MEANWHILE, with summer coming on, Felix had wondered what an assistant dramatic editor would find to do. He learned from Hawkins that the management traditionally continued the Saturday dramatic department through the season, though in a restricted space. Later, in anticipation1 of the opening of the theatrical2 season, he could print the news of what New York and London held in prospect3 for the Chicago public. And for the present a column or two once a week could be furbished up somehow—the how of it being left entirely4 to Felix’s own discretion5 and ingenuity6.
“Interviews—clip-stuff from the London weeklies of last winter—anything to keep going,” said Hawkins, cleaning up his desk and going home on a formal leave of absence for the summer to rewrite his play—which, it appeared, had impressed a New York manager and only needed to be “strengthened” in its second act.
Felix, according to his arrangement with Willie Smith, was to write “something light,” every day if possible, for the editorial page; and that done, nobody cared what he put in the Saturday “Plays and Acting8” column. With Hawkins away, he felt that he had a free hand. And the fact that there were no new plays to criticize did not matter much, for the kind of criticism that Felix liked to write subsisted9 quite as well on familiar plays that everybody had seen as upon brand-new ones—better, perhaps.
Felix was rather humble10 about the kind of dramatic criticism he wrote; though that humility11 merely concealed13, from himself and others, a fierce egotistic pride. For his attitude toward plays was different from that of any other 216dramatic critic whose work he had ever seen. It was, in a sense, not a “critical” attitude at all. Perhaps that was why his commentaries had been so well received, by the management and the readers of the Chronicle. It was at least an agreeable novelty. But Felix knew quite well that he did not have either the experience or the knowledge necessary to do the job in the usual way. Truth to tell, he both stood in awe14 of, and despised, the usual way.... The regular critics were always telling you whether a play was good or bad, and why, and assessing expertly the merits of various bits of acting. Old Jennison, “the dean,” as he was sometimes called, “of the critical fraternity,” could remember the way Somebody had played Hamlet, and how Miss Somebody Else had done the “great scene” in “Camille,” and he told you all about it apropos15 of the latest play. This, doubtless, was real criticism, but of a kind Felix could not aspire16 to, for he had never seen Anybody in Anything. On the other hand, Hawkins was gravely an enthusiast17 for modernity, as represented by Ibsen and Shaw, and took occasion to point out the duty of American drama to bestir itself and deal with the problems of the time. Then, of course, there was a third kind of criticism, for which Felix had little respect—the enthusiastic pounding of drums outside the tent of some favourite actor or actress. And there was a fourth kind, for which Felix had no respect at all, but to which he sometimes feared his own work belonged—the smart-aleck kind of criticism.
He confessedly did not know very much about the art of acting, and could not even say that some part was played “in a masterly manner,” let alone tell the poor devil of an actor how he should have played it. He was, as a matter of fact, not interested in the technique of acting, but only in the effects produced. And, though he was a little ashamed of it, he could not really feel that the stage had any “duties,” either to modern problems or anything else. He still got a childlike thrill out of the fantasies enacted18 behind the footlights—at least for the first few moments after the curtain went up. And then, as that magic vanished 217for him, and he became bored by the dull spectacle and unconvincing dialogue on the stage, he became interested in the audience, for whom evidently this magic still persisted. He wondered why, and tried to see the play with their eyes, to find the things in it that held them, if not breathless, at least coughless, for minutes at a time. What emotions were those that were so touched by the cheap tears and tawdry heroisms of “The Witching Hour” and “The Third Degree”? Why was it that they liked to see the heroine in distress19, the hero unjustly accused? Felix set himself the task of proving that he knew why they liked these things—and he described the commonplace predicaments and familiar crises of current drama in terms which conveyed to his own mind some real emotional excitement, with only a touch or two of humorous satire20 as he resumed his own proper character as a philosophic21 observer. He found that he could translate the most absurd plot into something authentically22 interesting to himself—as if the worst play in the world were, after all, only a good play badly conceived. And in this mood, seeing bad plays through the eyes of an audience to whom they were interesting, he too became interested. He discovered some at least of the secrets of that wish-world of the theatre, in which what happens is what we want to happen: and, only when conscience pinches too hard, and reminds us that crime must be punished and virtue23 rewarded, what ought to happen—but not at all, no, never, a place where things happen as they do in everyday life! A strange world of pseudo-realities, elaborately persuading us at the outset that it is the same world of houses and streets as ours, inhabited by people like ourselves, wearing the same clothes and talking the same talk, ruled by the same eternal laws of probability—and then making come true for us for an hour our wildest, silliest, loveliest, most impossible dreams!
2
It was fascinating, this imaginative insight into people’s minds. And—in the absence of a real play—a vaudeville24 218act or moving-picture or burlesque25 show afforded him the same, or even a more profound and startling, enlightenment.
