My friend B. called on me this morning and asked me if I would go to a theatre with him on Monday next.
“Oh, yes! certainly, old man,” I replied. “Have you got an order, then?”
He said:
“No; they don’t give orders. We shall have to pay.”
“Pay! Pay to go into a theatre!” I answered, in astonishment4. “Oh, nonsense! You are joking.”
“My dear fellow,” he rejoined, “do you think I should suggest paying if it were possible to get in by any other means? But the people who run this theatre would not even understand what was meant by a ‘free list,’ the uncivilised barbarians5! It is of no use pretending to them that you are on the Press, because they don’t want the Press; they don’t think anything of the Press. It is no good writing to the acting6 manager, because there is no acting manager. It would be a waste of time offering to exhibit bills, because they don’t have any bills—not of that sort. If you want to go in to see the show, you’ve got to pay. If you don’t pay, you stop outside; that’s their brutal7 rule.”
“Dear me,” I said, “what a very unpleasant arrangement! And whereabouts is this extraordinary theatre? I don’t think I can ever have been inside it.”
“I don’t think you have,” he replied; “it is at Ober-Ammergau—first turning on the left after you leave Ober railway-station, fifty miles from Munich.”
“Um! rather out of the way for a theatre,” I said. “I should not have thought an outlying house like that could have afforded to give itself airs.”
“The house holds seven thousand people,” answered my friend B., “and money is turned away at each performance. The first production is on Monday next. Will you come?”
I pondered for a moment, looked at my diary, and saw that Aunt Emma was coming to spend Saturday to Wednesday next with us, calculated that if I went I should miss her, and might not see her again for years, and decided that I would go.
To tell the truth, it was the journey more than the play that tempted8 me. To be a great traveller has always been one of my cherished ambitions. I yearn1 to be able to write in this sort of strain:—
“I have smoked my fragrant9 Havana in the sunny streets of old Madrid, and I have puffed10 the rude and not sweet-smelling calumet of peace in the draughty wigwam of the Wild West; I have sipped11 my evening coffee in the silent tent, while the tethered camel browsed12 without upon the desert grass, and I have quaffed14 the fiery15 brandy of the North while the reindeer16 munched17 his fodder18 beside me in the hut, and the pale light of the midnight sun threw the shadows of the pines across the snow; I have felt the stab of lustrous19 eyes that, ghostlike, looked at me from out veil-covered faces in Byzantium’s narrow ways, and I have laughed back (though it was wrong of me to do so) at the saucy20, wanton glances of the black-eyed girls of Jedo; I have wandered where ‘good’—but not too good—Haroun Alraschid crept disguised at nightfall, with his faithful Mesrour by his side; I have stood upon the bridge where Dante watched the sainted Beatrice pass by; I have floated on the waters that once bore the barge21 of Cleopatra; I have stood where Cæsar fell; I have heard the soft rustle22 of rich, rare robes in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair, and I have heard the teeth-necklaces rattle23 around the ebony throats of the belles24 of Tongataboo; I have panted beneath the sun’s fierce rays in India, and frozen under the icy blasts of Greenland; I have mingled25 with the teeming26 hordes27 of old Cathay, and, deep in the great pine forests of the Western World, I have lain, wrapped in my blanket, a thousand miles beyond the shores of human life.”
B., to whom I explained my leaning towards this style of diction, said that exactly the same effect could be produced by writing about places quite handy. He said:—
“I could go on like that without having been outside England at all. I should say:
“I have smoked my fourpenny shag in the sanded bars of Fleet Street, and I have puffed my twopenny Manilla in the gilded28 balls of the Criterion; I have quaffed my foaming29 beer of Burton where Islington’s famed Angel gathers the little thirsty ones beneath her shadowing wings, and I have sipped my tenpenny ordinaire in many a garlic-scented salon30 of Soho. On the back of the strangely-moving ass13 I have urged—or, to speak more correctly, the proprietor31 of the ass, or his agent, from behind has urged—my wild career across the sandy heaths of Hampstead, and my canoe has startled the screaming wild-fowl from their lonely haunts amid the sub-tropical regions of Battersea. Adown the long, steep slope of One Tree Hill have I rolled from top to foot, while laughing maidens32 of the East stood round and clapped their hands and yelled; and, in the old-world garden of that pleasant Court, where played the fair-haired children of the ill-starred Stuarts, have I wandered long through many paths, my arm entwined about the waist of one of Eve’s sweet daughters, while her mother raged around indignantly on the other side of the hedge, and never seemed to get any nearer to us. I have chased the lodging-house Norfolk Howard to his watery33 death by the pale lamp’s light; I have, shivering, followed the leaping flea34 o’er many a mile of pillow and sheet, by the great Atlantic’s margin35. Round and round, till the heart—and not only the heart—grows sick, and the mad brain whirls and reels, have I ridden the small, but extremely hard, horse, that may, for a penny, be mounted amid the plains of Peckham Rye; and high above the heads of the giddy throngs36 of Barnet (though it is doubtful if anyone among them was half so giddy as was I) have I swung in highly-coloured car, worked by a man with a rope. I have trod in stately measure the floor of Kensington’s Town Hall (the tickets were a guinea each, and included refreshments—when you could get to them through the crowd), and on the green sward of the forest that borders eastern Anglia by the oft-sung town of Epping I have performed quaint37 ceremonies in a ring; I have mingled with the teeming hordes of Drury Lane on Boxing Night, and, during the run of a high-class piece, I have sat in lonely grandeur38 in the front row of the gallery, and wished that I had spent my shilling instead in the Oriental halls of the Alhambra.”
“There you are,” said B., “that is just as good as yours; and you can write like that without going more than a few hours’ journey from London.”
“We will discuss the matter no further,” I replied. “You cannot, I see, enter into my feelings. The wild heart of the traveller does not throb39 within your breast; you cannot understand his longings40. No matter! Suffice it that I will come this journey with you. I will buy a German conversation book, and a check-suit, and a blue veil, and a white umbrella, and suchlike necessities of the English tourist in Germany, this very afternoon. When do you start?”
“Well,” he said, “it is a good two days’ journey. I propose to start on Friday.”
“Is not Friday rather an unlucky day to start on?” I suggested.
“Oh, good gracious!” he retorted quite sharply, “what rubbish next? As if the affairs of Europe were going to be arranged by Providence41 according to whether you and I start for an excursion on a Thursday or a Friday!”
He said he was surprised that a man who could be so sensible, occasionally, as myself, could have patience to even think of such old-womanish nonsense. He said that years ago, when he was a silly boy, he used to pay attention to this foolish superstition42 himself, and would never upon any consideration start for a trip upon a Friday.
But, one year, he was compelled to do so. It was a case of either starting on a Friday or not going at all, and he determined43 to chance it.
He went, prepared for and expecting a series of accidents and misfortunes. To return home alive was the only bit of pleasure he hoped for from that trip.
As it turned out, however, he had never had a more enjoyable holiday in his life before. The whole event was a tremendous success.
And after that, he had made up his mind to always start on a Friday; and he always did, and always had a good time.
He said that he would never, upon any consideration, start for a trip upon any other day but a Friday now. It was so absurd, this superstition about Friday.
So we agreed to start on the Friday, and I am to meet him at Victoria Station at a quarter to eight in the evening.
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1
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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6
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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7
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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8
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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9
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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10
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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11
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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13
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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14
quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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15
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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17
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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19
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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20
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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24
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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25
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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26
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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27
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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28
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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29
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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30
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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32
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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33
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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34
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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35
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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37
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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38
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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39
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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40
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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41
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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42
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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43
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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