All Professor Hatcher said about his course was that, if a man had a genuine dramatic and theatrical8 talent to begin with, he might be able to derive4 from the course a technical and critical guidance which it would be hard for him to get elsewhere, and which he might find for himself only after years of painful and even wasteful9 experiment.
Certainly this seemed reasonable enough. Moreover, Professor Hatcher felt that the artist would benefit by what was known as the “round-table discussion”— that is, by the comment and criticism of the various members of the class, after Professor Hatcher had read them a play written by one of their group. He felt that the spirit of working together, of seeing one’s play produced and assisting in the production, of being familiar with all the various arts of the theatre — lighting10, designing, directing, acting11, and so on — was an experience which should be of immense value to the young dramatist of promise and of talent. In short, although he made no assertion that he could create a talent where none was, or give life by technical expertness to the substance of a work that had no real life of its own, Professor Hatcher did feel that by the beneficent influence of this tutelage he might trim the true lamp to make it burn more brightly.
And though it was possible to join issue with him on some of his beliefs — that, for example, the comment and criticism of “the group” and a community of creative spirits were good for the artist — it was impossible to deny that his argument was reasonable, temperate7, and conservative in the statement of his purposes.
And he made this plain to every member of his class. Each one was made to understand that the course made no claims of magic alchemy — that he could not be turned into an interesting dramatist if the talent were not there.
But although each member of the class affirmed his understanding of this fundamental truth, and readily said that he accepted it, most of these people, at the bottom of their hearts, believed — pitiably and past belief — that a miracle would be wrought12 upon their sterile13, unproductive spirits; that for them, for THEM, at least, a magic transformation14 would be brought about in their miserable15 small lives and feeble purposes — and all because they now were members of Professor Hatcher’s celebrated class.
The members of Professor Hatcher’s class belonged to the whole lost family of the earth, whose number is uncountable, and for this reason they could never be forgotten.
And, first and foremost, they belonged to that great lost tribe of people who are more numerous in America than in any other country in the world. They belonged to that unnumbered horde16 who think that somehow, by some magic and miraculous17 scheme or rule or formula, “something can be done for them.” They belonged to that huge colony of the damned who buy thousands of books that are printed for their kind, telling them how to run a tea-shop, how to develop a pleasing personality, how to acquire “a liberal education,” swiftly and easily and with no anguish18 of the soul, by fifteen minutes’ reading every day; how to perform the act of sexual intercourse19 in such a way that your wife will love you for it; how to have children or to keep from having children; how to write short-stories, novels, plays, and verses which are profitably saleable; how to keep from having body-odour, constipation, bad breath, or tartar on the teeth; how to have good manners, know the proper fork to use for every course, and always do the proper thing — how, in short, to be beautiful, “distinguished20,” “smart,” “chic,” “forceful,” and “sophisticated”— finally, how to have “a brilliant personality” and “achieve success.”
Yes, for the most part, the members of Professor Hatcher’s class belonged to this great colony of the lost Americans. They belonged to that huge tribe of all the damned and lost who feel that everything is going to be all right with them if they can only take a trip, or learn a rule, or meet a person. They belonged to that futile21, desolate22, and forsaken23 horde who felt that all will be well with their lives, that all the power they lack themselves will be supplied, and all the anguish, fury, and unrest, the confusion and the dark damnation of man’s soul can magically be healed if only they eat bran for breakfast, secure an introduction to a celebrated actress, get a reading for their manuscript by a friend of Sinclair Lewis, or win admission to Professor Hatcher’s celebrated class of dramatists.
And, in a curious way, the plays written by the people in Professor Hatcher’s class illustrated24, in one form or another, this desire. Few of the plays had any intrinsic reality, for most of these people were lacking in the first, the last, the foremost quality of the artist, without which he is lost: the ability to get out of his own life the power to live and work by, to derive from his own experience — as a fruit of all his seeing, feeling, living, joy and bitter anguish — the palpable and living substance of his art.
Few of the people in Professor Hatcher’s class possessed25 this power. Few of them had anything of their own to say. Their lives seemed to have grown from a stony26 and a fruitless soil and, as a consequence, the plays they wrote did not reflect that life, save by a curious and yet illuminating27 indirection.
Thus, in an extraordinary way, their plays — unreal, sterile, imitative, and derivative28 as most of them indubitably were — often revealed more about the lives of the people who wrote them than better and more living work could do. For, although few of the plays showed any contact with reality — with that passionate29 integument30 of blood and sweat and pain and fear and grief and joy and laughter of which this world is made — most of them did show, in one way or another, what was perhaps the basic impulse in the lives of most of these people — the impulse which had brought them here to Professor Hatcher’s class.
The impulse of the people in the class was not to embrace life and devour31 it, but rather to escape from it. And in one way or another most of the plays these people wrote were illustrative of this desire. For in these plays — unnatural32, false, and imitative, as they were — one could discern, in however pale and feeble a design, a picture of the world not as its author had seen and lived and known it, but rather as he wished to find it or believe in it. And, in all their several forms — whether sad, gay, comic, tragic33, or fantastical — these plays gave evidence of the denial and the fear of life.
The wealthy young dawdler34 from Philadelphia, for example, wrote plays which had their setting in a charming little French café. Here one was introduced to all the gay, quaint35, charming Frenchmen — to Papa Duval, the jolly proprietor36, and Mamma Duval, his rotund and no less jolly spouse37, as well as to all the quaint and curious habitués that are so prolific38 in theatrical establishments of this order. One met, as well, that fixture39 of these places: old Monsieur Vernet, the crusty, crotchety, but kindly40 old gentleman who is the café‘s oldest customer and has had the same table in the corner by the window for more than thirty years. One saw again the familiar development of the comic situation — the day when Monsieur Vernet enters at his appointed time and finds at his table a total stranger. Sacrilege! Imprecations! Tears, prayers, and entreaties41 on the part of Papa Duval and his wife, together with the stubborn refusal of the imperious stranger to move! Climax42: old Monsieur Vernet storming out of the café, swearing that he will never return. Resolution of conflict: the efforts of Papa and Mamma Duval to bring their most prized customer back into the fold again, and their final success, the pacification43 and return of Monsieur Vernet amid great rejoicing, thanks to a cunning stratagem44 on the part of Henri, the young waiter, who wins a reward for all these efforts, the hand of Mimi, Papa Duval’s charming daughter, from whom he has been separated by Papa Duval’s stern decree.
Thus custom is restored and true love reunited by one brilliant comic stroke!
And all this pretty little world, the contribution of a rich young man who came from Philadelphia! How perfectly46 God-damn delightful47 it all was, to be sure!
The plays of old Seth Flint, the sour and withered48 exreporter, were, if of a different colouring, cut from the same gaudy49 cloth of theatrical unreality. For forty years old Seth had pounded precincts as a newsman, and had known city-rooms across the nation. He had seen every crime, ruin, and incongruity50 of which man’s life is capable. He was familiar with every trait of graft51, with every accursed smell and smear52 of the old red murder which ineradicably fouled53 the ancient soul of man, and the stench of man’s falseness, treachery, cruelty, hypocrisy54, cowardice55, and injustice56, together with the look of brains and blood upon the pavements of the nation, was no new thing to old Seth Flint.
His skin had been withered, his eyes deadened, his heart and spirit burdened wearily, his faith made cynical57, and his temper soured by the black picture of mankind which he had seen as a reporter — and because of this, in spite of this, he had remained or become — how, why, in what miraculous fashion no one knew — a curiously58 honest, sweet, and generous person, whose life had been the record of a selfless loyalty59. He had known poverty, hardship, and self-sacrifice, and endured all willingly without complaint: he had taken the savings60 of a lifetime to send the two sons of his widowed sister to college; he had supported this woman and her family for years, and now, when his own life was coming to its close, he was yielding to the only self-indulgence he had ever known — a year away from the city-room of a Denver newspaper, a year away in the rare ether, among the precious and ?sthetic intellects of Professor Hatcher’s celebrated course, a year in which to realize the dream of a lifetime, the vision of his youth — a year in which to write the plays he had always dreamed of writing. And what kind of plays did he write?
