But in our time, there are more pressing things waiting for us than deliberating on beautiful words. Bergott's writing is quite charming, I don't deny it, but in general it's too artificial, too thin and too lacking in masculinity. You think too highly of Bergott, but now I understand the lines you just took out. I don't think it's necessary to mention it anymore, since you admit that it's just a kid's nonsense (I did say it, but it's definitely not in your mind). We should be lenient with our mistakes, especially those of young people. In short, all kinds of faults, others have, in a period of time as a poet is not just you. But the article you showed me showed you were badly influenced by Bergott. You haven't learned any of his strengths, and I'm sure you won't be surprised to say so, because he's a master of some style and technique, though rather shallow, and at your age he can't even master his fur. But you've shown the same shortcomings as him --- putting the clang words in a perverse order before considering their implications. Isn't this the reverse of the end? Even in Bergott's works, what are the meanings of the obscure forms and the tedious words of the decadent literati? Occasionally, a writer releases several beautiful fireworks, and everyone immediately exclaims that he is a masterpiece. Where are so many masterpieces? No novel in Bergott's house is a highly successful one, and no book is worth putting in the bookcase to attract attention. I don't have a copy. And he himself is even worse than his works. Ah! A gifted scholar once said that a man is as good as his words, which is a real counter-evidence to him. He is one hundred and eighty thousand miles apart from his works. He's a serious, pretentious, uncultured, and sometimes very mediocre man who talks to people like a book, not even a book he wrote himself, but a disgusting book (because his book is at least not disgusting). That's the Beckett. This is a chaotic and over-elaborated man, who was known as an exaggerator by his predecessors, and the way he spoke made the content of his speech offensive. I don't remember whether it was Lomeni or Saint Bove who once said that Vinny was unpleasant with similar eccentricities, but Bergott never wrote such wonderful works as "Sang-Mars" or "The Red Seal".
Mr. De Nobwa's comments on the passage I had just shown him made me extremely frustrated. I recalled that whenever I conceived an article or thought seriously, I always felt powerless. So I felt again that I was mediocre and had no literary talent. In the past, when I was in Gombre, I had some insignificant feelings. I had read some of Bergott's works, which probably led me to a state of reverie that seemed quite valuable, and my prose poems were the reflection of that state. The ambassador was very discerning. He could have immediately grasped the beauty I found in the totally deceptive phantom and exposed it. However, instead of doing so, he showed me how insignificant I was (I was objectively evaluated from outside by one of the best and smartest experts). I feel frustrated; I feel like I'm falling apart. My mind is like a fluid, whose volume depends on the capacity provided by others. In the past, it bulged up and filled the gifted container. Today, it shrank again, and was suddenly shut down and confined to the narrow mediocrity by Mr. de Nobwa.
"My acquaintance with Bergott," he said to his father, turning his head. "It's an embarrassing thing for him and for me (and an interesting thing in another way). A few years ago, Bergott traveled to Vienna, where I was an ambassador. Princess Metnick introduced him to me. He came to the embassy and asked me to invite him. Since I am France's envoy abroad, and since his works add to France's glory - to some extent, or more precisely, to a negligible extent - I can certainly put aside my dissatisfaction with his private life. However, he did not travel alone, so he asked me to invite his girlfriend. I don't like decency, and since I don't have a wife, I can open the door of the embassy a little wider. But I can't stand this shamelessness. It's disgusting, because he talks about virtue in his works, and even teaches people a lesson. His book is full of endless, even exhausted analysis, which we say privately, or painful worries, morbid regrets, and lengthy preaching (we know it's worth a few pennies) caused by trivial things. On the other hand, he's so frivolous and so cynical in his private life. Disrespectful. Anyway, I didn't answer him. The princess came to me again, and I did not promise. So I guess this man doesn't like me. I don't know what he thinks of Swan's kindness to invite us both at the same time. It's hard to say whether he himself brought it up to Swan, because he's actually a patient. This is even his only excuse."
"Is Mrs Swan's daughter present?" I took the opportunity to ask Mr. de Nobwa this question when I left the table for the living room. It's easier to hide my excitement than to sit still at the table and ask questions in the strong light.
Mr. de Nobwa seems to be trying to remember for a moment:
"Yes, a girl of fourteen or fifteen? Yes, I remember being introduced to me before dinner as the host's daughter. No, she didn't show up for long. She went to bed early, or she went to her girlfriend's house. I can't remember clearly. It seems that you are familiar with the Swans."
"I often go to Champs Elysees and play with Miss Swan. She's cute."
"Ah, so it is! It's true. I think she's cute, too. But to be honest, she's probably never better than her mother. That's not going to hurt your warm feelings, is it?
"I prefer Miss Swan's face, and of course I appreciate her mother. I often go to Bronilin Garden to meet her."
"Ah! I'll tell them all about it, and they'll be very proud."
Mr. de Nobwa spoke with the same attitude as everyone else (though not for a long time). When these people heard me say Swan was a smart man, that his parents were decent brokers, that his house was beautiful, they thought I would talk about the same smart people, the same decent brokers, the same beautiful house in the same tone. In fact, it's like a neurotic person talking to a madman and not finding out that the other person is mad. Mr. De Nobwa takes it for granted that you love beautiful women. When someone excitedly talks about a woman, you should pretend that he has fallen in love, amused him and promised to help him. Therefore, the VIP wants to talk to Hilbert and her mother about me (I will be like the God of Olympus). To become a flowing breath, or to become an old man like Minerva, to steal into Mrs. Swan's salon, to attract her attention, to occupy her mind, to make her thank me for my appreciation, to invite me as an important friend and to make me a close friend of her family, he will use his admiration in Mrs. Swan's eyes. Gao Weixin helped me. Suddenly I felt so excited that I could hardly help kissing his soft hands, which seemed to have been soaked in water for too long, with white wrinkles. I almost made this gesture, thinking that the perceiver was only me. It's not easy for each of us to make an accurate judgement of our position in the eyes of others. We are afraid of overestimating ourselves, and assume that many memories of people's lives already occupy a large space in them, so it is almost impossible for the minor part of our behavior to enter into the consciousness of the speaker, let alone remain in their memory. In fact, the assumption of criminals belongs to the same type. They often revise what they say afterwards, thinking that others can't prove it. However, even for a millennium of human history, the philosophy of predicting that everything will be preserved may be more true than that of columnists who believe that everything will be forgotten. In the same Paris newspaper, the preacher in the front-page editorial wrote about a great event, a masterpiece, and especially a "momentary" female singer: "Who will remember that ten years later?" In the third edition, the report of the Academy of Ancient Literature often talks about an unimportant fact in itself, about a poem written in the Pharaonic era that is still known in its entirety but of little value in itself, isn't it? This may not be the case for a short life. However, a few years later, I met Mr. de Nobwa, who happened to be a guest there, and I regarded him as the strongest support I could ever meet, because he was a friend of his father, a kind and helpful man, and because of his profession and origin, he was cautious in his words, but as soon as the ambassador left, someone came along. Tell me he mentioned the previous dinner and said he had "seen me want to kiss his hand". I couldn't help blushing. Mr. De Nobwa's tone of voice and the content of his recollections shocked me. They were thousands of miles away from my imagination. This "gossip" made me understand how unexpected the proportion of distraction, concentration, memory and forgetfulness was in the human mind, and I was amazed at it, as I read for the first time in Masbero's book that people had the exact name of the hunter invited by King Asubanibar in the tenth century B.C. Single!
"Ah! Sir,'said Mr. de Nobwa, announcing that he would convey my admiration to Hillbert and her mother,'If you do this, and if you talk to Mrs. Swan about me, I will be grateful for all my life, and I will serve you all my life!' But I want to tell you that Mrs. Swan and I don't know each other. Nobody ever introduced me to her."
