telephoned to Vickery’s apartments and told Vickery that he must see him at once. Vickery answered:
“Sorry I can’t ask you up or come to where you are this morning, but the fact is I’m at the last revision of my new play and I can’t leave it while it’s on the
fire. Meet me at the Vagabonds Club and we’ll have lunch, eh?—say, at half past twelve.”
Bret reached the club a little before the hour. Vickery had not come. The hall captain ushered2 Bret into the waiting-room. He sat there feeling a hopeless outsider. “
The Vagabonds” was made up chiefly of actors. From where he sat he could see them coming and going. He studied them as one looking down into a pool to see how curious
fish behave or misbehave. They hailed each other with a simple cordiality that amazed him. The spirit was rather that of a fraternity chapter-house than of a city
club, where every man’s chair is his castle. Everything was without pose; nearly everybody called nearly everybody by his first name. There were evidences of
prosperity among them. Through the window he could see actors, whose faces were familiar even to him, roll up in their own automobiles3.
At one o’clock Vickery had not come, and a friend of Bret’s, named Crashaw, who had grown wealthy in the steel business, caught sight of Bret and took him under his
wing, registered him in the guest-book and led him to the cocktail4 desk. Then Crashaw urged him to wait for the uncertain Vickery no longer, but to lunch with him.
Bret declined, but sat with him while he ate.
Bret, still looking for proof that actors were not like other people, asked Crashaw what the devil he was doing in that galley5.
“It’s my pet club,” said Crashaw, “and I belong to a dozen of the best. It’s the most prosperous and the most densely6 populated club in town, and the only one
where a man can always find somebody in a cheerful humor at any hour of the day or night, and I like it best because it’s the only club where people aren’t always
“What!” Bret exclaimed.
“I mean it,” said Crashaw. “In the other clubs the millionaire is always playing rich, the society man always at his lah-de-dah, the engineer or the painter or the
athlete is always posing. But these fellows know all about acting and they don’t permit it here. So that forces them to be natural. It’s the warmest-hearted,
gayest-hearted, most human, clubbiest club in town, and you ought to belong.”
Bret was introduced to various members, and even his suspicious mind could not tell which were actors and which business men, for there are as many types of actor as
Some of the clubmen joined Bret’s group, and he was finally persuaded to give Vickery up for lost and eat his luncheon11 with an eminent12 tragedian who told uproarious
stories, and the very buffoon13 who had conquered him at the benefit in the Metropolitan14 Opera House. The buffoon had an attack of the blues15, but it yielded to the
hilarity16 of the tragedian, and he departed recharged with electricity for his matinée, where he would coerce17 another mob into a state of rapture18.
It suddenly came over Bret that this club of actors was as benevolent19 an institution in its own way as any monastery20. Even the triumphs of players, which they were not
encouraged to recount in this sanctuary21, were triumphs of humanity. When an actor boasts how he “killed ’em in Waco” it does not mean that he shot anybody, took
anybody’s money away, or robbed any one of his pride or health; it means that he made a lot of people laugh or thrilled them or persuaded them to salubrious tears. It
is the conceit22 of a benefactor23 bragging24 of his philanthropies. Surely as amiable25 an egotism as could be!
Bret was now in the frame of mind that Sheila was born in. He felt that the stage did a noble work and therefore conferred a nobility upon its people.
All this he was mulling over in the back of his head while he was listening to anecdotes26 that brought the tears of laughter to his eyes. He needed the laughter; it
washed his bitter heart clean as a sheep’s. Most of the stories were strictly27 men’s stories, but those abound28 wherever men gather together. The difference was that
these were better told.
Gradually the clatter29 decreased; the crowd thinned out. It was Wednesday and many of the actors had matinées; the business men went back to their offices. Still no
Vickery.
By and by only a few members were left in the grill-room.
Bret had laughed himself solemn; now he was about to be deserted30. Vickery had failed him, and he must return to that doleful, heartbroken Sheila with no word of help
for her.
