the pit-第41部分

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efore。　　The　individualI；　Laura　Jadwincounts　for　nothing。　　It　is　the　type　to　which　I　belong　that's　important；　the　mould；　the　form；　the　sort　of　composite　photograph　of　hundreds　of　thousands　of　Laura　Jadwins。　　Yes；〃　she　continued；　her　brows　bent；　her　mind　hard　at　work；　〃what　I　am；　the　little　things　that　distinguish　me　from　everybody　else；　those　pass　away　very　quickly；　are　very　ephemeral。　　But　the　type　Laura　Jadwin；　that　always　remains；　doesn't　it？　One　must　help　building　up　only　the　permanent　things。　Then；　let's　see；　the　individual　may　deteriorate；　but　the　type　always　grows　better。。。。　Yes；　I　think　one　can　say　that。〃

〃At　least　the　type　never　recedes；〃　he　prompted。

〃Oh；　it　began　good；〃　she　cried；　as　though　at　a　discovery；　〃and　can　never　go　back　of　that　original　good。　　Something　keeps　it　from　going　below　a　certain　point；　and　it　is　left　to　us　to　lift　it　higher　and　higher。　　No；　the　type　can't　be　bad。　　Of　course　the　type　is　more　important　than　the　individual。　　And　that　something　that　keeps　it　from　going　below　a　certain　point　is　God。〃

〃Or　nature。〃

〃So　that　God　and　nature；〃　she　cried　again；　〃work　together？　　No；　no；　they　are　one　and　the　same　thing。〃

〃There；　don't　you　see；〃　he　remarked；　smiling　back　at　her；　〃how　simple　it　is？〃

〃Oh…h；〃　exclaimed　Laura；　with　a　deep　breath；　〃isn't　it　beautiful？〃　She　put　her　hand　to　her　forehead　with　a　little　laugh　of　deprecation。　　〃My；〃　she　said；　〃but　those　things　make　you　think。〃

Dinner　was　over　before　she　was　aware　of　it；　and　they　were　still　talking　animatedly　as　they　rose　from　the　table。

〃We　will　have　our　coffee　in　the　art　gallery；〃　Laura　said；　〃and　please　smoke。〃

He　lit　a　cigarette；　and　the　two　passed　into　the　great　glass…roofed　rotunda。

〃Here　is　the　one　I　like　best；〃　said　Laura；　standing　before　the　Bougereau。

〃Yes？〃　he　queried；　observing　the　picture　thoughtfully。　〃I　suppose；〃　he　remarked；　〃it　is　because　it　demands　less　of　you　than　some　others。　　I　see　what　you　mean。　　It　pleases　you　because　it　satisfies　you　so　easily。　　You　can　grasp　it　without　any　effort。〃

〃Oh；　I　don't　know；〃　she　ventured。

〃Bougereau　'fills　a　place。'　I　know　it；〃　he　answered。　〃But　I　cannot　persuade　myself　to　admire　his　art。〃

〃But；〃　she　faltered；　〃I　thought　that　Bougereau　was　considered　the　greatestone　of　the　greatesthis　wonderful　flesh　tints；　the　drawing；　and　colouring〃

〃But　I　think　you　will　see；〃　he　told　her；　〃if　you　think　about　it；　that　for　all　there　is　_in_　his　pictureback　of　ita　fine　hanging；　a　beautiful　vase　would　have　exactly　the　same　value　upon　your　wall。　　Now；　on　the　other　hand；　take　this　picture。〃　　He　indicated　a　small　canvas　to　the　right　of　the　bathing　nymphs；　representing　a　twilight　landscape。

〃Oh；　that　one；〃　said　Laura。　　〃We　bought　that　here　in　America；　in　New　York。　　It's　by　a　Western　artist。　　I　never　noticed　it　much；　I'm　afraid。〃

〃But　now　look　at　it；〃　said　Corthell。　　〃Don't　you　know　that　the　artist　saw　something　more　than　trees　and　a　pool　and　afterglow？　　He　had　that　feeling　of　night　coming　on；　as　he　sat　there　before　his　sketching　easel　on　the　edge　of　that　little　pool。　　He　heard　the　frogs　beginning　to　pipe；　I'm　sure；　and　the　touch　of　the　night　mist　was　on　his　hands。　　And　he　was　very　lonely　and　even　a　little　sad。　　In　those　deep　shadows　under　the　trees　he　put　something　of　himself；　the　gloom　and　the　sadness　that　he　felt　at　the　moment。　　And　that　little　pool；　still　and　black　and　sombrewhy；　the　whole　thing　is　the　tragedy　of　a　life　full　of　dark；　hidden　secrets。　　And　the　little　pool　is　a　heart。　　No　one　can　say　how　deep　it　is；　or　what　dreadful　thing　one　would　find　at　the　bottom；　or　what　drowned　hopes　or　what　sunken　ambitions。　　That　little　pool　says　one　word　as　plain　as　if　it　were　whispered　in　the　eardespair。　　Oh；　yes；　I　prefer　it　to　the　nymphs。〃

