My first recollection of him is of myself as a boy often and he a man of twenty-five (my oldest brother). He had come back to the town in which we were then living solely14 to find his mother and help her. Six or seven years before he had left without any explanation as to where he was going, tired of or irritated by the routine of a home which for any genuine opportunity it offered him might as well never have existed. It was run dominantly16 by my father in the interest of religious and moral theories, with which this boy had little sympathy. He was probably not understood by any one save my mother, who understood or at least sympathized with us all. Placed in a school which was to turn him out a priest, he had decamped, and now seven years later was here in this small town, with fur coat and silk hat, a smart cane17—a gentleman of the theatrical18 profession. He had joined a minstrel show somewhere and had become an "end-man." He had suspected that we were not as fortunate in this world's goods as might be and so had returned. His really great heart had called him.
But the thing which haunts me, and which was typical of him then as throughout life, was the spirit which he then possessed19 and conveyed. It was one of an agile20 geniality21, unmarred by thought of a serious character but warm and genuinely tender and with a taste for simple beauty which was most impressive. He was already the author of a cheap songbook, "The Paul Dresser Songster" ("All the Songs Sung in the Show"), and some copies of this he had with him, one of which he gave me. But we having no musical instrument of any kind, he taught me some of the melodies "by ear." The home in which by force of poverty we were compelled to live was most unprepossessing and inconvenient22, and the result of his coming could but be our request for, or at least the obvious need of, assistance. Still he was as much an enthusiastic part of it as though he belonged to it. He was happy in it, and the cause of his happiness was my mother, of whom he was intensely fond. I recall how he hung about her in the kitchen or wherever she happened to be, how enthusiastically he related all his plans for the future, his amusing difficulties in the past. He was very grand and youthfully self-important, or so we all thought, and still he patted her on the shoulder or put his arm about her and kissed her. Until she died years later she was truly his uppermost thought, crying with her at times over her troubles and his. He contributed regularly to her support and sent home all his cast-off clothing to be made over for the younger ones. (Bless her tired hands!)
As I look back now on my life, I realize quite clearly that of all the members of my family, subsequent to my mother's death, the only one who truly understood me, or, better yet, sympathized with my intellectual and artistic23 point of view, was, strange as it may seem, this same Paul, my dearest brother. Not that he was in any way fitted intellectually or otherwise to enjoy high forms of art and learning and so guide me, or that he understood, even in later years (long after I had written "Sister Carrie," for instance), what it was that I was attempting to do; he never did. His world was that of the popular song, the middle-class actor or comedian24, the middle-class comedy, and such humorous æsthetes of the writing world as Bill Nye, Petroleum25 V. Nasby, the authors of the Spoopendyke Papers, and "Samantha at Saratoga." As far as I could make out—and I say this in no lofty, condescending26 spirit, by any means—he was entirely27 full of simple, middle-class romance, middle-class humor, middle-class tenderness and middle-class grossness, all of which I am very free to say early disarmed29 and won me completely and kept me so much his debtor30 that I should hesitate to try to acknowledge or explain all that he did for or meant to me.
Imagine, if you can, a man weighing all of three hundred pounds, not more than five feet ten-and-one-half inches in height and yet of so lithesome a build that he gave not the least sense of either undue31 weight or lethargy. His temperament32, always ebullient33 and radiant, presented him as a clever, eager, cheerful, emotional and always highly illusioned person with so collie-like a warmth that one found him compelling interest and even admiration34. Easily cast down at times by the most trivial matters, at others, and for the most part, he was so spirited and bubbly and emotional and sentimental35 that your fiercest or most gloomy intellectual rages or moods could scarcely withstand his smile. This tenderness or sympathy of his, a very human appreciation36 of the weaknesses and errors as well as the toils37 and tribulations38 of most of us, was by far his outstanding and most engaging quality, and gave him a very definite force and charm. Admitting, as I freely do, that he was very sensuous40 (gross, some people might have called him), that he had an intense, possibly an undue fondness for women, a frivolous41, childish, horse-playish sense of humor at times, still he had other qualities which were absolutely adorable. Life seemed positively42 to spring up fountain-like in him. One felt in him a capacity to do (in his possibly limited field); an ability to achieve, whether he was doing so at the moment or not, and a supreme43 willingness to share and radiate his success—qualities exceedingly rare, I believe. Some people are so successful, and yet you know their success is purely44 selfish—exclusive, not inclusive; they never permit you to share in their lives. Not so my good brother. He was generous to the point of self-destruction, and that is literally45 true. He was the mark if not the prey46 of all those who desired much or little for nothing, those who previously47 might not have rendered him a service of any kind. He was all life and color, and thousands (I use the word with care) noted48 and commented on it.
When I first came to New York he was easily the foremost popular song-writer of the day and was the cause of my coming, so soon at least, having established himself in the publishing field and being so comfortably settled as to offer me a kind of anchorage in so troubled a commercial sea. I was very much afraid of New York, but with him here it seemed not so bad. The firm of which he was a part had a floor or two in an old residence turned office building, as so many are in New York, in Twentieth Street very close to Broadway, and here, during the summer months (1894-7) when the various theatrical road-companies, one of which he was always a part, had returned for the closed season, he was to be found aiding his concern in the reception and care of possible applicants49 for songs and attracting by his personality such virtuosi of the vaudeville50 and comedy stage as were likely to make the instrumental publications of his firm a success.
I may as well say here that he had no more business skill than a fly. At the same time, he was in no wise sycophantic51 where either wealth, power or fame was concerned. He considered himself a personage of sorts, and was. The minister, the moralist, the religionist, the narrow, dogmatic and self-centered in any field were likely to be the butt52 of his humor, and he could imitate so many phases of character so cleverly that he was the life of any idle pleasure-seeking party anywhere. To this day I recall his characterization of an old Irish washerwoman arguing; a stout53, truculent54 German laying down the law; lean, gloomy, out-at-elbows actors of the Hamlet or classic school complaining of their fate; the stingy skinflint haggling55 over a dollar, and always with a skill for titillating56 the risibilities which is vivid to me even to this day. Other butts57 of his humor were the actor, the Irish day-laborer, the negro and the Hebrew. And how he could imitate them! It is useless to try to indicate such things in writing, the facial expression, the intonation58, the gestures; these are not things of words. Perhaps I can best indicate the direction of his mind, if not his manner, by the following:
One night as we were on our way to a theater there stood on a nearby corner in the cold a blind man singing and at the same time holding out a little tin cup into which the coins of the charitably inclined were supposed to be dropped. At once my brother noticed him, for he had an eye for this sort of thing, the pathos59 of poverty as opposed to so gay a scene, the street with its hurrying theater crowds. At the same time, so inherently mischievous60 was his nature that although his sympathy for the suffering or the ill-used of fate was overwhelming, he could not resist combining his intended charity with a touch of the ridiculous.
