A few
play well, many play badly, all must appear and the majority are feebly
applauded and loudly hissed. He counts himself great who is received with
such an uproar of clapping and shout of approval as may drown the voice of
the discontented; he is called fortunate who, having missed his cue and
broken down in his words, makes his exit in the triumphant train of the
greater actor upon whom all eyes are turned; he is deemed happy who,
having offended no man, is allowed to depart in peace upon his downward
road. Yet none of these players need pride themselves much upon their
success nor take to heart their failure. Long before most of them have
slipped into the grave which waits at the foot of the hill, and have been
wrapped comfortably in the pleasant earth, their names are forgotten by
those who screamed with pleasure or hooted in disgust at their
performance, their faces are no longer remembered, their great drama is
become an old-fashioned mummery of the past. Why should they care? Their
work is done, they have been rewarded or punished, paid with praise and
gold or mulcted in the sum of their reputation and estate. Famous or
infamous, in honour or in disrepute, in riches or in poverty, they have
reached the end of their time, they are worn out, the world will have no
more of them, they are worthless in the price-scale of men, they must be
buried out of sight and they will be forgotten out of mind. The beginning
is the same for all, and the end also, and as for the future, who shall
tell us upon what basis of higher intelligence our brief passage across
the stage is to be judged? Why then should the present trouble our vanity
so greatly? And if our play is of so little importance, why should we care
whether the scenery is romantic instead of commonplace, or why should we
make furious efforts to shift a Gothic castle, a drawbridge, a moat and a
waterfall into the slides occupied by the four walls of a Munich
tobacconist's shop?
There is not even anything especial in the appearance of the place to
recommend it to the ready pen of the word-painter.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25