Accordingly every interest and energy of his life was now fastened on this work with a madman’s passion; he thought, felt, breathed, ate, drank, slept, and lived completely in terms of plays. He learned all the jargon3 of the art-playwriting cult4, read all the books, saw all the shows, talked all the talk, and even became a kind of gigantic eavesdropper5 upon life, prowling about the streets with his ears constantly straining to hear all the words and phrases of the passing crowd, as if he might hear something that would be rare and priceless in a play for Professor Hatcher’s celebrated course.
Professor James Graves Hatcher was a man whose professional career had been made difficult by two circumstances: all the professors thought he looked like an actor and all the actors thought he looked like a professor. In reality, he was wholly neither one, but in character and temper, as well as in appearance, he possessed6 some of the attributes of both.
His appearance was imposing7: a well-set-up figure of a man of fifty-five, somewhat above the middle height, strongly built and verging8 toward stockiness, with an air of vital driving energy that was always filled with authority and a sense of sure purpose, and that never degenerated9 into the cheap exuberance10 of the professional hustler. His voice, like his manner, was quiet, distinguished11, and controlled, but always touched with the suggestions of great latent power, with reserves of passion, eloquence12, and resonant13 sonority14.
His head was really splendid; he had a strong but kindly-looking face touched keenly, quietly by humour; his eyes, beneath his glasses, were also keen, observant, sharply humorous; his mouth was wide and humorous but somewhat too tight, thin and spinsterly for a man’s; his nose was large and strong; his forehead shapely and able-looking, and he had neat wings of hair cut short and sparse15 and lying flat against the skull16.
He wore eye-glasses of the pince-nez variety, and they dangled17 in a fashionable manner from a black silk cord: it was better than going to a show to see him put them on, his manner was so urbane18, casual, and distinguished when he did so. His humour, although suave19, was also quick and rich and gave an engaging warmth and humanity to a personality that sometimes needed them. Even in his display of humour, however, he never lost his urbane distinguished manner — for example, when someone told him that one of his women students had referred to another woman in the course, an immensely tall angular creature who dressed in rusty20 brown right up to the ears, as “the queen of the angleworms,” Professor Hatcher shook all over with sudden laughter, removed his glasses with a distinguished movement, and then in a rich but controlled voice remarked:
“Ah, she has a very pretty wit. A very pretty wit indeed!”
Thus, even in his agreeable uses of the rich, subtle and immensely pleasant humour with which he had been gifted, Professor Hatcher was something of an actor. He was one of those rare people who really “chuckle21,” and although there was no doubting the spontaneity and naturalness of his chuckle, it is also probably true that Professor Hatcher somewhat fancied himself as a chuckler22.
The Hatcherian chuckle was just exactly what the word connotes: a movement of spontaneous mirth that shook his stocky shoulders and strong well-set torso with a sudden hearty23 tremor24. And although he could utter rich and sonorous25 throat-sounds indicative of hearty mirth while this chuckling26 process was going on, an even more characteristic form was completely soundless, the tight lips firmly compressed, the edges turned up with the convulsive inclination27 to strong laughter, the fine distinguished head thrown back, while all the rest of him, throat, shoulders, torso, belly28, arms — the whole man — shook in the silent tremors29 of the chuckle.
It could also be said with equal truth that Professor Hatcher was one of the few men whose eyes could really “twinkle,” and it is likewise true that he probably fancied himself as somewhat of a twinkler.
Perhaps one fact that made him suspect to professors was his air of a distinguished and mature, but also a very worldly, urbanity. His manner, even in the class-room, was never that of the scholar or the academician, but always that of the cultured man of the world, secure in his authority, touched by fine humour and fine understanding, able, knowing and assured. And one reason that he so impressed his students may have been that he made some of the most painful and difficult labours in the world seem delightfully30 easy.
