Tickna Fields. "Yo, isn't that the dictator at the great breakfast table?" Samuel Tickner said good-bye to Cecilia Emery as he put on his gloves.He is not an ordinary employee of a publishing company. He has real estate in the best part of Buck's Bay, a beautiful wife, and servants.

Holmes took his hand. "It's a posh little world on New Corner, isn't it, dear Mr. Tickner?" he laughed. "I'm quite surprised that Mr. Fields doesn't get lost here." "He hasn't," Samuel Tickner muttered earnestly, and then gave a chuckle, or a snort. Osgood came and led Holmes upstairs.He explained that Fields was in a meeting and asked Holmes to wait in the lavishly furnished author's reception room.As soon as he entered the reception room, he tremblingly took out a check from his pocket, stared at it blankly, only felt that the scribbled numbers on it were mocking him, and his heart was filled with a sense of failure.From this ink-stained number, he seems to see that his poetry career has been hit repeatedly in recent years, and it will be difficult to achieve the achievements of the past in the future.He sat there in silence, holding the check between his forefinger and thumb, and stroking it like Aladdin stroking a magic lamp.In a trance, Holmes imagined that Fields was receiving, persuading, and guiding young writers like newborn calves at this moment.

He strolled out of the author's reception room, saw the door of Fields' office closed, and turned back.The second time I looked, the door was still closed, but when he was about to turn and walk back, the voice of the poet and editor Lowell came from the crack of the door.Holmes felt that the conversation in the room was most likely related to him, so he stopped and listened intently. Holmes squinted his eyes, as if he could turn part of his vision into hearing. He finally heard a word that interested him. He was about to think about it, but he was hit by something and fell to the ground.

A young man stops abruptly in front of the eavesdropper, arms flailing, a look of comic regret on his face. "It's all my fault, my fellow," laughed the poet, "I'm Dr. Holmes, and you're..." "Till, doctor, sir." The clerk introduced himself incoherently while trembling, but then became timid and ran away in a hurry. "I saw you just met Dan Teal." Osgood came up from the hall. "Poor fellow, he's always messing around, but he works hard." "Shall I see if Mr. Fields is over?" asked Osgood. As soon as the words were finished, the door opened. Lowell twirled his beard and stood at the door looking out.Lowell, with his bushy hair and a large beard, is slovenly and dignified, but it is his dark, piercing eyes that are most attractive.Just now, he was alone in Fields' office reading today's newspaper.

Holmes thought that if Lowell wanted to share his worries, he would say: It is time to help Longfellow publish the "Divine Comedy", Holmes, don't worry about our poor vanity..." Come in, Holmes!" Lowell greeted after taking a sip of his wine. Holmes said, "Lowell, I'm sure I heard voices in here just now. What the hell?" Lowell laughed happily and extinguished the cigar in his hand. "Ha, the Dante Club should have a good celebration tonight. I was reading this aloud just now, trying to see how it feels to read." Lowell pointed to the newspaper on the table, and then explained that Fields went downstairs The cafeteria has gone.

"Lowell, has the Atlantic adjusted its pay scale? I mean, I don't know if you've published poetry in the latest issue? Of course, you're working on The North American Review." Holmes asked from his pocket. He fished out the check. Lowell didn't listen to what he said, and said to himself: "Holmes, you have to take a good look at this! Fields has done his best. There, go down. Take a look." He was mysterious Nodding, watching with concern.Holmes turned the paper to the literary section, which still smelled of Lowell's cigarettes. "But I want to ask, my dear Lowell," said Holmes stubbornly, absently reading the paper, "if it's lately—oh, thank you." He took a glass of brandy and water.

Fields returned with a frizzy beard and a big smile.Like Lowell, he was not only happy but also complacent, bewildering. "Holmes! Didn't expect to see you here. I just sent for you at the medical school and told you to go to Mr. Clark's. The payment for the last issue of The Atlantic cost a goddamn mistake. You probably got a check for $75 per poem, not $100, right?" "Really?" Holmes breathed a sigh of relief, then a little embarrassed. "Huh, I always want more." "Smart! My dear Fields, you're a Jew!" said Lowell, snatching the paper from Holmes.Lowell's friends did not pay much attention to his strange statement, because he always insisted on inferring that all magi (including himself) had some unknown Jewishness, or at least Jewish blood.

"My booksellers will be dying to get out of the confines," Fields said triumphantly. "The profit from one sale in Boston alone will be enough to buy us a big shiny wagon!" "Dear Fields," Lowell said with a bright smile.He tapped the newspaper lightly, as if it contained treasure. "If you were Dante's publisher, I dare say Florence would have welcomed him back with singing and dancing!" Holmes laughed, but said in a defiant tone: "If Fields had been the publisher, Lowell, Dante would not have been exiled at all." They were about to go to Longfellow's house. Dr. Holmes got up to take his leave and went to Mr. Clark, the treasurer. Fields could see that Lowell was a little troubled.Lowell is a man who expresses his heart no matter what he encounters.

"Don't you think Holmes doesn't seem firm enough?" Lovell asked. "He looks like he's just read the obituary," he cut short, knowing that Fields couldn't get used to the smell of smoke in his mouth. "His own obituary." Fields laughed it off. "He's too busy writing novels and nothing else; and he's always anxious about whether the critics will do him justice. Well, he's got a lot on his mind." "Here's the problem! If Harvard keeps trying to intimidate us..." Lowell paused, then added, "Fields, I don't want it to sound like we'll end up doing nothing about it. Don't you think But maybe the club is just dispensable to Holmes?"

Fields stood beside the daguerreotype of Holmes on the wall, pretending to be proud of the little doctor.He put his hand on Lowell's strong shoulders and said sincerely: "Dear Lowell, our Dante Club is incomplete without him. He does have other ambitions, but it is also to keep his talent. .Well, maybe he's Dr. Johnson's?????? kind of a sociable guy. But he's always been there for us, for Longfellow, isn't he?"