by O. Wilde
Extract
Dorian Cray falls on love with Sibyl Vane, a young actress from a little second-rate theatre. He considers her to be a genius, a born actress. He decides to marry her. One night Dorian invites his friends Lord Henry and Basil Hallword, to come to the theatre with him and see the young girl act.
For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night. The manager who met them at the door showed them to their box. The heat was terribly oppressive. The young people in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hugs them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre. Lord Henry was watching the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass.
"Here’s the orchestra”, said Dorian. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I'm going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good in me".
A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary storm of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at - one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought that he had ever seen. Basil Hallword rose to his feet and began to applaud.
The scene was the ball of Capulet's house. Through the crowd of shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world.
Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sing of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo. She spoke in a thoroughly artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely falser it was wrong in colour. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.
Even the common, uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless and began to talk loudly and to whistle.
When the second act was over there came a storm of hisses and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful Dorian", he said, "but she can't act. Let us go.
"I am going to see the play through", answered the lad in a hard, bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry, I apologize to you both".
"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill", interrupted Hallword. "We will come some other night".
"I wish she were ill", he replied. ''But she seems to me to be simply indifferent and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress".
She hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and, rushing to the back of the box, he loaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.
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(…) As soon as the last act was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the green-room. Sibyl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.
When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her face, "How badly I acted tonight, Dorian!" she cried.
"Horribly!" he answered. "It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what I suffered".
The girl smiled. "Dorian", she answered, "you should have understood, I shall always be bad. I shall never act well again. Before I knew you, acting was the only reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. The painted scenes were my worlds I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came and freed my soul from prison.
You taught me what reality really is. Tonight for the first time in my life, I saw the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. You had made me understand what love really is. You are more to me then all art can ever be. Dorian, take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire.”
He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face.
"You have killed my love", he muttered. I loved you because you were marvelous, because you had genius and intellect because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name…
Peproduction 7 "Cedric's Fairy Godfather"
by Newnan Levy
There was once a struggling young author named Cedric Gailbraith who lived in extreme poverty in an attic and spent all his time writing a stories and poems that no one would buy. This made it extremely awkward for Cedric, because the neighborhood butchers, grocers, and other sordid tradesman preferred to sell commodities for cash. Moreover, the grasping skinflint who owned the ramshackle house in which the attic was situated, insisted unpleasantly that the rent should be paid at monthly intervals.
Each week Cedric would mail out a number of stories and poems, for he was an industrious young man, and the following week they would be returned with polite printed notes which read more or less as follows.
"We thank you for submitting your manuscript, but regret that it is not suitable for our present needs. This does not imply any lack of merit, and we hope you will favour us with anything you may write in the future.
"The Editors"
These notes encouraged Cedric greatly, and kept him from abandoning the Muse for one of the Many glittering opportunities that presented themselves, such as driving a taxicab or working in a cigar store.
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"I must have some talent" he thought. "They always send my pieces back with regret, and they always say that they are not lacking in merit. These editors know their business. They wouldn't say they hoped I'd send them other things if they didn't mean it". So he kept writing.
One day as Cedric was polishing off a sonnet written in the Petrarchian form, his door opened and a man entered. He appeared to be about sixty years of age; he was short and skinny and the stubble on his face indicated that he had not shaved for several days. He was shabbily dressed, and Cedric detected a strong odor of liquor in his breath.
"I haven't the money now", Cedric exclaimed from force of habit "but next week. I expect -"
“I’m not a bill collector", the stranger said sourly.
"Have a seat", Cedric said, greatly relieved. "Who are you?
"I'm your fairy godfather", said the visitor.
“Well, it's darned near time!" Cedric said, glaring at him indignantly.
"Postlowaite's the name", said the stranger. "Cyrus H. Postlewaite. I've been your fairy godfather since you were born. You haven't got a spot of something to drink around here?"
"No".
"Too bad. I've been meaning; to drop in on you for a long time and do something for you. That's what fairy godfather are for. But you know how it is".
"No, I don't", Cedric said.
"Oh, 'one gets so involved", Mr. Postlewaite said. ''Business affairs. Social engagements. Time flies and before you know it - well, anyway here I am. What can I do for you?"
"I want success", Cedric exclaimed eagerly. "I want money and fame. I want to see the things I write in print"-
"Nothing easier. Money, fame, success? That's my business.
I'll fix you up In a jiffy".
"Please hurry", said Cedric impatiently. "I haven't eaten a square meal in a week".
"Let me see", said Mr. Postlewaite. "We could do a grand opera or a novel or - no, I have it!" he exclaimed brightly.
“I'll tell you a joke”.
“A joke!”
"A man came home one evening and was greeted by his wife who was in tears. They're wearing skirts six inches longer this year, she said. 'I can't mar this old suit any more. It's too abort". "Don't worry", the husband replied with a merry twinkle in his eyes. 'It will be long before you get a new one".
Mr. Postlewaite leaned back in his chair and laughed loudly. Cedric started at him with indignant astonishment.
"I'm dying", he muttered, paraphrasing an ancient jest "and he tells me jokes";
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"There you are; and don't forget", the fairy godfather said. "I get agent's usual ten per cent commission". He arose and walked to the door and was gone.
Cedric sat in confusion before his typewriter, his fingers automatically striking the keys. Some time later looked at the sheet of paper before him and saw that he had typed Mr. Postlewaite's joke at the bottom of his sonnet. "Well, what have I got to lose?" he thought bitterly. He enclosed the paper in an envelope and put his last three-cent stamp on it, and went downstairs to mail it to the editor of a popular national magazine.
Three days later a letter arrived, the first Cedric had received. As he tore it open a check fell out of the envelope.