Alas61! Old Seth did exactly what he set out to do; he succeeded perfectly in fulfilling his desire — and, by a tragic irony62, his failure lay in just this fact. The plays which he produced with an astounding63 and prolific ease —(“Three days is enough to write a play,” the old man said in his sour voice. “You guys who take a year to write a play give me a pain. If you can’t write a play a week, you can’t write anything; the play’s no good”)— these plays were just the plays which he had dreamed of writing as a young man, and therein was evident their irremediable fault.
For Seth’s plays — so neat, brisk, glib64, and smartly done — would have been good plays in a commercial way, as well, if he had only done them twenty years before. He wrote, without effort and with unerring accuracy, a kind of play which had been immensely popular at the beginning of the twentieth century, but which people had grown tired of twenty years before. He wrote plays in which the babies got mixed up in the maternity65 ward45 of a great hospital, in which the rich man’s child goes to the family of the little grocer, and the grocer’s child grows up as the heir to an enormous fortune, with all the luxuries and securities of wealth around him. And he brought about the final resolution of this tangled66 scheme, the meeting of these scrambled67 children and their bewildered parents, with a skill of complication, a design of plot, a dexterity68 that was astonishing. His characters — all well-known types of the theatre, as of nurse tough-spoken, shop-girl slangy, reporter cynical, and so on — were well conceived to fret69 their purpose, their lives well-timed and apt and deftly70 made. He had mastered the formula of an older type of “well-made play” with astonishing success. Only, the type was dead, the interest of the public in such plays had vanished twenty years before.
So here he was, a live man, writing, with amazing skill, dead plays for a theatre that was dead, and for a public that did not exist.
“Chekhov! Ibsen!” old Seth would whine71 sourly with a dismissing gesture of his parched72 old hand, and a scornful contortion73 of his bitter mouth in his old mummy of a face. “You guys all make me tired the way you worship them!” he would whine out at some of the exquisite74 young temperaments75 in Professor Hatcher’s class. “Those guys can’t write a play! Take Chekhov, now!” whined76 Seth. “That guy never wrote a real play in his life! He never knew how to write a play! He couldn’t have written a play if he tried! He never learned the rules for writing a play! — That Cherry Orchard77 now,” whined old Seth with a sour sneering78 laugh, “— that Cherry Orchard that you guys are always raving79 about! That’s not a play!” he cried indignantly. “Whatever made you think it was a play? I was trying to read it just the other day,” he rasped, “and there’s nothing there to hold your interest! It’s got no PLOT! There’s no story in it! There’s no suspense80! Nothing happens in it. All you got is a lot of people who do nothing but talk all the time. You never get anywhere,” said Seth scornfully. “And yet to hear you guys rave81 about it, you’d think it was a great play.”
“Well, what do you call a great play, then, if The Cherry Orchard isn’t one?” one of the young men said acidly. “Who wrote the great plays that you talk about?”
“Why, George M. Cohan wrote some,” whined Seth instantly. “That’s who. Avery Hopwood wrote some great plays. We’ve had plenty of guys in this country who wrote great plays. If they’d come from Russia you’d get down and worship ’em,” he said bitterly; “but just because they came out of this country they’re no good!”
In the relation of the class towards old Seth Flint, it was possible to see the basic falseness of their relation towards life everywhere around them. For here was a man — whatever his defects as a playwright82 might have been — who had lived incomparably the richest, most varied83 and dangerous, and eventful life among them; as he was himself far more interesting than any of the plays they wrote, and as dramatists they should have recognized and understood his quality. But they saw none of this. For their relation towards life and people such as old Seth Flint was not one of understanding. It was not even one of burning indignation — of that indignation which is one of the dynamic forces in the artist’s life. It was rather one of supercilious84 scorn and ridicule85.
They felt that they were “above” old Seth, and most of the other people in the world, and for this reason they were in Professor Hatcher’s class. Of Seth they said:
“He’s really a misfit, terribly out of place here. I wonder why he came.”