"Got any pennies?" he demanded.
"Three or four."
Going over to an outdoor candystand he exchanged a quarter for pennies, then came back and waited until the singer, who had ceased singing, should begin a new melody. A custom of the singer's, since the song was of no import save as a means of attracting attention to him, was to interpolate a "Thank you" after each coin dropped in his cup and between the words of the song, regardless. It was this little idiosyncrasy which evidently had attracted my brother's attention, although it had not mine. Standing39 quite close, his pennies in his hand, he waited until the singer had resumed, then began dropping pennies, waiting each time for the "Thank you," which caused the song to go about as follows:
"Da-a-'ling" (Clink!—"Thank you!") "I am—" (Clink!—"Thank you!") "growing o-o-o-ld" (Clink!—"Thank you!"), "Silve-e-r—" (Clink!—"Thank you!") "threads among the—" (Clink!—"Thank you!") "go-o-o-ld—" (Clink! "Thank you!"). "Shine upon my-y" (Clink!—"Thank you!") "bro-o-ow toda-a-y" (Clink!—"Thank you!"), "Life is—" (Clink!—"Thank you!") "fading fast a-a-wa-a-ay" (Clink!—"Thank you!")—and so on ad infinitum, until finally the beggar himself seemed to hesitate a little and waver, only so solemn was his rôle of want and despair that of course he dared not but had to go on until the last penny was in, and until he was saying more "Thank yous" than words of the song. A passer-by noticing it had begun to "Haw-haw!", at which others joined in, myself included. The beggar himself, a rather sniveling specimen61, finally realizing what a figure he was cutting with his song and thanks, emptied the coins into his hand and with an indescribably wry62 expression, half-uncertainty63 and half smile, exclaimed, "I'll have to thank you as long as you keep putting pennies in, I suppose. God bless you!"
My brother came away smiling and content.
However, it is not as a humorist or song-writer or publisher that I wish to portray64 him, but as an odd, lovable personality, possessed of so many interesting and peculiar65 and almost indescribable traits. Of all characters in fiction he perhaps most suggests Jack66 Falstaff, with his love of women, his bravado67 and bluster68 and his innate69 good nature and sympathy. Sympathy was really his outstanding characteristic, even more than humor, although the latter was always present. One might recite a thousand incidents of his generosity70 and out-of-hand charity, which contained no least thought of return or reward. I recall that once there was a boy who had been reared in one of the towns in which we had once lived who had never had a chance in his youth, educationally or in any other way, and, having turned out "bad" and sunk to the level of a bank robber, had been detected in connection with three other men in the act of robbing a bank, the watchman of which was subsequently killed in the mêlée and escape. Of all four criminals only this one had been caught. Somewhere in prison he had heard sung one of my brother's sentimental ballads72, "The Convict and the Bird," and recollecting73 that he had known Paul wrote him, setting forth74 his life history and that now he had no money or friends.
At once my good brother was alive to the pathos of it. He showed the letter to me and wanted to know what could be done. I suggested a lawyer, of course, one of those brilliant legal friends of his—always he had enthusiastic admirers in all walks—who might take the case for little or nothing. There was the leader of Tammany Hall, Richard Croker, who could be reached, he being a friend of Paul's. There was the Governor himself to whom a plain recitation of the boy's unfortunate life might be addressed, and with some hope of profit.
All of these things he did, and more. He went to the prison (Sing Sing), saw the warden75 and told him the story of the boy's life, then went to the boy, or man, himself and gave him some money. He was introduced to the Governor through influential76 friends and permitted to tell the tale. There was much delay, a reprieve77, a commutation of the death penalty to life imprisonment—the best that could be done. But he was so grateful for that, so pleased. You would have thought at the time that it was his own life that had been spared.
"Good heavens!" I jested. "You'd think you'd done the man an inestimable service, getting him in the penitentiary78 for life!"
"That's right," he grinned—an unbelievably provoking smile. "He'd better be dead, wouldn't he? Well, I'll write and ask him which he'd rather have."
I recall again taking him to task for going to the rescue of a "down and out" actor who had been highly successful and apparently79 not very sympathetic in his day, one of that more or less gaudy80 clan81 that wastes its substance, or so it seemed to me then, in riotous82 living. But now being old and entirely discarded and forgotten, he was in need of sympathy and aid. By some chance he knew Paul, or Paul had known him, and now because of the former's obvious prosperity—he was much in the papers at the time—he had appealed to him. The man lived with a sister in a wretched little town far out on Long Island. On receiving his appeal Paul seemed to wish to investigate for himself, possibly to indulge in a little lofty romance or sentiment. At any rate he wanted me to go along for the sake of companionship, so one dreary84 November afternoon we went, saw the pantaloon, who did not impress me very much even in his age and misery85 for he still had a few of his theatrical manners and insincerities, and as we were coming away I said, "Paul, why should you be the goat in every case?" for I had noted ever since I had been in New York, which was several years then, that he was a victim of many such importunities. If it was not the widow of a deceased friend who needed a ton of coal or a sack of flour, or the reckless, headstrong boy of parents too poor to save him from a term in jail or the reformatory and who asked for fine-money or an appeal to higher powers for clemency86, or a wastrel87 actor or actress "down and out" and unable to "get back to New York" and requiring his or her railroad fare wired prepaid, it was the dead wastrel actor or actress who needed a coffin88 and a decent form of burial.
"Well, you know how it is, Thee" (he nearly always addressed me thus), "when you're old and sick. As long as you're up and around and have money, everybody's your friend. But once you're down and out no one wants to see you any more—see?" Almost amusingly he was always sad over those who had once been prosperous but who were now old and forgotten. Some of his silliest tender songs conveyed as much.
"Quite so," I complained, rather brashly, I suppose, "but why didn't he save a little money when he had it? He made as much as you'll ever make." The man had been a star. "He had plenty of it, didn't he? Why should he come to you?"
"Well, you know how it is, Thee," he explained in the kindliest and most apologetic way. "When you're young and healthy like that you don't think. I know how it is; I'm that way myself. We all have a little of it in us. I have; you have. And anyhow youth's the time to spend money if you're to get any good of it, isn't it? Of course when you're old you can't expect much, but still I always feel as though I'd like to help some of these old people." His eyes at such times always seemed more like those of a mother contemplating89 a sick or injured child than those of a man contemplating life.
"But, Paul," I insisted on another occasion when he had just wired twenty-five dollars somewhere to help bury some one. (My spirit was not so niggardly90 as fearsome. I was constantly terrified in those days by the thought of a poverty-stricken old age for myself and him—why, I don't know. I was by no means incompetent91.) "Why don't you save your money? Why should you give it to every Tom, Dick and Harry92 that asks you? You're not a charity organization, and you're not called upon to feed and clothe and bury all the wasters who happen to cross your path. If you were down and out how many do you suppose would help you?"
