About a dozen actors were chatting in small groups upon the stage; three or four paced singly, muttering and mildly gesticulating, with the fretful preoccupation of people trying to remember; two or three, seated, bent2 over their typewritten “sides,” studying intently; and a few, invisible from the auditorium3, were scattered4 about the rearward rooms and passageways. Talbot Potter, himself, was nowhere to be seen, and, what was even more important to one tumultuously beating heart “in front,” neither was Wanda Malone. Mr. Stewart Canby in a silvery new suit, wearing a white border to his waistcoat collar and other decorations proper to a new playwright5, sat in the centre of the front row of the orchestra. Yesterday he had taken a seat about nine rows back.
He bore no surface signs of the wear and tear of a witches' night; riding his runaway6 play and fighting the enchantment7 that was upon him. Elastic8 twenty-seven does not mark a bedless session with violet arcs below its eyes;—what violet a witch had used upon Stewart Canby this morning appeared as a dewey boutonniere in the lapel of his new coat; he was that far gone.
Miss Ellsling and a youth of the company took their places near the front of the stage and began the rehearsal9 of the second act with a dialogue that led up to the entrance of the star with the “ingenue,” both of whom still remained out of the playwright's range of vision.
As the moment for their appearance drew near, Canby became, to his own rage, almost uncontrollably agitated10. Miss Ellsling's scene, which he should have followed carefully, meant nothing to him but a ticking off of the seconds before he should behold11 with his physical eyes the living presence of the fairy ghost that had put a spell upon him. He was tremulous all over.
Miss Ellsling and her companion came to a full stop and stood waiting. Thereupon Packer went to the rear of the stage, leaned through an open doorway12, and spoke13 deferentially14:
“Mr. Potter? All ready, sir. All ready, Miss—ah—Malone?”
Then he stepped back with the air of an unimportant person making way for his betters to pass before him, while Canby's eyes fixed15 themselves glassily upon the shabby old doorway through which an actual, breathing Wanda Malone was to come.
But he was destined16 not to see her appear in that expectant frame. Twenty years before—though he had forgotten it—in a dazzling room where there was a Christmas tree, he had uttered a shriek17 of ecstatic timidity just as a jingling18 Santa Claus began to emerge from behind the tree, and he had run out of the room and out of the house. He did exactly the same thing now, though this time the shriek was not vocal19.
Suffocating20, he fled up the aisle21 and out into the lobby. There he addressed himself distractedly but plainly:
“Jackass!”
Breathing heavily, he went out to the wide front steps of the theatre and stood, sunlit Broadway swimming before him.
“Hello, Canby!”
A shabby, shaggy, pale young man, with hot eyes, checked his ardent22 gait and paused, extending a cordial, thin hand, the fingers browned at the sides by cigarettes smoked to the bitter end. “Rieger,” he said. “Arnold Rieger. Remember me at the old Ink Club meetings before we broke up?”
“Yes,” said Canby dimly. “Yes. The old Ink Club. I came out for a breath of air. Just a breath.”
“We used to settle the universe in that little back restaurant room,” said Rieger. “Not one of use had ever got a thing into print—and me, I haven't yet, for that matter. Editors still hate my stuff. I've kept my oath, though; I've never compromised—never for a moment.”
“Yes,” Canby responded feebly, wondering what the man was talking about. Wanda Malone was surely on the stage, now. If he turned, walked about thirty feet, and opened a door, he would see her—hear her speaking!
“I've had news of your success,” said Rieger. “I saw in the paper that Talbot Potter was to put on a play you'd written. I congratulate you. That man's a great artist, but he never seems to get a good play; he's always much, much greater than his part. I'm sure you've given him a real play at last. I remember your principles: Realism; no compromise! The truth; no shirking it, no tampering23 with it! You've struck out for that—you've never compro—”
“No. Oh, no,” said Canby, waking up a little. “Of course you've got to make a little change or two in plays. You see, you've got to make an actor like a play or he won't play it, and if he won't play it you haven't got any play—you've only got some typewriting.”