I said the last thing lest the other party think I'm bragging about the friendship I don't need. But as soon as I said it, I felt it was useless, because my warm thanks cooled him from the beginning. I saw the Ambassador's face showing hesitation and discontent, and his eyes showing drooping, narrow and distorted eyes (like a three-dimensional picture, representing a distant slant line on one side), which only looked at the invisible interlocutor who lived in him, and whose conversation had been with him ever since. Sir --- this is me --- can't hear. I thought that my words, though weak compared with the surging gratitude in my heart, could move Mr. De Nobwa and give him a helping hand (which would be easy for him and cheerful for me), but I immediately realized that their effects were counterproductive, even the evils of anyone who was against me. Bad words do not achieve this effect. We talked to a stranger and happily exchanged impressions of passers-by. They seemed to agree that they were vulgar, but suddenly there was a pathological gap between us and strangers, because he carelessly touched his pocket and said, "Unfortunately, I didn't have a gun, or none of them would survive." Similar to this situation, Mr. de Nobwa knows that meeting Mrs. Swan and visiting her are common and easy things, but I regard them as unattainable, and there must be great hidden things. Therefore, when he heard me say this, he thought that behind my seemingly normal wishes, there must be some other idea, some suspicious motive, some previous fault. So far, no one is willing to pay my respects to Mrs. Swan, because it will make her unhappy. So I realized that he would never do this for me. He could meet Mrs. Swan every day, year after year, and never, even once, mention me. However, a few days later, he heard something I wanted to know from her and asked his father to tell me. Of course, he didn't think it necessary to say who he was asking for. She would not know that I knew Mr. de Nobwa or that I was eager to go to her house. Maybe it's not as bad as I thought. Even if she knows these two points, the second point will not increase the first point, and the effect itself is unreliable, because for Audrey, since her own life and residence can not cause any mysterious panic, then the people who know her and visit her are by no means as magical as I imagined. If possible, I would like to write the words "I know Mr. de Nobwa" on the stone, and then throw the stone into Swan's window. I think, despite the rough way of delivery, this message will make the hostess respect me rather than dislike me. In fact, if Mr. de Nobwa accepts my commission, it will not have any effect, but will cause the Swans to dislike me. Even if I understood that, I would not have the courage to withdraw the Commission (if the Ambassador promised it), No.When discussing inviting Mr. De Nobwa to dinner for the first time, her mother said that it was a pity that Professor Godard was traveling abroad, and she herself completely cut off contact with Swan, otherwise the two guests would interest the outgoing ambassador. Father answered that a distinguished guest and scholar like Godard would make the table more splendid. But Swan, who likes to show off and fears that others may not know that he has made friends with high-ranking officials and nobles, is in fact just a vulgar person who pretends to be so-called. Marquis de Nobwa will use the word "disgusting" to describe Swan. I have to explain a little about my father's answer. Some people may recall that Godard used to be very mediocre, while Swan was socially modest and modest and tactful. But my parents'old friend Swan added a new title (and not the last title) besides "Little Swan" and "Swan of the Jockey Club". That's Odette's husband. He subordinated his instinct, desire and wit to the woman's vulgar ambition, and tried to establish a new position suitable for his partner, which was much lower than his previous position. Therefore, his performance is just like that of two people. Now that he started his second life (though he was still alone with his friends). As long as they do not take the initiative to ask for an acquaintance with Audrey, and he is unwilling to impose her on them, a life shared by his wife and with new friends, he uses a comparative measure to measure the status of these new friends, that is, the pleasure their visits bring to their self-esteem. It's not hard to understand that Audrey was not the most prominent person in her pre-marital social circle, but a former friend of Audrey's. However, even though he was known to be happy to associate with vulgar officials and the disreputable woman at the government dance, it was shocking that his wife, the deputy director of an office, had visited Mrs. Swan because he had (and still is) visited Twicken Seoul. Or invitations to Buckingham Palace have been handsomely silent. People may think that Swan's simplicity in the past was only a gentle form of vanity. They may think that this old friend of my parents, like some Jews, took turns to show the continuity of his race, from the most undisguised appendage, the most bare rudeness, to the most literate. Elegant and courteous. However, the main reason - and this applies universally to humankind - is that our virtue itself is not something that is free to float at our disposal from time to time. In our minds, virtue is closely linked to those actions that we think we should practice virtue. Therefore, when another type of virtue emerges. When we are in an activity, we are at a loss. It is totally unexpected that the same virtues can be practiced in this activity. Swan was so attentive to his new friends that he gave them their names in full swing. This attitude resembled those great artists who were modest or generous: they might try cooking or gardening in their later years and be complacent with their good vegetables or flower beds. They could only listen to praise rather than criticism. But when it comes to their masterpieces, they are willing to listen to criticism; or they can generously present a famous painting, but they are not happy to lose forty sous at the Domino table.
Speaking of Professor Godard, we will meet him again in a long time at Lady Vildiran's Palace in Las Player. At this moment, with regard to him, we need only draw attention to one point first. Strictly speaking, Swan's change could not surprise me, because when I saw Hilbert's father on Champs Elysees Street, the change had been completed, but it had not yet been seen through by me. Besides, it was impossible for him to boast to me about his political friends without speaking to me at that time (even if he did, I could not immediately perceive his vanity, because the long-standing perception of someone made us turn a blind eye to him and turn a deaf ear to him). Mother was the same. In three years, she didn't notice the lipstick on her niece's mouth, as if it dissolved in the fluid. Until one day, too much lipstick or whatever caused the so-called supersaturation, so the lipstick which had not been seen before was crystallize, and suddenly the mother saw the colourful color, calling it disgraceful, as in the same way as Gong Bu Lei, and almost cut off the relationship with niece. Godard, on the contrary, had witnessed Swan's entry into society at the Vildiran family a long time ago, and the passage of time had brought him honor and title. Secondly, a person may lack cultural accomplishment and play silly homonym games, but at the same time, he can still have a special talent that can not be replaced by any cultural accomplishment, such as the talent of a great strategist or an outstanding doctor. In the eyes of his colleagues, Godard not only depended on seniority but also changed from a nobody to a famous doctor in Europe. The leading young doctors declared that, in at least a few years, because standards were born as a result of changing needs, they were changing themselves. In case they got sick, Professor Godard would be the only one they could count on. Of course, they would like to talk to some of the more cultured and artistic chief doctors about Nietzsche and Wagner. Mrs. Godard welcomed her husband's colleagues and students and hoped that one day her husband would become Dean of medical school. People enjoyed music at the party, but Mr. Godard didn't want to listen and went to the living room next door to play cards. However, his good vision, the agility, profundity and accuracy of his diagnosis are amazing. Third, with regard to Professor Godard's tone and attitude towards people of my father's type, it should be pointed out that the essence that we show in the second part of our life may be the development or decline, expansion or weakening of the first essence, but it is not always the case. Sometimes it is the opposite nature, and it is the absolute opposite. 。 Godard's hesitant look in his youth, his excessive shyness and kindness had made him a frequent target of sarcasm, except for the Villandilans, who were fascinated by him. Which compassionate friend advised him to put on a cold face? Because of his important position, it is easy to do so. He instinctively restored himself to his original state in the Vildeland family, and anywhere else, he was cold and often silent. When he has to speak, he often takes a decisive tone, deliberately unpleasant. He tried this new attitude on the patients, and since they had never met him before, they could not be compared. They would be surprised to learn that Godard was not rude by nature. Godard tried to make himself expressionless. While on duty at the hospital, his homonymous jokes aroused laughter from the head doctor to the new trainee doctor, while his facial muscles remained motionless. As he shaved off his beard, his face changed completely.
