He reflected that his life, which until lately had been of a stagnant4, contemplative quality, had suddenly become excessively active. In the course of one week he had been lawyer, mob-orator, outlaw5, property-man, and finally buffoon6. Last Wednesday he had been engaged in moving an audience of Rennes to anger; on this Wednesday he was to move an audience of Guichen to mirth. Then he had been concerned to draw tears; to-day it was his business to provoke laughter. There was a difference, and yet there was a parallel. Then as now he had been a comedian7; and the part that he had played then was, when you came to think of it, akin8 to the part he was to play this evening. For what had he been at Rennes but a sort of Scaramouche — the little skirmisher, the astute9 intriguer10, spattering the seed of trouble with a sly hand? The only difference lay in the fact that to-day he went forth11 under the name that properly described his type, whereas last week he had been disguised as a respectable young provincial12 attorney.
He bowed to his reflection in the mirror.
“Buffoon!” he apostrophized it. “At last you have found yourself. At last you have come into your heritage. You should be a great success.”
Hearing his new name called out by M. Binet, he went below to find the company assembled, and waiting in the entrance corridor of the inn.
He was, of course, an object of great interest to all the company. Most critically was he conned13 by M. Binet and mademoiselle; by the former with gravely searching eyes, by the latter with a curl of scornful lip.
“You’ll do,” M. Binet commended his make-up. “At least you look the part.”
“Unfortunately men are not always what they look,” said Climene, acidly.
“That is a truth that does not at present apply to me,” said Andre–Louis. “For it is the first time in my life that I look what I am.”
Mademoiselle curled her lip a little further, and turned her shoulder to him. But the others thought him very witty14 — probably because he was obscure. Columbine encouraged him with a friendly smile that displayed her large white teeth, and M. Binet swore yet once again that he would be a great success, since he threw himself with such spirit into the undertaking15. Then in a voice that for the moment he appeared to have borrowed from the roaring captain, M. Binet marshalled them for the short parade across to the market-hall.
The new Scaramouche fell into place beside Rhodomont. The old one, hobbling on a crutch16, had departed an hour ago to take the place of doorkeeper, vacated of necessity by Andre–Louis. So that the exchange between those two was a complete one.
Headed by Polichinelle banging his great drum and Pierrot blowing his trumpet17, they set out, and were duly passed in review by the ragamuffins drawn18 up in files to enjoy so much of the spectacle as was to be obtained for nothing.
Ten minutes later the three knocks sounded, and the curtains were drawn aside to reveal a battered19 set that was partly garden, partly forest, in which Climene feverishly20 looked for the coming of Leandre. In the wings stood the beautiful, melancholy21 lover, awaiting his cue, and immediately behind him the unfledged Scaramouche, who was anon to follow him.
Andre–Louis was assailed22 with nausea23 in that dread24 moment. He attempted to take a lightning mental review of the first act of this scenario25 of which he was himself the author-in-chief; but found his mind a complete blank. With the perspiration26 starting from his skin, he stepped back to the wall, where above a dim lantern was pasted a sheet bearing the brief outline of the piece. He was still studying it, when his arm was clutched, and he was pulled violently towards the wings. He had a glimpse of Pantaloon’s grotesque27 face, its eyes blazing, and he caught a raucous28 growl29:
“Climene has spoken your cue three times already.”
Before he realized it, he had been bundled on to the stage, and stood there foolishly, blinking in the glare of the footlights, with their tin reflectors. So utterly31 foolish and bewildered did he look that volley upon volley of laughter welcomed him from the audience, which this evening packed the hall from end to end. Trembling a little, his bewilderment at first increasing, he stood there to receive that rolling tribute to his absurdity32. Climene was eyeing him with expectant mockery, savouring in advance his humiliation33; Leandre regarded him in consternation34, whilst behind the scenes, M. Binet was dancing in fury.
“Name of a name,” he groaned35 to the rather scared members of the company assembled there, “what will happen when they discover that he isn’t acting36?”
But they never did discover it. Scaramouche’s bewildered paralysis37 lasted but a few seconds. He realized that he was being laughed at, and remembered that his Scaramouche was a creature to be laughed with, and not at. He must save the situation; twist it to his own advantage as best he could. And now his real bewilderment and terror was succeeded by acted bewilderment and terror far more marked, but not quite so funny. He contrived38 to make it clearly appear that his terror was of some one off the stage. He took cover behind a painted shrub39, and thence, the laughter at last beginning to subside40, he addressed himself to Climene and Leandre.
“Forgive me, beautiful lady, if the abrupt41 manner of my entrance startled you. The truth is that I have never been the same since that last affair of mine with Almaviva. My heart is not what it used to be. Down there at the end of the lane I came face to face with an elderly gentleman carrying a heavy cudgel, and the horrible thought entered my mind that it might be your father, and that our little stratagem42 to get you safely married might already have been betrayed to him. I think it was the cudgel put such notion in my head. Not that I am afraid. I am not really afraid of anything. But I could not help reflecting that, if it should really have been your father, and he had broken my head with his cudgel, your hopes would have perished with me. For without me, what should you have done, my poor children?”