He had come forth31 to seek a way to compel her to return to the stage as a refuge from the creeping paralysis32 that was extinguishing her life. He hated the cure, but
preferred it to Sheila’s destruction. Now he was persuaded that the cure was honorable, but beyond his reach. He had heard many stories of the hard times upon the
stage, and of the unusual army of idle actors and actresses, and he was afraid that there would be no place for Sheila even though he was himself ready to release her.
Crashaw rose at length and said: “Sorry, old man, but I’ve got to run. Before I go, though, I’d like to show you the club. You can choose your own spot and wait for
Vickery.”
He led Bret from place to place, pointing out the portraits of famous actors and authors, the landscapes contributed by artist members, the trophies33 of war presented
by members from the army and navy, the cups put up for fearless combatants about the pool-tables. He gave him a glimpse of the theater, where, as in a laboratory,
experiments in drama and farce34 and musical comedy were made under ideal conditions before an expert audience.
Last he took him to the library. It was deserted save by somebody in a great chair which hid all but his feet and the hand that held a big volume of old plays. Crashaw
went forward to see who it was. He exclaimed:
“What are you doing here, you loafer? Haven’t you a matinée to-day?”
A voice that sounded familiar to Bret answered, “Ours is Thursday.”
“Fine. Then you can take care of a friend of mine who’s waiting for Vickery.”
The voice answered as the man rose: “Certainly. Any friend of Vickery’s—” Crashaw said:
“Mr. Winfield, you ought to know Mr. Floyd Eldon. Famous weighing-machine, shake hands with famous talking-machine.”
The two men shook hands because Crashaw asked them to. He left them with a hasty “So long!” and hurried to the elevator.
It is a curious contact, the hand-clasp of two hostile men. It has something of the ritual value of the grip that precedes a prize-fight to the finish.
Once Bret’s and Eldon’s hands were joined, it was not easy to sever35 them. There was a kind of insult in being the first to relinquish36 the pressure. They looked at
each other stupidly, like two school-boys who have quarreled. Neither could say a harsh word or feel a kind one. They had either to fight or to laugh.
Eldon was more used than Bret to speaking quickly in an emergency. He ended what he would have called a “stage wait” by lifting his left hand to his jaw37, rubbing it,
and smiling.
“It’s some time since we met.”
“Nearly five years, I guess,” said Bret, and returned the compliment by rubbing his own jaw.
“We meet every few years,” said Eldon. “I believe it’s my turn to slug now.”
“It is,” said Bret. “Go on. I’ve found that I didn’t owe you that last one. I misunderstood. I apologize.” Bret said this not because of any feeling of
cordiality, but because he believed it especially important not to be dishonest to an enemy.
Eldon, with equal punctilio and no more affection, answered: “I imagine the offense38 was outlawed39 years ago. I never knew what the cause of your anger was, but I’m
glad if you know it wasn’t true.”
Silence fell upon them. Bret was wondering whether he ought to describe the injustice40 he had done Eldon. Eldon was debating whether it would be more conspicuous41 to ask
about Sheila or to avoid asking about her. Finally he took a chance:
“And how is Mrs. Winfield?”
The question cleared the air magically. Bret said, “Oh, she’s well, thank you, very well—that is, no, she’s not well at all.”
Bret had attempted a concealment42 of his cross, but the truth leapt out of him. Eldon was politely solicitous43:
“Oh, I am sorry! Very sorry! She’s not seriously ill, I hope.”
“She’s worse than ill. I’m worried to death!”
Eldon’s alarm was genuine. “What a pity! Have you been to see a specialist? What seems to be the trouble?”
“She’s pining away. She—I think I made a mistake in taking her off the stage. I think she ought to be at work again.”