And they would listen to an account of one of Seth’s latest errors in good taste with the expression of astounded86 disbelief, the tones of stunned87 incredulity which were coming into fashion about that time among elegant young men.
“Not really! . . . But he never really said THAT. . . . You CAN’T mean it.”
“Oh, but I assure you, he did!”
“ . . . It’s simply past belief! . . . I can’t believe he’s as bad as THAT.”
“Oh, but he IS! It’s incredible, I know, but you’ve no idea what he’s capable of.” And so on.
And yet old Seth Flint was badly needed in that class: his bitter and unvarnished tongue caused Professor Hatcher many painful moments, but it had its use — oh, it had its use, particularly when the play was of this nature:
Irene (slowly, with scorn and contempt in her voice). So — it has come to this! This is all your love amounts to — a little petty selfish thing! I had thought you were bigger than that, John.
John (desperately). But — but, my God, Irene — what am I to think? I found you in bed with him — my best friend! (with difficulty). You know — that looks suspicious, to say the least!
Irene (softly — with amused contempt in her voice). You poor little man! And to think I thought your love was SO BIG.
John (wildly). But I do love you, Irene. That’s just the point.
Irene (with passionate scorn). Love! You don’t know what love means! Love is bigger than that! Love is big enough for all things, all people. (She extends her arms in an all-embracing gesture.) My love takes in the world — it embraces all mankind! It is glamorous88, wild, free as the wind, John.
John (slowly). Then you have had other lovers?
Irene: Lovers come, lovers go. (She makes an impatient gesture.) What is that? Nothing! Only love endures — my love, which is greater than all.
Eugene would writhe89 in his seat, and clench90 his hands convulsively. Then he would turn almost prayerfully to the bitter, mummied face of old Seth Flint for that barbed but cleansing91 vulgarity that always followed such a scene:
“Well?” Professor Hatcher would say, putting down the manuscript he had been reading, taking off his eye-glasses (which were attached to a ribbon of black silk) and looking around with a quizzical smile, an impassive expression on his fine, distinguished face. “Well?” he would say again urbanely92, as no one answered. “Is there any comment?”
“What is she?” Seth would break the nervous silence with his rasping snarl93. “Another of these society whores? You know,” he continued, “you can find plenty of her kind for three dollars a throw without any of that fancy palaver94.”
Some of the class smiled faintly, painfully, and glanced at each other with slight shrugs95 of horror; others were grateful, felt pleasure well in them and said underneath96 their breath exultantly97:
“Good old Seth! Good old Seth!”
“Her love is big enough for all things, is it?” said Seth. “I know a truck driver out in Denver I’ll match against her any day.”
Eugene and Ed Horton, a large and robust98 aspirant99 from the Iowa cornlands, roared with happy laughter, poking100 each other sharply in the ribs101.
“Do you think the play will act?” someone said. “It seems to me that it comes pretty close to closet drama.”
“If you ask me,” said Seth, “it comes pretty close to water-closet drama. . . . No,” he said sourly. “What that boy needs is a little experience. He ought to go out and get him a woman and get all this stuff off his mind. After that, he might sit down and write a play.”
For a moment there was a very awkward silence, and Professor Hatcher smiled a trifle palely. Then, taking his eye-glasses with a distinguished movement, he looked around and said:
“Is there any other comment?”
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1
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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derived
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| 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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temperately
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| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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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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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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wrought
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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horde
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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Forsaken
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illustrated
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possessed
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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derivative
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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integument
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| n.皮肤 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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dawdler
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| n.游手好闲的人，懒人 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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pacification
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| n. 讲和，绥靖，平定 | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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fouled
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| v.使污秽( foul的过去式和过去分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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59
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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60
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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61
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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65
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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66
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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68
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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69
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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71
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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73
contortion
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| n.扭弯，扭歪，曲解 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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76
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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77
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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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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80
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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81
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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82
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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84
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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85
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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86
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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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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90
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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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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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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96
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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100
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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101
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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