Rieger set his foot upon the step and rested his left forearm upon his knee, and attitude comfortable for street debate. “Admitting the truth of that for the sake of argument, and only for the moment, because I don't for one instant accept such a jesuitism—”
“Yes,” said Canby dreamily. “Yes.” And, with not only apparent but genuine unconsciousness of this one-time friend's existence, he turned and walked back into the lobby, and presently was vaguely24 aware that somebody near the street doors of the theatre seemed to be in a temper. Somebody kept shouting “Swell-headed pup!” and “Go to the devil!” at somebody else repeatedly, but finally went away, after reaching a vociferous25 climax26 of even harsher epithets27 and instructions.
The departure of this raging unknown left the lobby quiet; Canby had gone near to the inner doors. Listening fearfully, he heard through these a murmurous28 baritone cadencing: Talbot Potter declaiming the inwardness of “Roderick Hanscom”; and then—oh, bells of Elfland faintly chiming!—the voice of Wanda Malone!
He pressed, trembling, against the doors, and went in.
Talbot Potter and Wanda Malone stood together, the two alone in the great hollow space of the stage. The actors of the company, silent and remote, watched them; old Tinker, halfway29 down an aisle, stood listening; and near the proscenium two workmen, tools in their hands, had paused in attitudes of arrested motion. Save for the voices of the two players, the whole vast cavern30 of the theatre was as still as the very self of silence. And the stirless air that filled it was charged with necromancy31.
Rehearsal is like the painted canvas without a frame; it is more like a plaster cast, most like of all to the sculptor32's hollow moulds. It needs the bronze to bring a statue to life, and it needs the audience to bring a play to life. Some glamour33 must come from one to the other; some wind of enchantment must blow between them—there must be a magic spell. But these two actors had produced the spell without the audience.
And yet they were only reading a wistful little love-scene that Stewart Canby had written the night before.
Two people were falling in love with each other, neither realizing it. And these two who played the lovers had found some hidden rhythm that brought them together in one picture as a chord is one sound. They played to each other and with each other instinctively34; Talbot Potter had forgotten “the smile” and all the mechanism35 that went with it. The two held the little breathless silences of lovers; they broke these silences timidly, and then their movements and voices ran together like waters in a fountain. A radiance was about them as it is about all lovers; they were suffused36 with it.
To Stewart Canby, watching, they seemed to move within a sorcerer's circle of enchantment. Upon his disturbed mind there was dawning a conviction that these inspired mummers were beings apart from him, knowing things he never could know, feeling things he never could feel, belonging to another planet whither he could never voyage, where strange winds blew and all things lived and grew in a light beyond his understanding. For the light that shone in the faces of these two was “the light that never was, on sea or land.”
It had its blessing37 for him. From that moment, if he had known it, this play, which was being born of so many parents, was certain of “success,” of “popularity,” and of what quality of renown38 such things may bring. And he who was to be called its author stood there a Made Man, unless some accident befell.
Miss Ellsling spoke and came forward, another actor with her. The scene was over. There was a clearing of throats; everybody moved. The stage-carpenter and his assistant went away blinking, like men roused from deep sleep. The routine of rehearsal resumed its place; and old Tinker, who had not stirred a muscle, rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, and came up the aisle to Canby.
“Good business!” he cried. “Did you see that little run off the stage she made when Miss Ellsling came on? And you saw what he can do when he wants to!”
“He?” Canby echoed. “He?”
“Played for the scene instead of himself. Oh, he can do it! He's an old hand—got too many tricks in the bag to let her get the piece away from him—but he's found a girl that can play with him at last, and he'll use every value she's got. He knows good property when he sees it. She's got a pretty good box of tricks herself; stock's the way to learn 'em, but it's apt to take the bloom off. It hasn't taken off any of hers, the darlin'! What do you think, Mr. Canby?”