One evening that summer he went with Rose-Ann to a burlesque theatre on South State street. He noted26 the people who went in—workingmen, toughs, sailors, young men wearing the latest Arrow collar, and husbands accompanied by their wives. In the street outside, the wind picked up a litter of dust and paper and flung it into people’s faces. Over the roofs of tall buildings a dim moon shone in a cloudy sky. The brightest thing in this street was the arc-lighted promise of the theatre-entrance: “Refined Burlesque!”
In the front row, in an aisle27 seat, was a white-haired man who seemed to be nearly a hundred years old; he sat there with an air of having occupied that seat once every week since the theatre was built. Midway of the parquet28 floor sat a placid29 matron of fifty, beside her fat and complacent30 husband; their views on all subjects must have coincided exactly with those of Dr. Parkhurst—they were solid blocks in the fabric31 of our American civilization—and they had come here to find something which their life required, not to be had elsewhere. About them was a grey mass of padded masculine shoulders, with here and there, in twos and threes, girls, making spots of colour on the greyness. Above, the balcony buzzed—and the peanut-gallery filled suddenly like the breaking of a dam. An orchestra of seven filed in. And a hush32, not of eagerness but of religious certainty, filled the theatre. In fifteen hundred souls there was the calm that comes of utter confidence in the absolution (or, as Aristotle would say, katharsis!) which they were about to receive....
No one had come there for novelty; they had come for the familiar and satisfying benediction33 of burlesque. The old rite7 had changed a little with the changing times—it pretended to be a “musical comedy”—but the heart of the ancient mystery was still there. The tunes34 were those invented by Jubal, father of all such as handle the harp36 and organ—revised slightly, year by year; the first chord awoke 219dim ancestral memories. There was a trace of plot on the program, and the name of an author; but no one was deceived. For, to put any doubts at rest, and to make clear that this was simply the ten millionth performance of the seasonal37 festival invented by Adam (after a hard day’s work pulling eucalyptus38 stumps39 to the westward40 of Eden), it was entitled, in the good old traditional manner, “The Jolly Girls.”
The orchestra played its immemorial tunes, the sons of Adam leaned a little forward with a beatific41 look on their faces, the curtain rose, and the festival, the sacred orgy, began. The stage was filled with Beauty, in the form of four dozen female legs, while in the right wing waited Laughter, in the shape of a little man with a putty nose. The legs burst upon the scene in a blaze of light and sound—a kaleidoscope of calf42 and ankle, a whirl of soft pink feminine contours, a paradisiac vision of essential Girl: the whole theatre breathed forth43 a sigh of happiness, and the sons of Adam leant back in their seats, content. The promise of the dionysiac god to them that toiled44 and bore harsh burdens, was being fulfilled.
The legs, encased in pink tights, moved forward and back, up and down. Somewhere above them were lungs and larynxes that poured forth a volume of sound, in time to the hypnotic throb45 of the music. Gradually, in the melée, arms became visible, and, vaguely46 connecting the arms and legs, pieces of coloured cloth that finally became definite as golden tunics47, green sashes, scarlet48 bodices. Moreover, there were faces—but not real faces of weariness or anger or sadness, to disturb the illusion—these faces were masks, painted to express an impersonal49 and disinterested50 pleasure in the exhibition of bodily charms. Pink cheeks, bestrode eyelashed depths that emitted glances at the corners, carmined lips set in an imperishable smile—these served as the perfect and sufficient symbols of a joy that never was on sea or land.—But faces, after all, belong to another world, the world of reality; if one looks at them too long, one sees them, and the dream vanishes; so they were extinguished 220presently by a row of flying legs and arms—the scene became a chaos51 of feminine extremities52, the music rose to a climax53, and stopped, as the chorus left the stage. Entered the man with the putty nose.
He spoke54 to somebody, in a rapid, monotonous55, unintelligible56 voice; it did not matter, he was only telling what the plot of the piece was. His real function was revealed a minute later, when two tramps—a tall one and a short one—entered, and the tall one hit him over the head with a stick. The victim fell on his putty nose. The house rocked with laughter, and the gallery stormed applause.
What secret wish is gratified when we see man who was created in the image of God falling bump on his nose? Irresistibly57, by a profound impulse, we laugh. The cares of the day, the harsh realities of life, fade away when in the golden land of Never-never a tall man enters with his short companion and hits the third man (he of the putty nose) over the head with a slapstick.
In the course of the evening, the small man was hit over the head fifty-seven hundred times; he rose but to fall again, more helplessly than before. He was also kicked—in the nose, in the ear, in front and behind. His nose was pulled into an infinite variety of shapes, being made to resemble every object under heaven from a telephone wire to a turnip58. He submitted meekly59, and upon him the desire of the whole audience to see mankind made ridiculous was visited times without number.
