章节正文
STAGE-LAND
by Jerome K. Jerome
TO
THAT HIGHLY RESPECTABLE BUT UNNECESSARILY
RETIRING INDIVIDUAL,
OF WHOM
WE HEAR SO MUCH
BUT
SEE SO LITTLE,
"THE EARNEST STUDENT OF THE DRAMA,"
THIS
(COMPARATIVELY) TRUTHFUL LITTLE BOOK
IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
THE HERO
THE VILLAIN
THE HEROINE
THE COMIC MAN
THE LAWYER
THE ADVENTURESS
THE SERVANT GIRL
THE CHILD
THE COMIC LOVERS
THE PEASANTS
THE GOOD OLD MAN
THE IRISHMAN
THE DETECTIVE
THE SAILOR
STAGE-LAND.
THE HERO.
His name is George, generally speaking. "Call me George!" he says to
the heroine. She calls him George (in a very low voice, because she
is so young and timid). Then he is happy.
The stage hero never has any work to do. He is always hanging about
and getting into trouble. His chief aim in life is to be accused of
crimes he has never committed, and if he can muddle things up with a
corpse in some complicated way so as to get himself reasonably
mistaken for the murderer, he feels his day has not been wasted.
He has a wonderful gift of speech and a flow of language calculated to
strike terror to the bravest heart. It is a grand thing to hear him
bullyragging the villain.
The stage hero is always entitled to "estates," chieflyremarkable for
their high state of cultivation and for the eccentric ground plan of
the "manor house" upon them. The house is never more than one story
high, but it makes up in green stuff over the porch what it lacks in
size and convenience.
The chief drawback in connection with it, to our eyes, is that all the
inhabitants of the neighboring village appear to live in the front
garden, but the hero evidently thinks it rather nice of them, as it
enables him to make speeches to them from the front doorstep--his
favorite recreation.
There is generally a public-house immediately opposite. This is
handy.
These "estates" are a great anxiety to the stage hero. He is not what
you would call a business man, as far as we can judge, and his
attempts to manage his own property invariably land him in ruin and
distraction. His "estates," however, always get taken away from him
by the villain before the first act is over, and this saves him all
further trouble with regard to them until the end of the play, when he
gets saddled with them once more.
Not but what it must be confessed that there is much excuse for the
poor fellow's general bewildermentconcerning his affairs and for his
legal errors and confusions generally. Stage "law" may not be quite
the most fearful and wonderful mystery in the whole universe, but it's
near it--very near it. We were under the impression at one time that
we ourselves knew something--just a little--about statutory and common
law, but after paying attention to the legal points of one or two
plays we found that we were mere children at it.
We thought we would not be beaten, and we determined to get to the
bottom of stage law and to understand it; but after some six months'
effort our brain (a singularly fine one) began to soften, and we
abandoned the study, believing it would come cheaper in the end to
offer a suitablereward, of about 50,000 pounds or 60,000 pounds, say,
to any one who would explain it to us.
The reward has remained unclaimed to the present day and is still
open.
One gentleman did come to our assistance a little while ago, but his
explanations only made the matter more confusing to our minds than it
was before. He was surprised at what he called our density, and said
the thing was all clear and simple to him. But we discovered
afterward that he was an escaped lunatic.
The only points of stage "law" on which we are at all clear are as
follows:
That if a man dies without leaving a will, then all his property goes
to the nearest villain.
But if a man dies and leaves a will, then all his property goes to
whoever can get possession of that will.
That the accidental loss of the three-and-sixpenny copy of a marriage
certificate annuls the marriage.
That the evidence of one prejudiced witness of shady antecedents is
quite sufficient to convict the most stainless and irreproachable
gentleman of crimes for the committal of which he could have had no
possible motive.
But that this evidence may be rebutted years afterward, and the
conviction quashed without further trial by the unsupported statement
of the comic man.
