had a noble contempt for all of us except our dollars, and he was almost ashamed to take those; their very nomenclature was vulgar and the decimal system was French.
The London success of his piece following upon his arrival at knighthood had completely spoiled him. Other great writers and actors who had received the accolade5 had
been rendered a little meeker6 and more knightly7 as knights8, but Incledon became almost unendurably offensive, even to his fellows in London. The decent English in New
York who had to meet him abominated10 him as civilized11 Americans abroad abominate9 the noisy specimens12 of Yankee insolence13 who go twanging their illiterate14 contempt
through the palaces and galleries and restaurants of Europe.
Sir Ralph was greatly distressed15 with the company Reben had proudly mustered17 for him. Tom Brereton was English born and bred, but Sir Ralph accused him of “an
extraord’n’r’ly atrowcious Amayric’n acs’nt.” Americans who had seen the London performance had been amazed not only at the success of Miss Berkshire, but at her
very tolerance18 on the stage; they said she looked like a giraffe and talked like a cow. But she pleased her own public somehow. When Sir Ralph saw Sheila he was not
impressed; he said that she was “even wahss” than Brereton and under “absolutely neigh-o sec’mst’nces could he permit hah to deviate19 from the p’fawm’nce of
d’yah aold Bahkshah.”
Sheila had flattered herself that she knew something of England and English; she had visited the island enough, and some of its stateliest homes; and she had had some
of the worst young peers making love to her. But Sir Ralph, she wrote her aunt, evidently regarded her “as something between a squaw and a pork-packer’s daughter.”
Sir Ralph threw her into such a bog20 of humiliation21 that she floundered at every step. How could she give an intelligent reading to a line when he wanted every word
sung according to the idiom of another woman of another race? How could she embody22 a r?le in its entirety when every utterance23 and motion was to be patterned on Sir
Ralph’s wretched imitations of a woman she had never seen?
Sir Ralph not only threw his company into a panic, but he revealed a positive genius for offending the reporters, the critics, the public. Before the first curtain
rose there was a feeling of hostility24, against which the disaffected25 and disorganized players struggled in vain.
His play was a beautiful structure, full of beautiful thoughts expertly wrought26 into form. But Sir Ralph, like so many authors, seemed to contradict in his person
everything worth while in his work.
His wife, Lady Incledon, knew him to be earnest, hard-working, emotional, timorous27. His anxiety and modesty28 when at bay before the public gave the impression of
conceit29, contempt, and insolence. If he had been more cocksure of his play he would not have been so critical of its interpreters. If he had not been so afraid of the
Americans he would not have tried to make them afraid of him. No tenderer-hearted novelist ever wrote than Dickens, yet he had the knack30 of infuriating mobs of people
into a warm desire to lynch him. No sweeter-souled poet ever sang than Keats, yet Byron said he never saw him but he wanted to kick him.
Sir Ralph Incledon had the misfortune to belong to this class. He was not popular at home and he was maddening abroad. He made Americans remember Bunker Hill and long
to avenge31 Nathan Hale. The critics felt it their patriotic32 duty to make reprisals33 for all the Americans who had failed in London and to send this Piccadillian back
with his coat-tails between his legs.
The opening performance in New York was a first-class disaster. The audience did not follow the London custom of calling the author out and booing him. It left him in
the wings, excruciated with ingrowing speech. He had drawn34 up one of the most tactless orations35 ever prepared in advance by a well-meaning author. He was not permitted
to deliver it. He had a cablegram written out to send his anxious wife overseas. He did not send it. When he read the next morning’s papers he was simply dazed. He
had come as a missionary36 direct from the capital to a benighted37 province and he was received with jeers—or “jahs,” as his dialect would be spelled in our dialect.
He wept privately38 and then put on an armor of contempt. He sailed shortly after, leaving the Americans marooned39 on their desert continent.
The actors were treated with little mercy by most of the critics, except to be used as bludgeons to whack40 the author with. Sheila’s notices were of the “however”
sort. “Miss Sheila Kemble is a promising41 young actress; the part she played, however, was so irritating—” or, “In spite of all the cleverness of—” or, “Sheila
Sheila sent the clippings to Mrs. Vining, and added: “Every bouquet44 had a brickbat in it. We are not long for this world, I fear.”
Reben fought valiantly45 for the play. He squandered46 money on extra spaces in the papers and on the bill-boards. He quoted from the critics who praise everything and he
emphasized lines about the scenery. The play simply did not endure the sea change. People who came would not enjoy it, and would not recommend it. It was hard even to
give away complimentary47 seats, and the result was one that would have been more amazing if it were less common; a successful play by a famous author produced with a
famous cast at a leading theater in the largest city of the New World was played to a theater that could not be filled at any or no price. The receipts fell to forty
dollars one night.
A newspaper wit wrote, “Last night the crowds on Broadway were so dense48 that a man was accidentally pushed into the Odeon Theater.” On another day he said, “Last
night during a performance of Sir Ralph Incledon’s masterpiece some miscreant49 entered the Odeon Theater and stole all the orchestra chairs.”
