What I shall be in a little while I do not know. I write in great trouble and confusion of mind. I will do what I can to make myself clear in the face of terrible
difficulties. You must bear with me a little. When a man is rapidly losing his own identity, he naturally finds a difficulty in expressing himself. I will make it
perfectly2 plain in a minute, when once I get my grip upon the story. Let me see—where am I? I wish I knew. Ah, I have it! Dead self! Egbert Craddock Cummins!
In the past I should have disliked writing anything quite so full of “I” as this story must be. It is full of “I’s” before and behind, like the beast in
Revelation—the one with a head like a calf3, I am afraid. But my tastes have changed since I became a Dramatic Critic and studied the masters—G.R.S., G.B.S., G.A.S.,
and the others. Everything has changed since then. At least the story is about myself—so that there is some excuse 380for me. And it is really not egotism, because,
as I say, since those days my identity has undergone an entire alteration4.
That past!—I was—in those days—rather a nice fellow, rather shy—taste for grey in my clothes, weedy little moustache, face “interesting,” slight stutter which I
had caught in early life from a schoolfellow. Engaged to a very nice girl, named Delia. Fairly new, she was—cigarettes—liked me because I was human and original.
Considered I was like Lamb—on the strength of the stutter, I believe. Father, an eminent5 authority on postage stamps. She read a great deal in the British Museum. (A
perfect pairing ground for literary people, that British Museum—you should read George Egerton and Justin Huntly M’Carthy and Gissing and the rest of them.) We loved
in our intellectual way, and shared the brightest hopes. (All gone now.) And her father liked me because I seemed honestly eager to hear about stamps. She had no
mother. Indeed, I had the happiest prospects6 a young man could have. I never went to the theatres in those days. My Aunt Charlotte before she died had told me not to.
Then Barnaby, the editor of the “Fiery Cross,” made me—in spite of my spasmodic efforts to escape—Dramatic Critic. He is a fine, healthy man, Barnaby, with an
enormous head of frizzy black hair and a convincing manner; and he 381caught me on the staircase going to see Wembly. He had been dining, and was more than usually
buoyant. “Hullo, Cummins!” he said. “The very man I want!” He caught me by the shoulder or the collar or something, ran me up the little passage, and flung me over
the waste-paper basket into the arm-chair in his office. “Pray be seated,” he said, as he did so. Then he ran across the room and came back with some pink and yellow
tickets and pushed them into my hand. “Opera Comique,” he said, “Thursday; Friday, the Surrey; Saturday, the Frivolity7. That’s all, I think.”
“But—” I began.
“Glad you’re free,” he said, snatching some proofs off the desk and beginning to read.
“I don’t quite understand,” I said.
“Eigh?” he said, at the top of his voice, as though he thought I had gone, and was startled at my remark.
“Do something with ’em— Did you think it was a treat?”
“But I can’t.”
“Did you call me a fool?”
“Well, I’ve never been to a theatre in my life.”
“Virgin soil.”
“But I don’t know anything about it, you know.”
382“That’s just it. New view. No habits. No clichés in stock. Ours is a live paper, not a bag of tricks. None of your clockwork, professional journalism9 in this
office. And I can rely on your integrity—”
“But I’ve conscientious10 scruples—”
He caught me up suddenly and put me outside his door. “Go and talk to Wembly about that,” he said. “He’ll explain.”
As I stood perplexed11, he opened the door again, said, “I forgot this,” thrust a fourth ticket into my hand (it was for that night—in twenty minutes’ time), and
slammed the door upon me. His expression was quite calm, but I caught his eye.
I hate arguments. I decided12 that I would take his hint and become (to my own destruction) a Dramatic Critic. I walked slowly down the passage to Wembly. That Barnaby
has a remarkably13 persuasive14 way. He has made few suggestions during our very pleasant intercourse15 of four years that he has not ultimately won me round to adopting. It
may be, of course, that I am of a yielding disposition16; certainly I am too apt to take my colour from my circumstances. It is, indeed, to my unfortunate susceptibility
to vivid impressions that all my misfortunes are due. I have already alluded17 to the slight stammer18 I had acquired from a schoolfellow in my youth. However, this is a
digression—I went home in a cab to dress.
383I will not trouble the reader with my thoughts about the first-night audience, strange assembly as it is,—those I reserve for my Memoirs,—nor the humiliating
story of how I got lost during the entr’acte in a lot of red plush passages, and saw the third act from the gallery. The only point upon which I wish to lay stress
was the remarkable19 effect of the acting20 upon me. You must remember I had lived a quiet and retired21 life, and had never been to the theatre before, and that I am
extremely sensitive to vivid impressions. At the risk of repetition I must insist upon these points.
