Again, there were the Chinese Free Masons, a society so old and so powerful and so mysterious that one might speak of it only in whispers for fear of getting into trouble. This indeed was the great organization of the world, in China and everywhere else. Kings and potentates10 knew of it and trembled before its power. If it wished it could sweep the Chinese Emperor and all European monarchs11 off their thrones tomorrow. There were rites12, mysteries, sanctuaries13 within sanctuaries in this great organization. He himself was as yet a mere14 outsider, snooping about, but by degrees, slowly and surely, as I was given to understand, was worming its secrets out of these Chinese restaurant-keepers and laundrymen, its deepest mysteries, whereby he hoped to profit in this way: he was going to study Chinese, then go to China. There he would get into this marvelous organization through the influence of some of his Chinese friends here. Then he was going to get next to some of the officials of the Chinese Government, and being thus highly recommended and thought of would come back here eventually as an official Chinese interpreter, attached perhaps to the Chinese Legation at Washington. How he was to profit so vastly by this I could not see, but he seemed to think that he would.
Again, there was his literary world which he was always dreaming about and slaving over, his art ambitions, into which I was now by degrees permitted to look. He was forging ahead in that realm, and since I was doing fairly well as a daily scribbler it might be that I would be able to perceive a little of all he was hoping to do. His great dream or scheme was to study the underworld life of St. Louis at first hand, those horrible, grisly, waterfront saloons and lowest tenderloin dives and brothels south of Market and east of Eighth where, listening to the patois15 of thieves and pimps and lechers and drug-fiends and murderers and outlaws16 generally, he was to extract from them, aside from their stories, some bizarre originality17 of phrase and scene that was to stand him in good stead in the composition of his tales. Just now, so he told me, he was content with making notes, jotting18 down scraps19 of conversation heard at bars, in sloppy20 urinals, cheap dance-halls, and I know not what. With a little more time and a little more of that slowly arriving sanity21 which comes to most of us eventually, I am inclined to think that he might have made something out of all this; he was so much in earnest, so patient; only, as I saw it, he was filled with an almost impossible idealism and romance which threw nearly everything out of proportion. He naturally inclined to the arabesque22 and the grotesque23, but in no balanced way. His dreams were too wild, his mood at nearly all times too utterly24 romantic, his deductions25 far beyond what a sane26 contemplation of the facts warranted.
And relative to this period I could other tales unfold. He and Peter, long before I had arrived on the scene, had surrounded themselves with a company of wayfarers27 of their own: down-and-out English army officers and grafting28 younger sons of good families, a Frenchman or two, one of whom was a poet, several struggling artists who grafted29 on them, and a few weird30 and disreputable characters so degraded and nondescript that I could never make out just what their charm was. At least two of these had suitable rooms, where, in addition to Dick’s and mine, we were accustomed to meet. There were parties, Sunday and evening walks or trips, dinners. Poems, on occasion, were read, original, first-hand compositions; Dick’s stories, as Peter invariably insisted, were “inflicted,” the “growler” or “duck” (a tin bucket of good size) was “rushed” for beer, and cheese and crackers31 and hot crawfish, sold by old ambling32 negroes on the streets after midnight, were bought and consumed with gusto. Captain Simons, Captain Seller, Toussaint, Benèt—these are names of figures that are now so dim as to be mere wraiths33, ranged about a smoky, dimly lighted room in some downtown rooming-house. Both Dick and Peter had reached that distinguished34 state where they were the center of attraction as well as supports and props35 to these others, and between them got up weird entertainments, knockabout Dutch comedian36 acts, which they took down to some wretched dance-hall and staged, each “doing a turn.” The glee over the memory of these things as they now narrated37 them to me!
Wood was so thin physically38 and so vigorous mentally that he was fascinating to look at. He had an idea that this bohemianism and his story work were of the utmost importance; and so they were if they had been but a prelude39 to something more serious, or if his dreams could only have been reduced to paper and print. There was something that lay in his eye, a ray. There was an aroma40 to his spirit which was delicious. As I get him now, he was a rather underdone Poe or de Maupassant or Manet, and assuredly a portion of the makings was certainly there. For at times the moods he could evoke41 in me were poignant42, and he saw beauty and romance in many and strange ways and places. I have seen him enter a dirty, horrible saloon in one of St. Louis’s lowest dive regions with the air of a Prince Charming and there seat himself at some sloppy table, his patent leather low-quarters scraping the sanded or sawdusted floor, order beer and then, smiling genially43 upon all, begin to transcribe44 from memory whole sections of conversations he had heard somewhere, in the street perhaps, all the while racking his brain to recall the exact word and phrase. Unlike myself, he had a knack45 of making friends with these shabby levee and underworld characters, syphilitic, sodden46, blue-nosed bums47 mostly, whom he picked up from Heaven knows where. And how he seemed to prize their vile48 language, their lies and their viler49 thoughts!
And there was McCord, bless his enthusiastic, materialistic50 heart, who seemed to take fire from this joint51 companionship and was determined52 to do something, he scarcely knew what—draw, paint, write, collect—anything. His mind was so wrought53 up by the rich pattern which life was weaving before his eyes that he could scarcely sleep at nights. He was for prowling about with us these winter and spring days, looking at the dark city after work hours, or investigating these wretched dives with Dick and myself. Or, the three of us would take a banjo, a mandolin and a flute54 (McCord could perform on the flute and Dick on the mandolin) and go to Forrest Park or one of the minor55 parks on the south side, and there proceed to make the night hideous56 with our carolings until some solid policeman, assuming that the public had rights, would interfere57 and bid us depart. Our invariable retort on all such occasions was that we were newspaper men and artists and as such entitled to courtesies from the police, which the thick-soled minion58 of the law would occasionally admit. Sometimes we would go to Dick’s room or mine and chatter59 and sing until dawn, when, somewhat subdued60, we would seek out some German saloon-keeper whom either Peter or Wood knew, rouse him out of his slumbers61 and demand that he come down and supply us with ham and eggs and beer.
