Armed with this letter I now visited the managers of the theaters, all of whom received me cordially. I can still see myself very gay and enthusiastic, sure that I was entering upon a great work of some kind. And the dreams I had in connection with the theater, my future as a great popular playwright3 perhaps! It was all such a wonder-world to me, the stage, such a fairyland, that I bubbled with joy as I went about thinking that now certainly I should come in touch with actors, beautiful women! Think of it—dramatic critic!—a person of weight and authority!
There were seven or eight theaters in St. Louis, three or four of them staging only that better sort of play known as a first-class attraction; the others giving melodrama4, vaudeville5 and burlesque6. The manager of the Grand, a short, thick-set, sandy-complexioned man of most jovial7 mien8, was McManus, father of the well-known cartoonist of a later period and the prototype of his most humorous character, Mr. Jiggs. He exclaimed upon seeing me:
“So you’re the new dramatic editor, are you? Well, they change around over there pretty swift, don’t they? What’s happened to Carmichael? First it was Hartridge, then Albertson, then Hazard, then Mathewson, then Carmichael, and now you, all in my time. Well, Mr. Dreiser, I’m glad to see you. You’re always welcome here. I’ll take you out and introduce you to our doormen and Mr. —— in the box-office. He’ll always recognize you. We’ll give you the best seat in the house if it’s empty when you come.”
He smiled humorously and I had to laugh at the way he rattled9 off this welcome. An aura of badinage10 and humor encircled him, quite the same as that which makes Mr. Jiggs delightful11. This was the first I had ever heard of Hazard having held this position, and now I felt a little guilty, as though I had edged him out of something that rightfully belonged to him. Still, I didn’t really care, sentimentalize as I might. I had won.
“Did Bob Hazard once have this position?” I asked familiarly.
“Yes. That was when he was on the paper the last time. He’s been off and on the Globe three or four times, you know.” He smiled clownishly. I laughed.
“You and I’ll get along, I guess,” he smiled.
At the other theaters I was received less informally but with uniform courtesy; all assured me that I should be welcome at any time and that if I ever wished tickets for myself or a friend or anybody on the paper I could get them if they had them. “And we’ll make it a point to have them,” said one. I felt that this was quite an acquisition of influence. It gave me considerable opportunity to be nice to any friends I might acquire, and then think of the privilege of seeing any show I chose, to walk right into a theater without being stopped, and to be pleasantly greeted en route!
The character of the stage of that day, in St. Louis and the rest of America at least, as contrasted with what I know of its history in the world in general, remains13 a curious and interesting thing to me. As I look back on it now it seems inane14, but then it was wonderful. It is entirely15 possible that nations, like plants or individuals, have to grow and obtain their full development regardless of the accumulated store of wisdom and achievement in other lands, else how otherwise explain the vast level of mediocrity which obtains in some countries and many forms of effort, and that after so much that has been important elsewhere?
The stage in other lands had already seen a few tremendous periods; even here in America the mimetic art was no mystery. A few great things had been done, in acting16 at least, by Booth, Barrett, Macready, Forrest, Jefferson, Modjeska, Fanny Davenport, Mary Anderson, to name but a few. I was too young at the time to know or judge of their art or the quality of the plays they interpreted, aside from those of Shakespeare perhaps, but certainly their fame for a high form of production was considerable.
And yet, during the few months that I was dramatic editor, and the following year when I was a member of another staff and had entrée to these same theaters, I saw only one or two actors worthy17 the name, only one or two performances which I can now deem worth while. Richard Mansfield and Felix Morris stand out in my mind as excellent, and Sol Smith Russell and Joseph Jefferson as amusing comedians18, but who else? Comic and light opera, with a heavy inter-mixture of straight melodrama, and comedy-dramas, were about the only things that managers ventured to essay. Occasionally a serious actor of the caliber19 of Sir Henry Irving or E. S. Willard would appear on the scene, but many of their plays were of a more or less melodramatic character, highly sentimental12, emotional and unreal. In my stay here of about a year and a half I saw Joseph Jefferson, Sol Smith Russell, Salvini junior, Wilson Barrett, Fanny Davenport, Richard Mansfield, E. S. Willard, Felix Morris, E. H. Sothern, Julia Marlowe and a score of others more or less important but too numerous to mention; comedians, light-opera singers and the like; and although at the time I was entertained and moved by some of them, I now realize that in the main they were certainly pale spindling lights. And at that, America was but then entering upon its worst period of stage sentiment or mush. The movies as such had not yet appeared, but “Mr. Frohman presents” was upon us, master of middle-class sweetness and sentimentality. I remember staring at the three-sheet lithos and thinking how beautiful and perfect they were and what a great thing it was to be of the stage. To be an author, an actor, a composer, a manager! To have “Mr. Frohman present——”!
