Usually it is a cold day in July when you can stroll up Broadway in that month and get a story out of the drama. I found one a few breathless, parboiling days ago, and it seems to decide a serious question in art.
There was not a soul left in the city except Hollis and me--and two or three million sunworshippers who remained at desks and counters. The elect had fled to seashore, lake, and mountain, and had already begun to draw for additional funds. Every evening Hollis and I prowled about the deserted1 town searching for coolness in empty cafes, dining-rooms, and roofgardens. We knew to the tenth part of a revolution the speed of every electric fan in Gotham, and we followed the swiftest as they varied2. Hollis's fiancee. Miss Loris Sherman, had been in the Adirondacks, at Lower Saranac Lake, for a month. In another week he would join her party there. In the meantime, he cursed the city cheerfully and optimistically, and sought my society because I suffered him to show me her photograph during the black coffee every time we dined together.
My revenge was to read to him my one-act play.
It was one insufferable evening when the overplus of the day's heat was being hurled3 quiveringly back to the heavens by every surcharged brick and stone and inch of iron in the panting town. But with the cunning of the two-legged beasts we had found an oasis4 where the hoofs5 of Apollo's steed had not been allowed to strike. Our seats were on an ocean of cool, polished oak; the white linen6 of fifty deserted tables flapped like seagulls in the artificial breeze; a mile away a waiter lingered for a heliographic signal--we might have roared songs there or fought a duel7 without molestation8.
Out came Miss Loris's photo with the coffee, and I once more praised the elegant poise9 of the neck, the extremely low-coiled mass of heavy hair, and the eyes that followed one, like those in an oil painting.
"She's the greatest ever," said Hollis, with enthusiasm. "Good as Great Northern Preferred, and a disposition10 built like a watch. One week more and I'll be happy Jonny-on-the-spot. Old Tom Tolliver, my best college chum, went up there two weeks ago. He writes me that Loris doesn't talk about anything but me. Oh, I guess Rip Van Winkle didn't have all the good luck!"
"Yes, yes," said I, hurriedly, pulling out my typewritten play. "She's no doubt a charming girl. Now, here's that little curtain- raiser you promised to listen to."
"Ever been tried on the stage?" asked Hollis.
"Not exactly," I answered. "I read half of it the other day to a fellow whose brother knows Robert Edeson; but he had to catch a train before I finished."
"Go on," said Hollis, sliding back in his chair like a good fellow. "I'm no stage carpenter, but I'll tell you what I think of it from a first-row balcony standpoint. I'm a theatre bug11 during the season, and I can size up a fake play almost as quick as the gallery can. Flag the waiter once more, and then go ahead as hard as you like with it. I'll be the dog."
I read my little play lovingly, and, I fear, not without some elocution. There was one scene in it that I believed in greatly. The comedy swiftly rises into thrilling and unexpectedly developed drama. Capt. Marchmont suddenly becomes cognizant that his wife is an unscrupulous adventuress, who has deceived him from the day of their first meeting. The rapid and mortal duel between them from that moment--she with her magnificent lies and siren charm, winding12 about him like a serpent, trying to recover her lost ground; he with his man's agony and scorn and lost faith, trying to tear her from his heart. That scene I always thought was a crackerjack. When Capt. Marchmont discovers her duplicity by reading on a blotter in a mirror the impression of a note that she has written to the Count, he raises his hand to heaven and exclaims: "O God, who created woman while Adam slept, and gave her to him for a companion, take back Thy gift and return instead the sleep, though it last forever!"
"Rot," said Hollis, rudely, when I had given those lines with proper emphasis.
"I beg your pardon!" I said, as sweetly as I could.
"Come now," went on Hollis, "don't be an idiot. You know very well that nobody spouts13 any stuff like that these days. That sketch14 went along all right until you rang in the skyrockets. Cut out that right-arm exercise and the Adam and Eve stunt15, and make your captain talk as you or I or Bill Jones would."
"I'll admit," said I, earnestly (for my theory was being touched upon), "that on all ordinary occasions all of us use commonplace language to convey our thoughts. You will rememberthat up to the moment when the captain makes his terrible discovery all the characters on the stage talk pretty much as they would, in real life. But I believe that I am right in allowing him lines suitable to the strong and tragic16 situation into which he falls."
"Tragic, my eye!" said my friend, irreverently. "In Shakespeare's day he might have sputtered17 out some high-cockalorum nonsense of that sort, because in those days they ordered ham and eggs in blank verse and discharged the cook with an epic18. But not for B'way in the summer of 1905!"
"It is my opinion," said I, "that great human emotions shake up our vocabulary and leave the words best suited to express them on top. A sudden violent grief or loss or disappointment will bring expressions out of an ordinary man as strong and solemn and dramatic as those used in fiction or on the stage to portray19 those emotions."
"That's where you fellows are wrong," said Hollis. "Plain, every-day talk is what goes. Your captain would very likely have kicked the cat, lit a cigar, stirred up a highball, and telephoned for a lawyer, instead of getting off those Robert Mantell pyrotechnics."
"Possibly, a little later," I continued. "But just at the time--just as the blow is delivered, if something Scriptural or theatrical20 and deep-tongued isn't wrung21 from a man in spite of his modern and practical way of speaking, then I'm wrong."
"Of course," said Hollis, kindly22, "you've got to whoop23 her up some degrees for the stage. The audience expects it. When the villain24 kidnaps little Effie you have to make her mother claw some chunks25 out of the atmosphere, and scream: "Me chee-ild, me chee-ild!" What she would actually do would be to call up the police by 'phone, ring for some strong tea, and get the little darling's photo out, ready for the reporters. When you get your villain in a corner--a stage corner --it's all right for him to clap his hand to his forehead and hiss26: "All is lost!" Off the stage he would remark: "This is a conspiracy27 against me-- I refer you to my lawyers.'"
"I get no consolation," said I, gloomily, "from your concession28 of an accentuated29 stage treatment. In my play I fondly hoped that I was following life. If people in real life meet great crises in a commonplace way, they should do the same on the stage."
And then we drifted, like two trout30, out of our cool pool in the great hotel and began to nibble31 languidly at the gay flies in the swift current of Broadway. And our question of dramatic art was unsettled.
We nibbled32 at the flies, and avoided the hooks, as wise trout do; but soon the weariness of Manhattan in summer overcame us. Nine stories up, facing the south, was Hollis's apartment, and we soon stepped into an elevator bound for that cooler haven33.
I was familiar in those quarters, and quickly my play was forgotten, and I stood at a sideboard mixing things, with cracked ice and glasses all about me. A breeze from the bay came in the windows not altogether blighted34 by the asphalt furnace over which it had passed. Hollis, whistling softly, turned over a late-arrived letter or two on his table, and drew around the coolest wicker armchairs.
I was just measuring the Vermouth carefully when I heard a sound. Some man's voice groaned35 hoarsely36: "False, oh, God!--false, and Love is a lie and friendship but the byword of devils!"
I looked around quickly. Hollis lay across the table with his head down upon his outstretched arms. And then he looked up at me and laughed in his ordinary manner.
I knew him--he was poking37 fun at me about my theory. And it did seem so unnatural38, those swelling39 words during our quiet gossip, that I half began to believe I had been mistaken--that my theory was wrong.
Hollis raised himself slowly from the table.
"You were right about that theatrical business, old man," he said, quietly, as he tossed a note to me.
I read it.
Loris had run away with Tom Tolliver.
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1
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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7
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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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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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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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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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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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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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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25
chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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26
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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29
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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30
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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32
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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35
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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37
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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38
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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