The theatre was full,—crowded from floor to ceiling; the lights were turned low to give the stage full prominence,—and a large audience packed close in pit and gallery as well as in balcony and stalls, listened with or without interest, whichever way best suited their different temperaments1 and manner of breeding, to the well-worn famous soliloquy in Hamlet—“To be or not to be.” It was the first night of a new rendering2 of Shakespeare’s ever puzzling play,—the chief actor was a great actor, albeit3 not admitted as such by the petty cliques,—he had thought out the strange and complex character of the psychological Dane for himself, with the result that even the listless, languid, generally impassive occupants of the stalls, many of whom had no doubt heard a hundred Hamlets, were roused for once out of their chronic4 state of boredom5 into something like attention, as the familiar lines fell on their ears with a slow and meditative6 richness of accent not commonly heard on the modern stage. This new Hamlet chose his attitudes well; instead of walking, or rather strutting7 about, as he uttered the soliloquy, he seated himself and for a moment seemed lost in silent thought;—then, without changing his position he began, his voice gathering8 deeper earnestness as the beauty and solemnity of the immortal9 lines became more pronounced and concentrated.
“To die—to sleep;—
To sleep!—perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
Must give us pause. ...”
Here there was a brief and impressive silence. In that short interval11, and before the actor could resume his speech, a man entered the theatre with noiseless step, and seated himself in a vacant stall of the second row. A few heads were instinctively12 turned to look at him, but in the semi-gloom of the auditorium14 his features could scarcely be discerned, and Hamlet’s sad rich voice again compelled attention.
“Who would fardels bear,
The undiscovered country from whose bourne
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
And lose the name of action.”
The scene went on to the despairing interview with Ophelia, which was throughout performed with such splendid force and feeling as to awaken19 a perfect hurricane of applause;—then the curtain went down, the lights went up, the orchestra recommenced, and again inquisitive20 eyes were turned towards the latest new-comer in the stalls who had made his quiet entrance in the very midst of the great philosophical21 soliloquy. He was immediately discovered to be a person well worth observing; and observed he was accordingly, though he seemed quite unaware22 of the attention he was attracting. Yet he was singular-looking enough to excite a little curiosity even among modern fashionable Londoners, who are accustomed to see all sorts of eccentric beings, both male and female, æsthetic and commonplace; and he was so distinctly separated from ordinary folk by his features and bearing, that the rather loud whisper of an irrepressible young American woman, “I’d give worlds to know who that man is!” was almost pardonable under the circumstances. His skin was dark as a mulatto’s,—yet smooth, and healthily coloured by the warm blood flushing through the olive tint,—his eyes seemed black, but could scarcely be seen on account of the extreme length and thickness of their dark lashes23,—the fine, rather scornful curve of his short upper lip was partially24 hidden by a black moustache; and with all this blackness and darkness about his face his hair, of which he seemed to have an extraordinary profusion25, was perfectly26 white. Not merely a silvery white, but a white as pronounced as that of a bit of washed fleece or newly-fallen snow. In looking at him it was impossible to decide whether he was old or young,—because, though he carried no wrinkles or other defacing marks of Time’s power to destroy, his features wore an impress of such stern and deeply-resolved thought as is seldom or never the heritage of those to whom youth still belongs. Nevertheless, he seemed a long way off from being old,—so that, altogether, he was a puzzle to his neighbours in the stalls, as well as to certain fair women in the boxes, who levelled their opera-glasses at him with a pertinacity28 which might have made him uncomfortably self-conscious had he looked up. Only he did not look up; he leaned back in his seat with a slightly listless air, studied his programme intently, and appeared half asleep, owing to the way in which his eyelids29 drooped30, and the drowsy31 sweep of his lashes. The irrepressible American girl almost forgot Hamlet, so absorbed was she in staring at him, in spite of the sotto-voce remonstrances32 of her decorous mother, who sat beside her,—and presently, as if aware of, or annoyed by, her scrutiny33, he lifted his eyes, and looked full at her. With an instinctive13 movement she recoiled,—and her own eyes fell. Never in all her giddy, thoughtless little life had she seen such fiery34, brilliant, night-black orbs,—they made her feel uncomfortable,—gave her the “creeps,” as she afterwards declared;—she shivered, drawing her satin opera-wrap more closely about her, and stared at the stranger no more. He soon removed his piercing gaze from her to the stage, for the now great “Play scene” of Hamlet was in progress, and was from first to last a triumph for the actor chiefly concerned. At the next fall of the curtain, a fair dissipated-looking young fellow leaned over from the third row of stalls, and touched the white-haired individual lightly on the shoulder.
“My dear El-Râmi! You here? At a theatre? Why, I should never have thought you capable of indulging in such frivolity35!”
