This singular and enigmatic drama disconcerted Henry.
'What is it?' he whispered.
'Pauletti,' said Geraldine, rather surprised at the question.
He gathered from her tone that Pauletti was a personage of some importance, and, consulting the programme, read: 'Pauletti, the world-renowned quick-change artiste.' Then he figuratively kicked himself, like a man kicks himself figuratively in bed when he wakes up in the middle of the night and sees the point of what has hitherto appeared to be rather less than a joke.
'He's very good,' said Henry, as the excellence10 of Pauletti became more and more clear to him.
'He gets a hundred a week,' said Geraldine.
When Pauletti had performed two other violent dramas, and dressed and undressed himself thirty-nine times in twenty minutes, he gave way to his fellow-countryman Toscato. Toscato began gently with a little prestidigitation, picking five-pound notes out of the air, and simplicities11 of that kind. He then borrowed a handkerchief, produced an orange out of the handkerchief, a vegetable-marrow out of the orange, a gibus hat out of the vegetable-marrow, a live sucking-pig out of the gibus hat, five hundred yards of coloured paper out of the sucking-pig, a union-jack twelve feet by ten out of the bunch of paper, and a wardrobe with real doors and full of ladies' dresses out of the union-jack. Lastly, a beautiful young girl stepped forth12 from the wardrobe.
'I never saw anything like it!' Henry gasped13, very truthfully. He had a momentary14 fancy that the devil was in this extraordinary defiance15 of natural laws.
'Yes,' Geraldine admitted. 'It's not bad, is it?'
As Toscato could speak no English, an Englishman now joined him and announced that Toscato would proceed to perform his latest and greatest illusion—namely, the unique vanishing trick—for the first time in England; also that Toscato extended a cordial invitation to members of the audience to come up on to the stage and do their acutest to pierce the mystery.
'Come along,' said a voice in Henry's ear, 'I'm going.' It was Mr. Doxey's.
'Oh, no, thanks!' Henry replied hastily.
'Nothing to be afraid of,' said Mr. Doxey, shrugging his shoulders with an air which Henry judged slightly patronizing.
'Oh yes, do go,' Geraldine urged. 'It will be such fun.'
He hated to go, but there was no alternative, and so he went, stumbling after Mr. Doxey up the step-ladder which had been placed against the footlights for the ascending16 of people who prided themselves on being acute. There were seven such persons on the stage, not counting himself, but Henry honestly thought that the eyes of the entire audience were directed upon him alone. The stage seemed very large, and he was cut off from the audience by a wall of blinding rays, and at first he could only distinguish vast vague semicircles and a floor of pale, featureless faces. However, he depended upon Mr. Doxey.
But when the trick-box had been brought on to the stage—it was a sort of a sentry-box raised on four legs—Henry soon began to recover his self-possession. He examined that box inside and out until he became thoroughly17 convinced that it was without guile18. The jury of seven stood round the erection, and the English assistant stated that a sheet (produced) would be thrown over Toscato, who would then step into the box and shut the door. The door would then be closed for ten seconds, whereupon it would be opened and the beautiful young girl would step out of the box, while Toscato would magically appear in another part of the house.
At this point Henry stooped to give a last glance under the box. Immediately Toscato held him with a fiery19 eye, as though enraged20, and, going up to him, took eight court cards from Henry's sleeve, a lady's garter from his waistcoat pocket, and a Bath-bun out of his mouth. The audience received this professional joke in excellent part, and, indeed, roared its amusement. Henry blushed, would have given all the money he had on him—some ninety pounds—to be back in the stalls, and felt a hot desire to explain to everyone that the cards, the Bath-bun, and especially the garter, had not really been in his possession at all. That part of the episode over, the trick ought to have gone forward, but Toscato's Italian temper was effervescing21, and he insisted by signs that one of the jury should actually get into the box bodily, and so satisfy the community that the box was a box et præterea nilil. The English assistant pointed22 to Henry, and Henry, to save argument, reluctantly entered the box. Toscato shut the door. Henry was in the dark, and quite mechanically he extended his hands and felt the sides of the box. His fingers touched a projection23 in a corner, and he heard a clicking sound. Then he was aware of Toscato shaking the door of the box, frantically24 and more frantically, and of the noise of distant multitudinous laughter.
'Don't hold the door,' whispered a voice.
'I'm not doing so,' Henry whispered in reply.
The box trembled.
'I say, old chap, don't hold the door. They want to get on with the trick.' This time it was Mr. Doxey who addressed him in persuasive25 tones.
The box trembled anew and more dangerously. The distant laughter grew immense and formidable.
'Carry it off,' said a third voice, 'and get him out in the wings.'
The box underwent an earthquake; it rocked; Henry was thrown with excessive violence from side to side; the sound of the laughter receded27.
Happily, the box had no roof; it was laid with all tenderness on its flank, and the tenant28 crawled out of it into the midst of an interested crowd consisting of Toscato, some stage-managers, several scene-shifters, and many ballerinas. His natural good-temper reasserted itself at once, and he received apologies in the spirit in which they were offered, while Toscato set the box to rights. Henry was returning to the stage in order to escape from the ballerinas, whose proximity29 disturbed and frightened him, but he had scarcely shown his face to the house before he was, as it were, beaten back by a terrific wave of jubilant cheers. The great vanishing trick was brilliantly accomplished30 without his presence on the boards, and an official guided him through various passages back to the floor of the house. Nobody seemed to observe him as he sat down beside Geraldine.
'Of course it was all part of the show, that business,' he heard a man remark loudly some distance behind him.
He much enjoyed explaining the whole thing to Geraldine. Now that it was over, he felt rather proud, rather triumphant31. He did not know that he was very excited, but he observed that Geraldine was excited.