Genially61, casually62, the tall man kicked him in the face whenever he happened to notice him. The tall man had taken possession of the stage. Singing, dancing, clowning, guying, arguing, wheedling63, mocking, bullying—now as an unshaven tramp, a few minutes later as an unshaven Turk, then as an unshaven pirate—whatever a man could be and do without first submitting to that odious64 refinement65 of civilization, the clean shave; in a dozen different costumes, always delightful66 and irresponsible and seductive, and always accompanied by his short comrade, he pervaded67 the evening. 221He spoke, and the audience laughed; he refrained from speaking, and the audience laughed.
His slapstick, that magic wand which had only to touch things to make them funny, was like himself. He had slapstick shoulders, slapstick eyebrows68, ears, nose, legs, posteriors; he acted with all of these, eloquently—and at each gesture some ideal of human dignity was knocked on the head and tumbled on its nose. He sang, walked across the room, made love—and these actions, to the immense satisfaction of the audience, were revealed as essentially70 absurd. The precious gift he brought was a genial60 vulgarity, a hilarious71 cheapening of the values of normal life. When he spoke, with irresistible72 drollery73, about women, about work, about marriage, about anything in the world, it became not worth a—his abrupt74 gesture told what—and the stout75 matron in the middle of the parquet became hysterical76 with laughter. For a moment she was not a solid block in the structure of our respectable American civilization—she was a rebellious77 child, delightedly come into a dream world where all burdens are lifted, all values transvalued. It seemed to do her good.... Then two dimpled soubrettes sang another song.
In and out between these episodes floated the chorus, shaking its immortal78 legs. The legs and their owners classified themselves into three ranks or hierarchies79 of fleshly charm: in front, the “little ones,” the “ponies”; in the next row, the “mediums”; and, last and most sumptuous80, the “big ones,” the “show girls.” The big ones were the piece de resistance; no frills, no sauces, but a satisfying super-abundance. All that the hungry eye desired was bodied forth in these vast and shapely statues of feminine flesh, tipping the scales at not less than two hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds of arm and leg, bust81 and buttock; here was riches, here was Golconda—two hundred pounds of female meat! A thousand hungry eyes feasted rapturously on the sight.
But this was not the ultimate magic of burlesque.
A storm of applause, and a young woman entered on one 222toe, kicking the zenith with the other. A young woman? A pinwheel, a skyrocket, a slender feminine firework! Feminine? Not with the obvious allurements82 of her sex. Her figure was like that of a boy; boyish was the mischievous83 face that sparkled behind the tangle84 of her short curls. She was like a sword-blade in this poppyfield of easy dreams. Her soul was adventurous85, like her legs; she kicked open the zenith with her boisterous86 boyish laugh. She defied the code of this tinsel dream-world, in which women burn with the ready fires of miscellaneous invitation; she seemed beyond sex. Nor was she a mere12 bundle of graceful87 muscles. She had, shining in contrast to all this impersonal eroticism, a hint of personality, a will of her own, an existence independent of the wishes of the audience. She smiled at them, but scornfully, indifferently, mischievously,—and triumphed over them. That touch of reality gave a momentary88 sharp savour to the too-cloying illusion. Then she left the stage—on her hands—and the dream-festival went on as before.
The music pounded itself, with endless repetition, through the senses, into the soul. The rhythm of legs became the rhythm of the universe. The people of the audience were absolutely at one with each other and with the genius of the slapstick, who talked to them familiarly now, as his friends. Cries and handclaps of applause mingled89 with the rhythm. The heart of the theatre beat gigantically, joyously90, ecstatically. The play rose to its climax. To the tune35 of “Yankee Doodle,” the young firework appeared, turning handsprings, an American flag on the seat of her pants. Walking on her ear, she crossed the stage, waving the flag in the faces of the audience. The audience applauded in patriotic91 frenzy92. They would have died for that flag.
The curtain fell, rose a foot from the floor, and disclosed a row of legs—legs—legs—twinkling across behind the footlights. Into those legs was concentrated the infinite sorcery of the theatre.... But it was time to go home. It was 223time to re-enter the world of reality.—Another leg appeared, the eloquent69 left leg of the tall slapstick comedian93, clothed round with heavy woolen94 drawers and clasped by a Boston garter. It seemed to say: “After all, my friends, a leg is only a leg!” The spell was broken, and the audience began slowly to file out into the dusty street.
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1
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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9
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
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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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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authentically
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| ad.sincerely真诚地 | |
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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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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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seasonal
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| adj.季节的，季节性的 | |
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eucalyptus
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| n.桉树，桉属植物 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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45
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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47
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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49
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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50
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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51
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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52
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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53
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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54
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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55
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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56
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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58
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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60
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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69
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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70
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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71
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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72
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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73
drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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74
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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79
hierarchies
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| 等级制度( hierarchy的名词复数 )； 统治集团； 领导层； 层次体系 | |
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80
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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81
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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82
allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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83
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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84
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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86
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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87
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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88
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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89
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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92
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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