"Well, you know," and his voice and manner were largely those of mother, the same wonder, the same wistfulness and sweetness, the same bubbling charity and tenderness of heart, "I can't say I haven't got it, can I?" He was at the height of his success at the time. "And anyhow, what's the use being so hard on people? We're all likely to get that way. You don't know what pulls people down sometimes—not wasting always. It's thoughtlessness, or trying to be happy. Remember how poor we were and how mamma and papa used to worry." Often these references to mother or father or their difficulties would bring tears to his eyes. "I can't stand to see people suffer, that's all, not if I have anything," and his eyes glowed sweetly. "And, after all," he added apologetically, "the little I give isn't much. They don't get so much out of me. They don't come to me every day."
Another time—one Christmas Eve it was, when I was comparatively new to New York (my second or third year), I was a little uncertain what to do, having no connections outside of Paul and two sisters, one of whom was then out of the city. The other, owing to various difficulties of her own and a temporary estrangement93 from us—more our fault than hers—was therefore not available. The rather drab state into which she had allowed her marital94 affections to lead her was the main reason that kept us apart. At any rate I felt that I could not, or rather would not, go there. At the same time, owing to some difficulty or irritation95 with the publishing house of which my brother was then part owner (it was publishing the magazine which I was editing), we twain were also estranged96, nothing very deep really—a temporary feeling of distance and indifference97.
So I had no place to go except to my room, which was in a poor part of the town, or out to dine where best I might—some moderate-priced hotel, was my thought. I had not seen my brother in three or four days, but after I had strolled a block or two up Broadway I encountered him. I have always thought that he had kept an eye on me and had really followed me; was looking, in short, to see what I would do As usual he was most smartly and comfortably dressed.
"Where you going, Thee?" he called cheerfully.
"Now, see here, sport," he began—a favorite expression of his, "sport"—with his face abeam99, "what's the use you and me quarreling? It's Christmas Eve, ain't it? It's a shame! Come on, let's have a drink and then go out to dinner."
"Well," I said, rather uncompromisingly, for at times his seemingly extreme success and well-being100 irritated me, "I'll have a drink, but as for dinner I have another engagement."
"Aw, don't say that. What's the use being sore? You know I always feel the same even if we do quarrel at times. Cut it out. Come on. You know I'm your brother, and you're mine. It's all right with me, Thee. Let's make it up, will you? Put 'er there! Come on, now. We'll go and have a drink, see, something hot—it's Christmas Eve, sport. The old home stuff."
He smiled winsomely102, coaxingly103, really tenderly, as only he could smile. I "gave in." But now as we entered the nearest shining bar, a Christmas crowd buzzing within and without (it was the old Fifth Avenue Hotel), a new thought seemed to strike him.
"Seen E—— lately?" he inquired, mentioning the name of the troubled sister who was having a very hard time indeed. Her husband had left her and she was struggling over the care of two children.
"No," I replied, rather shamefacedly, "not in a week or two—maybe more."
He clicked his tongue. He himself had not been near her in a month or more. His face fell, and he looked very depressed104.
"It's too bad—a shame really. We oughtn't to do this way, you know, sport. It ain't right. What do you say to our going around there," it was in the upper thirties, "and see how she's making out?—take her a few things, eh? Whaddya say?"
I hadn't a spare dollar myself, but I knew well enough what he meant by "take a few things" and who would pay for them.
"Well, we'll have to hurry if we want to get anything now," I urged, falling in with the idea since it promised peace, plenty and good will all around, and we rushed the drink and departed. Near at hand was a branch of one of the greatest grocery companies of the city, and near it, too, his then favorite hotel, the Continental105. En route we meditated106 on the impossibility of delivery, the fact that we would have to carry the things ourselves, but he at last solved that by declaring that he could commandeer negro porters or bootblacks from the Continental. We entered, and by sheer smiles on his part and some blarney heaped upon a floor-manager, secured a turkey, sweet potatoes, peas, beans, a salad, a strip of bacon, a ham, plum pudding, a basket of luscious107 fruit and I know not what else—provender, I am sure, for a dozen meals. While it was being wrapped and packed in borrowed baskets, soon to be returned, he went across the way to the hotel and came back with three grinning darkies who for the tip they knew they would receive preceded us up Broadway, the nearest path to our destination. On the way a few additional things were picked up: holly108 wreaths, toys, candy, nuts—and then, really not knowing whether our plan might not mis-carry, we made our way through the side street and to the particular apartment, or, rather, flat-house, door, a most amusing Christmas procession, I fancy, wondering and worrying now whether she would be there.
But the door clicked in answer to our ring, and up we marched, the three darkies first, instructed to inquire for her and then insist on leaving the goods, while we lagged behind to see how she would take it.
The stage arrangement worked as planned. My sister opened the door and from the steps below we could hear her protesting that she had ordered nothing, but the door being open the negroes walked in and a moment or two afterwards ourselves. The packages were being piled on table and floor, while my sister, unable quite to grasp this sudden visitation and change of heart, stared.
"Just thought we'd come around and have supper with you, E——, and maybe dinner tomorrow if you'll let us," my brother chortled. "Merry Christmas, you know. Christmas Eve. The good old home stuff—see? Old sport here and I thought we couldn't stay away—tonight, anyhow."
He beamed on her in his most affectionate way, but she, suffering regret over the recent estrangement as well as the difficulties of life itself and the joy of this reunion, burst into tears, while the two little ones danced about, and he and I put our arms about her.
"There, there! It's all over now," he declared, tears welling in his eyes. "It's all off. We'll can this scrapping109 stuff. Thee and I are a couple of bums110 and we know it, but you can forgive us, can't you? We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, all of us, and that's the truth. We've been quarreling, too, haven't spoken for a week. Ain't that so, sport? But it's all right now, eh?"
There were tears in my eyes, too. One couldn't resist him. He had the power of achieving the tenderest results in the simplest ways. We then had supper, and breakfast the next morning, all staying and helping111, even to the washing and drying of the dishes, and thereafter for I don't know how long we were all on the most affectionate terms, and he eventually died in this sister's home, ministered to with absolutely restless devotion by her for weeks before the end finally came.
