To this day some of the scenes of this book come back to me as having been forcefully done—the fight between the two actresses, for one thing, a midnight feast with several managers, the gallows4 scene, a confession5. I am not sure of the name of the newspaper man who collaborated6 with Hazard on this work, but the picture of his death in an opium7 joint8 later, painted for me by Hazard, and the eccentricities9 of his daily life, stand out even now as Poe-like. He must have been blessed or cursed with some such temperament10 as that of Poe, dark, gloomy, reckless, poetic11, for he was a dope-fiend and died of dope.
Be that as it may, this posthumous12 work, never published, so far as I know, was the opening wedge for me into the realm of realism. Being distinctly imitative of Balzac and Zola, the method was new and to me impressive. It has always struck me as curious that the first novel written by an American that I read in manuscript should have been one which by reason of its subject matter and the puritanic character of the American mind could never be published. These two youths knew this. Hazard handed it to me with the statement: “Of course a thing like this could never be published over here. We’d have to get it done abroad.” That struck me as odd at the time—the fact that if one wrote a fine thing nevertheless because of an American standard I had not even thought of before, one might not get it published. How queer, I thought. Yet these two incipient13 artists had already encountered it. They had been overawed to the extent of thinking it necessary to write of French, not American life in terms of fact. Such things as they felt called upon to relate occurred only in France, never here—or at least such things, if done here, were never spoken of. I think it nothing less than tragic14 that these men, or boys, fresh, forceful, imbued15 with a burning desire to present life as they saw it, were thus completely overawed by the moral hypocrisy16 of the American mind and did not even dare to think of sending their novel to an American publisher. Hazard was deeply impressed with the futility17 of attempting to do anything with a book of that kind. The publishers wouldn’t stand for it. You couldn’t write about life as it was; you had to write about it as somebody else thought it was, the ministers and farmers and dullards of the home. Yet here he was, as was I, busy in a profession that was hourly revealing the fact that this sweetness and light code, this idea of a perfect world which contained neither sin nor shame for any save vile19 outcasts, criminals and vagrants20, was the trashiest lie that was ever foisted21 upon an all too human world. Not a day, not an hour, but the pages of the very newspaper we were helping22 to fill with our scribbled23 observations were full of the most incisive24 pictures of the lack of virtue25, honesty, kindness, even average human intelligence, not on the part of a few but of nearly everybody. Not a business, apparently26, not a home, not a political or social organization or an individual but in the course of time was guilty of an infraction27 of some kind of this seemingly perfect and unbroken social and moral code. But in spite of all this, judging by the editorial page, the pulpit and the noble mouthings of the average citizen speaking for the benefit of his friends and neighbors, all men were honest—only they weren’t; all women were virtuous28 and without evil intent or design—but they weren’t; all mothers were gentle, self-sacrificing slaves, sweet pictures for songs and Sunday Schools—only they weren’t; all fathers were kind, affectionate, saving, industrious—only they weren’t. But when describing actual facts for the news columns, you were not allowed to indicate these things. Side by side with the most amazing columns of crimes of every kind and description would be other amazing columns of sweet mush about love, undying and sacrificial, editorials about the perfection of the American man, woman, child, his or her sweet deeds, intentions and the like—a wonderful dose. And all this last in the face of the other, which was supposed to represent the false state of things, merely passing indecencies, accidental errors that did not count. If a man like Hazard or myself had ventured to transpose a true picture of facts from the news columns of the papers, from our own reportorial experiences, into a story or novel, what a howl! Ostracism30 would have followed much more swiftly in that day than in this, for today turgid slush approximating at least some of the facts is tolerated. Fifteen years later Hazard told me he still had his book buried in a trunk somewhere, but by then he had turned to adventurous31 fiction, and a year later, as I have said, be blew his brains out.
Just the same the book made a great impression on me! It gave me a great respect for Hazard, made me really fond of him. And it fixed32 my mind definitely on this matter of writing—not a novel, curiously33, but a play, a form which from the first seemed easier for me and which I still consider so, one in which I work with greater ease than I do in the novel. I mentioned to Wood and McCord that Hazard and another man had written a novel and that I had read it. I must have enthused over it for both were impressed, and I myself seemed to gain standing34, especially with Wood. It was generally admitted then that Hazard was one of the best reporters in the city, and my being taken into his confidence in this fashion seemed to Wood to be a significant thing.