'You needn't think you are going to escape from telling me all about your new book, because you aren't,' said Geraldine prettily32.
They were supping at a restaurant of the discreet33 sort, divided into many compartments34, and situated35, with a charming symbolism, at the back of St. George's, Hanover Square. Geraldine had chosen it. They did not need food, but they needed their own unadulterated society.
'I'm only too pleased to tell you,' Henry replied. 'You're about the only person that I would tell. It's like this. You must imagine a youth growing up to manhood, and wanting to be a great artist. I don't mean a painter. I mean a—an actor. Yes, a very great actor. Shakspere's tragedies, you know, and all that.'
She nodded earnestly.
'What's his name?' she inquired.
Henry gazed at her. 'His name's Gerald,' he said, and she flushed. 'Well, at sixteen this youth is considerably36 over six feet in height, and still growing. At eighteen his figure has begun to excite remark in the streets. At nineteen he has a severe attack of scarlet37 fever, and while ill he grows still more, in bed, like people do, you know. And at twenty he is six feet eight inches high.'
'A giant, in fact.'
'Just so. But he doesn't want to be a giant He wants to be an actor, a great actor. Nobody will look at him, except to stare. The idea of his going on the stage is laughed at. He scarcely dare walk out in the streets because children follow him. But he is a great actor, all the same, in spirit. He's got the artistic38 temperament39, and he can't be a clerk. He can only be one thing, and that one thing is made impossible by his height. He falls in love with a girl. She rather likes him, but naturally the idea of marrying a giant doesn't appeal to her. So that's off, too. And he's got no resources, and he's gradually starving in a garret. See the tragedy?'
She nodded, reflective, sympathetically silent.
Henry continued: 'Well, he's starving. He doesn't know what to do. He isn't quite tall enough to be a show-giant—they have to be over seven feet—otherwise he might at any rate try the music-hall stage. Then the manager of a West End restaurant catches sight of him one day, and offers him a place as doorkeeper at a pound a week and tips. He refuses it indignantly. But after a week or two more of hunger he changes his mind and accepts. And this man who has the soul and the brains of a great artist is reduced to taking sixpences for opening cab-doors.'
'Does it end there?'
'No. It's a sad story, I'm afraid. He dies one night in the snow outside the restaurant, while the rich noodles are gorging40 themselves inside to the music of a band. Consumption.'
'It's the most original story I ever heard in all my life,' said Geraldine enthusiastically.
'Do you think so?'
'I do, honestly. What are you going to call it—if I may ask?'
'Call it?' He hesitated a second. 'A Question of Cubits,' he said.
'You are simply wonderful at titles,' she observed. 'Thank you. Thank you so much.'
'No one else knows,' he finished.
When he had seen her safely to Chenies Street, and was travelling to Dawes Road in a cab, he felt perfectly41 happy. The story had come to him almost by itself. It had been coming all the evening, even while he was in the box, even while he was lost in admiration42 of Geraldine. It had cost him nothing. He knew he could write it with perfect ease. And Geraldine admired it! It was the most original story she had ever heard in all her life! He himself thought it extremely original, too. He saw now how foolish and premature43 had been his fears for the future. Of course he had studied human nature. Of course he had been through the mill, and practised style. Had he not won the prize for composition at the age of twelve? And was there not the tangible44 evidence of his essays for the Polytechnic45, not to mention his continual work for Sir George?
'Yes,' he answered, safely within his room.
'How late you are! It's half-past twelve and more.'
'I got lost,' he explained to her.
But he could not explain to himself what instinct had forced him to conceal50 from his adoring relatives the fact that he had bought a suit of dress-clothes, put them on, and sallied forth in them to spend an evening with a young lady.
Just as he was dropping off to sleep and beauteous visions, he sprang up with a start, and, lighting51 a candle, descended52 to the dining-room. There he stood on a chair, reached for the blue jar on the bookcase, extracted the two eggs, and carried them upstairs. He opened his window and threw the eggs into the middle of Dawes Road, but several houses lower down; they fell with a soft plup, and scattered53.
Thus ended the miraculous54 evening.
The next day he was prostrate55 with one of his very worst dyspeptic visitations. The Knight56 pew at Munster Park Chapel57 was empty at both services, and Henry learnt from loving lips that he must expect to be ill if he persisted in working so hard. He meekly58 acknowledged the justice of the rebuke59.
On Monday morning at half-past eight, before he had appeared at breakfast, there came a telegram, which Aunt Annie opened. It had been despatched from Paris on the previous evening, and it ran: 'Congratulations on the box trick. Worth half a dozen books with the dear simple public A sincere admirer.' This telegram puzzled everybody, including Henry; though perhaps it puzzled Henry a little less than the ladies. When Aunt Annie suggested that it had been wrongly addressed, he agreed that no other explanation was possible, and Sarah took it back to the post-office.
He departed to business. At all the newspaper-shops, at all the bookstalls, he saw the placards of morning newspapers with lines conceived thus:
Amusing Incident at the Alhambra.
A Novelist's Adventure.
Vanishing Author at a Music-Hall.
A Novelist in a Box.
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收听单词发音
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1
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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7
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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8
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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simplicities
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| n.简单，朴素，率直( simplicity的名词复数 ) | |
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12
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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14
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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16
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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18
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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21
effervescing
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的现在分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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25
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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27
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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28
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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30
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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40
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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41
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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43
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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45
polytechnic
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| adj.各种工艺的，综合技术的；n.工艺(专科)学校；理工(专科)学校 | |
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46
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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49
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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50
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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51
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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52
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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53
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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54
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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55
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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56
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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57
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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58
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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59
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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