So write in plain words, or come and see me.
C. V.’
She wrote at a round table, shaky on its central support, in the parlour of an indifferent lodging4-house; the October afternoon drew towards dusk; the sky hung low and murky5, or, rather, was itself invisible, veiled by the fume6 of factory chimneys; a wailing7 wind rattled8 the sash and the door. A newly lighted fire refused to flame cheerfully, half smothered9 in its own smoke, which every now and then was blown downwards10 and out into the room. The letter finished — scribbled11 angrily with a bad pen and in pale ink — she put it into its envelope —‘C. H. Scawthorne, Esq.’
Then a long reverie, such as she always fell into when alone and unoccupied. The face was older, but not greatly changed from that of the girl who fought her dread12 fight with temptation, and lost it, in the lodging at Islington, who, then as now, brooded over the wild passions in her heart and defied the world that was her enemy. Still a beautiful face, its haughty13 characteristics strengthened, the lips a little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery14 in her eyes. She asked no one’s pity, but not many women breathed at that moment who knew more of suffering.
For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the northern counties. In accordance with the modern custom — so beneficial to actors and the public — their repertory consisted of one play, the famous melodrama15, ‘A Secret of the Thames,’ recommended to provincial16 audiences by its run of four hundred and thirty-seven nights at a London theatre. These, to be sure, were not the London actors, but advertisements in local newspapers gave it to be understood that they ‘made an ensemble17 in no respect inferior to that which was so long the delight of the metropolis18.’ Starred on the placards was the name of Mr. Samuel Peel, renowned19 in the North of England; his was the company, and his the main glory in the piece. As leading lady he had the distinguished20 Miss Erminia Walcott; her part was a trying one, for she had to be half-strangled by ruffians and flung — most decorously — over the parapet of London Bridge. In the long list of subordinate performers occurred two names with which we are familiar, Miss Grace Danver and Miss Clara Vale. The present evening would be the third and last in a certain town of Lancashire, one of those remarkable21 centres of industry which pollute heaven and earth, and on that account are spoken of with somewhat more of pride than stirred the Athenian when he named his Acropolis.
Clara had just risen to stir the fire, compelled to move by the smoke that was annoying her, when, after a tap at the door, there came in a young woman of about five-and-twenty, in a plain walking costume, tall, very slender, pretty, but looking ill. At this moment there was a slight flush on her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes which obviously came of some excitement. She paused just after entering and said in an eager voice, which had a touch of huskiness:
‘What do you think? Miss Walcott’s taken her hook!’
Clara did not allow herself to be moved at this announcement. For several days what is called unpleasantness had existed between the leading lady and the manager: in other words, they had been quarrelling violently on certain professional matters, and Miss Walcott had threatened to ruin the tour by withdrawing her invaluable23 services. The menace was at last executed, in good earnest, and the cause of Grace Danver’s excitement was that she, as Miss Walcott’s understudy, would to-night, in all probability, be called upon to take the leading part.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Clara replied, very soberly.
‘You don’t look as if you cared much,’ rejoined the other, with a little irritation24.
‘What do you want me to do? Am I to scream with joy because the greatest actress in the world has got her chance at last?’
There was bitterness in the irony25. Whatever their friendship in days gone by, these two were clearly not on the most amiable26 terms at present. This was their first engagement in the same company, and it had needed but a week of association to put a jealousy27 and ill-feeling between them which proved fatal to such mutual28 kindness as they had previously29 cherished. Grace, now no less than in her schooldays, was fond of patronising: as the elder in years and in experience, she adopted a tone which Clara speedily resented. To heighten the danger of a conflict between natures essentially30 incompatible31, both were in a morbid32 and nervous state, consumed with discontent, sensitive to the most trifling33 injury, abandoned to a fierce egoism, which the course of their lives and the circumstances of their profession kept constantly inflamed34. Grace was of acrid35 and violent temper; when stung with words such as Clara was only too apt at using, she speedily lost command of herself and spoke22, or even acted, frantically36. Except that she had not Clara’s sensibilities, her lot was the harder of the two; for she knew herself stricken with a malady37 which would hunt her unsparingly to the grave. On her story I have no time to dwell; it was fall of wretchedness, which had caused her, about a year ago, to make an attempt at suicide. A little generosity38, and Clara might have helped to soothe39 the pains of one so much weaker than herself; but noble feeling was extinct in the girl, or so nearly extinct that a breath of petty rivalry40 could make her base, cruel, remorseless.