But, as I have said, I always prefer to think of him at this, the very apex112 or tower window of his life. For most of this period he was gay and carefree. The music company of which he was a third owner was at the very top of its success. Its songs, as well as his, were everywhere. He had in turn at this time a suite113 at the Gilsey House, the Marlborough, the Normandie—always on Broadway, you see. The limelight district was his home. He rose in the morning to the clang of the cars and the honk114 of the automobiles115 outside; he retired116 at night as a gang of repair men under flaring117 torches might be repairing a track, or the milk trucks were rumbling118 to and from the ferries. He was in his way a public restaurant and hotel favorite, a shining light in the theater managers' offices, hotel bars and lobbies and wherever those flies of the Tenderloin, those passing lords and celebrities119 of the sporting, theatrical, newspaper and other worlds, are wont to gather. One of his intimates, as I now recall, was "Bat" Masterson, the Western and now retired (to Broadway!) bad man; Muldoon, the famous wrestler120; Tod Sloan, the jockey; "Battling" Nelson; James J. Corbett; Kid McCoy; Terry McGovern—prize-fighters all. Such Tammany district leaders as James Murphy, "The" McManus, Chrystie and Timothy Sullivan, Richard Carroll, and even Richard Croker, the then reigning121 Tammany boss, were all on his visiting list. He went to their meetings, rallies and district doings generally to sing and play, and they came to his "office" occasionally. Various high and mighties of the Roman Church, "fathers" with fine parishes and good wine cellars, and judges of various municipal courts, were also of his peculiar world. He was always running to one or the other "to get somebody out," or they to him to get him to contribute something to something, or to sing and play or act, and betimes they were meeting each other in hotel grills122 or elsewhere and having a drink and telling "funny stories."
Apropos123 of this sense of humor of his, this love of horse-play almost, I remember that once he had a new story to tell—a vulgar one of course—and with it he had been making me and a dozen others laugh until the tears coursed down our cheeks. It seemed new to everybody and, true to his rather fantastic moods, he was determined124 to be the first to tell it along Broadway. For some reason he was anxious to have me go along with him, possibly because he found me at that time an unvarying fountain of approval and laughter, possibly because he liked to show me off as his rising brother, as he insisted that I was. At between six and seven of a spring or summer evening, therefore, we issued from his suite at the Gilsey House, whither he had returned to dress, and invading the bar below were at once centered among a group who knew him. A whiskey, a cigar, the story told to one, two, three, five, ten to roars of laughter, and we were off, over the way to Weber & Fields (the Musical Burlesque125 House Supreme of those days) in the same block, where to the ticket seller and house manager, both of whom he knew, it was told. More laughter, a cigar perhaps. Then we were off again, this time to the ticket seller of Palmer's Theater at Thirtieth Street, thence to the bar of the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first, the Imperial at Thirty-second, the Martinique at Thirty-third, a famous drug-store at the southwest corner of Thirty-fourth and Broadway, now gone of course, the manager of which was a friend of his. It was a warm, moony night, and he took a glass of vichy "for looks' sake," as he said.
Then to the quondam Hotel Aulic at Thirty-fifth and Broadway—the center and home of the then much-berated "Hotel Aulic or Actors' School of Philosophy," and a most impressive actors' rendezvous126 where might have been seen in the course of an evening all the "second leads" and "light comedians127" and "heavies" of this, that and the other road company, all blazing with startling clothes and all explaining how they "knocked 'em" here and there: in Peoria, Pasadena, Walla-Walla and where not. My brother shone like a star when only one is in the sky.
Over the way then to the Herald128 Building, its owls129' eyes glowing in the night, its presses thundering, the elevated thundering beside it. Here was a business manager whom he knew. Then to the Herald Square Theater on the opposite side of the street, ablaze130 with a small electric sign—among the newest in the city. In this, as in the business office of the Herald was another manager, and he knew them all. Thence to the Marlborough bar and lobby at Thirty-sixth, the manager's office of the Knickerbocker Theater at Thirty-eighth, stopping at the bar and lobby of the Normandie, where some blazing professional beauty of the stage waylaid131 him and exchanged theatrical witticisms132 with him—and what else? Thence to the manager's office of the Casino at Thirty-ninth, some bar which was across the street, another in Thirty-ninth west of Broadway, an Italian restaurant on the ground floor of the Metropolitan133 at Fortieth and Broadway, and at last but by no means least and by such slow stages to the very door of the then Mecca of Meccas of all theater- and sportdom, the sanctum sanctorum of all those sportively au fait, "wise," the "real thing"—the Hotel Metropole at Broadway and Forty-second Street, the then extreme northern limit of the white-light district. And what a realm! Rounders and what not were here ensconced at round tables, their backs against the leather-cushioned wall seats, the adjoining windows open to all Broadway and the then all but somber134 Forty-second Street.
It was wonderful, the loud clothes, the bright straw hats, the canes135, the diamonds, the "hot" socks, the air of security and well-being, so easily assumed by those who gain an all too brief hour in this pretty, petty world of make-believe and pleasure and pseudo-fame. Among them my dearest brother was at his best. It was "Paul" here and "Paul" there—"Why, hello, Dresser, you're just in time! Come on in. What'll you have? Let me tell you something, Paul, a good one—". More drinks, cigars, tales—magnificent tales of successes made, "great shows" given, fights, deaths, marvelous winnings at cards, trickeries in racing136, prize-fighting; the "dogs" that some people were, the magnificent, magnanimous "God's own salt" that others were. The oaths, stories of women, what low, vice-besmeared, crime-soaked ghoulas certain reigning beauties of the town or stage were—and so on and so on ad infinitum.
But his story?—ah, yes. I had all but forgotten. It was told in every place, not once but seven, eight, nine, ten times. We did not eat until we reached the Metropole, and it was ten-thirty when we reached it! The handshakes, the road stories—"This is my brother Theodore. He writes; he's a newspaper man." The roars of laughter, the drinks! "Ah, my boy, that's good, but let me tell you one—one that I heard out in Louisville the other day." A seedy, shabby ne'er-do-well of a song-writer maybe stopping the successful author in the midst of a tale to borrow a dollar. Another actor, shabby and distrait137, reciting the sad tale of a year's misfortunes. Everywhere my dear brother was called to, slapped on the back, chuckled138 with. He was successful. One of his best songs was the rage, he had an interest in a going musical concern, he could confer benefits, favors.
Ah, me! Ah, me! That one could be so great, and that it should not last for ever and for ever!
Another of his outstanding characteristics was his love of women, a really amusing and at times ridiculous quality. He was always sighing over the beauty, innocence139, sweetness, this and that, of young maidenhood140 in his songs, but in real life he seemed to desire and attract quite a different type—the young and beautiful, it is true, but also the old, the homely141 and the somewhat savage142—a catholicity of taste I could never quite stomach. It was "Paul dearest" here and "Paul dearest" there, especially in his work in connection with the music-house and the stage. In the former, popular ballad71 singers of both sexes, some of the women most attractive and willful, were most numerous, coming in daily from all parts of the world apparently to find songs which they could sing on the American or even the English stage. And it was a part of his duty, as a member of the firm and the one who principally "handled" the so-called professional inquirers, to meet them and see that they were shown what the catalogue contained. Occasionally there was an aspiring144 female song-writer, often mere145 women visitors.