Eldon was as astounded44 at hearing this from Winfield as Bret at hearing himself say it. But Bret was in a panic of fear for Sheila’s very life and he had to tell some
one. Once he had betrayed himself so far, he was driven on:
“She won’t admit it. She’s trying to fight off the longing45. But the battle is wearing her out. You see, we have two children. We have no quarrel with each other. We
’re happy—ideally happy together. She feels that she ought to be contented46. She insists that she is. But—well, she isn’t, that’s all. I’ve tried everything, but
I believe that the only hope of saving her is to get her back where she belongs. Idleness is killing47 her.”
Eldon hid in his heart any feeling that might have surged up of disprized love finding itself vindicated48. His thoughts were solemn and he spoke49 with earnestness:
“I believe you are right. You must know. I can quite understand. People laugh a good deal at actresses who come back after leaving the stage. They think it is a kind
of craze for excitement. But it is better than that. The stage is still the only place where a woman’s individuality is recognized and where she can be really
herself.
“Sheila—er—Miss Kemble—pardon me—Mrs. Winfield has the theater in her blood, of course. Almost all the Kemble women have been actresses, and good ones. Your wife
was a charming woman to act with. We fought each other—for points. I feel very grateful to her, for she gave me my first encouragement. She and her aunt, Mrs. Vining,
taught me my first lessons. I grew very fond of them both and very grateful.
“There’s a natural enmity between a leading woman and a leading man. They love each other as two rival prize-fighters do. The better boxer50 each of them is, the
better the fight. Sheila—your wife, always gave me a fight—on the stage—and after, sometimes, off the stage. She was a great actress—a born aristocrat51 of the
theater.”
Bret took fright at the word “was.” It tolled52 like a passing-bell. He had made up his mind that Sheila should not be destroyed on his account. He had determined,
after the morning’s relapse, that he would restore his stolen sweetheart to her rightful owners as soon as he could. He would keep as close to her as might be. His
business would permit him to make occasional journeys to Sheila. His mother would take care of the children and be enchanted53 with the privilege. Sometimes they could
travel a little with Sheila.
His great-grandmother had crossed the plains in a prairie-schooner with five children, and borne a sixth on the way. That was considered praiseworthy in all
enthusiasm. Wherein was it any worse for an actress to take her children with her?
There was no hiding from slander54 in any case, and he must endure the contempt of those who did not understand. The one unendurable thing was the ruination of his
beloved’s happiness, of her very life, even.
He had sought out Vickery as an old friend who knew the theater world. But Vickery had failed him. He dreaded55 to go back to Sheila without definite news.
Of all men he most hated to ask Eldon’s help, but Eldon was the sole rescuer on the horizon. He threw off his pride and appealed to the man he had fought with.
“Mr. Eldon, you say you think my wife is a great artist. Will you help me to—to set her to work? I’m afraid for her, Mr. Eldon. I’m afraid that she is going to
die. Will you help me?”
“Me? Will I help?” Eldon stammered56. “What can I do? I’m not a manager, I have no company, no theater, hardly any influence.”
Bret’s courage went to pieces. He was a stranger in a strange land. “I don’t know any manager—except Reben, and he hates me. I don’t know anything at all about
the stage. I only know that my wife wants her career, and I’m going to get it for her if I have to build a theater myself. But that takes time. I thought perhaps you
would know some way better than that.”
Eldon was stirred by Bret’s resolution. He said: “There must be a way. I’ll do anything I can—everything I can, for the sake of the stage—and for the sake of an
old colleague—and for the sake of—of a man as big as you, Mr. Winfield.”
And now their hands shot out to each other without compunction or restraint and wrestled57, as it were, in a tug58 of peace.
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收听单词发音
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1
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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4
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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6
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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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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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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9
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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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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11
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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12
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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13
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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15
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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16
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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coerce
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| v.强迫，压制 | |
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18
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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19
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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20
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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22
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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24
bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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25
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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27
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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28
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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30
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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31
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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32
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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33
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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34
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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35
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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38
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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39
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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40
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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41
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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42
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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43
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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44
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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45
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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48
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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49
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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50
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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51
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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52
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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55
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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56
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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58
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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