And not long after that I had something else to tell these two which carried great weight. There was at that time on the editorial page of the paper a column entitled “Heard in the Corridors,” which was nothing more than a series of imaginary interviews with passing guests at the various hotels, or interviews condensed into short tales, about six to the column, one at least being accredited35 to a guest at each of the three principal hotels, the others standing accredited as things heard at the union Station or upon the street somewhere. Previous to my arrival this column had been written by various men, the last one having been the already famous W. C. Brann, then editor of the brilliant Iconoclast36. By the time I arrived, however, Brann had departed, and the column had sagged37. Hazard was doing a part of it, Bellairs another, but both were tired of it. At first when I considered it (a little extra work added to my daily reporting) I was not so pleased; indeed it seemed an all but impossible thing to do. Later, however, after a trial, I discovered that it gave free rein38 to my wildest imaginings, which was exactly what I wanted. I could write any sort of story I pleased, romantic, realistic or lunatic, and credit it to some imaginary guest at one of the hotels, and if it was not too improbable it was passed without comment. At any rate, when this was assigned to me I went forth39 to get names of personages stopping at the hotels. I inquired for celebrities40. As a rule, the clerks could give me no information or were indifferent, and seemed to take very little interest in having the hotel advertised. I returned and racked my brain, decided41 that I could manufacture names as well as stories, and forthwith scribbled six marvels42, attaching such names as came into my mind. The next day these were all duly published and I was told to do the column regularly as well as my regular assignments. My asinine43 ebullience44 had won me a new task without any increase in pay.
However, it seemed an honor to have a whole column assigned to me, and this honor I communicated to McCord and Wood. It was then that either Wood or McCord informed me that Brann had done it previously45 and had written snake stories for the paper into the bargain. This flattered me, for they pictured him for what he was, a rare soul, and I felt myself growing. Peter had illustrated46 some of these tales for him, for, as he said with mock dignity: “I am the official snake artist of this paper.” That very night, as a reward for my efficiency I was invited by Dick to come to his room—the room, the studio—where he inflicted47 about nine of his horrible masterpieces upon me.
I would not make so much of this great honor if it were not for what it meant to me then. The room was large and dark, on Broadway between Market and Walnut49, with the cars jangling below. It contained one great white bed, a long table covered with the papers and literary compositions of Mr. Richard Wood, and was decorated and reinforced with that gentleman’s conception of what constituted literary insignia. On the walls hung dusty engravings representing the death of Hamlet and the tempting18 of Faust. In one corner, over a chest of drawers, was the jagged blade of a sword-fish, and in another a most curious display of oriental coins. The top of the wardrobe was surmounted50 by a gruesome papier-mâché head representing that somewhat demented creature known in England as Ally Sloper. A clear space at one corner of the table held a tin pail for carrying beer, and the floor, like the walls, was covered with some dusty brown material which might once have been a carpet. Owing to the darkness of the furnishings and the brightness of the fire, the room had a very cheery look.
“Say, Dick, did you see where one of ——’s plays had made a great hit in New York?” asked McCord. “He’s made a strike this time.”
“No,” replied Dick solemnly, poking51 among the coals of the grate and drawing up a chair. “Sit down, Dreiser. Pull up a chair, Peter. This confounded grate smokes whenever the wind’s from the South. Still there’s nothing like a grate fire.”
We drew up chairs. I was revolving52 in my mind the charm of the room and a vision of greatness in play-writing. These two men seemed subtly involved with the perfection of the arts. In this atmosphere, with such companions, I felt that I could accomplish anything, and soon.
“I’ll tell you how it is with the game of play-writing,” observed Dick sententiously. “You have to have imagination and feeling and all that, but what’s more important than anything is a little business sense, to know how to get in with those fellows. You might have the finest play in the world in your pocket, but if you didn’t know how to dispose of it what good would it do you? None at all. You got to know that end first.”
He reached over and pulled the coal-scuttle into position as a footrest and then looked introspectively at the ceiling.
“The play’s the thing,” put in Peter. “If you could write a real good play you wouldn’t need to worry about getting it staged.”
“Aw, wouldn’t I? Listen to that now!” commented Dick irascibly. “I tell you, Peter, you don’t know anything about it. You only think you do; that’s all. Say, did Campbell have a good play in his pocket or didn’t he? You betcher neck he did. Did he get it staged? No, you betcher boots he didn’t. Don’t talk to me; I know.”
By his manner you would have thought he had a standing bone to pick with Peter, but this was only his way. It made me laugh.
“Well, the play’s the first thing to worry about anyhow,” I observed. “I wish I were in a position to write one.”
“Why don’t you try?” suggested McCord. “You ought to be able to do something in that line. I bet you could write a good one.”
We fell to discussing dramatists. Peter, with his eye for gorgeous effects, costuming and the like, immediately began to describe the ballet effects and scenery of a comic opera laid in Algeria which was then playing in St. Louis.