Regardless, however, of whether they were young, old, attractive or repulsive146, male or female, I never knew any one whose manner was more uniformly winsome101 or who seemed so easily to disarm28 or relax an indifferent or irritated mood. He was positive sunshine, the same in quality as that of a bright spring morning. His blue eyes focused mellowly147, his lips were tendrilled with smiles. He had a brisk, quick manner, always somehow suggestive of my mother, who was never brisk.
And how he fascinated them, the women! Their quite shameless daring where he was concerned! Positively, in the face of it I used to wonder what had become of all the vaunted and so-called "stabilizing148 morality" of the world. None of it seemed to be in the possession of these women, especially the young and beautiful. They were distant and freezing enough to all who did not interest them, but let a personality such as his come into view and they were all wiles149, bending and alluring150 graces. It was so obvious, this fascination151 he had for them and they for him, that at times it took on a comic look.
"Get onto the hit he's making," one would nudge another and remark.
"Say, some tenderness, that!" This in reference to a smile or a melting glance on the part of a female.
"Nothing like a way with the ladies. Some baby, eh, boys?"—this following the flick152 of a skirt and a backward-tossed glance perhaps, as some noticeable beauty passed out.
"No wonder he's cheerful," a sour and yet philosophic153 vaudevillian154, who was mostly out of a job and hung about the place for what free meals he could obtain, once remarked to me in a heavy and morose155 undertone. "If I had that many women crazy about me I'd be too."
And the results of these encounters with beauty! Always he had something most important to attend to, morning, noon or night, and whenever I encountered him after some such statement "the important thing" was, of course, a woman. As time went on and he began to look upon me as something more than a thin, spindling, dyspeptic and disgruntled youth, he began to wish to introduce me to some of his marvelous followers156, and then I could see how completely dependent upon beauty in the flesh he was, how it made his life and world.
One day as we were all sitting in the office, a large group of vaudevillians, song-writers, singers, a chance remark gave rise to a subsequent practical joke at Paul's expense. "I'll bet," observed some one, "that if a strange man were to rush in here with a revolver and say, 'Where's the man that seduced157 my wife?' Paul would be the first to duck. He wouldn't wait to find out whether he was the one meant or not."
Much laughter followed, and some thought. The subject of this banter158 was, of course, not present at the time. There was one actor who hung about there who was decidedly skillful in make-up. On more than one occasion he had disguised himself there in the office for our benefit. Coöperating with us, he disguised himself now as a very severe and even savage-looking person of about thirty-five—side-burns, mustachios and goatee. Then, with our aid, timing159 his arrival to an hour when Paul was certain to be at his desk, he entered briskly and vigorously and, looking about with a savage air, demanded, "Where is Paul Dresser?"
The latter turned almost apprehensively160, I thought, and at once seemed by no means captivated by the man's looks.
"That's Mr. Dresser there," explained one of the confederates most willingly.
The stranger turned and glared at him. "So you're the scoundrel that's been running around with my wife, are you?" he demanded, approaching him and placing one hand on his right hip83.
Paul made no effort to explain. It did not occur to him to deny the allegation, although he had never seen the man before. With a rising and backward movement he fell against the rail behind him, lifting both hands in fright and exclaiming, "Why—why—Don't shoot!" His expression was one of guilt161, astonishment162, perplexity. As some one afterwards said, "As puzzled as if he was trying to discover which injured husband it might be." The shout that went up—for it was agreed beforehand that the joke must not be carried far—convinced him that a hoax163 had been perpetrated, and the removal by the actor of his hat, sideburns and mustache revealed the true character of the injured husband. At first inclined to be angry and sulky, later on he saw the humor of his own indefinite position in the matter and laughed as heartily164 as any. But I fancy it developed a strain of uncertainty in him also in regard to injured husbands, for he was never afterwards inclined to interest himself in the much-married, and gave such wives a wide berth165.
But his great forte166 was of course his song-writing, and of this, before I speak of anything else, I wish to have my say. It was a gift, quite a compelling one, out of which, before he died, he had made thousands, all spent in the manner described. Never having the least power to interpret anything in a fine musical way, still he was always full of music of a tender, sometimes sad, sometimes gay, kind—that of the ballad-maker of a nation. He was constantly attempting to work them out of himself, not quickly but slowly, brooding as it were over the piano wherever he might find one and could have a little solitude167, at times on the organ (his favorite instrument), improvising168 various sad or wistful strains, some of which he jotted169 down, others of which, having mastered, he strove to fit words to. At such times he preferred to be alone or with some one whose temperament in no way clashed but rather harmonized with his own. Living with one of my sisters for a period of years, he had a room specially143 fitted up for his composing work, a very small room for so very large a man, within which he would shut himself and thrum a melody by the hour, especially toward evening or at night. He seemed to have a peculiar fondness for the twilight170 hour, and at this time might thrum over one strain and another until over some particular one, a new song usually, he would be in tears!
And what pale little things they were really, mere bits and scraps171 of sentiment and melodrama9 in story form, most asinine172 sighings over home and mother and lost sweethearts and dead heroes such as never were in real life, and yet with something about them, in the music at least, which always appealed to me intensely and must have appealed to others, since they attained173 so wide a circulation. They bespoke174, as I always felt, a wistful, seeking, uncertain temperament, tender and illusioned, with no practical knowledge of any side of life, but full of a true poetic175 feeling for the mystery and pathos of life and death, the wonder of the waters, the stars, the flowers, accidents of life, success, failure. Beginning with a song called "Wide Wings" (published by a small retail176 music-house in Evansville, Indiana), and followed by such national successes as "The Letter That Never Came," "I Believe It, For My Mother Told Me So" (!), "The Convict and the Bird," "The Pardon Came Too Late," "Just Tell Them That You Saw Me," "The Blue and the Grey," "On the Bowery," "On the Banks of the Wabash," and a number of others, he was never content to rest and never really happy, I think, save when composing. During this time, however, he was at different periods all the things I have described—a black-face monologue artist, an end- and at times a middle-man, a publisher, and so on.
I recall being with him at the time he composed two of his most famous successes: "Just Tell Them That You Saw Me," and "On the Banks of the Wabash," and noting his peculiar mood, almost amounting to a deep depression which ended a little later in marked elation177 or satisfaction, once he had succeeded in evoking178 something which really pleased him.
The first of these songs must have followed an actual encounter with some woman or girl whose life had seemingly if not actually gone to wreck179 on the shore of love or passion. At any rate he came into the office of his publishing house one gray November Sunday afternoon—it was our custom to go there occasionally, a dozen or more congenial souls, about as one might go to a club—and going into a small room which was fitted up with a piano as a "try-out" room (professionals desiring a song were frequently taught it in the office), he began improvising, or rather repeating over and over, a certain strain which was evidently in his mind. A little while later he came out and said, "Listen to this, will you, Thee?"