“Do you consider Hamlet frivolous36?” queried37 the other, rising from his seat to shake hands, and showing himself to be a man of medium height, though having such peculiar38 dignity of carriage as made him appear taller than he really was.
“Well, no!”—and the young man yawned rather effusively39, “To tell you the truth, I find him insufferably dull.”
“You do?” and the person addressed as El-Râmi smiled slightly. “Well,—naturally you go with the opinions of your age. You would no doubt prefer a burlesque40?”
“Frankly speaking, I should! And now I begin to think of it, I don’t know really why I came here. I had intended to look in at the Empire—there’s a new ballet going on there—but a fellow at the club gave me this stall, said it was a ‘first-night,’ and all the rest of it—and so——”
“And so fate decided41 for you,” finished El-Râmi sedately42. “And instead of admiring the pretty ladies without proper clothing at the Empire, you find yourself here, wondering why the deuce Hamlet the Dane could not find anything better to do than bother himself about his father’s ghost! Exactly! But, being here, you are here for a purpose, my friend;” and he lowered his voice to a confidential43 whisper. “Look!—Over there—observe her well!—sits your future wife;” and he indicated, by the slightest possible nod, the American girl before alluded44 to. “Yes,—the pretty creature in pink, with dark hair. You don’t know her? No, of course you don’t—but you will. She will be introduced to you to-night before you leave this theatre. Don’t look so startled—there’s nothing miraculous45 about her, I assure you! She is merely Miss Chester, only daughter of Jabez Chester, the latest New York millionaire. A charmingly shallow, delightfully47 useless, but enormously wealthy little person!—you will propose to her within a month, and you will be accepted. A very good match for you, Vaughan—all your debts paid, and everything set straight with certain Jews. Nothing could be better, really—and, remember,—I am the first to congratulate you!”
He spoke48 rapidly, with a smiling, easy air of conviction; his friend meanwhile stared at him in profound amazement49 and something of fear.
“By Jove, El-Râmi!”—he began nervously—“you know, this is a little too much of a good thing. It’s all very well to play prophet sometimes, but it can be overdone50.”
“Pardon!” and El-Râmi turned to resume his seat. “The play begins again. Insufferably dull as Hamlet may be, we are bound to give him some slight measure of attention.”
Vaughan forced a careless smile in response, and threw himself indolently back in his own stall, but he looked annoyed and puzzled. His eyes wandered from the back of El-Râmi’s white head to the half-seen profile of the American heiress who had just been so coolly and convincingly pointed51 out to him as his future wife.
“I don’t know the girl from Adam,”—he thought irritably52, “and I don’t want to know her. In fact, I won’t know her. And if I won’t, why, I sha’n’t know her. Will is everything, even according to El-Râmi. The fellow’s always so confoundedly positive of his prophecies. I should like to confute him for once and prove him wrong.”
Thus he mused53, scarcely heeding54 the progress of Shakespeare’s great tragedy, till, at the close of the scene of Ophelia’s burial, he saw El-Râmi rise and prepare to leave the auditorium. He at once rose himself.
“Are you going?” he asked.
“Yes;—I do not care for Hamlet’s end, or for anybody’s end in this particular play. I don’t like the hasty and wholesale55 slaughter56 that concludes the piece. It is inartistic.”
“Shakespeare inartistic?” queried Vaughan, smiling.
“Why, yes, sometimes. He was a man, not a god;—and no man’s work can be absolutely perfect. Shakespeare had his faults like everybody else, and with his great genius he would have been the first to own them. It is only your little mediocrities who are never wrong. Are you going also?”
“Yes; I mean to damage your reputation as a prophet, and avoid the chance of an introduction to Miss Chester—for this evening, at any rate.”
He laughed as he spoke, but El-Râmi said nothing. The two passed out of the stalls together into the lobby, where they had to wait a few minutes to get their hats and overcoats, the man in charge of the cloak-room having gone to cool his chronic thirst at the convenient “bar.” Vaughan made use of the enforced delay to light his cigar.
“Did you think it a good Hamlet?” he asked his companion carelessly while thus occupied.
“Excellent,” replied El-Râmi. “The leading actor has immense talent, and thoroughly57 appreciates the subtlety58 of the part he has to play;—but his supporters are all sticks,—hence the scenes drag where he himself is not in them. That is the worst of the ‘star’ system,—a system which is perfectly ruinous to histrionic art. Still—no matter how it is performed, Hamlet is always interesting. Curiously59 inconsistent, too, but impressive.”
“Inconsistent? How?” asked Vaughan, beginning to puff60 rings of smoke into the air, and to wonder impatiently how much longer the keeper of the cloak-room meant to stay absent from his post.