A ripple43 of laughter from the audience had been steadily44 enheartening him, and helping45 him to recover his natural impudence46. It was clear they found him comical. They were to find him far more comical than ever he had intended, and this was largely due to a fortuitous circumstance upon which he had insufficiently47 reckoned. The fear of recognition by some one from Gavrillac or Rennes had been strong upon him. His face was sufficiently48 made up to baffle recognition; but there remained his voice. To dissemble this he had availed himself of the fact that Figaro was a Spaniard. He had known a Spaniard at Louis le Grand who spoke30 a fluent but most extraordinary French, with a grotesque excess of sibilant sounds. It was an accent that he had often imitated, as youths will imitate characteristics that excite their mirth. Opportunely49 he had bethought him of that Spanish student, and it was upon his speech that to-night he modelled his own. The audience of Guichen found it as laughable on his lips as he and his fellows had found it formerly50 on the lips of that derided51 Spaniard.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Binet — listening to that glib52 impromptu53 of which the scenario gave no indication — had recovered from his fears.
“Dieu de Dieu!” he whispered, grinning. “Did he do it, then, on purpose?”
It seemed to him impossible that a man who had been so terror-stricken as he had fancied Andre–Louis, could have recovered his wits so quickly and completely. Yet the doubt remained.
To resolve it after the curtain had fallen upon a first act that had gone with a verve unrivalled until this hour in the annals of the company, borne almost entirely54 upon the slim shoulders of the new Scaramouche, M. Binet bluntly questioned him.
They were standing55 in the space that did duty as green-room, the company all assembled there, showering congratulations upon their new recruit. Scaramouche, a little exalted56 at the moment by his success, however trivial he might consider it to-morrow, took then a full revenge upon Climene for the malicious57 satisfaction with which she had regarded his momentary58 blank terror.
“I do not wonder that you ask,” said he. “Faith, I should have warned you that I intended to do my best from the start to put the audience in a good humour with me. Mademoiselle very nearly ruined everything by refusing to reflect any of my terror. She was not even startled. Another time, mademoiselle, I shall give you full warning of my every intention.”
She crimsoned59 under her grease-paint. But before she could find an answer of sufficient venom60, her father was rating her soundly for her stupidity — the more soundly because himself he had been deceived by Scaramouche’s supreme61 acting.
Scaramouche’s success in the first act was more than confirmed as the performance proceeded. Completely master of himself by now, and stimulated62 as only success can stimulate63, he warmed to his work. Impudent64, alert, sly, graceful65, he incarnated66 the very ideal of Scaramouche, and he helped out his own native wit by many a remembered line from Beaumarchais, thereby67 persuading the better informed among the audience that here indeed was something of the real Figaro, and bringing them, as it were, into touch with the great world of the capital.
When at last the curtain fell for the last time, it was Scaramouche who shared with Climene the honours of the evening, his name that was coupled with hers in the calls that summoned them before the curtains.
As they stepped back, and the curtains screened them again from the departing audience, M. Binet approached them, rubbing his fat hands softly together. This runagate young lawyer, whom chance had blown into his company, had evidently been sent by Fate to make his fortune for him. The sudden success at Guichen, hitherto unrivalled, should be repeated and augmented68 elsewhere. There would be no more sleeping under hedges and tightening69 of belts. Adversity was behind him. He placed a hand upon Scaramouche’s shoulder, and surveyed him with a smile whose oiliness not even his red paint and colossal70 false nose could dissemble.
“And what have you to say to me now?” he asked him. “Was I wrong when I assured you that you would succeed? Do you think I have followed my fortunes in the theatre for a lifetime without knowing a born actor when I see one? You are my discovery, Scaramouche. I have discovered you to yourself. I have set your feet upon the road to fame and fortune. I await your thanks.”
Scaramouche laughed at him, and his laugh was not altogether pleasant.
“Always Pantaloon!” said he.
The great countenance71 became overcast72. “I see that you do not yet forgive me the little stratagem by which I forced you to do justice to yourself. Ungrateful dog! As if I could have had any purpose but to make you; and I have done so. Continue as you have begun, and you will end in Paris. You may yet tread the stage of the Comedie Francaise, the rival of Talma, Fleury, and Dugazon. When that happens to you perhaps you will feel the gratitude73 that is due to old Binet, for you will owe it all to this soft-hearted old fool.”
“If you were as good an actor on the stage as you are in private,” said Scaramouche, “you would yourself have won to the Comedie Francaise long since. But I bear no rancour, M. Binet.” He laughed, and put out his hand.
Binet fell upon it and wrung74 it heartily75.
“That, at least, is something,” he declared. “My boy, I have great plans for you — for us. To-morrow we go to Maure; there is a fair there to the end of this week. Then on Monday we take our chances at Pipriac, and after that we must consider. It may be that I am about to realize the dream of my life. There must have been upwards76 of fifteen louis taken to-night. Where the devil is that rascal77 Cordemais?”