That if A forges B's name to a check, then the law of the land is that
B shall be sentenced to ten years' penal servitude.
That ten minutes' notice is all that is required to foreclose a
mortgage.
That all trials of criminal cases take place in the front parlor of
the victim's house, the villainacting as counsel, judge, and jury
rolled into one, and a couple of policemen being told off to follow
his instructions.
These are a few of the more salient features of stage "law" so far as
we have been able to grasp it up to the present; but as fresh acts and
clauses and modifications appear to be introduced for each new play,
we have abandoned all hope of ever being able to really comprehend the
subject.
To return to our hero, the state of the law, as above sketched,
naturally confuses him, and the villain, who is the only human being
who does seem to understand stage legal questions, is easily able to
fleece and ruin him. The simple-minded hero signs mortgages, bills of
sale, deeds of gift, and such like things, under the impression that
he is playing some sort of a round game; and then when he cannot pay
the interest they take his wife and children away from him and turn
him adrift into the world.
Being thrown upon his own resources, he naturally starves.
He can make long speeches, he can tell you all his troubles, he can
stand in the lime-light and strike attitudes, he can knock the villain
down, and he can defy the police, but these requirements are not much
in demand in the labor market, and as they are all he can do or cares
to do, he finds earning his living a much more difficult affair than
he fancied.
There is a deal too much hard work about it for him. He soon gives up
trying it at all, and prefers to eke out an uncertainexistence by
sponging upon good-natured old Irish women and generous but
weak-minded young artisans who have left their native village to
follow him and enjoy the advantage of his company and conversation.
And so he drags out his life during the middle of the piece, raving at
fortune, raging at humanity, and whining about his miseries until the
last act.
Then he gets back those "estates" of his into his possession once
again, and can go back to the village and make more moral speeches and
be happy.
Moral speeches are undoubtedly his leading article, and of these, it
must be owned, he has an inexhaustible stock. He is as chock-full of
noble sentiments as a bladder is of wind. They are weak and watery
sentiments of the sixpenny tea-meeting order. We have a dim notion
that we have heard them before. The sound of them always conjures up
to our mind the vision of a dull long room, full of oppressive
silence, broken only by the scratching of steel pens and an occasional
whispered "Give us a suck, Bill. You know I always liked you;" or a
louder "Please, sir, speak to Jimmy Boggles. He's a-jogging my
elbow."
The stage hero, however, evidently regards these meanderings as gems
of brilliant thought, fresh from the philosophic mine.
The gallery greets them with enthusiasticapproval. They are a
warm-hearted people, galleryites, and they like to give a hearty
welcome to old friends.
And then, too, the sentiments are so good and a British gallery is so
moral. We doubt if there could be discovered on this earth any body
of human beings half so moral--so fond of goodness, even when it is
slow and stupid--so hateful of meanness in word or deed--as a modern
theatrical gallery.
The early Christian martyrs were sinful and worldly compared with an
Adelphi gallery.
The stage hero is a very powerful man. You wouldn't think it to look
at him, but you wait till the heroine cries "Help! Oh, George, save
me!" or the police attempt to run him in. Then two villains, three
extra hired ruffians and four detectives are about his
fighting-weight.
If he knocks down less than three men with one blow, he fears that he
must be ill, and wonders "Why this strange weakness?"
The hero has his own way of making love. He always does it from
behind. The girl turns away from him when he begins (she being, as we
have said, shy and timid), and he takes hold of her hands and breathes
his attachment down her back.
The stage hero always wears patent-leather boots, and they are always
spotlessly clean. Sometimes he is rich and lives in a room with seven
doors to it, and at other times he is starving in a garret; but in
either event he still wears brand-new patent-leather boots.
He might raise at least three-and-sixpence on those boots, and when
the baby is crying for food, it occurs to us that it would be better
if, instead of praying to Heaven, he took off those boots and pawned
them; but this does not seem to occur to him.