The first effect was a profound amazement22, not untinctured by alarm. The phenomenal unnaturalness23 of acting is a thing discounted in the minds of most people by early
visits to the theatre. They get used to the fantastic gestures, the flamboyant24 emotions, the weird25 mouthings, melodious26 snortings, agonising yelps27, lip-gnawings,
glaring horrors, and other emotional symbolism of the stage. It becomes at last a mere28 deaf-and-dumb language to them, which they read intelligently pari passu with
the hearing of the dialogue. But all this was new to me. The thing was called a modern comedy; the people were supposed to be English and were dressed like fashionable
Americans of the current epoch29, and I fell into the natural error of supposing that the actors were trying to represent human beings. I looked 384round on my first-
night audience with a kind of wonder, discovered—as all new Dramatic Critics do—that it rested with me to reform the Drama, and, after a supper choked with emotion,
went off to the office to write a column, piebald with “new paragraphs” (as all my stuff is—it fills out so) and purple with indignation. Barnaby was delighted.
But I could not sleep that night. I dreamt of actors,—actors glaring, actors smiting30 their chests, actors flinging out a handful of extended fingers, actors smiling
bitterly, laughing despairingly, falling hopelessly, dying idiotically. I got up at eleven with a slight headache, read my notice in the “Fiery Cross,” breakfasted,
and went back to my room to shave. (It’s my habit to do so.) Then an odd thing happened. I could not find my razor. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had not unpacked
it the day before.
“Ah!” said I, in front of the looking-glass. Then “Hullo!”
Quite involuntarily, when I had thought of my portmanteau, I had flung up the left arm (fingers fully31 extended) and clutched at my diaphragm with my right hand. I am
an acutely self-conscious man at all times. The gesture struck me as absolutely novel for me. I repeated it, for my own satisfaction. “Odd!” Then (rather puzzled) I
turned to my portmanteau.
After shaving, my mind reverted32 to the acting I 385had seen, and I entertained myself before the cheval glass with some imitations of Jafferay’s more exaggerated
gestures. “Really, one might think it a disease,”—I said,—“Stage-Walkitis!” (There’s many a truth spoken in jest.) Then, if I remember rightly, I went off to
see Wembly, and afterwards lunched at the British Museum with Delia. We actually spoke33 about our prospects, in the light of my new appointment.
But that appointment was the beginning of my downfall. From that day I necessarily became a persistent34 theatre-goer, and almost insensibly I began to change. The next
thing I noticed after the gesture about the razor, was to catch myself bowing ineffably35 when I met Delia, and stooping in an old-fashioned, courtly way over her hand.
Directly I caught myself, I straightened myself up and became very uncomfortable. I remember she looked at me curiously36. Then, in the office, I found myself doing
“nervous business,” fingers on teeth, when Barnaby asked me a question I could not very well answer. Then, in some trifling37 difference with Delia, I clasped my hand
to my brow. And I pranced38 through my social transactions at times singularly like an actor! I tried not to—no one could be more keenly alive to the arrant39 absurdity
of the histrionic bearing. And I did!
It began to dawn on me what it all meant. The acting, I saw, was too much for my delicatelystrung 386nervous system. I have always, I know, been too amenable40 to the
suggestions of my circumstances. Night after night of concentrated attention to the conventional attitudes and intonation41 of the English stage was gradually affecting
my speech and carriage. I was giving way to the infection of sympathetic imitation. Night after night my plastic nervous system took the print of some new amazing
gesture, some new emotional exaggeration—and retained it. A kind of theatrical42 veneer43 threatened to plate over and obliterate44 my private individuality altogether. I
saw myself in a kind of vision. Sitting by myself one night, my new self seemed to me to glide45, posing and gesticulating, across the room. He clutched his throat, he
opened his fingers, he opened his legs in walking like a high-class marionette46. He went from attitude to attitude. He might have been clockwork. Directly after this I
made an ineffectual attempt to resign my theatrical work. But Barnaby persisted in talking about the Polywhiddle Divorce all the time I was with him, and I could get
no opportunity of saying what I wished.
And then Delia’s manner began to change towards me. The ease of our intercourse vanished. I felt she was learning to dislike me. I grinned, and capered47, and scowled,
and posed at her in a thousand ways, and knew—with what a voiceless agony!—that I did it all the time. I tried to 387resign again; and Barnaby talked about “X” and
“Z” and “Y” in the “New Review,” and gave me a strong cigar to smoke, and so routed me. And then I walked up the Assyrian Gallery in the manner of Irving to meet
Delia, and so precipitated48 the crisis.
“Ah!—Dear!” I said, with more sprightliness49 and emotion in my voice than had ever been in all my life before I became (to my own undoing) a Dramatic Critic.
She held out her hand rather coldly, scrutinising my face as she did so. I prepared, with a new-won grace, to walk by her side.
I said nothing. I felt what was coming. I tried to be the old Egbert Craddock Cummins of shambling gait and stammering51 sincerity52, whom she loved; but I felt, even as I
did so, that I was a new thing, a thing of surging emotions and mysterious fixity—like no human being that ever lived, except upon the stage. “Egbert,” she said, “
you are not yourself.”
“There!” she said.
“What do you mean?” I said, whispering in vocal54 italics,—you know how they do it,—turning on her, perplexity on face, right hand down, left on brow. I knew quite
well what she meant. 388I knew quite well the dramatic unreality of my behaviour. But I struggled against it in vain. “What do you mean?” I said, and, in a kind of
She really looked as though she disliked me. “What do you keep on posing for?” she said. “I don’t like it. You didn’t use to.”