Finally, why Marquis de Nobwa was a minister plenipotentiary before the war? He served as ambassador during the crisis of May 16. Nevertheless, to the great surprise of many people, he has made many important missions abroad on behalf of France, even to Egypt as a debt supervisor, and to exert his extraordinary financial ability, which has been appointed by the radical cabinet. Normally reactionary bourgeoisies refuse to serve the cabinet, let alone Mr. de Nobwa: His experience, social relations and views are enough to make him a suspect in the cabinet. However, radical ministers seem to realize that such appointments can show that they are open-minded and focus on France's best interests, that they are different from ordinary politicians and deserve to be called National dignitaries by Debate. Finally, they can benefit from the prestige of aristocratic surnames and the attention they receive from the unexpected appointments of dramatic mutations. They understood that the use of Mr. de Nobwa would do them no harm, and they did not have to worry that the latter would violate their political loyalty, because the Marquis's origin did not cause them to be on guard, but reassured them. In this regard, the Government of the Republic has not misread it. This is primarily because a certain class of aristocrats, from childhood onwards, believed that the aristocratic surname was an inherent advantage that would never be lost (the value of this advantage was well known to their peers, or more noble people), who knew that they would not have to work as hard as many bourgeoisies (though not significantly effective). Release high opinions and get along with the right people, because such efforts will not add any luster to them. On the contrary, they want to raise their status in front of a higher-ranking prince or duke. To achieve this, they have to add something to their surnames that they did not have before: political influence, literary or artistic reputation, Wanguan family property. They had no intention of wasting their energy on the useless squires pursued by the bourgeoisie, and the ineffective friendship of a squire would not lead to the gratitude of the prince. They devote a great deal of energy to politicians who can help them hold important embassy posts or run for office (even Freemasons don't care), to artists or scholars who can help them "break through" within their own sphere of business, in short, to all kinds of promotion. Make them famous and make them married to the rich.
Mr. De Nobwa has absorbed the negative, conventional and conservative spirit from his long-term diplomatic practice, that is, the so-called "spirit of government", which is shared by all governments, especially embassies under the government. His career as a diplomat has led him to hate, fear and contempt for the opposition's tactics, which are somewhat revolutionary or at least inappropriate. Only the common people and a few ignorant people in the social circles think that the so-called different types are purely empty talk, but in most cases, the similarities between different types are not from the same point of view, but from the spirit of consanguinity. Academicians like Legufe are classical, but he applauds Maxim Duggan or Messier's eulogy of Victor Hugo, but he is reluctant to applaud Cloudier's eulogy of Buvallo. The same nationalism brought Barres close to his voters, who made no distinction between him and Mr. George Berry, but could not bring Barres and his colleagues at the French Academy, who were in agreement with his politics but in a different spirit; they did not even like him and preferred his political enemies, Mr. Ribo and Desha. Mr. Neil: Loyal royalists feel very close to Ribo and Desaner, but quite distant from Moras and Leon Dude, although they also want the dynasty to resign. Mr. De Nobwa's silence is due not only to his prudent and steady professional habits, but also to the fact that language has a higher value and richer meaning in the eyes of such people, because their ten-year efforts to bring the two countries closer to each other have been summed up in speeches and protocols as a simple expression. Adjectives, which seem mediocre, mean the whole world to them. The ice-cold Mr. de Nobwa, who was well known in the committee, sat next to my father during the meeting, so people congratulated him on how well he had won the favor of the former ambassador. Father himself was surprised because he was not very easy-going, and few people came and went with him except a small circle of confidants. He himself confirmed that diplomats'courtesy was based on a completely independent view of what they liked and disliked, and that when someone bored or upset us, all his spiritual qualities were his. Qualitative or sensitivities lose their function. They are not as good as another person's straightforwardness and ease to win our favor, although the latter seems empty, superficial and worthless in many people's eyes. "It's a big deal that De Nobwa invited me to dinner again." Everyone on the committee was surprised because he had no contact with anyone on the committee. "I'm sure he'll tell me again about the exciting war of 187." Father knew that Mr. De Nobwa was probably the only person who drew the emperor's attention to Prussia's arms expansion and war intentions; he knew that Bismarck admired De Nobwa's wisdom. Just recently, at a grand evening party for Emperor Diodosie at the Opera House, the press noticed that the Emperor had received Mr. De Nobwa for a long time. "I have to ask if the emperor's visit is really important," our father, who was interested in foreign policy, said to us. "I know Old man Nobua is very tight-lipped, but he can talk to me all the time."
In her mother's eyes, the ambassador herself may lack the wisdom that interests her most. It should be said that de Noble
Mr. A's talk is a complete collection of ancient language forms peculiar to a certain profession, a certain stratum, a certain period, which may not have been completely abolished for this profession and stratum. I regret that I have not been able to record the facts of what I heard. Otherwise, I will be able to create the old language with little effort. The effect of decay is the same as that of the Royal Palace actor: when asked where he found those amazing hats, he answered, "No. It's preserved." All in all, I feel that my mother thinks Mr. de Nobwa is a bit "out of date". As far as manners are concerned, he did not upset her, but as far as thought is concerned - in fact, Mr. de Nobwa's thought is quite new - perhaps far less as language is concerned, he has no charm in her mind. But she felt that if she complimented the diplomat who had shown such a rare preference to him in front of her husband, he would be secretly proud. She affirmed her father's praise of Mr. de Nobwa and guided him to praise himself. She realized that it was her duty to make her husband happy, just as to make the dishes exquisite and the servants quiet. She was not good at lying to her father, so she trained herself to appreciate the ambassador in order to praise him sincerely. Besides, she certainly appreciated his kindness and slightly antiquated etiquette (and too rigid, he walked tall and straight, but when my mother drove by, she threw away the lighted cigar and took off her hat to salute her), and he spoke with a sense of propriety - he was as silent as possible. I, and always look for topics that will please the other person --- and surprisingly fast responses. As soon as his father sent a letter, he received an answer. When he saw Mr. de Nobwa's handwriting on the envelope, his first reaction was that the two letters happened to have been missed. Does the post office treat him particularly well and send and receive letters for him overtime? Mother praised him for his quick response to letters despite all his troubles, and for his kindness despite his extensive friendship. She did not think that these "though" were actually "because", but that she did not recognize them. She did not think that (as people were surprised by the old age, the King's irregularity, the spiritual messages of the provinces) it was out of the same habit that Mr. De Nobwa managed to be both quick and pleasant. It's kind to us in the social world. Moreover, like all over-modest people, a mother's mistake is to put her own concerns under others, i.e. outside others. She thought it was very valuable for her father's friend to reply immediately. In fact, he wrote a lot of letters every day, which was only one of them, but she regarded it as an exception to a lot of letters. Likewise, she could not see that Mr. de Nobwa's coming to our house for dinner was only one of his many social activities, because she did not realize that the ambassador used to treat invited meals as his duty in diplomatic activities and to show his usual courtesy. It would be too much to ask him to abandon such courtesy in my family. Excessive.
In the year when Mr. de Nobwa first came to dinner, I often went to play on Champs Elysees Street. This meal has remained in my memory, because that afternoon I finally saw Rabema's "Huai Dela" sunset, and because of my conversation with Mr. De Nobwa, I suddenly felt in a new way: the feelings that Silbert Swan and her parents aroused in my heart and that of anyone else. How different the feelings are.
New Year's holidays are approaching, and I'm increasingly listless, because Hillbert told me personally that I will never see her again during the holidays. My mother probably noticed my air and wanted to relieve me. One day she said to me, "If you still want to hear Rabema's play, I think my father will agree. Grandmother can take you with me." Go."