To Canby, who hardly noticed that this dead old man had come to life, the speech was jargon39. The playwright was preoccupied40 with the fact that Talbot Potter was still on the stage, would continue there until the rather distant end of the act, and that the “ingenue,” after completing the little run at her exit, had begun to study the manuscript of her part, and in that absorption had disappeared through a door into the rear passageway. Canby knew that she was not to be “on” again until the next act, and he followed a desperate impulse.
“See a person,” he mumbled41, and went out through the lobby, turned south to the cross-street, proceeded thereby42 to the stage-door of the theatre, and resolutely43 crossed the path of the distrustful man who lounged there.
“Here!” called the distrustful man.
“I'm with the show,” said Canby, an expression foreign to his lips and a clear case of inspiration. The distrustful man waved him on.
Wanda Malone was leaning against the wall at the other end of the passageway, studying her manuscript. She did not look up until he paused beside her.
“Miss Malone,” he began. “I have come—I have come—I have-ah—”
These were his first words to her. She did nothing more than look at him inquiringly, but with such radiance that he floundered to a stop. There were only two things within his power to do: he had either to cough or to speak much too sweetly.
“There's a draught44 here,” she said, Christian45 anxiety roused by the paroxysm which rescued him from the damning alternative. “You oughtn't to stand here perhaps, Mr. Canby.”
“'Canby?'” he repeated inquiringly, the name seeming new to him. “Canby?”
“You're Mr. Canby, aren't you?”
“The stage-manager pointed47 you out to me yesterday at rehearsal. I was so excited! You're the first author I ever saw, you see. I've been in stock where we don't see authors.”
“Do you—like it?” he said. “I mean stock. Do you like stock? How much do you like stock? I ah—” Again he fell back upon the faithful old device of nervous people since the world began.
“I'm sure you oughtn't to stand in this passageway,” she urged.
“No, no!” he said hurriedly. “I love it! I love it! I haven't any cold. It's the air. That's what does it.” He nodded brightly, with the expression of a man who knows the answer to everything. “It's bad for me.”
“Then you—”
“No,” he said, and went back to the beginning. “I have come—I wanted to come—I wished to say that I wi—” He put forth48 a manful effort which made him master of the speech he had planned. “I want to thank you for the way you play your part. What I wrote seemed dry stuff, but when you act it, why, then, it seems to be—beautiful!”
“Oh—I—oh!—” He got no further, and, although a stranger to the context of this conversation might have supposed him to be speaking of a celebrated50 commonwealth51, Mother of Presidents, his meaning was sufficiently52 clear to Wanda Malone.
“You're lovely to me,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Lovely! I'll never forget it! I'll never forget anything that's happened to me all this beautiful, beautiful week!”
The little kerchief she had lifted to her eyes was wet with tears not of the stage. “It seems so foolish!” she said bravely. “It's because I'm so happy! Everything has come all at once, this week. I'd never been in New York before in my life. Doesn't that seem funny for a girl that's been on the stage ever since she left school? And now I am here, all at once I get this beautiful part you've written, and you tell me you like it—and Mr. Potter says he likes it. Oh! Mr. Potter's just beautiful to me! Don't you think Mr. Potter's wonderful, Mr. Canby?”
The truth about Mr. Canby's opinion of Mr. Potter at this moment was not to the playwright's credit. However, he went only so far as to say: “I didn't like him much yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh, no, no!” she said quickly. “That was every bit my fault. I was frightened and it made me stupid. And he's just beautiful to me to-day! But I'd never mind anything from a man that works with you as he does. It's the most wonderful thing! To a woman who loves her profession for its own sake—”
“You do, Miss Malone?”
“Love it?” she cried. “Is there anything like it in the world?”
“I might have known you felt that, from your acting,” he said, managing somehow to be coherent, though it was difficult.