〃I　am　very　much　ashamed；〃　returned　Laura；　〃that　I　could　not　see　it　all　before　for　myself。　　But　I　see　it　now。　It　is　better；　of　course。　　I　shall　come　in　here　often　now　and　study　it。　　Of　all　the　rooms　in　our　house　this　is　the　one　I　like　best。　　But；　I　am　afraid；　it　has　been　more　because　of　the　organ　than　of　the　pictures。〃

Corthell　turned　about。

〃Oh；　the　grand；　noble　organ；〃　he　murmured。　　〃I　envy　you　this　of　all　your　treasures。　　May　I　play　for　you？　Something　to　compensate　for　the　dreadful；　despairing　little　tarn　of　the　picture。〃

〃I　should　love　to　have　you；〃　she　told　him。

He　asked　permission　to　lower　the　lights；　and　stepping　outside　the　door　an　instant；　pressed　the　buttons　that　extinguished　all　but　a　very　few　of　them。　　After　he　had　done　this　he　came　back　to　the　organ　and　detached　the　self…playing　〃arrangement〃　without　comment；　and　seated　himself　at　the　console。

Laura　lay　back　in　a　long　chair　close　at　hand。　　The　moment　was　propitious。　　The　artist's　profile　silhouetted　itself　against　the　shade　of　a　light　that　burned　at　the　side　of　the　organ；　and　that　gave　light　to　the　keyboard。　　And　on　this　keyboard；　full　in　the　reflection；　lay　his　long；　slim　hands。　　They　were　the　only　things　that　moved　in　the　room；　and　the　chords　and　bars　of　Mendelssohn's　〃Consolation〃　seemed；　as　he　played；　to　flow；　not　from　the　instrument；　but；　like　some　invisible　ether；　from　his　finger…tips　themselves。

〃You　hear；〃　he　said　to　Laura；　〃the　effect　of　questions　and　answer　in　this。　　The　questions　are　passionate　and　tumultuous　and　varied；　but　the　answer　is　always　the　same；　always　calm　and　soothing　and　dignified。〃

She　answered　with　a　long　breath；　speaking　just　above　a　whisper：

〃Oh；　yes；　yes；　I　understand。〃

He　finished　and　turned　towards　her　a　moment。　　〃Possibly　not　a　very　high　order　of　art；〃　he　said；　〃a　little　too　'easy；'　perhaps；　like　the　Bougereau；　but　'Consolation'　should　appeal　very　simply　and　directly；　after　all。　　Do　you　care　for　Beethoven？〃

〃II　am　afraid〃　began　Laura；　but　he　had　continued　without　waiting　for　her　reply。

〃You　remember　this？　　The　'Appassionata；'　the　F　minor　sonata　just　the　second　movement。〃

But　when　he　had　finished　Laura　begged　him　to　continue。

〃Please　go　on；〃　she　said。　　〃Play　anything。　　You　can't　tell　how　I　love　it。〃

〃Here　is　something　I've　always　liked；〃　he　answered；　turning　back　to　the　keyboard。　　〃It　is　the　'Mephisto　Walzer'　of　Liszt。　　He　has　adapted　it　himself　from　his　own　orchestral　score；　very　ingeniously。　　It　is　difficult　to　render　on　the　organ；　but　I　think　you　can　get　the　idea　of　it。〃　　As　he　spoke　he　began　playing；　his　head　very　slightly　moving　to　the　rhythm　of　the　piece。　At　the　beginning　of　each　new　theme；　and　without　interrupting　his　playing；　he　offered　a　word；　of　explanation：