He crosses the African desert in patent-leather boots, does the stage
hero. He takes a supply with him when he is wrecked on an uninhabited
island. He arrives from long and trying journeys; his clothes are
ragged and torn, but his boots are new and shiny. He puts on
patent-leather boots to tramp through the Australian bush, to fight in
Egypt, to discover the north pole.
Sometimes he is a gold-digger, sometimes a dock laborer, sometimes a
soldier, sometimes a sailor, but whatever he is he wears
patent-leather boots.
He goes boating in patent leather boots, he plays cricket in them; he
goes fishing and shooting in them. He will go to heaven in
patent-leather boots or he will decline the invitation.
The stage hero never talks in a simple, straightforward way, like a
mere ordinary mortal.
"You will write to me when you are away, dear, won't you?" says the
heroine.
A mere human being would reply:
"Why, of course I shall, ducky, every day."
But the stage hero is a superior creature. He says:
"Dost see yonder star, sweet?"
She looks up and owns that she does see yonder star; and then off he
starts and drivels on about that star for full five minutes, and says
he will cease to write to her when that pale star has fallen from its
place amid the firmament of heaven.
The result of a long course of acquaintanceship with stage heroes has
by Jerome K. Jerome
TO
THAT HIGHLY RESPECTABLE BUT UNNECESSARILY
RETIRING INDIVIDUAL,
OF WHOM
WE HEAR SO MUCH
BUT
SEE SO LITTLE,
"THE EARNEST STUDENT OF THE DRAMA,"
THIS
(COMPARATIVELY) TRUTHFUL LITTLE BOOK
IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
THE HERO
THE VILLAIN
THE HEROINE
THE COMIC MAN
THE LAWYER
THE ADVENTURESS
THE SERVANT GIRL
THE CHILD
THE COMIC LOVERS
THE PEASANTS
THE GOOD OLD MAN
THE IRISHMAN
THE DETECTIVE
THE SAILOR
STAGE-LAND.
THE HERO.
His name is George, generally speaking. "Call me George!" he says to
the heroine. She calls him George (in a very low voice, because she
is so young and timid). Then he is happy.
The stage hero never has any work to do. He is always hanging about
and getting into trouble. His chief aim in life is to be accused of
crimes he has never committed, and if he can muddle things up with a
corpse in some complicated way so as to get himself reasonably
mistaken for the murderer, he feels his day has not been wasted.
He has a wonderful gift of speech and a flow of language calculated to
strike terror to the bravest heart. It is a grand thing to hear him
bullyragging the villain.
The stage hero is always entitled to "estates," chieflyremarkable for
their high state of cultivation and for the eccentric ground plan of
the "manor house" upon them. The house is never more than one story
high, but it makes up in green stuff over the porch what it lacks in
size and convenience.
The chief drawback in connection with it, to our eyes, is that all the
inhabitants of the neighboring village appear to live in the front
garden, but the hero evidently thinks it rather nice of them, as it
enables him to make speeches to them from the front doorstep--his
favorite recreation.
There is generally a public-house immediately opposite. This is
handy.
These "estates" are a great anxiety to the stage hero. He is not what
you would call a business man, as far as we can judge, and his
attempts to manage his own property invariably land him in ruin and
distraction. His "estates," however, always get taken away from him
by the villain before the first act is over, and this saves him all
further trouble with regard to them until the end of the play, when he
gets saddled with them once more.
Not but what it must be confessed that there is much excuse for the
poor fellow's general bewildermentconcerning his affairs and for his
legal errors and confusions generally. Stage "law" may not be quite
the most fearful and wonderful mystery in the whole universe, but it's
near it--very near it. We were under the impression at one time that
we ourselves knew something--just a little--about statutory and common
law, but after paying attention to the legal points of one or two
plays we found that we were mere children at it.