“Didn’t use to!” I said slowly, repeating this twice. I glared up and down the gallery, with short, sharp glances. “We are alone,” I said swiftly. “Listen!” I
I saw her hand tighten58 upon her sunshade. “You are under some bad influence or other,” said Delia. “You should give it up. I never knew any one change as you have
done.”
She eyed me critically. “Why you keep playing the fool like this I don’t know,” she said. “Anyhow, I really cannot go about with a man who behaves as you do. You
made us both ridiculous on Wednesday. Frankly60, I dislike you, as you are now. I met you here to tell you so—as it’s about the only place where we can be sure of
being alone together—”
“I do,” said Delia. “A woman’s lot is sad enough at the best of times. But with you—”
389I clapped my hand on my brow.
“So, good-bye,” said Delia, without emotion.
“Oh, Delia!” I said. “Not this?”
“Good-bye, Mr. Cummins,” she said.
By a violent effort I controlled myself and touched her hand. I tried to say some word of explanation to her. She looked into my working face and winced64. “I must do
it,” she said hopelessly. Then she turned from me and began walking rapidly down the gallery.
Heavens! How the human agony cried within me! I loved Delia. But nothing found expression—I was already too deeply crusted with my acquired self.
“Good-baye!” I said at last, watching her retreating figure. How I hated myself for doing it! After she had vanished, I repeated in a dreamy way, “Good-baye!”
looking hopelessly round me. Then, with a kind of heart-broken cry, I shook my clenched fists in the air, staggered to the pedestal of a winged figure, buried my face
in my arms, and made my shoulders heave. Something within me said, “Ass!” as I did so. (I had the greatest difficulty in persuading the Museum policeman, who was
attracted by my cry of agony, that I was not intoxicated65, but merely suffering from a transient indisposition.)
But even this great sorrow has not availed to save me from my fate. I see it, every one sees it; I grow more “theatrical” every day. And no 390one could be more
painfully aware of the pungent66 silliness of theatrical ways. The quiet, nervous, but pleasing E. C. Cummins vanishes. I cannot save him. I am driven like a dead leaf
before the winds of March. My tailor even enters into the spirit of my disorder67. He has a peculiar68 sense of what is fitting. I tried to get a dull grey suit from him
this spring, and he foisted69 a brilliant blue upon me, and I see he has put braid down the sides of my new dress trousers. My hairdresser insists upon giving me a
“wave.”
I am beginning to associate with actors. I detest70 them, but it is only in their company that I can feel I am not glaringly conspicuous71. Their talk infects me. I notice
a growing tendency to dramatic brevity, to dashes and pauses in my style, to a punctuation72 of bows and attitudes. Barnaby has remarked it too. I offended Wembly by
The fact is, I am being obliterated74. Living a grey, retired life all my youth, I came to the theatre a delicate sketch75 of a man, a thing of tints76 and faint lines.
Their gorgeous colouring has effaced77 me altogether. People forget how much mode of expression, method of movement, are a matter of contagion78. I have heard of stage-
struck people before, and thought it a figure of speech. I spoke of it jestingly, as a disease. It is no jest. It is a disease. And I have got it bad! Deep 391down
within me I protest against the wrong done to my personality—unavailingly. For three hours or more a week I have to go and concentrate my attention on some fresh
play, and the suggestions of the drama strengthen their awful hold upon me. My manners grow so flamboyant, my passions so professional, that I doubt, as I said at the
outset, whether it is really myself that behaves in such a manner. I feel merely the core to this dramatic casing, that grows thicker and presses upon me—me and mine.
I feel like King John’s abbot in his cope of lead.
I doubt, indeed, whether I should not abandon the struggle altogether—leave this sad world of ordinary life for which I am so ill-fitted, abandon the name of Cummins
for some professional pseudonym79, complete my self-effacement, and—a thing of tricks and tatters, of posing and pretence—go upon the stage. It seems my only resort—
“to hold the mirror up to Nature.” For in the ordinary life, I will confess, no one now seems to regard me as both sane80 and sober. Only upon the stage, I feel
convinced, will people take me seriously. That will be the end of it. I know that will be the end of it. And yet—I will frankly confess—all that marks off your actor
from your common man—I detest. I am still largely of my Aunt Charlotte’s opinion, that play-acting is unworthy of a pure-minded man’s attention, much more
participation81. Even now I would resign my 392dramatic criticism and try a rest. Only I can’t get hold of Barnaby. Letters of resignation he never notices. He says it
is against the etiquette82 of journalism to write to your Editor. And when I go to see him, he gives me another big cigar and some strong whiskey and soda83, and then
something always turns up to prevent my explanation.
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1
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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amazement
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unnaturalness
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flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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melodious
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yelps
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| n.（因痛苦、气愤、兴奋等的）短而尖的叫声( yelp的名词复数 )v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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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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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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curiously
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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pranced
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arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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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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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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marionette
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| n.木偶 | |
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capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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67
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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68
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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69
foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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71
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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72
punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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73
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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74
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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75
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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76
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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77
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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78
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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81
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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82
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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83
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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