“Oh, in many ways. Perhaps the most glaring inconsistency of the whole conception comes out in the great soliloquy, ‘To be or not to be.’”
“Really?” and Vaughan became interested. “I thought that was considered one of the finest bits in the play.”
“So it is. I am not speaking of the lines themselves, which are magnificent, but of their connection with Hamlet’s own character. Why does he talk of a ‘bourne from whence no traveller returns,’ when he has, or thinks he has, proof positive of the return of his own father in spiritual form;—and it is just concerning that return that he makes all the pother? Don’t you see inconsistency there?”
“Of course,—but I never thought of it,” said Vaughan, staring. “I don’t believe any one but yourself has ever thought of it. It is quite unaccountable. He certainly does say ‘no traveller returns,’—and he says it after he has seen the ghost too.”
“Yes,” went on El-Râmi, warming with his subject. “And he talks of the ‘dread of something after death,’ as if it were only a ‘dread,’ and not a fact;—whereas if he is to believe the spirit of his own father, which he declares is ‘an honest ghost,’ there is no possibility of doubt on the matter. Does not the mournful phantom61 say—
“‘But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres;
Thy knotted and combinèd locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end. ...’?”
“By Jove! I say, El-Râmi, don’t look at me like that!” exclaimed Vaughan uneasily, backing away from a too close proximity62 to the brilliant flashing eyes and absorbed face of his companion, who had recited the lines with extraordinary passion and solemnity.
El-Râmi laughed.
“Did I scare you? Was I too much in earnest? I beg your pardon! True enough,—‘this eternal blazon63 must not be, to ears of flesh and blood!’ But, the ‘something after death’ was a peculiarly aggravating64 reality to that poor ghost, and Hamlet knew that it was so when he spoke of it as a mere27 ‘dread.’ Thus, as I say, he was inconsistent, or, rather, Shakespeare did not argue the case logically.”
“You would make a capital actor,”—said Vaughan, still gazing at him in astonishment65. “Why, you went on just now as if,—well, as if you meant it, you know.”
“So I did mean it,” replied El-Râmi lightly—“for the moment! I always find Hamlet a rather absorbing study; so will you, perhaps, when you are my age.”
“Your age?” and Vaughan shrugged66 his shoulders. “I wish I knew it! Why, nobody knows it. You may be thirty or a hundred—who can tell?”
“Or two hundred—or even three hundred?” queried El-Râmi, with a touch of satire67 in his tone;—“Why stint68 the measure of limitless time? But here comes our recalcitrant69 knave”—this, as the keeper of the cloak-room made his appearance from a side-door with a perfectly easy and unembarrassed air, as though he had done rather a fine thing than otherwise in keeping two gentlemen waiting his pleasure. “Let us get our coats, and be well away before the decree of Fate can be accomplished70 in making you the winner of the desirable Chester prize. It is delightful46 to conquer Fate—if one can!”
His black eyes flashed curiously, and Vaughan paused in the act of throwing on his overcoat to look at him again in something of doubt and dread.
At that moment a gay voice exclaimed:
“Why, here’s Vaughan!—Freddie Vaughan—how lucky!” and a big handsome man of about two or three and thirty sauntered into the lobby from the theatre, followed by two ladies. “Look here, Vaughan, you’re just the fellow I wanted to see. We’ve left Hamlet in the thick of his fight, because we’re going on to the Somers’s ball,—will you come with us? And I say, Vaughan, allow me to introduce to you my friends—Mrs. Jabez Chester, Miss Idina Chester—Sir Frederick Vaughan.”
For one instant Vaughan stood inert71 and stupefied; the next he remembered himself, and bowed mechanically. His presentation to the Chesters was thus suddenly effected by his cousin, Lord Melthorpe, to whom he was indebted for many favours, and whom he could not afford to offend by any show of brusquerie. As soon as the necessary salutations were exchanged, however, he looked round vaguely72, and in a sort of superstitious73 terror, for the man who had so surely prophesied74 this introduction. But El-Râmi was gone. Silently and without adieu he had departed, having seen his word fulfilled.
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1
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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4
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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5
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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6
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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7
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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9
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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10
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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12
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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13
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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14
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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15
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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16
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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17
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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18
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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19
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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20
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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21
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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23
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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24
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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30
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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32
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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33
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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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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35
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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37
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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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40
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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41
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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42
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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43
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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44
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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47
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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48
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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49
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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50
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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52
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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53
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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54
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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55
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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56
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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57
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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58
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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59
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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60
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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61
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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62
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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63
blazon
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| n.纹章，装饰；精确描绘；v.广布；宣布 | |
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64
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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65
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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66
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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68
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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69
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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70
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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71
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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72
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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73
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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74
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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