We thought we would not be beaten, and we determined to get to the
bottom of stage law and to understand it; but after some six months'
effort our brain (a singularly fine one) began to soften, and we
abandoned the study, believing it would come cheaper in the end to
offer a suitablereward, of about 50,000 pounds or 60,000 pounds, say,
to any one who would explain it to us.
The reward has remained unclaimed to the present day and is still
open.
One gentleman did come to our assistance a little while ago, but his
explanations only made the matter more confusing to our minds than it
was before. He was surprised at what he called our density, and said
the thing was all clear and simple to him. But we discovered
afterward that he was an escaped lunatic.
The only points of stage "law" on which we are at all clear are as
follows:
That if a man dies without leaving a will, then all his property goes
to the nearest villain.
But if a man dies and leaves a will, then all his property goes to
whoever can get possession of that will.
That the accidental loss of the three-and-sixpenny copy of a marriage
certificate annuls the marriage.
That the evidence of one prejudiced witness of shady antecedents is
quite sufficient to convict the most stainless and irreproachable
gentleman of crimes for the committal of which he could have had no
possible motive.
But that this evidence may be rebutted years afterward, and the
conviction quashed without further trial by the unsupported statement
of the comic man.
That if A forges B's name to a check, then the law of the land is that
B shall be sentenced to ten years' penal servitude.
That ten minutes' notice is all that is required to foreclose a
mortgage.
That all trials of criminal cases take place in the front parlor of
the victim's house, the villainacting as counsel, judge, and jury
rolled into one, and a couple of policemen being told off to follow
his instructions.
These are a few of the more salient features of stage "law" so far as
we have been able to grasp it up to the present; but as fresh acts and
clauses and modifications appear to be introduced for each new play,
we have abandoned all hope of ever being able to really comprehend the
subject.
To return to our hero, the state of the law, as above sketched,
naturally confuses him, and the villain, who is the only human being
who does seem to understand stage legal questions, is easily able to
fleece and ruin him. The simple-minded hero signs mortgages, bills of
sale, deeds of gift, and such like things, under the impression that
he is playing some sort of a round game; and then when he cannot pay
the interest they take his wife and children away from him and turn
him adrift into the world.
Being thrown upon his own resources, he naturally starves.
He can make long speeches, he can tell you all his troubles, he can
stand in the lime-light and strike attitudes, he can knock the villain
down, and he can defy the police, but these requirements are not much
in demand in the labor market, and as they are all he can do or cares
to do, he finds earning his living a much more difficult affair than
he fancied.
There is a deal too much hard work about it for him. He soon gives up
trying it at all, and prefers to eke out an uncertainexistence by
sponging upon good-natured old Irish women and generous but
weak-minded young artisans who have left their native village to
follow him and enjoy the advantage of his company and conversation.
And so he drags out his life during the middle of the piece, raving at
fortune, raging at humanity, and whining about his miseries until the
last act.
Then he gets back those "estates" of his into his possession once
again, and can go back to the village and make more moral speeches and
be happy.
Moral speeches are undoubtedly his leading article, and of these, it
must be owned, he has an inexhaustible stock. He is as chock-full of
noble sentiments as a bladder is of wind. They are weak and watery
sentiments of the sixpenny tea-meeting order. We have a dim notion
that we have heard them before. The sound of them always conjures up
to our mind the vision of a dull long room, full of oppressive
silence, broken only by the scratching of steel pens and an occasional
whispered "Give us a suck, Bill. You know I always liked you;" or a
louder "Please, sir, speak to Jimmy Boggles. He's a-jogging my
elbow."
The stage hero, however, evidently regards these meanderings as gems
of brilliant thought, fresh from the philosophic mine.
The gallery greets them with enthusiasticapproval. They are a
warm-hearted people, galleryites, and they like to give a hearty
welcome to old friends.
And then, too, the sentiments are so good and a British gallery is so
moral. We doubt if there could be discovered on this earth any body
of human beings half so moral--so fond of goodness, even when it is
slow and stupid--so hateful of meanness in word or deed--as a modern
theatrical gallery.