‘At all events I have got my chance!’ exclaimed Grace, with a harsh laugh. ‘When you get yours, ask me to congratulate you.’
And she swept her skirts out of the room. In a few minutes Clara put a stamp on her letter and went out to the post. Her presence at the theatre would not be necessary for another two hours, but as the distance was slight, and nervousness would not let her remain at home, she walked on to make inquiry41 concerning Grace’s news. Rain had just begun to fall, and with it descended42 the smut and grime that darkened above the houses; the pavement was speedily over-smeared with sticky mud, and passing vehicles flung splashes in every direction. Odours of oil and shoddy, and all such things as characterised the town, grew more pungent43 under the heavy shower. On reaching the stage-door, Clara found two or three of her companions just within; the sudden departure of Miss Walcott had become known to everyone, and at this moment Mr. Peel was holding a council, to which, as the doorkeeper testified, Miss Danver had been summoned.
The manager decided44 to make no public announcement of what had happened before the hour came for drawing up the curtain. A scrappy rehearsal46 for the benefit of Grace Danver and the two or three other ladies who were affected47 by the necessary rearrangement went on until the last possible moment, then Mr. Peel presented himself before the drop and made a little speech. The gallery was fall of mill-hands; in the pit was a sprinkling of people; the circles and boxes presented half a dozen occupants. ‘Sudden domestic calamity48 . . . enforced absence of the lady who played . . . efficient substitution . . . deep regret, but confidence in the friendly feeling of audience on this last evening.’
They growled49, but in the end applauded the actor-manager, who had succeeded in delicately hinting that, after all, the great attraction was still present in his own person. The play went very much as usual, but those behind the scenes were not allowed to forget that Mr. Peel was in a furious temper: the ladies noticed with satisfaction that more than once he glared ominously50 at Miss Danver, who naturally could not aid him to make his ‘points’ as Miss Walcott had accustomed herself to do. At his final exit, it was observed that he shrugged51 his shoulders and muttered a few oaths.
Clara had her familiar part; it was a poor one from every point of view, and the imbecility of the words she had to speak affected her to-night with exceptional irritation. Clara always acted in ill-humour. She despised her audience for their acceptance of the playwright’s claptrap; she felt that she could do better than any of the actresses entrusted52 with the more important characters; her imagination was for ever turning to powerful scenes in plays she had studied privately53, and despair possessed54 her at the thought that she would perhaps never have a chance of putting forth55 her strength. Tonight her mood was one of sullen56 carelessness; she did little more than ‘walk through’ her part, feeling a pleasure in thus insulting the house. One scrap45 of dialogue she had with Grace, and her eyes answered with a flash of hatred57 to the arrogance58 of the other’s regard. At another point she all but missed her cue, for her thoughts were busy with that letter to which she had replied this afternoon. Mr. Peel looked at her savagely59, and she met his silent rebuke60 with an air of indifference61. After that the manager appeared to pay peculiar62 attention to her as often as they were together before the footlights. It was not the first time that Mr. Peel had allowed her to see that she was an object of interest to him.
There was an after-piece, but Clara was not engaged in it. When, at the fall of the curtain on the melodrama, she went to the shabby dressing-room which she shared with two companions, a message delivered by the call boy bade her repair as soon as possible to the manager’s office. What might this mean? She was startled on the instant, but speedily recovered her self-control; most likely she was to receive a rating — let it come! Without unusual hurry, she washed, changed her dress, and obeyed the summons.