〃Very　vivid　and　arabesque　this；　don't　you　think？　。。。　And　now　this　movement；　isn't　it　reckless　and　capricious；　like　a　woman　who　hesitates　and　then　takes　the　leap？　　Yet　there's　a　certain　nobility　there；　a　feeling　for　ideals。　　You　see　it；　of　course。。。。　And　all　the　while　this　undercurrent　of　the　sensual；　and　that　feline；　eager　sentiment　。。。　and　here；　I　think；　is　the　best　part　of　it；　the　very　essence　of　passion；　the　voluptuousness　that　is　a　veritable　anguish。。。。　　These　long；　slow　rhythms；　tortured；　languishing；　really　dying。　　It　reminds　one　of　'Phedre　''Venus　toute　entiere；'　and　the　rest　of　it；　and　Wagner　has　the　same。　You　find　it　again　in　Isolde's　motif　continually。〃

Laura　was　transfixed；　all　but　transported。　　Here　was　something　better　than　Gounod　and　Verdi；　something　above　and　beyond　the　obvious　one；　two；　three；　one；　two；　three　of　the　opera　scores　as　she　knew　them　and　played　them。　Music　she　understood　with　an　intuitive　quickness；　and　those　prolonged　chords　of　Liszt's；　heavy　and　clogged　and　cloyed　with　passion；　reached　some　hitherto　untouched　string　within　her　heart；　and　with　resistless　power　twanged　it　so　that　the　vibration　of　it　shook　her　entire　being；　and　left　her　quivering　and　breathless；　the　tears　in　her　eyes；　her　hands　clasped　till　the　knuckles　whitened。

She　felt　all　at　once　as　though　a　whole　new　world　were　opened　to　her。　　She　stood　on　Pisgah。　　And　she　was　ashamed　and　confused　at　her　ignorance　of　those　things　which　Corthell　tactfully　assumed　that　she　knew　as　a　matter　of　course。　　What　wonderful　pleasures　she　had　ignored！　How　infinitely　removed　from　her　had　been　the　real　world　of　art　and　artists　of　which　Corthell　was　a　part！　Ah；　but　she　would　make　amends　now。　　No　more　Verdi　and　Bougereau。　　She　would　get　rid　of　the　〃Bathing　Nymphs。〃　　Never；　never　again　would　she　play　the　〃Anvil　Chorus。〃　　Corthell　should　select　her　pictures；　and　should　play　to　her　from　Liszt　and　Beethoven　that　music　which　evoked　all　the　turbulent　emotion；　all　the　impetuosity　and　fire　and　exaltation　that　she　felt　was　hers。

She　wondered　at　herself。　　Surely；　surely　there　were　two　Laura　Jadwins。　　One　calm　and　even　and　steady；　loving　the　quiet　life；　loving　her　home；　finding　a　pleasure　in　the　duties　of　the　housewife。　　This　was　the　Laura　who　liked　plain；　homely；　matter…of…fact　Mrs。　Cressler；　who　adored　her　husband；　who　delighted　in　Mr。　Howells's　novels；　who　abjured　society　and　the　formal　conventions；　who　went　to　church　every　Sunday；　and　who　was　afraid　of　her　own　elevator。

But　at　moments　such　as　this　she　knew　that　there　was　another　Laura　Jadwinthe　Laura　Jadwin　who　might　have　been　a　great　actress；　who　had　a　〃temperament；〃　who　was　impulsive。　　This　was　the　Laura　of　the　〃grand　manner；〃　who　played　the　role　of　the　great　lady　from　room　to　room　of　her　vast　house；　who　read　Meredith；　who　revelled　in　swift　gallops　through　the　park　on　jet…black；　long…　tailed　horses；　who　affected　black　velvet；　black　jet；　and　black　lace　in　her　gowns；　who　was　conscious　and　proud　of　her　pale；　stately　beautythe　Laura　Jadwin；　in　fine；　who　delighted　to　recline　in　a　long　chair　in　the　dim；　beautiful　picture　gallery　and　listen　with　half…　shut　eyes　to　the　great　golden　organ　thrilling　to　the　passion　of　Beethoven　and　Liszt。

The　last　notes　of　the　organ　sank　and　faded　into　silencea　silence　that　left　a　sense　of　darkness　like　that　which　follows　upon　the　flight　of　a　falling　star；　and　after　a　long　moment　Laura　sat　upright；　adjusting　the　heavy　masses　of　her　black　hair　with　thrusts　of　her　long；　white　fingers。　　She　drew　a　deep　breath。

〃Oh；〃　she　said；　〃that　was　wonderful；　wonderful。　　It　is　like　a　new　languageno；　it　is　like　new　thoughts；　too　fine　for　language。〃

〃I　have　always　believed　so；〃　he　answered。　　〃Of　all　the　arts；　music；　to　my　notion；　is　the　most　intimate。　　At　the　other　end　of　the　scale　you　have　architecture；　which　is　an　expres