麥克斯·畢爾勃姆/ Max Beerbohm
麥克斯·畢爾勃姆（1872—1956），英國著名諷刺畫家、散文家和劇評家。曾就讀於牛津大學。除擅長繪畫外，他還寫過不少散文，並取得了較高的成就。後來繼蕭伯納任《星期六評論》劇評專欄作者達十二年之久，晚年移居美國直到去世。
Ace in the Hole
Understand these new words before you read this article.
1. languish ['l??ɡwi?] v. 失去活力
2. prophecy ['pr?fisi] n. 預言
3. magnetic [m?ɡ'netik] adj. 地磁的；有磁性的
4. confess [k?n'fes] v. 承認
I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most difficult things in the world, and probably seems so to you, too.
To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we are never called on to perform that small feat. It is only when a friend is going on a longish journey, and will be absent for a languish time, that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend and the longer the journey, and the longer the likely absence, the earlier do we turn up, and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failure is in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion, and to the depth of our feeling.
In a room, or even on a doorstep, we can make the farewell quite worthily. We can express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nor do words fail us. There is no awkwardness, no restraint, on either side. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking is an ideal one. Why not, then, leave the leave-taking at that? Always, departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway station next morning. Always, we are deaf to these entreaties, knowing them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides, they really do want to see us again. And that wish is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn up. And then, oh then, what a gulf yawns! We stretch our arms vainly across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to say. We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We“make conversation”—and such conversation! We know that these friends are the friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not altered. Yet, on the surface, everything is different; and the tension is such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an end to the farce.