He had wanted to cut a figure in the world — he had simply never imagined the number of people that were in it. And like most people who hug loneliness to them like a lover, the need of occasional companionship, for ever tender and for ever true, which might be summoned or dismissed at will, cut through him like a sword.
There was, of course, among the members of the play-writing class an energetic and calculated sociability2. The supposed advantages of discussion with one another, the interplay of wit, and so on, above all what was called “the exchange of ideas,” but what most often was merely the exchange of other people’s ideas — all these were mentioned often; they were held in the highest esteem3 as one of the chief benefits to be derived4 from the course.
Manifestly, one could write anywhere. But where else could one write with around one the constant stimulus5 of other people who also wrote? Where could one learn one’s faults so well as before a critical and serious congress of artists? They were content with it — they got what they wanted. But the lack of warmth, the absence of inner radial heat which, not being fundamental in the structure of their lives, had never been wanted, filled him with horror and impotent fury.
The critical sense had stirred in him hardly at all, the idea of questioning authority and position had not occurred to him.
He was facing one of the oldest — what, for the creative mind, must be one of the most painful — problems of the spirit — the search for a standard of taste. He had, at seventeen, as a sophomore6, triumphantly7 denied God, but he was unable now to deny Robert Browning. It had never occurred to him that there was a single authoritatively8 beautiful thing in the world that might not be agreed on, by a community of all the enlightened spirits of the universe, as beautiful. EVERYONE, of course, KNEW that King Lear was one of the greatest plays that had ever been written. Only, he was beginning to find everyone didn’t.
And now for the first time he began to worry about being “modern.” He had the great fear young people have that they will not be a part of the most advanced literary and artistic9 movements of the time. Several of the young men he knew had contributed stories, poems, and criticisms to little reviews, published by and for small groups of literary adepts10. They disposed of most of the established figures with a few well-chosen words of contempt, and they replaced these figures with obscure names of their own who, they assured him, were the important people of the future.
For the first time, he heard the word “Mid–Victorian” applied11 as a term of opprobrium12. What its implications were he had no idea. Stevenson, too, to him hardly more than a writer of books for boys, books that he had read as a child with interest and delight, was a symbol of some vague but monstrously13 pernicious influence.
But he discovered at once that to voice any of these questionings was to brand oneself in the esteem of the group; intuitively he saw that their jargon14 formed a pattern by which they might be placed and recognized; that, to young men most of all, to be placed in a previous discarded pattern was unendurable disgrace. It represented to them the mark of intellectual development, just as in a sophomore’s philosophy the belief that God is an old man with a long beard brings ridicule15 and odium upon the believer but the belief that God is an ocean without limit, or an all-pervasive and inclusive substance, or some other equally na?ve and extraordinary idea, is regarded as a certain sign of bold enlightenment. Thus it often happens, when one thinks he has extended the limits of his life, broken the bonds, and liberated16 himself in the wider ether, he has done no more than to exchange a new superstition17 for an old one, to forsake18 a beautiful myth for an ugly one.
The young men in Professor Hatcher’s class were sorry for many things and many people.
“Barrie?” began Mr. Scoville, an elegant and wealthy young dawdler19 from Philadelphia, who, by his own confession20, had spent most of his life in France, “Barrie?” he continued regretfully, in answer to a question. For a moment, he drew deeply on his cigarette, then raised sad, languid eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said gently, with a slight regretful movement of his head —“I can’t read him. I’ve tried it — but it simply can’t be done.” They laughed, greatly pleased.
“But it is a pity, you know, a GREAT pity,” Francis Starwick remarked languidly, using effectively his trick of giving a tired emphasis to certain words which conveyed a kind of sad finality, a weary earnestness to what he said. He turned to go.
“But — but — but — how — how — how very interesting! Why IS it, Frank?” Hugh Dodd demanded with his earnest stammering21 eagerness. He was profoundly respectful of Starwick’s critical ability.
“Why is what?” said Starwick in his curiously22 mannered voice, his air of languid weariness.
“Why is it a great pity about Barrie?” knitting his bushy brows together, and scowling23 with an air of intense concentration over his words as he spoke24. “Because,” said the appraiser25 of Values, as he prepared to depart, arranging with feminine luxuriousness26 the voluptuous27 folds of his blue silk scarf, “the man really had something one time. He really did. Something strange and haunting — the genius of the Celt.” Swinging his cane28 slowly, acutely and painfully conscious that he was being watched, with the agonizing29 stiffness that was at the bottom of his character, he strolled off across the Yard, stark30 and lovely with the harsh white snow and wintry branches of bleak31 winter.
“You know — you know — you know — that’s very interesting,” said Dodd, intent upon his words. “I’d — I’d — I’d never thought of it in JUST that way.”
“Barrie,” drawled Wood, the maker32 of epigrams, “is a stick of taffy, floating upon a sea of molasses.”
There was laughter.
He was for ever making these epigrams; his face had a somewhat saturnine33 cast, his lips twisted ironically, his eyes shot splintered promises of satiric34 wisdom. He looked like a very caustically35 humorous person; but unhappily he had no humour. But they thought he had. No one with a face like that could be less than keen.
So he had something to say for every occasion. He had discovered that the manner counted for wit. If the talk was of Shaw’s deficiencies as a dramatist, he might say:
“But, after all, if one is going in for all that sort of thing, why not have lantern slides and a course of lectures?”
Thus he was known, not merely as a subtle-souled and elusive36 psychologist but also as a biting wit.
“Galsworthy wrote something that looked like a play once,” someone remarked. “There were parts of Justice that weren’t bad.”
“Yes. Yes,” said Dodd, peering intently at his language. “Justice — there were some interesting things in that. It’s — it’s — it’s rather a PITY about him, isn’t it?” And as he said these words he frowned earnestly and intently. There was genuine pity in his voice, for the man’s spirit had great charity and sweetness in it.
As they dispersed37, someone remarked that Shaw might have made a dramatist if he had ever known anything about writing a play.
“But he DATES so — how he DATES!” Scoville remarked.
“Those earlier plays —”
“Yes, I agree”— thus Wood again. “Almost Mid–Victorian. Shaw:— a prophet with his face turned backwards38.” Then they went away in small groups.
点击收听单词发音
1 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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2 sociability | |
n.好交际,社交性,善于交际 | |
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3 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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4 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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5 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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6 sophomore | |
n.大学二年级生;adj.第二年的 | |
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7 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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8 authoritatively | |
命令式地,有权威地,可信地 | |
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9 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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10 adepts | |
n.专家,能手( adept的名词复数 ) | |
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11 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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12 opprobrium | |
n.耻辱,责难 | |
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13 monstrously | |
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14 jargon | |
n.术语,行话 | |
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15 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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16 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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17 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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18 forsake | |
vt.遗弃,抛弃;舍弃,放弃 | |
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19 dawdler | |
n.游手好闲的人,懒人 | |
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20 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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21 stammering | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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22 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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23 scowling | |
怒视,生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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24 spoke | |
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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25 appraiser | |
n.评价者,鉴定者,估价官 | |
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26 luxuriousness | |
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27 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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28 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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29 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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30 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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31 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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32 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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33 saturnine | |
adj.忧郁的,沉默寡言的,阴沉的,感染铅毒的 | |
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34 satiric | |
adj.讽刺的,挖苦的 | |
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35 caustically | |
adv.刻薄地;挖苦地;尖刻地;讥刺地 | |
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36 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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37 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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38 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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