Toward the end of April, the billboards4, which I watched anxiously in those days, bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which two names were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an actress of whom I had often heard, and the name ‘Camille.’
I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday evening, and we walked down to the theatre. The weather was warm and sultry and put us both in a holiday humour. We arrived early, because Lena liked to watch the people come in. There was a note on the programme, saying that the ‘incidental music’ would be from the opera ‘Traviata,’ which was made from the same story as the play. We had neither of us read the play, and we did not know what it was about—though I seemed to remember having heard it was a piece in which great actresses shone. ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ which I had seen James O’Neill play that winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I knew. This play, I saw, was by his son, and I expected a family resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run in off the prairie, could not have been more innocent of what awaited them than were Lena and I.
Our excitement began with the rise of the curtain, when the moody5 Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated6 Nanine. Decidedly, there was a new tang about this dialogue. I had never heard in the theatre lines that were alive, that presupposed and took for granted, like those which passed between Varville and Marguerite in the brief encounter before her friends entered. This introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most enchantingly gay scene I had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne7 bottles opened on the stage before—indeed, I had never seen them opened anywhere. The memory of that supper makes me hungry now; the sight of it then, when I had only a students’ boarding-house dinner behind me, was delicate torment8. I seem to remember gilded9 chairs and tables (arranged hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and stockings), linen10 of dazzling whiteness, glittering glass, silver dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the reddest of roses. The room was invaded by beautiful women and dashing young men, laughing and talking together. The men were dressed more or less after the period in which the play was written; the women were not. I saw no inconsistency. Their talk seemed to open to one the brilliant world in which they lived; every sentence made one older and wiser, every pleasantry enlarged one’s horizon. One could experience excess and satiety11 without the inconvenience of learning what to do with one’s hands in a drawing-room! When the characters all spoke12 at once and I missed some of the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery13. I strained my ears and eyes to catch every exclamation14.
The actress who played Marguerite was even then old-fashioned, though historic. She had been a member of Daly’s famous New York company, and afterward15 a ‘star’ under his direction. She was a woman who could not be taught, it is said, though she had a crude natural force which carried with people whose feelings were accessible and whose taste was not squeamish. She was already old, with a ravaged16 countenance17 and a physique curiously18 hard and stiff. She moved with difficulty—I think she was lame—I seem to remember some story about a malady19 of the spine20. Her Armand was disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth, perplexed21 in the extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly22 in her power to fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed her young, ardent23, reckless, disillusioned24, under sentence, feverish25, avid26 of pleasure. I wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted Armand in the frilled shirt to convince her that there was still loyalty27 and devotion in the world. Her sudden illness, when the gaiety was at its height, her pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against her lips, the cough she smothered28 under the laughter while Gaston kept playing the piano lightly—it all wrung29 my heart. But not so much as her cynicism in the long dialogue with her lover which followed. How far was I from questioning her unbelief! While the charmingly sincere young man pleaded with her—accompanied by the orchestra in the old ‘Traviata’ duet, ‘misterioso, misterios’ altero!’—she maintained her bitter scepticism, and the curtain fell on her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent away with his flower.
Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing away at the ‘Traviata’ music, so joyous30 and sad, so thin and far-away, so clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the junior dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena was at least a woman, and I was a man.
Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter of idyllic31 love, dreading32 the return of the young man whose ineffable33 happiness was only to be the measure of his fall.
I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and temperament34 from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the veteran actress who first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as heavy and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea and on the consonants35. At all times she was highly tragic36, devoured37 by remorse38. Lightness of stress or behaviour was far from her. Her voice was heavy and deep: ‘Ar-r-r-mond!’ she would begin, as if she were summoning him to the bar of Judgment39. But the lines were enough. She had only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her.
The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in Olympe’s salon40 for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the men played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests made their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the card-tables and young Duval had been warned by Prudence41, Marguerite descended42 the staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels—and her face! One knew at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the terrible words, ‘Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!’ flung the gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered43 beside me and covered her face with her hands.
The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there wasn’t a nerve in me that hadn’t been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for elegance44 and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund45 woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover.
When we reached the door of the theatre, the streets were shining with rain. I had prudently46 brought along Mrs. Harling’s useful Commencement present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles47 and under the showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night, across long years and several languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can frustrate48. Wherever and whenever that piece is put on, it is April.
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1
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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billboards
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| n.广告牌( billboard的名词复数 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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6
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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7
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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8
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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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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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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13
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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14
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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15
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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17
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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21
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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23
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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24
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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28
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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29
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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30
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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31
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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32
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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33
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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34
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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35
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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36
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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37
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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38
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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39
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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40
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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41
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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42
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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43
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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44
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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45
moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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46
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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47
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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48
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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