“Oh, but we all do!” she protested eagerly. “I believe all actors love it more than they love life itself. Don't think I mean those that never grew up out of their 'show-off' time in childhood. Those don't count, in what I mean, any more than the 'show-girls' and heaven knows what not that the newspapers call 'actresses'. Oh, Mr. Canby, I mean the people with the art and the fire born in them: those who must come to the stage and who ought to and who do. It isn't because we want to be 'looked at' that we go on the stage and starve to stay there! It's because we want to make pictures—to make pictures of characters in plays for people in audiences. It's like being a sculptor or painter; only we paint and model with ourselves—and we're different from sculptors53 and painters because they do their work in quiet studios, while we do ours under the tension of great crowds watching every stroke we make—and, oh, the exhilaration when they show us we make the right stroke!”
“Bravo!” he said. “Bravo!”
“Isn't it the greatest of all the arts? Isn't it?” she went on with the same glowing eagerness. “We feed our nerves to it, and our lives to it, and are glad! It makes us different from other people. But what of that? Don't we give ourselves? Don't we live and die just to make these pictures for the world? Oughtn't the world to be thankful for us? Oughtn't it? Oh, it is, Mr. Canby; it is thankful for us; and I, for one, never forget that a Prime Minister of England was proud to warm Davy Garrick's breeches at the grate for him!”
She clapped her hands together in a gesture of such spirit and fire that Canby could have thrown his hat in the air and cheered, she had lifted him so clear of his timidity.
“Bravo!” he cried again. “Bravo!”
At that she blushed. “What a little goose I am!” she cried. “Playing the orator54! Mr. Canby, you mustn't mind—”
“I won't!”
“It's because I'm so happy,” she explained—to his way of thinking, divinely. “I'm so happy I just pour out everything. I want to sing every minute. You see, it seemed such a long while that I was waiting for my chance. Some of us wait forever, Mr. Canby, and I was so afraid mine might never come. If it hadn't come now it might never have come. If I'd missed this one, I might never have had another. It frightens me to think of it—and I oughtn't to be thinking of it! I ought to be spending all my time on my knees thanking God that old Mr. Packer got it into his head that 'The Little Minister' was a play about the Baptists!”
“I don't see—”
“If he hadn't,” she said, “I wouldn't be here!”
“God bless old Mr. Packer!”
“I hope you mean it, Mr. Canby.” She blushed again, because there was no possible doubt that he meant it. “It seems a miracle to me that I am here, and that my chance is here with me, at last. It's twice as good a chance as it was yesterday, thanks to you. You've given me such beautiful new things to do and such beautiful new things to say. How I'll work at it! After rehearsal this afternoon I'll learn every word of it in the tunnel before I get to my station in Brooklyn. That's funny, too, isn't it; the first time I've ever been to New York I go and board over in Brooklyn! But it's a beautiful place to study, and by the time I get home I'll know the lines and have all the rest of the time for the real work: trying to make myself into a faraway picture of the adorable girl you had in your mind when you wrote it. You see—”
She checked herself again. “Oh! Oh!” she said, half-laughing, half-ashamed. “I've never talked so much in my life! You see it seems to me that the whole world has just burst into bloom!”
She radiated a happiness that was almost tangible55; it was a glow so real it seemed to warm and light that dingy56 old passageway. Certainly it warmed and lighted the young man who stood there with her. For him, too, the whole world was transfigured, and life just an orchard57 to walk through in perpetual April morning.
The voice of Packer proclaimed: “Two o'clock, ladies and gentlemen! Rehearsal two o'clock this afternoon!”
The next moment he looked into the passageway. “This afternoon's rehearsal, two o'clock, Miss—ahh—Malone. Oh, Mr. Canby, Mr. Potter wants you to go to lunch with him and Mr. Tinker. He's waiting. This way, Mr. Canby.”
“In a moment,” said the young playwright. “Miss Malone, you spoke of your going home to work at making yourself into 'the adorable girl' I had in my mind when I wrote your part. It oughtn't”—he faltered58, growing red—“it oughtn't to take much—much work!”
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1
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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destined
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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suffocating
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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instinctively
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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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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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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59
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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