That's because Mr. De Nobwa once told his father that I should be allowed to listen to Rabema's play. It was a precious memory for young people that his father changed his usual attitude. He objected to wasting time on his so-called trifles (which shocked his grandmother) and risking bed sickness, and almost believed that Since the ambassador advised me to go to the theatre, it seems that watching the theatre has become one of the secrets of prosperity. Grandma always thought I could learn a lot from Rabema's plays, but she gave up going to the theatre for me and made great sacrifices for my health. At the moment, she was amazed that Mr. de Nobwa's words made my health a trivial thing. She pinned her firm hope on the rationalists for breathing fresh air and sleeping early. She thought that breaking the habit would bring disaster. She sadly said to her father, "You are too rash!" The father angrily answered, "Why, you don't want him to listen to the play now! What a ridiculous thing. Don't you say it's good for him to listen to the theatre?
Mr. De Nobwa changed his father's intentions on another matter of great importance to me. My father always wanted me to be a diplomat, but I couldn't accept it. Even if I stay in the Foreign Ministry for a while, I will be sent to some countries as ambassadors one day, and Hillbert does not live there. I would like to restore the literary plan I had imagined when I was walking over the Garment's house, and then gave up. But my father had always opposed my literary career, believing that it was much cheaper than diplomacy. He can't even call it a career. One day, however, Mr. De Nobwa, who looked down upon the diplomats of the new class, told his father that as a writer, as an ambassador, he received the same respect, exerted the same influence, and had greater independence.
"Ouch! It's surprising that Papa Nobwa has no objection to your literary career." My father said to me. Father was a very influential person, so he thought that everything could be settled by talking to important people. He said, "In a few days, I'll bring him to dinner after the meeting. You can talk to him and show your hand. Write something to show him. He's very close to the president of Two World Reviews. He'll let you in. He'll arrange. This is a smart old man. Indeed, he seems to think that diplomacy is today..."
Not being separated from Hilbert, this happiness gave me the desire to write a good article for Mr. de Nobwa to see --- not the ability. I got tired of writing a few pages. The pen fell from my hand and I cried with rage. I think of myself as a mediocrity forever. I think that I have no talent. I can't even take advantage of the opportunity Mr. de Nobwa, who is coming to visit me, offers me never to leave Paris. When I think of going to listen to Rabema's play, the sadness in my heart can be relieved. My favorite scenery is the seaside storm, because it is the most violent. Similarly, I like the traditional roles played by this famous actress best, because Swan once told me that the art of playing these roles is pure. When we want to receive some natural or artistic impression and get valuable discoveries, we certainly don't want to let our mind accept the false and inferior impression that may lead us to the exact value of beauty. Rabema's performances of Andromak, Marianna in capriciousness and Huaila are wonderful scenes that my imagination has been longing for for for a long time. If I could hear Rabema recite this verse: I heard you were going away from us, my lord... Wait, I'll be ecstatic; it's like taking a boat to Francisco Church in Venice to see Titian or Cappaccio's series of paintings, St. George of Skijavoni. I have read these poems in simple copies of black and white paper, but I will see them appear in the air and sunshine brought by the golden voice. It is like realizing the dream of traveling. When I think of them here, my heart beats violently. Cappaccio of Venice, Rabema in Huaila, is a masterpiece of painting and drama. Their charm makes them full of vitality in me. It makes me feel that Cappaccio is integrated with Venice, Rabema and Huaila. So if I watch Cappaccio's paintings in the Louvre gallery or listen to Rabema's Recitation in a play I've never heard of before, I won't be amazed at seeing the incredible masterpiece that haunts my dreams. Secondly, since I'm looking forward to reading from Rabema. The performance is inspired by some aspects of nobility and pain. If the actress uses her excellent and real art to perform a valuable work instead of adding some truth and beauty to the vulgar plot, the performance will be more excellent and true.
In a word, if Rabema is performing a new play, I can hardly judge her acting skills and recitation, because I can't distinguish the lines I didn't know beforehand from the ones added to her intonation and gestures, and I think they are the same as the lines. On the contrary, I can recite the old script backwards as if it were a unique and well-prepared space, and I am completely free to judge how Rabema can use it as a fresco to develop her innovative creativity. Unfortunately, a few years ago, she left the stage and became a famous character in a popular theatre troupe. She made a great contribution to it. She stopped performing classical drama. I often look through advertisements, but I always see new plays made for her by some fashionable writer. One day, I was looking for the announcement of the New Year's Day's Day performance in the theatre column. For the first time, in the finale, because the opening play was meaningless, its name was obscure. It contained all the special plots unfamiliar to me, two scenes in Mrs. LaBeima's performance of Huaila, and the third in the next day. Heaven's "Half-Upper Society" and "The Capricious Marianna". These names, like the names of Huai Dela, are shining and shining in front of me (because I am familiar with them) with an artistic smile. They seemed to add luster to Mrs. Rabema, because after reading the announcement in the newspaper, I read another message that Mrs. Rabema had decided to personally perform the roles she had created in the past. It seems that the artist knows that the meaning of certain roles is not limited to the first performance, the refreshment of the audience, or the successful re-performance. It is indeed very helpful that she regards her role as a treasure of museums - a treasure that is displayed again to the older generation who once appreciated the treasure or to the new generation who never witnessed it. In the announcements of the performances that were only used to kill the night time, she inserted the name Huaila, which was neither longer than other names nor in different fonts, but she tacitly stuffed it in, as if the hostess had announced the names of them, ordinary guests, when inviting guests to the table. Tell you, and introduce the distinguished guest in the same tone: Mr. Anatole Francis.
The doctor who treated me, the one who forbade me to travel, advised my parents not to let me go to the theatre, saying that I would be ill when I came back, and that I might be ill for a long time. In short, my pain would be greater than my pleasure. If all I expect from the theatre is fun, then this fear will deter me, because pain will drown out pleasure. But --- like my dream trip to Barbeck and Venice --- what I'm looking forward to is not pleasure, but something else, the truth of a more real world than the world I live in. These truths, once acquired by me, will never be taken away by the trivial things in my idle life, even if they cause pain to my body. The pleasure I feel in theatre may be just a necessary form of perception of truth, but I don't want it to be affected and destroyed. I hope I feel as ill as I expected after the performance. I begged my parents to let me go to see Huaila, but they refused to let me go since they met the doctor. I recite poems for myself from time to time: I hear that you are going away from us... My tone was as tuned as possible to better appreciate the extraordinary aspects of Rabema's recitation. The divine beauty that her performance will reveal is hidden behind the curtain like the temple in the temple. I can't see it, but I always imagine its new face. I think of what Hillbert found in the brochure by Bergott: "The noble appearance, the simplicity of Christians, the severity of Ransenism, Princess Trezer and Princess Clive, Mycenaean drama, the symbol of Delphi, the myth of the sun." This sacred beauty is perched day and night on my deep, eternally candlelit altar, and my harsh and reckless parents will decide whether I can bring out the beauty of the goddess (who will reveal her true face where she hides her invisible image).
She could not see that Mr. De Nobwa's coming to our house for dinner was only one of his many social activities, because she did not realize that the ambassador used to treat invited meals as his duty in diplomatic activities and to show his usual courtesy. It would be too much to ask him to abandon such courtesy in my house. Now.
In the year when Mr. de Nobwa first came to dinner, I often went to play on Champs Elysees Street. This meal has remained in my memory, because that afternoon I finally saw Rabema's "Huai Dela" sunset, and because of my conversation with Mr. De Nobwa, I suddenly felt in a new way: the feelings that Silbert Swan and her parents aroused in my heart and that of anyone else. How different the feelings are.