He played and sang the first verse and chorus. In the middle of the latter, so moved was he by the sentiment of it, his voice broke and he had to stop. Tears stood in his eyes and he wiped them away. A moment or two later he was able to go through it without wavering and I thought it charming for the type of thing it was intended to be. Later on (the following spring) I was literally astonished to see how, after those various efforts usually made by popular music publishers to make a song "go"—advertising it in the Clipper and Mirror, getting various vaudeville singers to sing it, and so forth—it suddenly began to sell, thousands upon thousands of copies being wrapped in great bundles under my very eyes and shipped express or freight to various parts of the country. Letters and telegrams, even, from all parts of the nation began to pour in—"Forward express today —— copies of Dresser's 'Tell Them That You Saw Me.'" The firm was at once as busy as a bee-hive, on "easy street" again, as the expression went, "in clover." Just before this there had been a slight slump180 in its business and in my brother's finances, but now once more he was his most engaging self. Every one in that layer of life which understands or takes an interest in popular songs and their creators knew of him and his song, his latest success. He was, as it were, a revivified figure on Broadway. His barbers, barkeepers, hotel clerks, theatrical box-office clerks, hotel managers and the stars and singers of the street knew of it and him. Some enterprising button firm got out a button on which the phrase was printed. Comedians on the stage, newspaper paragraphers, his bank teller181 or his tailor, even staid business men wishing to appear "up-to-date," used it as a parting salute182. The hand-organs, the bands and the theater orchestras everywhere were using it. One could scarcely turn a corner or go into a cheap music hall or variety house without hearing a parody183 of it. It was wonderful, the enormous furore that it seemed to create, and of course my dear brother was privileged to walk about smiling and secure, his bank account large, his friends numerous, in the pink of health, and gloating over the fact that he was a success, well known, a genuine creator of popular songs.
It was the same with "On the Banks of the Wabash," possibly an even greater success, for it came eventually to be adopted by his native State as its State song, and in that region streets and a town were named after him. In an almost unintentional and unthinking way I had a hand in that, and it has always cheered me to think that I had, although I have never had the least talent for musical composition or song versification. It was one of those delightful184 summer Sunday mornings (1896, I believe), when I was still connected with his firm as editor of the little monthly they were issuing, and he and myself, living with my sister E——, that we had gone over to this office to do a little work. I had a number of current magazines I wished to examine; he was always wishing to compose something, to express that ebullient and emotional soul of his in some way.
"What do you suppose would make a good song these days?" he asked in an idle, meditative185 mood, sitting at the piano and thrumming while I at a nearby table was looking over my papers. "Why don't you give me an idea for one once in a while, sport? You ought to be able to suggest something."
"Me?" I queried186, almost contemptuously, I suppose. I could be very lofty at times in regard to his work, much as I admired him—vain and yet more or less dependent snip187 that I was. "I can't write those things. Why don't you write something about a State or a river? Look at 'My Old Kentucky Home,' 'Dixie,' 'Old Black Joe'—why don't you do something like that, something that suggests a part of America? People like that. Take Indiana—what's the matter with it—the Wabash River? It's as good as any other river, and you were 'raised' beside it."
I have to smile even now as I recall the apparent zest188 or feeling with which all at once he seized on this. It seemed to appeal to him immensely. "That's not a bad idea," he agreed, "but how would you go about it? Why don't you write the words and let me put the music to them? We'll do it together!"
"But I can't," I replied. "I don't know how to do those things. You write it. I'll help—maybe."
After a little urging—I think the fineness of the morning had as much to do with it as anything—I took a piece of paper and after meditating189 a while scribbled190 in the most tentative manner imaginable the first verse and chorus of that song almost as it was published. I think one or two lines were too long or didn't rhyme, but eventually either he or I hammered them into shape, but before that I rather shamefacedly turned them over to him, for somehow I was convinced that this work was not for me and that I was rather loftily and cynically191 attempting what my good brother would do in all faith and feeling.
He read it, insisted that it was fine and that I should do a second verse, something with a story in it, a girl perhaps—a task which I solemnly rejected.
"No, you put it in. It's yours. I'm through."
Some time later, disagreeing with the firm as to the conduct of the magazine, I left—really was forced out—which raised a little feeling on my part; not on his, I am sure, for I was very difficult to deal with.
Time passed and I heard nothing. I had been able to succeed in a somewhat different realm, that of the magazine contributor, and although I thought a great deal of my brother I paid very little attention to him or his affairs, being much more concerned with my own. One spring night, however, the following year, as I was lying in my bed trying to sleep, I heard a quartette of boys in the distance approaching along the street in which I had my room. I could not make out the words at first but the melody at once attracted my attention. It was plaintive192 and compelling. I listened, attracted, satisfied that it was some new popular success that had "caught on." As they drew near my window I heard the words "On the Banks of the Wabash" most mellifluously193 harmonized.
I jumped up. They were my words! It was Paul's song! He had another "hit" then—"On the Banks of the Wabash," and they were singing it in the streets already! I leaned out of the window and listened as they approached and passed on, their arms about each other's shoulders, the whole song being sung in the still street, as it were, for my benefit. The night was so warm, delicious. A full moon was overhead. I was young, lonely, wistful. It brought back so much of my already spent youth that I was ready to cry—for joy principally. In three more months it was everywhere, in the papers, on the stage, on the street-organs, played by orchestras, bands, whistled and sung in the streets. One day on Broadway near the Marlborough I met my brother, gold-headed cane, silk shirt, a smart summer suit, a gay straw hat.
"Ah," I said, rather sarcastically194, for I still felt peeved195 that he had shown so little interest in my affairs at the time I was leaving. "On the banks, I see."
"On the banks," he replied cordially. "You turned the trick for me, Thee, that time. What are you doing now? Why don't you ever come and see me? I'm still your brother, you know. A part of that is really yours."
"Cut that!" I replied most savagely196. "I couldn't write a song like that in a million years. You know I couldn't. The words are nothing."
"Oh, all right. It's true, though, you know. Where do you keep yourself? Why don't you come and see me? Why be down on me? I live here, you know." He looked up at the then brisk and successful hotel.
"Well, maybe I will some time," I said distantly, but with no particular desire to mend matters, and we parted.