The early Christian martyrs were sinful and worldly compared with an
Adelphi gallery.
The stage hero is a very powerful man. You wouldn't think it to look
at him, but you wait till the heroine cries "Help! Oh, George, save
me!" or the police attempt to run him in. Then two villains, three
extra hired ruffians and four detectives are about his
fighting-weight.
If he knocks down less than three men with one blow, he fears that he
must be ill, and wonders "Why this strange weakness?"
The hero has his own way of making love. He always does it from
behind. The girl turns away from him when he begins (she being, as we
have said, shy and timid), and he takes hold of her hands and breathes
his attachment down her back.
The stage hero always wears patent-leather boots, and they are always
spotlessly clean. Sometimes he is rich and lives in a room with seven
doors to it, and at other times he is starving in a garret; but in
either event he still wears brand-new patent-leather boots.
He might raise at least three-and-sixpence on those boots, and when
the baby is crying for food, it occurs to us that it would be better
if, instead of praying to Heaven, he took off those boots and pawned
them; but this does not seem to occur to him.
He crosses the African desert in patent-leather boots, does the stage
hero. He takes a supply with him when he is wrecked on an uninhabited
island. He arrives from long and trying journeys; his clothes are
ragged and torn, but his boots are new and shiny. He puts on
patent-leather boots to tramp through the Australian bush, to fight in
Egypt, to discover the north pole.
Sometimes he is a gold-digger, sometimes a dock laborer, sometimes a
soldier, sometimes a sailor, but whatever he is he wears
patent-leather boots.
He goes boating in patent leather boots, he plays cricket in them; he
goes fishing and shooting in them. He will go to heaven in
patent-leather boots or he will decline the invitation.
The stage hero never talks in a simple, straightforward way, like a
mere ordinary mortal.
"You will write to me when you are away, dear, won't you?" says the
heroine.
A mere human being would reply:
"Why, of course I shall, ducky, every day."
But the stage hero is a superior creature. He says:
"Dost see yonder star, sweet?"
She looks up and owns that she does see yonder star; and then off he
starts and drivels on about that star for full five minutes, and says
he will cease to write to her when that pale star has fallen from its
place amid the firmament of heaven.
The result of a long course of acquaintanceship with stage heroes has
- earnest [´ə:nist]
a.认真的 n.认真；诚恳 (初中英语单词) - complicated [´kɔmplikeitid] a.结构复杂的；难懂的 (初中英语单词)
- terror [´terə] n.恐怖；惊骇 (初中英语单词)
- chiefly [´tʃi:fli] ad.主要地；尤其 (初中英语单词)