New Year's holidays are approaching, and I'm increasingly listless, because Hillbert told me personally that I will never see her again during the holidays. My mother probably noticed my air and wanted to relieve me. One day she said to me, "If you still want to hear Rabema's play, I think my father will agree. Grandmother can take you with me." Go."
That's because Mr. De Nobwa once told his father that I should be allowed to listen to Rabema's play. It was a precious memory for young people that his father changed his usual attitude. He objected to wasting time on his so-called trifles (which shocked his grandmother) and risking bed sickness, and almost believed that Since the ambassador advised me to go to the theatre, it seems that watching the theatre has become one of the secrets of prosperity. Grandma always thought I could learn a lot from Rabema's plays, but she gave up going to the theatre for me and made great sacrifices for my health. At the moment, she was amazed that Mr. de Nobwa's words made my health a trivial thing. She pinned her firm hope on the rationalists for breathing fresh air and sleeping early. She thought that breaking the habit would bring disaster. She sadly said to her father, "You are too rash!" The father angrily answered, "Why, you don't want him to listen to the play now! What a ridiculous thing. Don't you say it's good for him to listen to the theatre?
Mr. De Nobwa changed his father's intentions on another matter of great importance to me. My father always wanted me to be a diplomat, but I couldn't accept it. Even if I stay in the Foreign Ministry for a while, I will be sent to some countries as ambassadors one day, and Hillbert does not live there. I would like to restore the literary plan I had imagined when I was walking over the Garment's house, and then gave up. But my father had always opposed my literary career, believing that it was much cheaper than diplomacy. He can't even call it a career. One day, however, Mr. De Nobwa, who looked down upon the diplomats of the new class, told his father that as a writer, as an ambassador, he received the same respect, exerted the same influence, and had greater independence.
"Ouch! It's surprising that Papa Nobwa has no objection to your literary career." My father said to me. Father was a very influential person, so he thought that everything could be settled by talking to important people. He said, "In a few days, I'll bring him to dinner after the meeting. You can talk to him and show your hand. Write something to show him. He's very close to the president of Two World Reviews. He'll let you in. He'll arrange. This is a smart old man. Indeed, he seems to think that diplomacy is today..."
Not being separated from Hilbert, this happiness gave me the desire to write a good article for Mr. de Nobwa to see --- not the ability. I got tired of writing a few pages. The pen fell from my hand and I cried with rage. I think of myself as a mediocrity forever. I think that I have no talent. I can't even take advantage of the opportunity Mr. de Nobwa, who is coming to visit me, offers me never to leave Paris. When I think of going to listen to Rabema's play, the sadness in my heart can be relieved. My favorite scenery is the seaside storm, because it is the most violent. Similarly, I like the traditional roles played by this famous actress best, because Swan once told me that the art of playing these roles is pure. When we want to receive some natural or artistic impression and get valuable discoveries, we certainly don't want to let our mind accept the false and inferior impression that may lead us to the exact value of beauty. Rabema's performances of Andromak, Marianna in capriciousness and Huaila are wonderful scenes that my imagination has been longing for for for a long time. If I could hear Rabema recite this verse: I heard you were going away from us, my lord... Wait, I'll be ecstatic; it's like taking a boat to Francisco Church in Venice to see Titian or Cappaccio's series of paintings, St. George of Skijavoni. I have read these poems in simple copies of black and white paper, but I will see them appear in the air and sunshine brought by the golden voice. It is like realizing the dream of traveling. When I think of them here, my heart beats violently. Cappaccio of Venice, Rabema in Huaila, is a masterpiece of painting and drama. Their charm makes them full of vitality in me. It makes me feel that Cappaccio is integrated with Venice, Rabema and Huaila. So if I watch Cappaccio's paintings in the Louvre gallery or listen to Rabema's Recitation in a play I've never heard of before, I won't be amazed at seeing the incredible masterpiece that haunts my dreams. Secondly, since I'm looking forward to reading from Rabema. The performance is inspired by some aspects of nobility and pain. If the actress uses her excellent and real art to perform a valuable work instead of adding some truth and beauty to the vulgar plot, the performance will be more excellent and true.
In a word, if Rabema is performing a new play, I can hardly judge her acting skills and recitation, because I can't distinguish the lines I didn't know beforehand from the ones added to her intonation and gestures, and I think they are the same as the lines. On the contrary, I can recite the old script backwards as if it were a unique and well-prepared space, and I am completely free to judge how Rabema can use it as a fresco to develop her innovative creativity. Unfortunately, a few years ago, she left the stage and became a famous character in a popular theatre troupe. She made a great contribution to it. She stopped performing classical drama. I often look through advertisements, but I always see new plays made for her by some fashionable writer. One day, I was looking for the announcement of the New Year's Day's Day performance in the theatre column. For the first time, in the finale, because the opening play was meaningless, its name was obscure. It contained all the special plots unfamiliar to me, two scenes in Mrs. LaBeima's performance of Huaila, and the third in the next day. Heaven's "Half-Upper Society" and "The Capricious Marianna". These names, like the names of Huai Dela, are shining and shining in front of me (because I am familiar with them) with an artistic smile. They seemed to add luster to Mrs. Rabema, because after reading the announcement in the newspaper, I read another message that Mrs. Rabema had decided to personally perform the roles she had created in the past. It seems that the artist knows that the meaning of certain roles is not limited to the first performance, the refreshment of the audience, or the successful re-performance. It is indeed very helpful that she regards her role as a treasure of museums - a treasure that is displayed again to the older generation who once appreciated the treasure or to the new generation who never witnessed it. In the announcements of the performances that were only used to kill the night time, she inserted the name Huaila, which was neither longer than other names nor in different fonts, but she tacitly stuffed it in, as if the hostess had announced the names of them, ordinary guests, when inviting guests to the table. Tell you, and introduce the distinguished guest in the same tone: Mr. Anatole Francis.