For example, if there were to be a performance by a French club at the university of a French play, produced in the language of its birth, Professor Hatcher might speak to his class in his assured, yet casual and urbanely32 certain tones, as follows:
“I understand Le Cercle Fran?ais is putting on De Musset’s Il faut qu’une porte soit ouverte ou fermée on Thursday night. If you are doing nothing else, I think it might be very well worth your while to brush up on your French a bit and look in on it. It is, of course, a trifle and perhaps without great significance in the development of the modern theatre, but it is De Musset in rather good form and De Musset in good form is charming. So it might repay you to have a look at it.”
What was there in these simple words that could so impress and captivate these young people? The tone was quiet, pleasant and urbanely casual, the manner easy yet authoritative33; what he said about the play was really true. But what was so seductive about it was the flattering unction which he laid so casually34 to their young souls — the easy off-hand suggestion that people “brush up on their French a bit” when most of them had no French at all to brush up on, that if they had “nothing else to do,” they might “look in” upon De Musset’s “charming trifle,” the easy familiarity with De Musset’s name and the casual assurance of the statement that it was “De Musset in rather good form.”
It was impossible for a group of young men, eager for sophistication and emulous of these airs of urbane worldliness, not to be impressed by them. As Professor Hatcher talked they too became easy, casual and urbane in their manners, they had a feeling of being delightfully at ease in the world and sure of themselves, the words “brush up on your French a bit” gave them a beautifully comfortable feeling that they would really be able to perform this remarkable35 accomplishment36 in an hour or two of elegant light labour. And when he spoke37 of the play as being “De Musset in rather good form” they nodded slightly with little understanding smiles as if De Musset and his various states of form were matters of the most familiar knowledge to them.
What was the effect, then, of this and other such-like talk upon these young men eager for fame and athirst for glory in the great art-world of the city and the theatre? It gave them, first of all, a delightful31 sense of being in the know about rare and precious things, of rubbing shoulders with great actors and actresses and other celebrated people, of being expert in all the subtlest processes of the theatre, of being travelled, urbane, sophisticated and assured.
When Professor Hatcher casually suggested that they might “brush up on their French a bit” before going to a performance of a French play, they felt like cosmopolites who were at home in all the great cities of the world. True, “their French had grown a little rusty”— it had been some time since they were last in Paris — a member of the French Academy, no doubt, might detect a few slight flaws in their pronunciation — but all that would arrange itself by a little light and easy “polishing”—“tout s’arrange, hein?” as we say upon the boulevards.
Again, Professor Hatcher’s pleasant and often delightfully gay anecdotes38 about the famous persons he had known and with whom he was on such familiar terms — told always casually, apropos39 of some topic of discussion, and never dragged in or laboured by pretence40 — “The last time I was in London, Pinero and I were having lunch together one day at the Savoy”— or “I was spending the week-end with Henry Arthur Jones”— or “It’s very curious you should mention that. You know, Barrie was saying the same thing to me the last time I saw him”— or —“Apropos of this discussion, I have a letter here from ‘Gene O’Neill which bears on that very point. Perhaps you would be interested in knowing what he has to say about it.”— All this, of course, was cakes and ale to these young people — it made them feel wonderfully near and intimate with all these celebrated people, and with the enchanted41 world of art and of the theatre in which they wished to cut a figure.
It gave them also a feeling of amused superiority at the posturings and antics of what, with a slight intonation42 of disdain43, they called “the commercial producers”— the Shuberts, Belascos, and others of this kind. Thus, when Professor Hatcher told them how he had done some pioneer service in Boston for the Russian Players and had received a telegram from the Jewish producer in New York who was managing them, to this effect: “You are the real wonder boy”— they were instantly able to respond to the sudden Hatcherian chuckle with quiet laughter of their own.
Again, he once came back from New York with an amusing story of a visit he had paid to the famous producer, David Belasco. And he described drolly44 how he had followed a barefoot, snaky-looking female, clad in a long batik gown, through seven Gothic chambers45 mystical with chimes and incense46. And finally he told how he had been ushered47 into the presence of the great ecclesiastic48 who sat at the end of a cathedral-like room beneath windows of church glass, and how he was preceded all the time by Snaky Susie who swept low in obeisance49 as she approached, and said in a silky voice —“One is here to see you, Mahster,” and how she had been dismissed with Christ-like tone and movement of the hand —“Rise, Rose, and leave us now.” Professor Hatcher told this story with a quiet drollery50 that was irresistible51, and was rewarded all along by their shouts of astounded52 laughter, and finally by their smiling and astonished faces, lifting disbelieving eyebrows53 at each other, saying, “Simply incredible! It doesn’t seem possible! . . . MARVELLOUS!”