Cordemais was the name of the original Scaramouche, who had so unfortunately twisted his ankle. That Binet should refer to him by his secular78 designation was a sign that in the Binet company at least he had fallen for ever from the lofty eminence79 of Scaramouche.
“Let us go and find him, and then we’ll away to the inn and crack a bottle of the best Burgundy, perhaps two bottles.”
But Cordemais was not readily to be found. None of the company had seen him since the close of the performance. M. Binet went round to the entrance. Cordemais was not there. At first he was annoyed; then as he continued in vain to bawl80 the fellow’s name, he began to grow uneasy; lastly, when Polichinelle, who was with them, discovered Cordemais’ crutch standing discarded behind the door, M. Binet became alarmed. A dreadful suspicion entered his mind. He grew visibly pale under his paint.
“But this evening he couldn’t walk without the crutch!” he exclaimed. “How then does he come to leave it there and take himself off?”
“Perhaps he has gone on to the inn,” suggested some one.
“But he couldn’t walk without his crutch,” M. Binet insisted.
Nevertheless, since clearly he was not anywhere about the market-hall, to the inn they all trooped, and deafened81 the landlady82 with their inquiries83.
“Oh, yes, M. Cordemais came in some time ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“He went away again at once. He just came for his bag.”
“For his bag!” Binet was on the point of an apoplexy. “How long ago was that?”
She glanced at the timepiece on the overmantel. “It would be about half an hour ago. It was a few minutes before the Rennes diligence passed through.”
“The Rennes diligence!” M. Binet was almost inarticulate. “Could he . . . could he walk?” he asked, on a note of terrible anxiety.
“Walk? He ran like a hare when he left the inn. I thought, myself, that his agility84 was suspicious, seeing how lame85 he had been since he fell downstairs yesterday. Is anything wrong?”
M. Binet had collapsed86 into a chair. He took his head in his hands, and groaned.
“The scoundrel was shamming87 all the time!” exclaimed Climene. “His fall downstairs was a trick. He was playing for this. He has swindled us.”
“Fifteen louis at least — perhaps sixteen!” said M. Binet. “Oh, the heartless blackguard! To swindle me who have been as a father to him — and to swindle me in such a moment.”
From the ranks of the silent, awe-stricken company, each member of which was wondering by how much of the loss his own meagre pay would be mulcted, there came a splutter of laughter.
M. Binet glared with blood-injected eyes.
“Who laughs?” he roared. “What heartless wretch88 has the audacity89 to laugh at my misfortune?”
Andre–Louis, still in the sable90 glories of Scaramouche, stood forward. He was laughing still.
“It is you, is it? You may laugh on another note, my friend, if I choose a way to recoup myself that I know of.”
“Dullard!” Scaramouche scorned him. “Rabbit-brained elephant! What if Cordemais has gone with fifteen louis? Hasn’t he left you something worth twenty times as much?”
M. Binet gaped91 uncomprehending.
“You are between two wines, I think. You’ve been drinking,” he concluded.
“So I have — at the fountain of Thalia. Oh, don’t you see? Don’t you see the treasure that Cordemais has left behind him?”
“What has he left?”
“A unique idea for the groundwork of a scenario. It unfolds itself all before me. I’ll borrow part of the title from Moliere. We’ll call it ‘Les Fourberies de Scaramouche,’ and if we don’t leave the audiences of Maure and Pipriac with sides aching from laughter I’ll play the dullard Pantaloon in future.”
Polichinelle smacked92 fist into palm. “Superb!” he said, fiercely. “To cull93 fortune from misfortune, to turn loss into profit, that is to have genius.”
Scaramouche made a leg. “Polichinelle, you are a fellow after my own heart. I love a man who can discern my merit. If Pantaloon had half your wit, we should have Burgundy to-night in spite of the flight of Cordemais.”
“Burgundy?” roared M. Binet, and before he could get farther Harlequin had clapped his hands together.
“That is the spirit, M. Binet. You heard him, landlady. He called for Burgundy.”
“I called for nothing of the kind.”
“But you heard him, dear madame. We all heard him.”
The others made chorus, whilst Scaramouche smiled at him, and patted his shoulder.
“Up, man, a little courage. Did you not say that fortune awaits us? And have we not now the wherewithal to constrain94 fortune? Burgundy, then, to . . . to toast ‘Les Fourberies de Scaramouche.’”
And M. Binet, who was not blind to the force of the idea, yielded, took courage, and got drunk with the rest.
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收听单词发音
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1
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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intriguer
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| 密谋者 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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15
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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24
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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29
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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30
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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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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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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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40
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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41
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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42
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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43
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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44
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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45
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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46
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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48
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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49
opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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50
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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51
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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53
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
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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56
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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57
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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58
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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59
crimsoned
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| 变为深红色（crimson的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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61
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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62
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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63
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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64
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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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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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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shamming
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| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cull
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| v.拣选；剔除；n.拣出的东西；剔除 | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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