The doctor who treated me, the one who forbade me to travel, advised my parents not to let me go to the theatre, saying that I would be ill when I came back, and that I might be ill for a long time. In short, my pain would be greater than my pleasure. If all I expect from the theatre is fun, then this fear will deter me, because pain will drown out pleasure. But --- like my dream trip to Barbeck and Venice --- what I'm looking forward to is not pleasure, but something else, the truth of a more real world than the world I live in. These truths, once acquired by me, will never be taken away by the trivial things in my idle life, even if they cause pain to my body. The pleasure I feel in theatre may be just a necessary form of perception of truth, but I don't want it to be affected and destroyed. I hope I feel as ill as I expected after the performance. I begged my parents to let me go to see Huaila, but they refused to let me go since they met the doctor. I recite poems for myself from time to time: I hear that you are going away from us... My tone was as tuned as possible to better appreciate the extraordinary aspects of Rabema's recitation. The divine beauty that her performance will reveal is hidden behind the curtain like the temple in the temple. I can't see it, but I always imagine its new face. I think of what Hillbert found in the brochure by Bergott: "The noble appearance, the simplicity of Christians, the severity of Ransenism, Princess Trezer and Princess Clive, Mycenaean drama, the symbol of Delphi, the myth of the sun." This sacred beauty perches on my deep, candlelit altar day and night, and my harsh and flippant parents will decide whether I can breathe in the beauty of the goddess (who will reveal her true face in the place where her invisible image was hidden) and breathe in my spirit forever. My eyes were fixed on the unimaginable image. I fought against the obstacles of my family all day long, but when the obstacles were cleared, when my mother, even though the day scene happened to be the day when the Committee met, and then my father would bring Mr. Nobwa home for dinner, said to me, "Well, we don't want to upset you. If you really want to go, go. When the theatre, which has always been taboo, is now up to me to decide whether or not to go, and I will be able to achieve my long-cherished wish without any effort, I hesitate to go or not, whether there are other reasons for negation besides the opposition of my parents. First of all, although I hate their cruelty at first, the promise at the moment makes me feel that they are very kind. Therefore, I feel sad at the thought of making them sad. In this mood, the purpose of life seems to me to be no longer the truth, but tenderness. The criteria for good or bad life seem to be determined only by whether my parents are happy or unhappy. "If it makes you unhappy, I won't go." I said that to my mother. In turn, she told me not to worry about it, which would spoil the pleasure I got from Huaila, and it was because of my pleasure that she and my father lifted the ban. In this way, pleasure seems to be a very heavy duty. Secondly, if I fall ill after going to the theatre, can I recover quickly? As soon as Hillbert returned to Champs Elysees Street at the end of the holiday, I was going to see her. In order to decide whether to see the theatre or not, I compare all these reasons with my imagination of the perfect art of Rabema (though it is hard to see under the veil). At one end of the scale, I put "Feeling Mom's sorrow, maybe not going to Champs-Elysees Street" and at the other end, I put "Jensen's stern, the myth of the sun". These words themselves eventually became obscure, meaningless and weightless in my mind. Gradually, my hesitation became painful, and I might have decided to go to the theatre just to end it and get rid of it once and for all. It is entirely possible for me to be admitted to the theatre, not for spiritual enlightenment and the enjoyment of perfect art, but for the shortening of pain, not for the sake of meeting the Goddess of Wisdom, but for the sake of seeing the merciless gods who steal beams and change pillars under the veil of the Goddess, who have neither faces nor names. Fortunately, suddenly everything changed. My long-cherished wish to see Rabema's performance was inspired so much that I waited eagerly and excitedly for the day because when I came to the column of the theater poster as I did every day (I stood there like a hermit of the column, which has become more severe recently), I saw it.
It seems that the artist knows that the meaning of certain roles is not limited to the first performance, the refreshment of the audience, or the successful re-performance. It is indeed very helpful that she regards her role as a treasure of museums - a treasure that is displayed again to the older generation who once appreciated the treasure or to the new generation who never witnessed it. In the announcements of the performances that were only used to kill the night time, she inserted the name Huaila, which was neither longer than other names nor in different fonts, but she tacitly stuffed it in, as if the hostess had announced the names of them, ordinary guests, when inviting guests to the table. Tell you, and introduce the distinguished guest in the same tone: Mr. Anatole Francis.
The doctor who treated me, the one who forbade me to travel, advised my parents not to let me go to the theatre, saying that I would be ill when I came back, and that I might be ill for a long time. In short, my pain would be greater than my pleasure. If all I expect from the theatre is fun, then this fear will deter me, because pain will drown out pleasure. But --- like my dream trip to Barbeck and Venice --- what I'm looking forward to is not pleasure, but something else, the truth of a more real world than the world I live in. These truths, once acquired by me, will never be taken away by the trivial things in my idle life, even if they cause pain to my body. The pleasure I feel in theatre may be just a necessary form of perception of truth, but I don't want it to be affected and destroyed. I hope I feel as ill as I expected after the performance. I begged my parents to let me go to see Huaila, but they refused to let me go since they met the doctor. I recite poems for myself from time to time: I hear that you are going away from us... My tone was as tuned as possible to better appreciate the extraordinary aspects of Rabema's recitation. The divine beauty that her performance will reveal is hidden behind the curtain like the temple in the temple. I can't see it, but I always imagine its new face. I think of what Hillbert found in the brochure by Bergott: "The noble appearance, the simplicity of Christians, the severity of Ransenism, Princess Trezer and Princess Clive, Mycenaean drama, the symbol of Delphi, the myth of the sun." This sacred beauty perches on my deep, candlelit altar day and night, and my harsh and flippant parents will decide whether I can breathe in the beauty of the goddess (who will reveal her true face in the place where her invisible image was hidden) and breathe in my spirit forever. My eyes were fixed on the unimaginable image. I fought against the obstacles of my family all day long, but when the obstacles were cleared, when my mother, even though the day scene happened to be the day when the Committee met, and then my father would bring Mr. Nobwa home for dinner, said to me, "Well, we don't want to upset you. If you really want to go, go. When the theatre, which has always been taboo, is now up to me to decide whether or not to go, and I will be able to achieve my long-cherished wish without any effort, I hesitate to go or not, whether there are other reasons for negation besides the opposition of my parents. First of all, although I hate their cruelty at first, the promise at the moment makes me feel that they are very kind. Therefore, I feel sad at the thought of making them sad. In this mood, the purpose of life seems to me to be no longer the truth, but tenderness. The criteria for good or bad life seem to be determined only by whether my parents are happy or unhappy. "If it makes you unhappy, I won't go." I said that to my mother. In turn, she told me not to worry about it, which would spoil the pleasure I got from Huaila, and it was because of my pleasure that she and my father lifted the ban. In this way, pleasure seems to be a very heavy duty. Secondly, if I fall ill after going to the theatre, can I recover quickly? As soon as Hillbert returned to Champs Elysees Street at the end of the holiday, I was going to see her. In order to decide whether to see the theatre or not, I compare all these reasons with my imagination of the perfect art of Rabema (though it is hard to see under the veil). At one end of the scale, I put "Feeling Mom's sorrow, maybe not going to Champs-Elysees Street" and at the other end, I put "Jensen's stern, the myth of the sun". These words themselves eventually became obscure, meaningless and weightless in my mind. Gradually, my hesitation became painful, and I might have decided to go to the theatre just to end it and get rid of it once and for all. It is entirely possible for me to be admitted to the theatre, not for spiritual enlightenment and the enjoyment of perfect art, but for the shortening of pain, not for the sake of meeting the Goddess of Wisdom, but for the sake of seeing the merciless gods who steal beams and change pillars under the veil of the Goddess, who have neither faces nor names. Fortunately, suddenly everything changed. My long-cherished wish to see Rabema's performance was inspired so much that I waited eagerly and excitedly for the day because when I came to the column of the theatrical poster as I did every day (I stood there like a hermit of the column, which has become more severe lately), I saw the first time that I had just posted it. Still damp and detailed posters for Huai Dela (other actors don't have enough charisma to make my decision). This poster gave me a more concrete form of the thing I had hesitated about, which was close at hand and was almost in progress - because the date on which the poster was signed was not the day I saw it, but the day of the performance, and the hour of the payment was the opening moment. I jumped up in front of the cylinder with joy. I think that on that day, at this precise hour, I will sit in my seat and wait for Rabema to come out. I worried that my parents would not be able to reserve two good seats for my grandmother and me, so I ran home in one breath and looked at the charming words like, "No ladies in hats are welcome in the main hall." No admission after two o'clock." This phrase replaced the "rigorousness of Ransenism" and "myth of the sun" in my mind.
Unfortunately, this play disappointed me greatly. My father suggested taking my grandmother and me to the theatre on the way to the committee. When he went out, he said to his mother, "Think of a good dinner. You probably remember that I'm bringing de Nobwa with me." Mother certainly did not forget. From the day before, Franois was immersed in creative enthusiasm. She's happy to show off in the culinary arts, and she's really talented in that area. She was more excited to hear that the visitor was a newcomer and decided to cook frozen beef according to her secret recipe. She was extremely concerned about the intrinsic quality of the raw materials that made up her works. She went to the Central Vegetable Market to buy the best buttocks, calves and calves, just as Michelangelo used eight months to choose the best marble for the tomb of Jules II. Franois rushed in and out, her scarlet face worrying her mother that the old maid would collapse, like the sculptor of the Medici mausoleum who had fallen into the Pitrasanta Stone Mine. And from the day before, she had ordered the pink marble ham, which she called the Inner Covenant, to be wrapped in bread crumbs and sent to the bakery to bake. When she first heard about "Yorke" ham, she thought she had misheard the name she knew. She underestimated the richness of the language and did not believe in her ears. How could "Yorke" and "New York" exist at the same time? It's unbelievable. Thereafter, whenever she heard or saw the name "York" in an advertisement, she thought of it as "New York" and pronounced "New" as "inside". So she said solemnly to her chef, "You go to Olida's to buy ignition legs. The wife kept telling her to ask for the Ham of the Inner Testament."
