“I’m looking for you,” said the stage-manager.
“No, I’m not drunk. Tried to get drunk, but couldn’t.”
Eldon was at a loss for what to say to this. Suddenly Batterson was clinging to his arm, and sobbing3 with head bent4 down to hide his weakness from the passers-by.
“Tuell’s dead.”
“No! My God!”
“He never came out of the ether. They were too late to save him. The appendix had burst while he was working last night.”
Eldon, remembering that uncanny battle, felt the gush6 of brine to his eyes. He hung his head for concealment7, too.
Batterson raged on: “Remember what Hamlet said: ‘They say he made a good end.’ Tuell was only a mummer, but he died on the firing-line, makin’ ’em laugh. If he’d been a soldier trying to save somebody from paying taxes without representation or trying to protect some millionaire’s oil-wells, or a fireman trying to rescue somebody’s furniture—they’d have called him a damned hero. But he was only an actor—he only tried to make people happy. He was a comedian8, and not a good comedian—just a hard worker; one of these stage soldiers trying to keep the theater open.
“He did the best he knew how. The critics ripped him open and made him funnier than he could make himself. But he kept right on. I used to roast him worse than they did, God help me! But he never laid down on us. He died in his make-up. They didn’t take his grease-paint off till afterward9. They didn’t know how. I had to do it for him when I got there. Poor old painted face, with the comedian’s smile branded on it! That was his trade-mark. He was only an actor.”
Eldon noted10 that Batterson had led him, not to the hospital, but to the theater, with its electric signs, its circus lithographs11, its gaudy12 ballyhoo of advertisement.
Batterson groaned13: “Well, here’s the shop. We’ve got to do what Tuell did. The theater’s got to keep open. It’s another sell-out to-night. Somebody has to play Tuell’s part to-night. I want you to.”
In spite of the horror that filled his heart Eldon felt a shaft14 of hope like a thrust of lightning in the night. Then the dark closed in again, for Batterson went on:
“It’s only for to-night, old boy. I’ve wired to New York and a good man’ll be here to-morrow. But there’s to-night. You’ve got to go on. You fell down the other time, and I guess I told you so, but you didn’t have a rehearsal15. I can coach you up to-day. I’ve called the other people. They ought to be here now.”
And so they were.
On the gloomy stage before the empty house the company stood about in somber16 garb17, under the oppression of Tuell’s death. Batterson walked down to the footlights, clapped his hands, and said:
“Places, please, ladies and gentlemen, for poor old Tuell’s first scene. Mr. Eldon will play the part to-night.”
Those who were not on at the entrance drew to the sides. The others moved here and there and stood at their posts. Batterson directed with an unwonted calm, with a dismal18 patience.
The part Eldon held in his hand had been taken from Tuell’s trunk. The dead hands seemed to cling to it with grisly jealousy19. The laughter of Tuell seemed to haunt the place like the echo of a maniac’s voice. Eldon could not give any color to the lines. He could barely utter them. The company gave him his cues with equal lifelessness.
Sheila was present and read her flippancies in a voice of terror—the terror of youth before the swoop20 of death. Mrs. Vining muttered her cynicisms with the drear bitterness of one to whom this familiar sort of thing had happened once more.
When the detached scenes had been run over several times Batterson dismissed Eldon first that he might go and study. As he went he heard Batterson saying:
“Help him out to-night, ladies and gentlemen. Do the best you can. To-morrow we’ll have a regular man here. And now about poor Tuell. Some of the comic-opera people in town will sing at his funeral. His wife is coming out to get him. Mr. Reben telegraphed to pay the expenses of taking him back. I guess he didn’t leave the wife anything much—except some children. We’d better get up a little benefit, I guess—a matinée, probably. The other troupes21 in town will help, of course. If any of you know any good little one-act plays, let’s have ’em. I’ve got a screaming little farce22 we might throw on. I think I can get some of the vaudeville23 people to do a few comic turns.”
That night Eldon slipped into the dead man’s shoes—at least he wore the riding-boots and the hunting-coat and carried the crop that Tuell had worn. Tuell had had them made too large—for the comic effect that did not come. They fitted Eldon fairly well. But it was like acting24 in another man’s shroud25.
He was without ambition, without hope of personal profit. He was merely a stop-gap. He was too completely gloomy even to feel afraid of the audience. He was only a journeyman finishing another man’s job.
His memory worked like a machine, so independently of his mind that he seemed to have a phonograph in his throat. He kept wondering at the little explosions of laughter at his words.
He saw the surprise in Sheila’s eyes as he brought down the house—with so different a laughter now. He murmured to her in sudden dread26, “Are they guying me again?”
“No, no,” she answered. “Go on; you’re splendid!”
The news of Tuell’s death had taken little space in the evening papers. The audience, as a whole, was oblivious27 of it, or of what he had played. There was none of the regret on the other side of the footlights that solemnized the stage. The play had been established as a successful comedy. People came to laugh, and laughed with confidence.
But the pity of Tuell’s fate ruined any joy Eldon might have taken in the success he was winning. He played the part through in the same dull, indifferent tone. When he made his final exit he laughed as he had heard Tuell laugh, with uncanny mimicry28 as if a ghost inhabited him. He was hardly conscious of the salvo of applause that followed him. He supposed that some one still on the stage had earned it. He sighed with relief as he reached the shelter of the dark wings. Batterson, who had hovered29 near him, ready with the unnecessary prompt-book, glared at him in amazement30 and growled31:
“Good Lord! Eldon, who’d have ever picked you for a comedian?”
Eldon smiled at what he imagined to be sarcasm32, and took from his pocket the little pamphlet he had carried with him for quick reference. He offered it to Batterson. Batterson waved it back.
“Keep it, my boy. When the other fellow gets here from New York he can play your old part.”
点击收听单词发音
1 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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2 grumbled | |
抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 发牢骚; 咕哝; 发哼声 | |
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3 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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4 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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5 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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7 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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8 comedian | |
n.喜剧演员;滑稽演员 | |
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9 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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10 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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11 lithographs | |
n.平版印刷品( lithograph的名词复数 ) | |
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12 gaudy | |
adj.华而不实的;俗丽的 | |
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13 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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14 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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15 rehearsal | |
n.排练,排演;练习 | |
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16 somber | |
adj.昏暗的,阴天的,阴森的,忧郁的 | |
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17 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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18 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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19 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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20 swoop | |
n.俯冲,攫取;v.抓取,突然袭击 | |
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21 troupes | |
n. (演出的)一团, 一班 vi. 巡回演出 | |
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22 farce | |
n.闹剧,笑剧,滑稽戏;胡闹 | |
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23 vaudeville | |
n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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24 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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25 shroud | |
n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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26 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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27 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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28 mimicry | |
n.(生物)拟态,模仿 | |
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29 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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30 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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31 growled | |
v.(动物)发狺狺声, (雷)作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 );低声咆哮着说 | |
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32 sarcasm | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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