Mr. Peel was still a young man, of tall and robust63 stature64, sanguine65, with much sham1 refinement66 in his manner; he prided himself on the civility with which he behaved to all who had business relations with him, but every now and then the veneer67 gave an awkward crack, and, as in his debate with Miss Walcott, the man himself was discovered to be of coarse grain. His aspect was singular when, on Clara’s entrance into the private room, he laid down his cigarette and scrutinised her. There was a fiery68 hue69 on his visage, and the scowl70 of his black eyebrows71 had a peculiar ugliness.
‘Miss Vale,’ he began, after hesitation72, ‘do you consider that you played your part this evening with the conscientiousness73 that may fairly be expected of you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ replied the girl, averting74 her eyes, and resting her hand on the table.
‘And may I ask why not?’
‘I didn’t feel in the humour. The house saw no difference.’
‘Indeed? The house saw no difference? Do you mean to imply that you always play badly?’
‘I mean that the part isn’t worth any attention — even if they were able to judge.’
There was a perfection of insolence75 in her tone that in itself spoke strongly for the abilities she could display if occasion offered.
‘This is rather an offhand76 way of treating the subject, madam,’ cried Mr. Peel. ‘If you disparage77 our audiences, I beg you to observe that it is much the same thing as telling me that my own successes are worthless!’
‘I intended nothing of the kind.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked down at his boots for an instant. ‘So you are discontented with your part?’
‘It’s only natural that I should be.’
‘I presume you think yourself equal to Juliet, or perhaps Lady Macbeth?’
‘I could play either a good deal better than most women do.’
The manager laughed, by no means ill-humouredly.
‘I’m sorry I can’t bring you out in Shakespeare just at present, Miss Vale; but — should you think it a condescension78 to play Laura Denton?’
This was Miss Walcott’s part, now Grace Danver’s. Clara looked at him with mistrust; her breath did not come quite naturally.
‘How long would it take you, do you think,’ pursued the other, ‘to get the words?’
‘An hour or two; I all but know them.’
The manager took a few paces this way and that.
‘We go on to Bolton tomorrow morning. Could you undertake to be perfect for the afternoon rehearsal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll try you. Here’s a copy you can take. I make no terms, you understand; it’s an experiment. We’ll have another talk tomorrow. Good-night.’
She left the room. Near the door stood Grace Danver and another actress, both of whom were bidden to wait upon the manager before leaving. Clara passed under the fire of their eyes, but scarcely observed them.
Rain drenched79 her between the theatre and her lodgings80, for she did not think of putting up an umbrella; she thought indeed of nothing; there was fire and tumult81 in her brain. On the round table in her sitting-room82 supper was made ready, but she did not heed83 it. Excitement compelled her to walk incessantly84 round and round the scanty85 space of floor. Already she had begun to rehearse the chief scenes of Laura Denton; she spoke the words with all appropriate loudness and emphasis; her gestures were those of the stage, as though an audience sat before her; she seemed to have grown taller. There came a double knock at the house-door, but it did not attract her attention; a knock at her own room, and only when some one entered was she recalled to the present. It was Grace again; her lodging was elsewhere, and this late visit could have but one motive86.
They stood face to face. The elder woman was so incensed87 that her lips moved fruitlessly, like those of a paralytic88.
‘I suppose you’re going to make a scene,’ Clara addressed her. ‘Please remember how late it is, and don’t let all the house hear you.’
‘You mean to tell me you accepted that offer of Peel’s — without saying a word — without as much as telling him that he ought to speak to me first?’
‘Certainly I did. I’ve waited long enough; I’m not going to beat about the bush when my chance comes.’
‘And you called yourself my friend?’
‘I’m nobody’s friend but my own in an affair of this kind. If you’d been in my place you’d have done just the same.’
‘I wouldn’t! I couldn’t have been such a mean creature! Every man and woman in the company’ll cry shame on you.’
‘Don’t deafen89 me with your nonsense! If you played the part badly, I suppose some one else must take it. You were only on trial, like I shall be.’
Grace was livid with fury.
‘Played badly! As if we didn’t all know how you’ve managed it! Much it has to do with good or bad acting! We know how creatures of your kind get what they want.’