The slow death of a play is a miserable50 process. The actors began to see the nobilities of the work once the author was removed from in front of it. They regretted its
passing, but plays cannot live in a vacuum. Novels and paintings can wait patiently and calmly in suspended animation51 till their understanders grow up, but plays, like
infants, must be nourished at once or they die and stay dead.
Sheila and all the company had fought valiantly for the drama. Once Sir Ralph’s back was turned, they fell to playing their r?les their own way, and they at least
enjoyed their work more. But the audiences never came.
Sheila was plunged52 into deeps of gloom. She felt that she must suffer part of the blame or at least the punishment of the play’s non-success. She wished she had
stayed with “A Friend in Need.”
But Reben had always been known as a good sport, a plucky53 taker of whatever medicine the public gave him. After a bastinado from the critics he had waited to see what
the people would do. There was never any telling. Sometimes the critics would write p?ans of rapture54 and the lobby would be as deserted55 as a graveyard56, leaving the
box-office man nothing to do but manicure his nails. Sometimes the critics would unanimously condemn57, and there would be a queue at the door the next morning.
Sometimes the critics would praise and the mob would storm the window. Sometimes they would blame and audiences would stay away as if by conspiracy58. In any case, “the
box-office tells the story.”
Cassard, the manager, once said that he could tell if a play were a success by merely passing the theater an hour after the performance was over. A more certain test
at the Odeon Theater was the manner of Mr. Chittick, the box-office man. If he laid aside his nail-file without a sigh and proved patient and gracious with the
autobiographical woman who loitered over a choice of seats and their date, the play was a failure. If Mr. Chittick insulted the brisk business man who pushed the exact
sum of money over the ledge59 and weakly requested “the two best, please” the play was a triumph. Mr. Chittick was a very model of affability while Incledon’s play
occupied the stage of the unoccupied theater.
Reben’s motto was “The critics can make or break the first three weeks of a play and no more. After that they are forgotten.” If he saw the business growing by so
much as five dollars a night he hung on. But the Incledon play sagged60 steadily61. At the end of a week Reben had the company rehearsing another play called “Your Uncle
Dudley,” an old manuscript he had bought years ago to please a star he quarreled with later.
Reben talked big for a while about forcing the run; then he talked smaller and smaller with the receipts. Finally he announced that “owing to previous bookings it
will be necessary,” etc. “Mr. Reben is looking for another theater to which to transfer this masterwork of Sir Ralph Incledon. He may take it to Boston, then to
Chicago for an all-summer run.”
“Your Uncle Dudley,” appealed to Reben as a stop-gap. It would cost little. The cast was small; only one set was required. The title r?le fitted Brereton to a
nicety. He offered Sheila the heroine, who was a “straight.” She cannily64 chose a smaller part that had “character.” The play was flung on “cold”—that is,
without an out-of-town try-out.
It caught the public at “the psychological moment,” to use a denatured French expression. The morning after the first night the telephone drove Mr. Chittick frantic65.
He almost snapped the head off a dear old lady who wanted to buy two boxes. It was a hopeless success.
The only sour face about the place except his was the star’s. The critics accused Tom Brereton of giving “a creditable performance.” All the raptures66 were for
The critics are always “discovering” people, as Columbus discovered the Indians, who had been there a long while before. Two critics told Reben in the lobby between
the acts that there was star-stuff in Sheila. He thanked them both for giving him a novel idea: “I never thought of that, old man.” And the old men walked away like
praised children. Like children, they were very, very innocent when they were good and very, very incorrigible68 when they were horrid69.
Tom Brereton behaved badly, to Sheila’s thinking. To his thinking she was the evil spirit. He gave one of those examples of good business policy which is called
“professional jealousy70” in the theater. He did what any manufacturer does who resists the substitution of a “just as good” for his own widely advertised ware63. Tom
Brereton was the star of the piece according to his contracts and his prestige. He had toiled71 lifelong to attain72 his height and he was old enough and wise enough to
realize that he must maintain himself stubbornly or new ambitions would crowd him from his private peak.
Sheila had youth, femininity, and beauty, none of which qualities were Brereton’s. The critics and the public acclaimed73 the comet and neglected the planet. Reben’s
press agent, Starr Coleman, flooded the press with Sheila’s photographs and omitted Brereton’s, partly because the papers will always give more space to a pretty
woman than a plain man, and would rather publish the likeness74 of a rear-row chorus girl than of the eccentric comedian75 who heads the cast.
Coleman arranged interviews with Sheila, wrote them and gave them to dramatic editors and the gush-girls of the press. Coleman compiled what he called the “Sheila
Kemble cocktail” and demanded it at the bars to which he led the arid76 newspaper men. He did not object to the recipe being mentioned.
Sheila won the audiences, and if Brereton omitted her at a curtain call the audience kept on applauding stubbornly till he was forced to lead her out. She was always
waiting. She was greedy for points, and kept building her scenes, encroaching little by little.