There was, however, several years later, a sequel to all this and one so characteristic of him that it has always remained in my mind as one of the really beautiful things of life, and I might as well tell it here and now. About five years later I had become so disappointed in connection with my work and the unfriendly pressure of life that I had suffered what subsequently appeared to have been a purely psychic197 breakdown198 or relapse, not physical, but one which left me in no mood or condition to go on with my work, or any work indeed in any form. Hope had disappeared in a sad haze199. I could apparently succeed in nothing, do nothing mentally that was worth while. At the same time I had all but retired from the world, living on less and less until finally I had descended200 into those depths where I was in the grip of actual want, with no place to which my pride would let me turn. I had always been too vain and self-centered. Apparently there was but one door, and I was very close to it. To match my purse I had retired to a still sorrier neighborhood in B——, one of the poorest. I desired most of all to be let alone, to be to myself. Still I could not be, for occasionally I met people, and certain prospects201 and necessities drove me to various publishing houses. One day as I was walking in some street near Broadway (not on it) in New York, I ran into my brother quite by accident, he as prosperous and comfortable as ever. I think I resented him more than ever. He was of course astonished, shocked, as I could plainly see, by my appearance and desire not to be seen. He demanded to know where I was living, wanted me to come then and there and stay with him, wanted me to tell him what the trouble was—all of which I rather stubbornly refused to do and finally got away—not however without giving him my address, though with the caution that I wanted nothing.
The next morning he was there bright and early in a cab. He was the most vehement202, the most tender, the most disturbed creature I have ever seen. He was like a distrait mother with a sick child more than anything else.
"For God's sake," he commented when he saw me, "living in a place like this—and at this number, too!" (130 it was, and he was superstitious203 as to the thirteen.) "I knew there'd be a damned thirteen in it!" he ejaculated. "And me over in New York! Jesus Christ! And you sick and run down this way! I might have known. It's just like you. I haven't heard a thing about you in I don't know when. Well, I'm not going back without you, that's all. You've got to come with me now, see? Get your clothes, that's all. The cabby'll take your trunk. I know just the place for you, and you're going there tomorrow or next day or next week, but you're coming with me now. My God, I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, and me feeling the way I do about you!" His eyes all but brimmed.
I was so morose and despondent204 that, grateful as I felt, I could scarcely take his mood at its value. I resented it, resented myself, my state, life.
"I can't," I said finally, or so I thought. "I won't. I don't need your help. You don't owe me anything. You've done enough already."
"Owe, hell!" he retorted. "Who's talking about 'owe'? And you my brother—my own flesh and blood! Why, Thee, for that matter, I owe you half of 'On the Banks,' and you know it. You can't go on living like this. You're sick and discouraged. You can't fool me. Why, Thee, you're a big man. You've just got to come out of this! Damn it—don't you see—don't make me"—and he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "You can't help yourself now, but you can later, don't you see? Come on. Get your things. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't. You've got to come, that's all. I won't go without you," and he began looking about for my bag and trunk.
I still protested weakly, but in vain. His affection was so overwhelming and tender that it made me weak. I allowed him to help me get my things together. Then he paid the bill, a small one, and on the way to the hotel insisted on forcing a roll of bills on me, all that he had with him. I was compelled at once, that same day or the next, to indulge in a suit, hat, shoes, underwear, all that I needed. A bedroom adjoining his suite at the hotel was taken, and for two days I lived there, later accompanying him in his car to a famous sanitarium in Westchester, one in charge of an old friend of his, a well-known ex-wrestler whose fame for this sort of work was great. Here I was booked for six weeks, all expenses paid, until I should "be on my feet again," as he expressed it. Then he left, only to visit and revisit me until I returned to the city, fairly well restored in nerves if not in health.
But could one ever forget the mingled205 sadness and fervor206 of his original appeal, the actual distress207 written in his face, the unlimited208 generosity of his mood and deed as well as his unmerited self-denunciation? One pictures such tenderness and concern as existing between parents and children, but rarely between brothers. Here he was evincing the same thing, as soft as love itself, and he a man of years and some affairs and I an irritable209, distrait and peevish210 soul.
The final phase of course related to his untimely end. He was not quite fifty-five when he died, and with a slightly more rugged212 quality of mind he might have lasted to seventy. It was due really to the failure of his firm (internal dissensions and rivalries213, in no way due to him, however, as I have been told) and what he foolishly deemed to be the end of his financial and social glory. His was one of those simple, confiding214, non-hardy dispositions215, warm and colorful but intensely sensitive, easily and even fatally chilled by the icy blasts of human difficulty, however slight. You have no doubt seen some animals, cats, dogs, birds, of an especially affectionate nature, which when translated to a strange or unfriendly climate soon droop216 and die. They have no spiritual resources wherewith to contemplate what they do not understand or know. Now his friends would leave him. Now that bright world of which he had been a part would know him no more. It was pathetic, really. He emanated217 a kind of fear. Depression and even despair seemed to hang about him like a cloak. He could not shake it off. And yet, literally, in his case there was nothing to fear, if he had only known.
And yet two years before he did die, I knew he would. Fantastic as it may seem, to be shut out from that bright world of which he deemed himself an essential figure was all but unendurable. He had no ready money now—not the same amount anyhow. He could not greet his old-time friends so gayly, entertain so freely. Meeting him on Broadway shortly after the failure and asking after his affairs, he talked of going into business for himself as a publisher, but I realized that he could not. He had neither the ability nor the talent for that, nor the heart. He was not a business man but a song-writer and actor, had never been anything but that. He tried in this new situation to write songs, but he could not. They were too morbid218. What he needed was some one to buoy219 him up, a manager, a strong confidant of some kind, some one who would have taken his affairs in hand and shown him what to do. As it was he had no one. His friends, like winter-frightened birds, had already departed. Personally, I was in no position to do anything at the time, being more or less depressed myself and but slowly emerging from difficulties which had held me for a number of years.
About a year or so after he failed my sister E—— announced that Paul had been there and that he was coming to live with her. He could not pay so much then, being involved with all sorts of examinations of one kind and another, but neither did he have to. Her memory was not short; she gave him the fullness of her home. A few months later he was ostensibly connected with another publishing house, but by then he was feeling so poorly physically220 and was finding consolation221 probably in some drinking and the caresses222 of those feminine friends who have, alas223, only caresses to offer. A little later I met a doctor who said, "Paul cannot live. He has pernicious anæmia. He is breaking down inside and doesn't know it. He can't last long. He's too depressed." I knew it was so and what the remedy was—money and success once more, the petty pettings and flattery of that little world of which he had been a part but which now was no more for him. Of all those who had been so lavish224 in their greetings and companionship earlier in his life, scarcely one, so far as I could make out, found him in that retired world to which he was forced. One or two pegged-out actors sought him and borrowed a little of the little that he had; a few others came when he had nothing at all. His partners, quarreling among themselves and feeling that they had done him an injustice225, remained religiously away. He found, as he often told my sister, broken horse-shoes (a "bad sign"), met cross-eyed women, another "bad sign," was pursued apparently by the inimical number thirteen—and all these little straws depressed him horribly. Finally, being no longer strong enough to be about, he took to his bed and remained there days at a time, feeling well while in bed but weak when up. For a little while he would go "downtown" to see this, that and the other person, but would soon return. One day on coming back home he found one of his hats lying on his bed, accidentally put there by one of the children, and according to my sister, who was present at the time, he was all but petrified226 by the sight of it. To him it was the death-sign. Some one had told him so not long before!!!