If that day had enabled Franois to experience the fervent confidence of the great creator, then what I felt was the unbearable anxiety of the explorer. Of course, before listening to Rabema's recitation, I was happy. In the small square in front of the theatre, I feel happy. In two hours, street lights will illuminate the twigs of chestnut trees in the square, and the bare chestnut trees will give off a metallic reflection. In front of the ticket inspectors (whose selection, promotion and destiny depend entirely on the famous actress, who controls the management of the whole organization, while the unknown successive managers are just unknown passers-by), I feel happy; they ask for our tickets, but they don't look at us, they are anxious. Anxiety: Did Mrs. Rabema's orders inform all the new employees, did they understand that no one should be hired to applaud her, that no windows should be closed before she came on stage, that all doors should be closed after she came on stage, and whether they knew that a can of hot water should be placed next to her in an unnoticeable place to control the stage dust? Soil. In a few moments, her carriage, driven by two long-maned horses, will arrive at the entrance of the theatre. She will get out of the carriage, wearing a fur coat, impatiently answer the greetings of others, and send an attendant to the front desk to see if she has reserved seats for her friends, and inquire about the temperature of the room, the guest and the usher. The costume. In her eyes, the theatre and the audience are only the second clothes she will wear outside. They are the medium through which her genius will pass, good or bad. In the theatre, I also feel happy. Since I learned that everyone was on the same stage, contrary to what my childish imagination had long dreamed about, I thought that since there were people around, other audiences would certainly prevent you from seeing the truth. On the contrary, because of a layout that seemed to symbolize all perceptions, every audiences felt themselves in the centre of the theatre. That reminds me of what Franois said. On one occasion, my parents asked her to go to a melodrama and take a seat on the fifth floor, but when she came back, she said that her seat was no better. She didn't feel too far away at all. Instead, she felt timid because the vivid and mysterious curtain was close at hand. I began to hear a blurred voice coming from behind the curtain. It was louder and louder, like the sound of a chicken before it broke its shell. I am happier now, because although our eyes cannot penetrate the curtain, the world behind the curtain is watching us. Suddenly, the voice from behind the curtain apparently signaled to us that it had become a trio of majestic sounds, as moving as the signal from Mars. When the curtain opened, quite ordinary desks and fireplaces appeared on the stage, which showed that it wasn't the recitators I saw in one night's performance that were coming on, but the ordinary people who lived in the family; I broke into their lives, and they couldn't see me. At this time, my pleasure was increasing, but it was interrupted by a short period of uneasiness, because just as I waited for the show to begin with my breath holding still, two men stepped onto the stage, they were fierce and loud, and more than a thousand audiences in the theatre heard them very clearly (in the small coffee shop, we need to know what the two fighters were talking about). Do you have to ask the waiter? At this time, I was surprised to see that the audience was not protesting, but listening attentively, and immersed in silence, occasionally laughing from here or there, so I understood that these two insolent people were actors, and that the little play called the opening play had begun. Then there was a long intermission, and when the audience was seated again, they stamped impatiently. This worries me a lot. Whenever I read in the reports of lawsuits that a noble man put his own interests aside to defend the innocent in court, I always feel worried, lest people should be unkind to him, not grateful enough, not give him a generous reward, so that he is sad and discouraged and turn to the side of injustice. In this respect, I compare genius with virtue, and I am equally concerned that Rabema will be annoyed by the rudeness of an ill-bred audience. I really hope that she will be satisfied in the audience with the recognition of several celebrities whose judgments are of great weight, so she will not exert herself to express her dissatisfaction and contempt for them. I looked at the stamping savages with imploring eyes, whose anger would shatter the fragile and precious impression I was seeking here. Finally, the first few scenes of Huai Dela brought me pleasant time. At the beginning of the second act, the character Huai Dela did not appear. However, the first curtain, followed by the second red velvet curtain, which strengthens the stage depth in the star's performance, opened, and an actress appeared from the bottom of the stage, looking and sounding like the Rabema people had portrayed to me. So Rabema changed roles, and my careful study of Theseus'wife was a waste of time. However, another actress came on and talked to the first one. It was obvious that I had made a mistake to regard the first one as Rabema, because the second one was more like her and the tone of the recitation was perfect. Both of them added noble gestures to the characters --- they lifted beautiful sleeveless gowns, which I noticed clearly, and understood the relationship between gestures and lines --- and clever tones. It was warm and ironic at times, and I understood what poems I had read at home without paying attention to actually meant. But suddenly, the red velvet in the temple
At the opening (like a frame), a woman appeared. So I felt frightened, and that fear might be more frightening than Rabema herself. I was afraid that someone would open the window and make her uncomfortable; that someone would rub up the program to destroy one of her lines; and that people would not applaud her warmly enough to make her unhappy. I had a more absolute idea than Rabema himself, that from now on, theatres, audiences, actors, plays, and my own body are just sound media, and they are valuable only when they are conducive to the cadence of voices. I immediately realized that the two actresses I had just enjoyed had nothing in common with the woman I had come to listen to. However, my pleasure suddenly ceased. My eyes, ears and thoughts were all focused on Rabema, lest I should miss any reason worthy of my admiration, but nothing was gained. I didn't even find the clever tones and beautiful postures her companions used in her recitations and performances. I listened to her as if she was reading Huaila, or as if Huaila was speaking to me, and Rabema's talent did not seem to add anything to the words. How I want the artist's every voice, every facial expression to freeze, for a long time, so that I can go deep in and try to find the beauty they contain. I should at least be quick-minded and prepare and adjust my attention before every verse, so that I would not waste my time preparing for every word or gesture she read. I want to rely on this kind of concentrated effort to get into the depths of lines and gestures as if I had a long hours. But time is short after all! As soon as one voice came into my ear, it was immediately replaced by another. In one scene, Rabema was still for a moment, her arms were raised to the height of her face, and her whole body was immersed in dark green light, with the background of the sea. The applause was thunderous, but the actress had changed her position in an instant, and the picture I wanted to watch carefully no longer existed. I told my grandmother I couldn't see clearly, so she handed me the telescope. However, when you are convinced of the authenticity of something, observing it artificially does not make you feel closer to it. I think what I see in the magnifying glass is not Rabema, but her image. I put down my telescope, but the image I got with my eyes that was narrowed by distance might not be more accurate. Which of the two Rabema is true? I had great hopes for the play, and her companions kept revealing to me the subtle voices in much worse clips. I suppose Rabema's intonation is more amazing than I thought when I read the script at home. However, she has not even reached the level of recitation skills that Onona or Arisi might use. She recites that long, contrasting monologue with unchanged monotony, which is so striking. So that a less intelligent tragic actor, even a middle school student, can not be unaware of its effect. She read very fast, and when she finished the last sentence, my mind realized the monotony she deliberately used in the previous lines.