- remarkable [ri´mɑ:kəbl] a.值得注意的；显著的 (初中英语单词)
- connection [kə´nekʃən] n.联系；关系；联运 (初中英语单词)
- neighboring [´neibəriŋ] a.邻近的；接壤的 (初中英语单词)
- evidently [´evidəntli] ad.明显地 (初中英语单词)
- anxiety [æŋ´zaiəti] n.挂念；渴望；焦虑的事 (初中英语单词)
- fearful [´fiəfəl] a.可怕的；担心的 (初中英语单词)
- mystery [´mistəri] n.神秘；秘密；故弄玄虚 (初中英语单词)
- impression [im´preʃən] n.印刷；印象；效果 (初中英语单词)
- beaten [´bi:tn] beat 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- soften [´sɔfən] v.使(变)软(柔和) (初中英语单词)
- suitable [´su:təbəl, ´sju:-] a.合适的，适当的 (初中英语单词)
- reward [ri´wɔ:d] n.&v.报答；报酬；奖赏 (初中英语单词)
- assistance [ə´sistəns] n.协作；援助；帮助 (初中英语单词)
- witness [´witnis] n.见证人 vt.目击 (初中英语单词)
- criminal [´kriminəl] a.犯罪的 n.罪犯 (初中英语单词)
- parlor [´pɑ:lə] n.客厅；起居室 (初中英语单词)
- acting [´æktiŋ] a.代理的 n.演戏 (初中英语单词)
- counsel [´kaunsəl] n.商议；劝告；律师 (初中英语单词)
- uncertain [ʌn´sə:tn] a.不定的；不可靠的 (初中英语单词)
- existence [ig´zistəns] n.存在；生存；生活 (初中英语单词)
- generous [´dʒenərəs] a.慷慨的；丰盛的 (初中英语单词)
- advantage [əd´vɑ:ntidʒ] n.优势；利益 (初中英语单词)
- humanity [hju:´mæniti] n.人类；人性；仁慈 (初中英语单词)
- undoubtedly [ʌn´dautidli] ad.无疑地，确实地 (初中英语单词)
- vision [´viʒən] n.视觉；想象力；幻影 (初中英语单词)
- brilliant [´briliənt] a.灿烂的；杰出的 (初中英语单词)
- gallery [´gæləri] n.画廊；美术馆；长廊 (初中英语单词)
- goodness [´gudnis] n.优良；美德；精华 (初中英语单词)
- whatever [wɔt´evə] pron.&a.无论什么 (初中英语单词)
- patent [´peitənt, ´pæ-] a.专利的 n.专利品 (初中英语单词)
- respectable [ri´spektəbəl] a.可敬的；有身价的 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- murderer [´mə:dərə] n.杀人犯，凶手 (高中英语单词)
- cultivation [,kʌlti´veiʃən] n.耕作；培养 (高中英语单词)
- invariably [in´veəriəbli] ad.不变地；永恒地 (高中英语单词)
- concerning [kən´sə:niŋ] prep.关于 (高中英语单词)
- universe [´ju:nivə:s] n.天地；全人类；银河系 (高中英语单词)
- convict [kən´vikt, ´kɔnvikt] vt.证明...有罪 n.罪犯 (高中英语单词)
- comprehend [,kɔmpri´hend] vt.了解；领会；包含 (高中英语单词)
- enthusiastic [inθju:zi´æstik] a.热情的，热心的 (高中英语单词)
- approval [ə´pru:vəl] n.赞成，批准，认可 (高中英语单词)
- laborer [´leibərə] (=labourer) n.工人 (高中英语单词)
- cricket [´krikit] n.蟋蟀；板球 (高中英语单词)
- heroine [´herəuin] n.女英雄；女主人公 (英语四级单词)
- villain [´vilən] n.坏人；恶棍；反面角色 (英语四级单词)
- accidental [,æksi´dentl] a.偶然的；附属的 (英语四级单词)
- good-natured [´gud-´neitʃəd] a.脾气好的，温厚的 (英语四级单词)
- hateful [´heitfəl] a.可恨的，可憎的 (英语四级单词)
- worldly [´wə:ldli] a.现世的；世俗的 (英语四级单词)
- attachment [ə´tætʃmənt] n.附着；附件；爱慕 (英语四级单词)
- garret [´gærit] n.阁楼，顶楼 (英语四级单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- fishing [´fiʃiŋ] n.钓鱼；捕鱼；渔业 (英语四级单词)
- firmament [´fə:məmənt] n.苍穹，天空 (英语四级单词)
- truthful [´tru:θfəl] a.诚实的；真实的 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- eccentric [ik´sentrik] a.古怪的；离心的 (英语六级单词)
- drawback [´drɔ:bæk] n.不利；缺陷；退税 (英语六级单词)
- bewilderment [bi´wildəmənt] n.为难；狼狈；迷惑 (英语六级单词)
- density [´densiti] n.浓(稠)密；密度 (英语六级单词)
- abandoned [ə´bændənd] a.被抛弃的；无约束的 (英语六级单词)
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