Then, not incuriously, seeing the affectional tie that had always held us, he wanted to see me every day. He had a desire to talk to me about his early life, the romance of it—maybe I could write a story some time, tell something about him! (Best of brothers, here it is, a thin little flower to lay at your feet!) To please him I made notes, although I knew most of it. On these occasions he was always his old self, full of ridiculous stories, quips and slight mots, all in his old and best vein227. He would soon be himself, he now insisted.
Then one evening in late November, before I had time to call upon him (I lived about a mile away), a hurry-call came from E——. He had suddenly died at five in the afternoon; a blood-vessel had burst in the head. When I arrived he was already cold in death, his soft hands folded over his chest, his face turned to one side on the pillow, that indescribable sweetness of expression about the eyes and mouth—the empty shell of the beetle228. There were tears, a band of reporters from the papers, the next day obituary229 news articles, and after that a host of friends and flowers, flowers, flowers. It is amazing what satisfaction the average mind takes in standardized230 floral forms—broken columns and gates ajar!
Being ostensibly a Catholic, a Catholic sister-in-law and other relatives insistently231 arranged for a solemn high requiem232 mass at the church of one of his favorite rectors. All Broadway was there, more flowers, his latest song read from the altar. Then there was a carriage procession to a distant Catholic graveyard233 somewhere, his friend, the rector of the church, officiating at the grave. It was so cold and dreary there, horrible. Later on he was removed to Chicago.
But still I think of him as not there or anywhere in the realm of space, but on Broadway between Twenty-ninth and Forty-second Streets, the spring and summer time at hand, the doors of the grills and bars of the hotels open, the rout15 of actors and actresses ambling234 to and fro, his own delicious presence dressed in his best, his "funny" stories, his songs being ground out by the hand organs, his friends extending their hands, clapping him on the shoulder, cackling over the latest idle yarn235.
Ah, Broadway! Broadway! And you, my good brother! Here is the story that you wanted me to write, this little testimony236 to your memory, a pale, pale symbol of all I think and feel. Where are the thousand yarns237 I have laughed over, the music, the lights, the song?
Peace, peace. So shall it soon be with all of us. It was a dream. It is. I am. You are. And shall we grieve over or hark back to dreams?
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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melodramas
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| 情节剧( melodrama的名词复数 ) | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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farces
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| n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 )；闹剧；笑剧剧目；作假的可笑场面 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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dominantly
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| 有统治权地，占优势地 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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18
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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19
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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20
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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21
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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22
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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23
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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24
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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25
petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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26
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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27
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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28
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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29
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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30
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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31
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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32
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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33
ebullient
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| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
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34
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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35
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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36
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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37
toils
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| 网 | |
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38
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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39
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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40
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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41
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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42
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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43
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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44
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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45
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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46
prey
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|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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47
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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48
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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49
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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50
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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51
sycophantic
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|
| adj.阿谀奉承的 | |
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52
butt
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|
| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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54
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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55
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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56
titillating
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|
| adj.使人痒痒的； 使人激动的，令人兴奋的v.使觉得痒( titillate的现在分词 )；逗引；激发；使高兴 | |
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57
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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58
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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59
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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60
mischievous
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|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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61
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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62
wry
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|
| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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63
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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64
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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65
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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66
jack
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|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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67
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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68
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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69
innate
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|
| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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70
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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71
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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72
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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73
recollecting
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|
| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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74
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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75
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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76
influential
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|
| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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77
reprieve
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|
| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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78
penitentiary
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|
| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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79
apparently
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|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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80
gaudy
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|
| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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81
clan
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|
| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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82
riotous
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|
| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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83
hip
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|
| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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84
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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85
misery
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|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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86
clemency
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|
| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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87
wastrel
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|
| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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88
coffin
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|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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89
contemplating
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|
| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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90
niggardly
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|
| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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91
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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92
harry
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|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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93
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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94
marital
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|
| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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95
irritation
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|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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96
estranged
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|
| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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97
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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98
suavely
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99
abeam
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| adj.正横着(的) | |
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100
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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101
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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102
winsomely
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103
coaxingly
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|
| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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104
depressed
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|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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105
continental
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|
| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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106
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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107
luscious
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|
| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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108
holly
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|
| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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109
scrapping
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| 刮，切除坯体余泥 | |
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110
bums
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|
| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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111
helping
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|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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112
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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113
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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114
honk
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| n.雁叫声，汽车喇叭声 | |
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115
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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116
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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117
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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118
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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119
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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120
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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121
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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122
grills
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| n.烤架( grill的名词复数 )；（一盘）烤肉；格板；烧烤餐馆v.烧烤( grill的第三人称单数 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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123
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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124
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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125
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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126
rendezvous
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|
| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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127
comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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128
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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129
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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130
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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131
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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133
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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134
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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135
canes
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|
| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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136
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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137
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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138
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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140
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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141
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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142
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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143
specially
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|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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144
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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145
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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146
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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147
mellowly
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| 柔软且甜地，成熟地 | |
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148
stabilizing
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|
| n.稳定化处理[退火]v.（使）稳定， （使）稳固( stabilize的现在分词 ) | |
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149
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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150
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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151
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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152
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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153
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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154
vaudevillian
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| n.轻歌舞剧编剧者，杂耍演员 | |
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155
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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156
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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157
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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158
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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159
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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160
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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161
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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162
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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163
hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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164
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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165
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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166
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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167
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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168
improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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169
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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170
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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171
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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172
asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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173
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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174
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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175
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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176
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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177
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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178
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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179
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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180
slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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181
teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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182
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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183
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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184
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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185
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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186
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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187
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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188
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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189
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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190
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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191
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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192
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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193
mellifluously
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| adj.声音甜美的，悦耳的 | |
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194
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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195
peeved
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| adj.恼怒的，不高兴的v.（使）气恼，（使）焦躁，（使）愤怒( peeve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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197
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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198
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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199
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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200
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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201
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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202
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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203
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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204
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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205
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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206
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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207
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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208
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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209
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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210
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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211
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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212
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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213
rivalries
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| n.敌对，竞争，对抗( rivalry的名词复数 ) | |
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214
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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215
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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216
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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217
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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218
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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219
buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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220
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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221
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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222
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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223
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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224
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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225
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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226
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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227
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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228
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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229
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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230
standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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231
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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232
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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233
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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234
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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235
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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236
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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237
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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