Few sit until the last bell has rung, and Ordham stood with the rest, his back to the stage, viewing what to him was always an interesting sight, and feeling so blithe13 and happy in his regained14 freedom, his mother’s promise, received that morning, to persuade his creditors15 to hold their peace until after his examinations, the flutter of anticipation16 which he always enjoyed when about to hear Styr sing one of her great r?les, that long after, when he sat in this opera house for the last time in his life, he recalled that night and his boyish spirits, and wondered if the world had remodelled17 itself meanwhile.
He saw many that he knew, and bowed in his formal way, lit now and again by his quick smile, so full of youthful brilliancy and sweetness that tired befeathered old women shook their heads and doubted if a young man of so many attractions would ever amount to anything. But when Nachmeister was favoured with that smile to-night, she nodded her head sagely18 and felt that she could depart for her spa in peace on the morrow. No man in love, or nearing the border-land of tumult19, could smile like that. She was a guest in a box beside the King’s, the one allotted20 to Lola Montez during her brief reign21 in Bavaria, when Ludwig I was king. She too had been elevated to the Bavarian aristocracy, and no royalty23 won more than a passing glance when Countess Landsfeldt sat magnificently in this box, flashing her bold black eyes at the patricians24 that feared and snubbed her; far less clever than Styr, few doors had opened to her. Princess Nachmeister was surrounded by a bevy25 of young princesses, pretty with youth, but insipid26, as most young royalties are. The Queen-mother sat alone in the great box, looking old and sad, not a vestige27 of her beauty surviving, nor even of that air which is supposed to distinguish a queen from a hausfrau. She was dowdy28 and unattractive, but she cared not; to-morrow she would be in her humble29 retreat, Elbingen-Alp, alone with her memories and the new consolation30 she had found in the Church of Rome. She, too, hoped for the presence of her son to-night, but she, too, knew that he would not come.
It was half-past six when word came from the palace that his Majesty31, indisposed, had left for Linderhof; the last bell rang, darkness descended32 upon the house, the overture33 began. As Ordham sat with his eyes closed lest they be diverted by the fat red necks and plastered heads, which shone in the dusk, mayhap by hungry jaws34 munching35 chocolate or peppermint36, his high spirits slid down into a fathomless37 abyss; that tide of sweet despair swirled38 round and over him, driving repose39, content, gayety from every chamber40 of his soul, and filling it with unrest, vague delicious terrors, that made him move his arms restlessly until he succumbed41 utterly42.
Never had been and never will be so full an expression of unsatisfied longing43. Surge upon surge from the opening phrase, presaging44 a yearning45 that is not all bliss46 and a torment47 that is not all pain, so long as mortals may die; surge upon surge of aching passion, sweet oblivion, mortal disappointment, infinite desire, a love that only the immortals48 could satisfy and only death can quench49. The imagination reels along with this appalling50 betrayal of mortal love. The curse and the boon51 of imagination, the indomitable pursuit of happiness, even while the mind holds its sides like a chuckling52 monk53, the inevitable54 awaking, the cry for death, annihilation, Nirvana,—all and far more are in this mighty55 tonal dirge56 of the human heart to lift Wagner’s masterpiece to the apex57 of all the masterpieces the world has preserved.
Unsatisfied longing! Ordham never listened to this music-drama that he did not wonder its keynote should possess him irresistibly58 throughout the performance and desert him when it was over. Even in the foyer, during the pauses, he was the cool young modern with inherited experiences in his brain that pushed him far from the sources of nature; but when the surges beat on his spirit once more he was the immemorial lover.
On the stage Styr was always beautiful and never more so than as Isolde, with her soft golden wig22, her dark eyes enlarged, their natural mobility59 enhanced by subtle arts which other stage women secretly studied in vain, her ivory-white luminous60 skin. In the first act she wore a flowing gown of an imperial blue shade, the perfect lines of her long arms enticing61 under floating gauze, her long throat rising bare with the plastic firmness which she might have inherited from the women that inspired the dreams of Solomon.
When Isolde raised herself slowly from the cushions of the couch in the pavilion of the ship which was bearing her to the old king of Cornwall she had consented to marry, abandoning something of her first attitude of utter despair, and lifting her head toward the joyous62 singing of the sailors, her eyes in one long look expressed everything. The dullest could not entertain the delusion63 that here was merely an unhappy young princess of “Irenland,” speeding against her will to fulfil a detestable marriage, but a woman of the maturest passions, who had already drunk deep of the cup of love, scornful of every law that might exist for princess or peasant, and who had watched and waited, and accepted the fact of betrayal.
And the audience felt itself, not in the presence merely of a woman eaten with hatred64, fury, desire for vengeance65, but of a primeval force, passion incarnate66, such as Earth unlooses in convulsions that have annihilated67 millions and buried continents. No other Isolde has ever been as great as Styr, for no other has been able to suggest this ferocious68 approach of a devastating69 force, this hurricane sweeping70 across the mind’s invisible plain, tearing at the very foundations of life. And all this she expressed before singing a note, with her staring moving eyes, her eloquent71 body, still and concealed72 as it was, a gesture of the hand. It was a concentration of the mental faculties73, such as gives weak women superhuman physical strength in moments of terror or anger; in her own case they were whipped up like a whirlwind by the released horrors in her soul, and used with a supreme74 exercise of art that made her the risen Isolde.
When she started up, crying out to the wind and waves to shatter the ship, the passion in her voice hardly expressed the rage consuming her in plainer terms than that first long silent moment had done.
Styr’s transitions from wildness to gloom, to bitter wildness again, then to a regal imperiousness, when she ordered Br?ngane to summon Tristan (which must have made the royal women present envy the majesty of soul that could inform poor commonplace flesh with so dread75 a mien), were all done with that complete abandonment to her r?le of the great artist who never for a moment addresses her audience. Then, once more, she betrayed in her strained eyes and body her outraged76 womanhood as Br?ngane was courteously77 repulsed78 by Tristan (alas79! very fat), standing1 with folded arms at the helm, and taunted80 by Kurwenal and the sailors. Upon the tirewoman’s return, after a moment’s futile81 attempt at self-control, she broke forth82 into a furious denunciation of the false lover, mingling83 it with bitter reminiscences of a time so fatal to herself when he was ill and at her mercy, and she healed and loved him. The anger gradually faded from her voice, which softened84 into the most exquisite85 tenderness and sweetness. “His eyes on mine were fastened. . . . the sword dropped from my fingers!” In that brooding moment every woman in the audience recalled the unforgettable, the eyes of the young widened with terror and hope.
But that moment was brief. Her wrongs beat upon her brain again. With their recital86 to the trembling Br?ngane she worked herself up to that tremendous climax87 where, flinging her back against the drawn88 curtains, with arms outstretched, she screamed out her curses, invoking89 vengeance and death.
Never theatrical90, and conveying the impression throughout the greater part of that act, in which she ran the gamut91 of the passions, that she let escape but the smoke of the terrible fires below, when she did give way to ungovernable fury, she gashed92 the hidden rivers of blood before the footlights to such a pitch that it is no wonder the Germans keep on calling for more sensation, more thrill, with an insatiety which will work the ruin of music and drama in their nation unless some genius totally different from Wagner rises and diverts them into safer channels. Beyond Wagner in his own domain93 there is nothing but sensationalism. Rather, he took all the gold out of the mine he discovered and left but base alloy94 for the misguided disciple95.
Not the least impressive moment in this terrible act was when Styr, after staring at the phials in the casket while the idea of death matured in her desperate brain,—death for herself as well as for the man that betrayed her,—raised her head slowly, her body to its full height. She looked the very genius of death, a malign96 fate awaiting its moment to settle upon the ripest fruit, the blithest hopes. A subtle gesture of her hand seemed to deprive it of its flesh, leave it a talon97 which held a scythe98; by the same token one saw the skeleton under the blue robe; her mouth twisted into a grin, her eyes sank. It was all over in half a minute, it was but a fleeting99 suggestion, but it flashed out upon every sensitive soul present a picture of the charnel house, the worm, death robbed of its poetry, stripped to the bones by the hot blasts from that caldron of hate.
When, having compelled Tristan to drink the love potion which Br?ngane, who has no taste for crime, mixed instead of the draught100 of death, when, from the dark abysses of suicide and murder, her soul rose slowly and dazedly101, but free, to the heights of the mightiest102 of all the passions, Styr was so superb in her abandonment, so sweet in her surrender, she carried this act of many emotions to a climax so acute and so satisfying, that few in her audience but felt the sequel should be given on the following night.
The curtain went down as Isolde was torn from Tristan’s arms by her tirewomen and old King Mark boarded the ship. Styr appeared again and again in response to loud cries, clapping, and stamping, which lasted for nearly ten minutes. But at last the audience went forth to refresh itself at the buffet103. Ordham did not rise at once. He sat next to the central rope and was undisturbed. He was holding fast to that last picture of Isolde with her dazed yet illuminated104 eyes in which the love allowance of Earth seemed to be concentrated, when his own eyes unwittingly fell upon the woman that occupied the seat in front of him. She had neatly105 turned back her overskirt and skirt, and from the capacious pocket of her petticoat was extracting two large sandwiches, a slab106 of chocolate, and an apple. He gave an almost audible groan107 and went out into the foyer to exchange “Wundersch?ns” with his friends.
The second act, greatest of all love scenes as it is, is far less of a strain on the audience than the first. When Tristan and Isolde, having expressed their joy in meeting in that succession of ecstatic love cries which makes the words feeble and superfluous108, sank down upon the bench (that astigmatic109 couch!) and the love duet began, Ordham once more closed his eyes and listened, with his soul detached from his body, to that voice of fluid gold, melting, fainting, fiery110, dreaming, despairing, expressing every phase of the phenomenon of love. Never has the ecstasy111 and the futility112 of love been expressed as here, and when Styr, her voice returning from those starry113 voids where Isolde’s soul had borne Tristan’s, passionately114 demanded death as the only relief for the insupportable tension of body and spirit, although she did not move, she conveyed the impression of a still more complete abandon. The tenor115, being of immense proportions, and with his eyes seldom roving from the baton116 of the conductor, conveyed no such impression, or the scene might have been unbearably117 descriptive. But in Germany either the tenor or the soprano, by the entire respectability of their earthly mediums, can be relied upon to modify the most licentious118 opera ever written.
As Ordham did not like this particular tenor, he remained in the foyer until Tristan had finished his bleating119 and ranting120 in the last act—that vicious test of a tenor’s histrionic powers, as of his vocal121 endurance—and bribed122 the doorkeeper to let him enter later and stand while Styr sang the Liebestod. Sometimes she rose to her feet as if impelled123 upward by the intensity124 of her vision; but to-night she chose to exhibit the physical weakness of delirium125 as the soul struggled free of the relaxing flesh, the ecstasy of death. Styr always triumphed anew in that supreme effort of Wagner, and on this night when the curtain fell the audience “went quite mad.” While the house was ringing with “Styr!” “Styr!” “Styr!” Ordham conceived a sudden resolution. He had invited Princess Nachmeister, Mr. Trowbridge, and several other friends to sup with him at Maximilia; and although nothing was better known in Munich than that Styr never accepted invitations to supper after one of her performances, was never to be seen, for that matter, he determined126 to persuade her to join his party. It would gratify his vanity hugely to succeed where all had failed, and he craved127 the new experience of talking with her immediately after she had created the greatest of her illusions.
He had been behind the scenes with Kilchberg, who loved a maiden128 in the chorus, and he knew the location of Styr’s dressing129 room, although he had never caught a glimpse of her in or near it. He was determined to see her to-night; and he did!