My stage critical work having vivified my desire to write a play or comic opera on the order of Wang or The Isle62 of Champagne63, two of the reigning64 successes of that day, or the pleasing Robin65 Hood66 of de Koven, I set about this task as best I might, scribbling67 scenes, bits of humor, phases of character. In this idea I was aided and abetted68 not only by Wood and McCord, both of whom by now seemed to think I might do something, but by the fact that the atmosphere of the Globe office, as well as of St. Louis itself, was, for me at least, inspirational and creative. I liked the world in which I now found myself. There were about me and in the city so many who seemed destined69 to do great things—Wood, McCord, Hazard, a man by the name of Bennett who was engaged in sociologic propaganda of one kind and another, William Marion Reedy, already editing the Mirror, Albert Johnson, a most brilliant reporter who had, preceding my coming, resigned from the Globe and gone over to the Chronicle, Alfred Robyn, composer of Answer and Marizanillo, one of whose operas was even then being given a local tryout. I have mentioned the wonderful W. C. Brann who preceded me in writing “Heard in the Corridors” and who later stirred America with the Iconoclast70.
All this, plus the fact that Augustus Thomas had come from here, a reporter on the Post-Dispatch, and that I was now seeing one of his plays, In Missouri, moved me to the point where I finally thought out what I considered a fairly humorous plot for a comic opera, which was to be called Jeremiah I. It was based on the idea of transporting, by reason of his striking accidentally a mythical71 Aztec stone on his farm, an old Indiana farmer of a most cantankerous72 and inquisitive73 disposition74 from the era in which he then was back into that of the Aztecs of Mexico, where, owing to a religious invocation then being indulged in with a view to discovering a new ruler, he was assumed to be the answer. Beginning as a cowardly refugee in fear for his life, he was slowly changed into an amazing despot, having at one time as many as three hundred ex-advisers or Aztec secretaries of state in one pen awaiting poisoning. He was to be dissuaded75 from carrying out this plan by his desire for a certain Aztec maiden76, who was to avoid him until he repented77 of his crimes. She eventually persuaded him to change the form of government from that of a despotism to that of a republic, with himself as candidate for President.
There was nothing much to it. Its only humor lay in the thought or sight of a cranky, curious, critical farmer super-imposed upon ancient architecture and forms of worship. Having once thought it out, however, and being pleased with it, I worked at it feverishly78 nights when I was not on assignments, and in a week or less had a rough outline of it, lyrics79 and all. I told McCord and Wood about it. And so great was their youthful encouragement that at once I saw this as the way out of my difficulties, the path to that great future I desired. I would become the author of comic opera books. Already I saw myself in New York, rich, famous.
But at that time I could not possibly write without constant encouragement, and having roughed out the opera I now burned for assistance in developing it in detail. At last I went to Peter and told him of my difficulty, my inability to go ahead. He seemed to relish80 the whole idea hugely, so much so that he made the thing seem far more plausible81 and easy for me to do and urged me to go ahead, not to faint or get cold feet. Enamored of costumes and gorgeous settings, he even went so far as to first suggest and then later work out in water color, suggestions for costumes and color schemes which I thought wonderful. I was lifted to the seventh heaven. To think that I had worked out something which he considered interesting!
Later that evening, at Peter’s suggestion I outlined portions of it to Wood. He also seemed to believe that it was good. He insisted that there must be an evening at his room or mine when I would read it all to them. Accordingly a week later I read it in Dick’s room, to much partial applause of course. What else could they do? Peter even went so far as to suggest that he would love to act the part of Jeremiah I, and forthwith began to give us imitations of the prospective82 king’s mannerisms and characteristics. Whatever the merit of the manuscript itself, certainly we imagined Peter’s characterizations to be funny. Later he brought me as many as fifty designs of costumes and scenes in color, which appealed to me as having novelty as well as beauty. He had evidently worked for weeks, nights after hours and mornings before coming to the office and on Sundays. By this I was so thrilled that I could scarcely believe my eyes. To think that I had written the book of a real comic opera that should be deemed worthy83 of this, and that it was within the range of possibility that it would some day be produced!
I began to feel myself a personage, although at bottom I mistrusted the reality of it all. Fate could not be that kind, not so swift. I should never get it produced ... and yet, like the man in the Arabian fable84 who kicked over his tray of glassware, dreaming great dreams, I was tending toward the same thing. There was always in me the saving grace of doubt or self-mistrust. I was never quite sure that I should be able to do all that at times I was inclined to hope I might, and so was usually inclined to go about my work as nervously85 and as enthusiastically as ever, hoping that I might have some of the good fortune of which I dreamed, but never seriously depending on it.
Perhaps it would have been better for me had I.
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1
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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5
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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6
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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grafting
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| 嫁接法，移植法 | |
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grafted
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| 移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 )； 嫁接； 使（思想、制度等）成为（…的一部份）； 植根 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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wraiths
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| n.幽灵( wraith的名词复数 )；（传说中人在将死或死后不久的）显形阴魂 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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41
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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44
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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45
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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47
bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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48
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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50
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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79
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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80
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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81
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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82
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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83
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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85
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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