Finally, in the enthusiastic applause of the audience, my initial feeling of admiration broke out. I also applauded, and for a long time, hoping that Rabema would work harder out of gratitude, so that I could say that I had seen her most exquisite acting skills. Strangely enough, the moment when the audience was enthusiastic was also the moment when Rabema made wonderful innovations (which I later learned). When certain transcendental realities radiate around, the masses are the earliest observers. For example, when major events took place, when the army was in danger or defeated or succeeded at the border, the news was vague and did not bring any important information to the educated, but it caused tremendous shock among the masses. Educated people are surprised by the shock, but when they learn about the real military situation from experts, they cannot help admiring the people's ability to perceive this halo, which is accompanied by major events and can be seen a hundred miles away. People are aware of the war bulletin, either after the event, after the end of the war, or at that time, from the gaiety of the doorman. Likewise, Rabema was found to be skilled in acting, either from critics a week after the show, or from the applause of the audience on the spot. However, this direct understanding of the masses is often intertwined with hundreds of misconceptions. Therefore, applause is often wrong. Moreover, it is the mechanical consequence of applause in front, just as storms make the sea boil, even when the wind is no longer increasing, the waves are still rough. Regardless of him, the more I applaud, the better Rabema acts. An ordinary woman sitting next to me said, "She really works hard, knocks herself hard and runs all over the stage, which is called acting." I'm glad to find these reasons to prove Rabema's skill, but at the same time I think they can't explain the problem. The farmer sighed and said, "How well painted! What a wonderful pen! Look how beautiful it is! How thin! Can this explain the Mona Lisa or Benvenuto's Perseus? But I'm still drunk with the enthusiasm of the masses. However, when the curtain came down, I was disappointed that the pleasure I had dreamed of was nothing more than that, but at the same time, I needed to prolong it. I did not want to leave the theatre to end the experience of the theatre, which had been my life for several hours, and I felt that going straight home was like exile; fortunately, I was looking forward to it when I got home. I can hear about her again from Rabema's admirer, who was the man who allowed me to see Huaila, Mr. de Nobwa.
Before dinner, my father called me into his study and introduced me to Mr. de Nobwa. As I entered, the ambassador stood up, bent down his tall body and held out his hand to me, looking at me with blue eyes. During his tenure as a representative of France, he was often introduced to foreigners, many of whom were somewhat famous, even famous singers; and he knew that one day when people mentioned these people in Paris or Petersburg, he could boast of having been in Munich or Sofia with him. They spent the night together, so he developed the habit of showing each other how honored it was to know him. In addition, he believed that during his stay in foreign capitals, he could contact not only interesting people who traveled to and from capitals, but also the customs of local residents, thus gaining in-depth knowledge of the history, geography, customs of different nationalities and the cultural movements in Europe, so that he had no knowledge in books. Therefore, he was a newcomer to every country. Apply sharp observation so that you can immediately find out who is standing in front of him. For a long time, he was no longer stationed abroad, but whenever strangers were introduced to him, his eyes immediately made fruitful observations, as if they had not been suspended, and his manner and speech attempted to show that the new comer's name was not unfamiliar to him. Therefore, he talked to me in an air of self-knowledge and experience, with keen curiosity, and in his own interest, he kept observing me as if I were an exotic, instructive monumental building, or a star on tour. So he was as solemn and kind as the wise Mantor and as diligent and curious as the young Anagassis.
Regarding the Two World Review, he never mentioned mediating for me, but he raised a series of questions about my past life and study and interest in me. This is the first time I've heard people talk about their hobbies as a reasonable thing, because before that, I always thought that they should be suppressed. Since I like literature, he makes the topic around literature and talks about it with great respect, as if it were a respectable and charming lady in the upper class. He had a wonderful memory of meeting her in Rome or Dresden, but seldom had the chance to meet her again because of the pressure of life. He smiled with an almost dissolute look, as if he envied me for being luckier and more leisurely than him and having a good time with him. However, the literature in his words is totally different from what I imagined when I was in Gombre, so I understand that I have double reasons to abandon literature. I used to realize that I lacked creative talent, but now Mr. De Nobwa has deprived me of creative desire. I want to explain my dream to him. I shuddered with excitement lest all words fail to express what I felt most sincerely, but never tried to express to myself. I speak incoherently, and Mr. de Nobwa, perhaps out of professional habits, perhaps out of the usual indifference of people (since he was consulted, he took the initiative to talk, allowed the other person to be uncomfortable, to make his whole body count, and he was indifferent), perhaps out of a desire to highlight the characteristics of the head. Looking (he thinks he has a Greek head, despite his thick cheek whiskers), when you explain to him, his face is absolutely motionless, making you think that in front of him is an ancient chest image in the Stone Gallery - and deaf! Suddenly, like the hammer of an auctioneer's valuer or Delphi's oracle, an ambassador's answer rang out. It was exciting because you could not guess his impression of you or what he was about to say from his dull face.
"Just as it happens," he said, without blinking an eye, staring at me stuttering, suddenly concluding, "I have a friend, his son, mutatis mutandis, just like you. (So he spoke in a comforting tone of voice about our common tendencies, as if it were not literature, but rheumatism, and he wanted to tell me that I would not die as a result.) He abandoned the diplomatic career his father had arranged for him and devoted himself to writing despite rumors. Of course, he has nothing to regret. Two years ago, of course, he was much older than you, he published a work about his feelings about the `infinity'of Lake Victoria-Nyonza on the West Bank. This year, I wrote another pamphlet, which is a little short, but with a sharp and even sharp pen. It talks about the serial guns in the Bulgarian army. These two books made him a great character. He has gone a long way and won't stop halfway. In the Academy of Ethical Sciences, he has been mentioned twice or three times without any relegation, although he has not yet been considered as a candidate. In a word, he can not be regarded as a person of great reputation, but his tenacious struggle has won a superior position and achievements. It's important to know that success does not always belong to the rioters, provocators, and chaos-makers (who are almost pretentious). He made a name for himself by working hard."
My father had seen me become a member of the Academy of Sciences in a few years, and he was very proud of it, and Mr. de Nobwa pushed it to the top because, after a moment of hesitation as if to estimate the consequences of his actions, he handed me a business card and said, "Go and see him, and say I introduced it." He'll give you some useful advice." His words agitated me as if he had announced that I would board the sailing boat the next day as a probationary sailor.
I inherited from Aunt Leonie a lot of untreatable items and furniture, as well as almost all cash assets (she expressed her love for me after she died, and I knew nothing about her before she died). The money will be in my father's custody until I grow up, so my father asked Mr. de Nobwa where to invest. Mr. De Nobwa suggests buying what he considers to be very secure low-rate securities, especially British Unified Bonds and Russian Bonds with an annual interest rate of 4%. He said: "This is the first-class securities, although the interest rate is not too high, but at least the principal will not depreciate." As for the others, the father simply told the guests what he had bought, and the guests showed an imperceptible smile to congratulate them. Like all capitalists, Mr. De Nobwa believes that wealth is something to be admired, but when it comes to other people's property, he thinks it's more appropriate to congratulate them with a tacit manner. On the other hand, because of his great wealth, he regards people who are far less wealthy than him as great wealth, and at the same time, he savors his superior position in wealth with pleasure and satisfaction. He did not hesitate to congratulate his father on his "very stable, elegant and keen appreciation" of the "structure" of securities, as if he had given some aesthetic value to the relationship between securities traded and even to the securities traded themselves. When his father talked about a relatively new and unknown security, Mr. de Nobwa said (you think you've only read this book, but he's actually read it too): "Of course I know, for a while I paid attention to it. It was interesting." At the same time, he showed a fascinating smile, as if he was a subscriber to a magazine and had read the latest novel serialized on it paragraph by paragraph. "I don't discourage you from buying the securities that will be issued. They are very attractive and the price is very favorable." As for some old securities, the father can't remember their names and often confuses them with similar securities.