Brereton sulked awhile, then protested formally to the stage-manager, who gave him little sympathy. Eventually Brereton tried to repress Sheila’s usurpations.
Little unpleasantnesses developed into open wrangles77. It was purely78 a business rivalry79, and Sheila had no right to expect gallantry in a field where she condescended
to put herself on an equality with men. But she expected it, none the less. The labor-unions show the same jealousy of women when they trespass80 on their profits in the
mills or the coal-mines.
Sheila began to hate Brereton with a young woman’s vivacity81 and frankness, and to torment82 him mischievously83. In one scene he had to embrace her with fervor84. She used
to fill her belt with pins and watch him wince85 as he smiled. He retaliated86 with as much dignity as he could muster16. He could not always muster much. His heart was full
of rage.
He visited Reben in his office and demanded his rights or his release. Reben tried to appease87 him; business was too good to be tampered88 with. Reben promised him
complete relief—next season. Then he would put somebody else in Sheila’s place.
He could afford to be gracious because he felt that the hour had come to launch Sheila as a star. Her success in a character r?le of peculiarly American traits led him
to abandon hope of finding a foreign success to float her in. Besides, he had lost so much money on Incledon’s London triumph that he was an intense partisan89 for the
native drama—till the next American play should fail, and the next importation succeed.
One evening, during the second entr’acte, he led a tall and scholarly-looking young man down the side aisle90 and back of a box to the stage. He left the uneasy alien
to dodge91 the sections of scenery that went scudding92 about like sails without hulls93. Then he went to dressing-room “No. 2” and tapped.
Pennock repeated, “We-ell?”
Reben shifted to his other foot and pleaded, “May I speak to Miss Kemble a moment?”
Pennock closed the door. Later Sheila opened it a little and peered through, clutching together a light wrapper she had slipped into.
“Oh, hello!” she cried. “I’m sorry I can’t ask you in. I’ve got a quick change, you know.”
Even the manager must yield to such conditions and Reben spoke around the casement97. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that since you are so unhappy in this company
you’d better have one of your own.”
Reben went on: “Since we had such bad success with the masterpiece of the foremost English dramatist, perhaps you might have good luck by going to the other extreme.
I’ve found the youngest playwright in captivity99. Nowadays these kindergarten college boys write a lot of successes. Joking aside, the boy has a manuscript I’d like
you to look over. There is a germ of something in it, I think. Will you just say Hello to him, please?”
“Miss Kemble, let me present Mr. Eugene Vickery.”
“How do you do, Mr. Nickerson?” said Sheila, and thrust one bare arm through the chink to give her hand to Vickery. The arm was all he could see of her except a
narrow longitudinal section of silhouette102 against the light over her mirror.
Vickery was so hurt, and so unreasonably103 hurt, by her failure to recall him who had cherished her remembrance all these years, that his surprise escaped him: “I met
you once before, but you don’t remember me.”
She lied politely, and squeezed the hand she felt around hers with a prevaricating104 cordiality. “Indeed I do. Let me see, where was it we met—in Chicago, wasn’t it,
this fall?”
“No; it was in Braywood.”
“Braywood? But I’ve never been in Braywood, have I? Mr. Reben, have I ever played Bray—Oh, that’s where my aunt and uncle live! But was I ever there?”
“Very long ago.”
“Oh, don’t say that! Not before my manager!”
“As a very little girl.”
“Oh, that’s better. You see, I go to so many places. And that’s where I met you? You’ve changed, haven’t you?”
She could see nothing of him except the large hand that still clung to hers. She got it back as he laughed:
“Yes, I’ve grown some taller. I played Hamlet to your Ophelia. Then I wrote a play for you, but you got away without hearing it. Now I’ve written another for you.
You can’t escape this time.”
“I won’t try to. I’m just dying to play it. What is it?”
A voice spoke in sternly: “Curtain’s going up. You ready, Miss Kemble?”
“Good Lord! Yes!” Then to Vickery. “I’ve got to fly. When can I see you, Mr. Bickerton?”
Reben solved the problem: “Got an engagement to supper?”
“Yes, but I’ll break it.”
“We’ll call for you.”
“Fine! Good-by, Mr.—Mr. Braywood!”
The door closed and Vickery turned away in such a whirl of elation105 that he almost walked into the scene where Tom Brereton was giving an unusually creditable
performance, since Sheila was off the stage.
点击
收听单词发音
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1
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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accolade
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| n.推崇备至，赞扬 | |
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meeker
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的比较级 ) | |
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knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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9
abominate
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| v.憎恨，厌恶 | |
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abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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disaffected
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| adj.（政治上）不满的，叛离的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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orations
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| n.（正式仪式中的）演说，演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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marooned
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| adj.被围困的；孤立无援的；无法脱身的 | |
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whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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59
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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cannily
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| 精明地 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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71
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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72
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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81
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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82
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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retaliated
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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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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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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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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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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100
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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102
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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103
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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104
prevaricating
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| v.支吾( prevaricate的现在分词 )；搪塞；说谎 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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