The Empire and Lyceum theater companies, with their groups of perfect lady and gentleman actors, were then at their height, the zenith of stage art—Mr. John Drew, for instance, with his wooden face and manners, Mr. Faversham, Miss Opp, Miss Spong, Miss This, Miss That. Such excellent actors as Henry E. Dixey, Richard Mansfield or Felix Morris could scarcely gain a hearing. I recall sitting one night in Hogan’s Theater, at Ninth or Tenth and Pine streets, and hearing Richard Mansfield order down the curtain at one of the most critical points in his famous play “Baron Chevreuil,” or some such name, and then come before it and denounce the audience in anything but measured terms for what he considered its ignorance and lack of taste. It had applauded, it seems, at the wrong time in that asinine20 way which only an American audience can when it is there solely21 because it thinks it ought to be. By that time Mansfield had already achieved a pseudo if not a real artistic22 following and was slowly but surely becoming a cult23. On this occasion he explained to that bland24 gathering25 that they were fools, that American audiences were usually composed of such animals or creatures and were in the main dull to the point of ennui26, that they were not there to see a great actor act but to see a man called Richard Mansfield, who was said to be a great actor. He pointed27 out how uniformly American audiences applauded at the wrong time, how truly immune they were to all artistic values, how wooden and reputation-following. At this some of them arose and left; others seemed to consider it a great joke and remained; still others were angry but wanted to see the “show.” Having finished his speech he ordered up the curtain and proceeded with his act as though nothing had happened, as though the audience were really not there. I confess I rather liked him for his stand even though I did not quite know whether he was right or wrong. But I wrote it up as though he had grossly insulted his audience, a body of worthy and respectable St. Louisans. Someone—Hazard, I think—suggested that it would be good policy to do so, and I, being green to my task, did so.
The saccharine28 strength of the sentiment and mush which we could gulp29 down at that time, and still can and do to this day, is to me beyond belief. And I was one of those who did the gulping30; indeed I was one of the worst. Those perfect nights, for instance, when as dramatic critic I strolled into one theater or another, two or three in an evening possibly, and observed (critically, as I thought) the work of those who were leaders in dramatic or humorous composition and that of our leading actors! It may be that the creative spirit has no particular use for intelligence above a mediocre31 level, or, better yet and far more likely, creative intelligence works through supermen whose visions, by which the mob is eventually entertained and made wise, must content them. Otherwise how explain the vast level of mediocrity, especially in connection with the stage, the people’s playhouse, then, today and forever, I suppose, until time shall be no more?
I recall, for instance, that I thought Mr. Drew was really a superior actor, and also that I thought that most of the plays of Henry Arthur Jones, Arthur Wing Pinero, Augustus Thomas, and others (many others), were enduring works of art. I confess it: I thought so, or at least I heard so and let it go at that. How sound I thought their interpretations32 of life to be! The cruel over-lords of trade in those plays, for instance, how cruel they were and how true! The virtues33 of the lowly workingman and the betrayed daughter with her sad, downcast expression! The moral splendor34 of the young minister who denounced heartless wealth and immorality35 and cruelty in high places and reformed them then and there or made them confess their errors! I can see him yet: slim, simple, perfect, a truly good man. The offhand36 on-the-spot manner in which splendid reforms were effected in an hour or a night, the wrongs righted instanter—in plays! You can still see them in any movie house in America. To this hour there is no such thing as a reckless unmarried girl in any movie exhibited in America. They are all married.
But how those St. Louis audiences applauded! Right, here in America at least, was always appropriately rewarded and left triumphant37, wrong was quite always properly drummed out. Our better selves invariably got the better of our lower selves, and we went home cured, reformed, saved. And there was little of evil of any description which went before, in acts one and two, which could not be straightened out in the last act.
The spirit of these plays captivated my fancy at that time and elevated me into a world of unreality which unfortunately fell in with the wildest of my youthful imaginings. Love, as I saw it here set forth38 in all those gorgeous or sentimental trappings, was the only kind of love worth while. Fortune also, gilded40 as only the melodramatic stage can gild39 it and as shown nightly by Mr. Frohman everywhere in America, was the only type of fortune worth while. To be rich, elegant, exclusive, as in the world of Frohman and Mr. Jones and Mr. Pinero! According to what I saw here, love and youth were the only things worth discussing or thinking about. The splendor of the Orient, the social flare41 of New York, London and Paris, the excited sex-imaginings of such minds as Dumas junior, Oscar Wilde, then in his heyday42, Jones, Pinero and a number of other current celebrities43, seemed all to be built around youth and undying love. The dreary44 humdrum45 of actual life was carefully shut out from these pieces; the simple delights of ordinary living, if they were used at all, were exaggerated beyond sensible belief. And elsewhere—not here in St. Louis, but in the East, New York, London, Paris, Vienna, St. Petersburg—were all the things that were worth while. If I really wanted to be happy I must eventually go to those places, of course. There were the really fine clothes and the superior personalities46 (physically and socially), and vice47 and poverty (painted in such peculiar48 colors that they were always divinely sad or repellent) existed only in those great cities.
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1
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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7
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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caliber
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| n.能力；水准 | |
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asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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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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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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saccharine
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| adj.奉承的，讨好的 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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33
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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34
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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44
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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46
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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47
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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48
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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