“You ought to go and see that, Dreiser,” he urged. “It’s something wonderful. The effect of the balconies in the first act, with the muezzins crying the prayers from the towers in the distance, is great. Then the harmony of the color work in the stones of the buildings is something exquisite53. You want to see it.”
I felt myself glowing. This intimate conversation with men of such marked artistic54 ability, in a room, too, which was the reflection of an artist’s personality, raised my sense of latent ability to the highest point. Not that I felt I was not fit to associate with these people—I felt that I was more than fit, their equal at every point, conceal55 it as I might—but it was something to come in touch with your own, to find real friends to the manner born who were your equals and able to sympathize with you and appreciate your every mood. A man who had found such friends as these so quickly surely need never worry.
“I’ll tell you what I propose to do, Peter, while you people are talking,” observed Dick. “I propose to go over to Frank’s and get a can of beer. Then I’ll read you that story.”
This proposal to read a story was new to me; I had not heard Wood had written one before. I looked at him more keenly, and a little flame of envy leaped to life in me. To be able to write a short story—or any kind of a story!
He went to his wardrobe, whence he extracted a medium-length black cape56 of broadcloth, which he threw about his shoulders, and a soft hat which he drew rakishly over his eyes, then took the tin pail and a piece of money from a plate, after the best fashion of the artistic romances of the day, and went out. I gazed admiringly after him, touched by the romance of it all. That face, waxen, drawn57, sensitive, with deep burning eyes, and that frail58 body! That cape! That hat! That plate of coins! Yes, this was Bohemia! I was now a part of that happy middle world which was superior to wealth and poverty. I was in that serene59 realm where moved freely talent, artistic ability, noble thought, ingenious action, unhampered by conventional thought and conduct. A great man should so live, an artist certainly. These two could and did do as they pleased. They were not as others, but wise, sensitive, delicately responsive to all that was best in life; and as yet the great world was not aware of their existence!
Wood came back with the beer and then Peter insisted that he read us the story. I noticed that there was something impish in his manner. He assured me that all of Dick’s stories were masterpieces, every one; that time alone was required for world-wide recognition.
Dick picked up a single manuscript from a heap. “I don’t want to inflict48 this on you, Dreiser,” he said sweetly and apologetically. “We had planned to do this before I knew you were coming.”
“That’s the way he always talks,” put in Peter banteringly. “Dick loves to stage things. But they’re great stories just the same.”
I leaned back, prepared to be thrilled. Dick drew up his chair to the table and adjusted a green-shaded gas lamp close to the table’s edge. He then unfolded his MS. and began reading in a low, well-modulated, semi-pathetic voice, which seemed very effective in the more sentimental60 passages. Reverently61 I sat and listened. The tale was nothing, a mere29 daub, but, oh, the wonder of it! Was I not in the presence and friendship of artists? Was not this Bohemia? Had I not long heard and dreamed of it? Well, then, what difference whether the tales were good or bad? They were by one whom I was compelled to admire, an artist, pale, sensitive, recessive62, one who at the slightest show of inattention or lack of appreciation63 might leave me and never see me more.
I listened to about nine without dying, declaring each and every one to be the best I had ever heard—perfect.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
spanked
|
|
| v.用手掌打( spank的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
treacherous
|
|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
entailed
|
|
| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
gallows
|
|
| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
collaborated
|
|
| 合作( collaborate的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
opium
|
|
| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
joint
|
|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
eccentricities
|
|
| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
temperament
|
|
| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
posthumous
|
|
| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
incipient
|
|
| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
imbued
|
|
| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
hypocrisy
|
|
| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
futility
|
|
| n.无用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
tempting
|
|
| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
vile
|
|
| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
vagrants
|
|
| 流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 )； 无业游民； 乞丐； 无赖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
foisted
|
|
| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
scribbled
|
|
| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
incisive
|
|
| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
infraction
|
|
| n.违反；违法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
ostracism
|
|
| n.放逐；排斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
adventurous
|
|
| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
accredited
|
|
| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
iconoclast
|
|
| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
sagged
|
|
| 下垂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
rein
|
|
| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
celebrities
|
|
| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
marvels
|
|
| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
asinine
|
|
| adj.愚蠢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
ebullience
|
|
| n.沸腾，热情，热情洋溢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
previously
|
|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
illustrated
|
|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
inflict
|
|
| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
walnut
|
|
| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
surmounted
|
|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
poking
|
|
| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
revolving
|
|
| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
cape
|
|
| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
frail
|
|
| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
reverently
|
|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
recessive
|
|
| adj.退行的，逆行的，后退的，隐性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |