And then the audience goes wild at such unselfishness and cries of “Speech, speech!” rend2 the air and the author has arrived at the happiest moment of his life. He feels that all creation was evolved just for this supreme3 moment and his knees shake and (in a voice surcharged with emotion) he says things that do not read well in print, but which rouse the house to greater enthusiasm, and he wishes that William Shakespeare could have lived to see this night, and goes home to dream happy dreams.
Sometimes he can’t contain his speech any longer than the end of the third act, and with comparatively little applause, and, it may be, only one solitary4 call of “Author” (from his devoted5 brother in the front row) he rushes to the footlights and delivers himself of his pent up eloquence6. And then perhaps the critics jump on the piece and kill it, and the next day he wishes he hadn’t spoken.
But no dramatic author would think of going out before the gray asbestos curtain had been raised on the overture7 to say to the cold, sternly critical audience that this was the proudest moment of his life and that he hoped the actors would see their duty and do it. That would be considered assurance.
And yet we writers of—novels—do rush on before the first chapter has been reached and sometimes we tell how it is going to end and sometimes we give the names of the authorities from whom we lifted our central idea, and sometimes we strike an attitude of timid uncertainty8 and bespeak9 the indulgence of the reader—but always without response of any kind.
Not a hand, not a cry of “Author”: nothing but the gray asbestos curtain of silence.
Of course there are cases when a book runs into the “six best selling class” and people get into the habit of buying it and the habit is not broken for weeks and weeks; and then, after the twentieth edition is exhausted10 the author comes out with a “Preface to the twenty-first edition,” and as he smells the fragrance11 of the bouquets12 that the critics have handsomely handed out and hears the plaudits of those who have thronged13 to read him he says brokenly, “I thank you. You have raised me from a point where I was living on my brother in the front row to a position where I can take my pick of motor cars” (Not automobiles14, mind you), “and while I never thought of money while I was writing the book, now I both think and have a good deal of it. Thank you! Thank you!”
But I, (rather than not come out at all) am going to squeeze before the gray asbestos and say “Thank you. Critics, readers; gentle and otherwise, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
“If there is anything good in this book, believe me it is the characters who are responsible for it.
“And let me take this occasion to say that the book would never have been written if I had not been encouraged by one who has the faculty15 of making a man do his best. She is here to-night, but I am not permitted to mention her.
“I have had great fun writing ‘Minerva’s Man?uvres,’ and this is really the proudest moment of my life. (Cheers.) My heroine, Minerva, is a good girl and I can give her a fine character if she should ever seek a place—in your hearts.
“Thank you! Thank you!”
(Curtain goes up.)
C. B. L.
点击收听单词发音
1 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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2 rend | |
vt.把…撕开,割裂;把…揪下来,强行夺取 | |
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3 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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4 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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5 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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6 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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7 overture | |
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
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8 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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9 bespeak | |
v.预定;预先请求 | |
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10 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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11 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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12 bouquets | |
n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 );(酒的)芳香 | |
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13 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14 automobiles | |
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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15 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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