Dear Mr. Gailbraith, (the letter said)
I am sorry we cannot use your sonnets. Sonnets are pretty much a drug on the market.
However, I was delighted with your little anecdote, a vignette of real life, and I am happy to enclose a check for fifty dollars. You have u real flair for humour, so please send us some more.
Sincerely
G. Smith, Editor.
It was different Cedric Gailbraith who faced the typewriter the next month. For one thin, he had a haircut and he gloved with a sense of well-being that comes from having dined lavishly at one of the better neighborhood cafeterias.
This time there was no lotion. Rapidly and confidently his fingers played across the keys with the virtuosity of a Rubinstein. He pulled the sheet of paper from the machine and read what he had written: It seems there were two Irishman named Pat and Mike. Pat said to Mike one day. “My wife told me last night that she needed a new dress. She said they were wearing skirts a little longer this year.
“What did you tell her? Mire inquired. I said, O.K. Then you can wear that one a little longer.”
This time the response from the popular national magazine was prompt and enthusiastic.
“Dear Cedric” the letter said.
Your sparkling tour de force this our office like bombshell. My staff is still chuckling over it. My secretary, Miss Klein, laughed so much that she had a stitch on her side and had to be taken home in an ambulance. She has several stitches in her side last year after her appendicitis operation, but they were nothing compared with what your story did to her. Enclosed is a check for seventy-five dollars. Keep up the good work.
Cordially,
Jack Smith.
As Cedric finished reading the letter he detected an alcoholic arome pervading the room. He looked up and saw that his fairy good father had entered and had seated himself in the only comfortable chair in the room.
"Well, godson, how goes it?"
"I've got name and fortune", Cedric said. "But I am not satisfied. Those little vignettes of real life, if I may coin a phrase, were all right as preliminary sketches, manifestations, let us say, of my early artistic development. My biographers will refer to thin as my first anecdotal period. But I want to do something big, important; something that expresses the genius that is burning within me".
"Sure", said Mr. Postlewaite. "Swell idea. My don't you do a story, something about a fellow whose wife needs a new dress because short skirts have gone out of fashion, and he can't afford to buy her on? He's a clerk in o bank - "
"By god, you've something there", Cedric exclaimed, "Not a vignette this time, but a real, tender story of heartthrobs, poverty, and young love. I can sea it all. Chekhov! Maugham! Hemingway! Drinkwatar"-
"Not on your life" his fairy godfather said. "And before I leave there's that little matter of ten per cent".
"Eight! Cedric said. He reached in his pocket and handed his fairy godfather a roil of bills.
It was evident after Cedric had written his second story that a new star of first magnitude had risen on the literary horizon. His first story, which was enthusiastically accepted by Editor Smith, dealt with the fortunes of d newly, wedded couple in Greenwich Village. It was, as Cedric had predicted, full of heartthrobs, poverty, and young love. The second was a grim, penetrating, psychological story about a millionaire Wall Street broker whose selfish pleasure-loving wife demanded a new mink coat, not knowing that he had been wiped out in the market that vary day, and was penniless. "Reminiscent of Dreiser at his beat", the critics said.
A few months later Cedric sat, immaculately dressed in dinner clothes, before the fireplace in the magnificent living room of Mr. Jack Smith, the editor of the popular national magazine.
"I got an offer from Hollywood, Jack, to come out there and make some pictures", he said, "But turned it down".
''I think you were right", his host replied.
"I've got all the money I need", Cedric said, "and I'd rather stay here and finish my novel".
"How's it coming?" Mr. Smith asked.
"It's about a peasant family in Yugoslavia", Cedric said, "The potato crop has gone bad and they are facing starvation. The wife asks for a pair of new boots because all the neighbors are wearing them higher" -
"Higher, did you say? Isn't that a bit reckless?" Smith asked. "Up to now your stories have always been about wearing skirts and dresses longer, your public expects certain things from you. You can't let them down".
"I know", Cedric replied, "but one must be experimental, in art you can't stand still".
The rest of this story is a matter of contemporary literary history. The phenomenal sale of Lament for a Dying Postman astonished everyone, particularly in view of the grim nature of its theme. "Cedric Gailbraith's new novel, Lament for a Dying Postman", wrote one of New York's leading critics, "makes Dostoevski sound like a flippant wisecracker".
Cedric sat on the terrace of his long Island estate, purchased by the sale of Lament for a Dying Postman to the movies. Mr. Postlewaite, neatly dressed in white flannels, rocked contentedly back and forth in a porch swing.
"I have everything that I dreamed of", Cedric said Gloomily. "Fame and wealth are mine, and yet my success is like bitter ashes in my mouth".
"I've never tasted bitter ashes", Mr. Postlewaits said, "but it sounds most unpleasant. What's wrong?"
"I'm in love", Cedric said, "and last night I quarreled with the girl of my dreams, Miss Lena Krausmeyer, the daughter of the millionaire Pickle King. All is over. I have drunk a bitter draught of gall and wormwood"-
"You can think of most original Metaphors", Mr. Postlewaite said, hastily gulping down the contents of his glass. "So you bad scrap with the girl friend. Well, don't let that worry you. They don't call me Cupid Postlewaiste for nothing. Just send her this telegram". He scribbled some words on a sheet of paper and passed it to Cedric who read,
Darling Lena.
I am sorry I was short with you last night. I long for you.
Devotedly,
Cedric.
The wedding which was held the following month in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria was a glittering affair. All the notables of the world of art and fashion were there. Mr. Postlewaite who acted as best man, latter performed the duties of toastmaster. After consuming three battles of champagne he arose to propose a toast to the bride and groom:
"I am reminded of a story", he said, "about a newly, married couple. The bride naked her husband to buy her a new dress because the old one was too short..."
The audience was convulsed with laughter.
Third year
Practical phonetics
Test 1