He had made his way across the back of the stage, passed open doors of supers who were frankly130 disrobing, too hungry to observe the minor131 formalities, and was approaching the room of the prima donna, when its door was suddenly flung open, a little man was rushed out by the collar, twirled round, and hurled132 almost at his feet. The Styr, her own hair down, her face livid, her eyes blazing, shouted hoarsely133 at the object of her wrath134, who took to his heels. The intendant rushed upon the scene. Styr screamed out that the minor official had dared to come to her dressing-room with a criticism upon the set of her wig, and that if ever she were spoken to again at the close of a performance by any member of the staff, from the intendant down, she would leave Munich the same night. The great functionary135 fled, for she threatened to box his own ears unless he took himself out of her sight, and the Styr stormed up and down, beat the scenery with her hands, stamped, hissed136, her pallor deepening every second, until it was like white fire. Ordham, half fascinated, half convulsed, at this glimpse of the artistic137 temperament138 in full blast, stared at her with his mouth open. She looked like some fury of the coal-pit, flying up from the sooty galleries on the wings of her voice. Her words had been delivered with a strange broad burring accent, which Ordham found more puzzling than her tantrum.
Suddenly she caught sight of him. If possible her fury waxed.
“You! You!” she screamed. “Go! Get out of here! How dare you come near me? I hate you! I hate the whole world when I have finished an opera! They ought to give me somebody to kill! Go! I don’t care whether you ever speak to me again or not—”
Ordham, not knowing whether he should feel insulted or philosophical139, beat a hasty retreat; and, remaining late at Maximilia, had no time to ponder upon the matter that night. He had barely awakened140 in the morning when he received the following note:
“Dear Mr. Ordham: You will recall that I told you it would be better to think of me as a stage woman only?—although at that time I did not include the greenroom among your possible experiences. If I cannot make you understand the fearful state of excitement which an opera like Isolde induces, then indeed I hope you will not forgive me, never come near me again. But I fancy that you have already forgiven me. I was a wild beast. The actress born with the power to portray141 Isolde has it in her to be the worst woman in the world—much simpler than to reach those heights (her heights) toward which, alas! there is little pulsion. It is all over a few hours later, after I have taken a long walk in the Englischergarten, then eaten a prosaic142 supper of cold ham and fowl143, eggs perchance, and salad! But for an hour after those triumphs I pay! I pay!
“Do not reply to this, but come on Thursday to supper or not, as you will.
“Margarethe Styr.”
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收听单词发音
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1
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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parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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3
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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6
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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7
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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8
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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12
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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14
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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15
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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16
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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17
remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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19
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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20
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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22
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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23
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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25
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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29
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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30
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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31
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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32
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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33
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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34
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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35
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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38
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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41
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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42
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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43
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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44
presaging
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的现在分词 ) | |
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45
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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46
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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47
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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48
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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49
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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50
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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51
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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52
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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53
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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54
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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55
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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56
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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57
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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58
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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59
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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60
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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61
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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62
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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63
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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64
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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65
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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66
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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67
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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68
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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69
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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70
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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71
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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72
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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73
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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74
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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75
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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76
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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77
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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78
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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79
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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80
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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81
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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82
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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83
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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84
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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85
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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86
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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87
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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89
invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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90
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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91
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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92
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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94
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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95
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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96
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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talon
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| n.爪；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物 | |
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98
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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100
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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101
dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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103
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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104
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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105
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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106
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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107
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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108
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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109
astigmatic
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| a.散光的，乱视的 | |
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110
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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111
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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112
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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113
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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114
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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115
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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116
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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117
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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118
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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119
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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120
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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121
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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122
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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123
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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125
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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126
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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127
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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128
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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129
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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130
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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131
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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132
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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133
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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134
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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135
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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136
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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137
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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138
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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139
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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140
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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141
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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142
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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143
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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