Finally, when Professor Hatcher talked to them of how a Russian actress used her hands, of rhythm, tempo54, pause, and timing55, of lighting56, setting, and design, he gave them a language they could use with a feeling of authority and knowledge, even when authority and knowledge were lacking to them. It was a dangerous and often very trivial language — a kind of jargonese of art that was coming into use in the world of those days, and that seemed to be coincident with another jargonese — that of science —“psychology,” as they called it — which was also coming into its brief hour of idolatry at about the same period, and which bandied about its talk of “complexes,” “fixations,” “repressions,” “inhibitions,” and the like, upon the lips of any empty-headed little fool that came along.
But although this jargon was perhaps innocuous enough when rattled57 off the rattling58 tongue of some ignorant boy or rattle-pated girl, it could be a very dangerous thing when uttered seriously by men who were trying to achieve the best, the rarest, and the highest life on earth — the life which may be won only by bitter toil59 and knowledge and stern living — the life of the artist.
And the great danger of this glib60 and easy jargon of the arts was this: that instead of knowledge, the experience of hard work and patient living, they were given a formula for knowledge; a language that sounded very knowing, expert and assured, and yet that knew nothing, was experienced in nothing, was sure of nothing. It gave to people without talent and without sincerity61 of soul or integrity of purpose, with nothing, in fact, except a feeble incapacity for the shock and agony of life, and a desire to escape into a glamorous62 and unreal world of make-believe — a justification63 for their pitiable and base existence. It gave to people who had no power in themselves to create anything of merit or of beauty — people who were the true Philistines64 and enemies of art and of the artist’s living spirit — the language to talk with glib knowingness of things they knew nothing of — to prate65 of “settings,” “tempo,” “pace,” and “rhythm,” of “boldly stylized conventions,” and the wonderful way some actress “used her hands.” And in the end, it led to nothing but falseness and triviality, to the ghosts of passion, and the spectres of sincerity, to the shoddy appearances of conviction and belief in people who had no passion and sincerity, and who were convinced of nothing, believed in nothing, were just the disloyal apes of fashion and the arts.
“I think you ought to go,” says one. “I really do. I really think you might be interested.”
“Yes,” says number two, in a tone of fine, puzzled, eyebrow-lifting protest, “but I hear the play is pretty bad. The reviews were rather awful — they really were, you know.”
“Oh, the play!” the other says, with a slight start of surprise, as if it never occurred to him that anyone might be interested in the play —“the play, the play IS rather terrible. But, my dear fellow, no one goes to see the PLAY . . . the play is nothing,” he dismisses it with a contemptuous gesture —“It’s the SETS!” he cries —“the SETS are really quite remarkable. You ought to go, old boy, just to see the SETS! They’re very good — they really are.”
“H’m!” the other says, stroking his chin in an impressed manner. “Interesting! In that case, I shall go!”
The SETS! The SETS! One should not go to see the play; the only thing that matters is the sets. And this is the theatre — the magic-maker and the world of dreams; and these the men that are to fashion for it — with their trivial ape’s talk about “sets.” Did anyone ever hear such damned stuff as this since time began?
False, trivial, glib, dishonest, empty, without substance, lacking faith — is it any wonder that among Professor Hatcher’s young men few birds sang?
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1
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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sonority
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| n.响亮，宏亮 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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18
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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chuckler
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| 轻声地笑； 咯咯笑 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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26
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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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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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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41
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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43
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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44
drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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45
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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46
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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47
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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49
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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50
drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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51
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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52
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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53
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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54
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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55
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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57
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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58
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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59
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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61
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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62
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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63
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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64
philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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