Before the last word was uttered she was seized with a violent fit of coughing; her cheeks flamed, and spots of blood reddened on the handkerchief she put to her mouth. Half-stifled, she lay back in the angle of the wall by the door. Clara regarded her with a contemptuous pity, and when the cough had nearly ceased, said coldly:
‘I’m not going to try and match you in insulting language; I dare say you’d beat me at that. If you take my advice, you’ll go home and take care of yourself; you look ill enough to be in bed. I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me; what you said just now was a lie, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the part, and I’ll take good care that I keep it. You talk about us being friends; I should have thought you knew by this time that there’s no such thing as friendship or generosity or feeling for women who have to make their way in the world. You’ve had your hard times as well as I, and what’s the use of pretending what you don’t believe? You wouldn’t give up a chance for me; I’m sure I should never expect you to. We have to fight, to fight for everything, and the weak get beaten. That’s what life has taught me.’
‘You’re right,’ was the other’s reply, given with a strangely sudden calmness. ‘And we’ll see who wins.’
Clara gave no thought to the words, nor to the look of deadly enmity that accompanied them. Alone again, she speedily became absorbed in a vision of the triumph which she never doubted was near at hand. A long, long time it seemed since she had sold herself to degradation90: with this one hope. You see that she had formulated91 her philosophy of life since then; a child of the nether92 world whom fate had endowed with intellect, she gave articulate utterance93 to what is seething94 in the brains of thousands who fight and perish in the obscure depths. The bitter bargain was issuing to her profit at last; she would yet attain95 that end which had shone through all her misery — to be known as a successful actress by those she had abandoned, whose faces were growing dim to her memory, but of whom, in truth, she still thought more than of all the multitudinous unknown public. A great success during the remainder of this tour, and she might hope for an engagement in London. Her portraits would at length be in the windows; some would recognise her.
Yet she was not so pitiless as she boasted. The next morning, when she met Grace, there came a pain at her heart in seeing the ghastly, bloodless countenance96 which refused to turn towards her. Would Grace be able to act at all at the next town? Yes, one more scene.
They reached Bolton. In the afternoon the rehearsal took place, but the first representation was not until tomorrow. Clara saw her name attached to the leading female character on bills rapidly printed and distributed through the town. She went about in a dream, rather a delirium97. Mr. Peel used his most affable manner to her; his compliments after the rehearsal were an augury98 of great things. And the eventful evening approached.
To give herself plenty of time to dress (the costumes needed for the part were fortunately simple, and Mr. Peel had advanced her money to make needful purchases) she left her lodgings at half-past six. It was a fine evening, but very dark in the two or three by-streets along which she had to pass to reach the theatre. She waited a minute on the doorstep to let a troop of female mill-hands go by; their shoes clanked on the pavement, and they were singing in chorus, a common habit of their kind in leaving work. Then she started and walked quickly. .
Close by the stage-door, which was in a dark, narrow passage, stood a woman with veiled face, a shawl muffling99 the upper part of her body. Since six o’clock she had been waiting about the spot, occasionally walking to a short distance, but always keeping her face turned towards the door. One or two persons came up and entered; she observed them, but held aloof100. Another drew near. The woman advanced, and, as she did so, freed one of her arms from the shawl.
‘That you, Grace?’ said Clara, almost kindly101, for in her victorious102 joy she was ready to be at peace with all the world.
The answer was something dashed violently in her face — something fluid and fiery — something that ate into her flesh, that frenzied103 her with pain, that drove her shrieking104 she knew not whither.
Late in the same night, a pointsman, walking along the railway a little distance out of the town, came upon the body of a woman, train-crushed, horrible to view. She wore the dress of a lady; a shawl was still partly wrapped about her, and her hands were gloved. Nothing discoverable upon her would have helped strangers in the task of identification, and as for her face — But a missing woman was already sought by the police, and when certain persons were taken to view this body, they had no difficulty in pronouncing it that of Grace Danver.
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1
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(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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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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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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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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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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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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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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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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49
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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51
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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54
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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55
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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56
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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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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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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deafen
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| vt.震耳欲聋；使听不清楚 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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101
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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102
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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103
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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104
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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