a personal record-第22部分

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a　slightly　amused　serenity。　　And　she　was　smiling。　　What　on　earth



was　she　smiling　at？　　She　remarked　casually：







〃I　am　afraid　I　interrupted　you。〃







〃Not　at　all。〃







She　accepted　the　denial　in　perfect　good　faith。　　And　it　was



strictly　true。　　Interruptedindeed！　　She　had　robbed　me　of　at



least　twenty　lives；　each　infinitely　more　poignant　and　real　than



her　own；　because　informed　with　passion；　possessed　of　convictions；



involved　in　great　affairs　created　out　of　my　own　substance　for　an



anxiously　meditated　end。







She　remained　silent　for　a　while；　then　said；　with　a　last　glance



all　round　at　the　litter　of　the　fray：







〃And　you　sit　like　this　here　writing　youryour　。　。　。〃







〃Iwhat？　　Oh；　yes！　　I　sit　here　all　day。〃







〃It　must　be　perfectly　delightful。〃







I　suppose　that；　being　no　longer　very　young；　I　might　have　been　on



the　verge　of　having　a　stroke；　but　she　had　left　her　dog　in　the



porch；　and　my　boy's　dog；　patrolling　the　field　in　front；　had



espied　him　from　afar。　　He　came　on　straight　and　swift　like　a



cannon…ball；　and　the　noise　of　the　fight；　which　burst　suddenly



upon　our　ears；　was　more　than　enough　to　scare　away　a　fit　of



apoplexy。　　We　went　out　hastily　and　separated　the　gallant　animals。



Afterward　I　told　the　lady　where　she　would　find　my　wifejust



round　the　corner；　under　the　trees。　　She　nodded　and　went　off　with



her　dog；　leaving　me　appalled　before　the　death　and　devastation　she



had　lightly　madeand　with　the　awfully　instructive　sound　of　the



word　〃delightful〃　lingering　in　my　ears。







Nevertheless；　later　on；　I　duly　escorted　her　to　the　field　gate。　　I



wanted　to　be　civil；　of　course　（what　are　twenty　lives　in　a　mere



novel　that　one　should　be　rude　to　a　lady　on　their　account？）；　but



mainly；　to　adopt　the　good；　sound　Ollendorffian　style；　because　I



did　not　want　the　dog　of　the　general's　daughter　to　fight　again



（encore）　with　the　faithful　dog　of　my　infant　son　（mon　petit



garcon）。Was　I　afraid　that　the　dog　of　the　general's　daughter



would　be　able　to　overcome　（vaincre）　the　dog　of　my　child？No；　I



was　not　afraid。　。　。　。　But　away　with　the　Ollendorff　method。　　How



ever　appropriate　and　seemingly　unavoidable　when　I　touch　upon



anything　appertaining　to　the　lady；　it　is　most　unsuitable　to　the



origin；　character；　and　history　of　the　dog；　for　the　dog　was　the



gift　to　the　child　from　a　man　for　whom　words　had　anything　but　an



Ollendorffian　value；　a　man　almost　childlike　in　the　impulsive



movements　of　his　untutored　genius；　the　most　single…minded　of



verbal　impressionists；　using　his　great　gifts　of　straight　feeling



and　right　expression　with　a　fine　sincerity　and　a　strong　if；



perhaps；　not　fully　conscious　conviction。　　His　art　did　not　obtain；



I　fear；　all　the　credit　its　unsophisticated　inspiration　deserved。　



I　am　alluding　to　the　late　Stephen　Crane；　the　author　of　〃The　Red



Badge　of　Courage；〃　a　work　of　imagination　which　found　its　short



moment　of　celebrity　in　the　last　decade　of　the　departed　century。　



Other　books　followed。　　Not　many。　　He　had　not　the　time。　　It　was　an



individual　and　complete　talent　which　obtained　but　a　grudging；



somewhat　supercilious　recognition　from　the　world　at　large。　　For



himself　one　hesitates　to　regret　his　early　death。　　Like　one　of　the



men　in　his　〃Open　Boat；〃　one　felt　that　he　was　of　those　whom　fate



seldom　allows　to　make　a　safe　landing　after　much　toil　and



bitterness　at　the　oar。　　I　confess　to　an　abiding　affection　for



that　energetic；　slight；　fragile；　intensely　living　and　transient



figure。　　He　liked　me；　even　before　we　met；　on　the　strength　of　a



page　or　two　of　my　writing；　and　after　we　had　met　I　am　glad　to



think　he　liked　me　still。　　He　used　to　point　out　to　me　with　great



earnestness；　and　even　with　some　severity；　that　〃a　boy　OUGHT　to



have　a　dog。〃　　I　suspect　that　he　was　shocked　at　my　neglect　of



parental　duties。







Ultimately　it　was　he　who　provided　the　dog。　　Shortly　afterward；



one　day；　after　playing　with　the　child　on　the　rug　for　an　hour　or



so　with　the　most　intense　absorption；　he　raised　his　head　and



declared　firmly；　〃I　shall　teach　your　boy　to　ride。〃　　That　was　not



to　be。　　He　was　not　given　the　time。







But　here　is　the　dogan　old　dog　now。　　Broad　and　low　on　his　bandy



paws；　with　a　black　head　on　a　white　body　and　a　ridiculous　black



spot　at　the　other　end　of　him；　he　provokes；　when　he　walks　abroad；



smiles　not　altogether　unkind。　　Grotesque　and　engaging　in　the



whole　of　his　appearance；　his　usual　attitudes　are　meek；　but　his



temperament　discloses　itself　unexpectedly　pugnacious　in　the



presence　of　his　kind。　　As　he　lies　in　the　firelight；　his　head　well



up；　and　a　fixed；　far　away　gaze　directed　at　the　shadows　of　the



room；　he　achieves　a　striking　nobility　of　pose　in　the　calm



consciousness　of　an　unstained　life。　　He　has　brought　up　one　baby；



and　now；　after　seeing　his　first　charge　off　to　school；　he　is



bringing　up　another　with　the　same　conscientious　devotion；　but



with　a　more　deliberate　gravity　of　manner；　the　sign　of　greater



wisdom　and　riper　experience；　but　also　of　rheumatism；　I　fear。　



From　the　morning　bath　to　the　evening　ceremonies　of　the　cot；　you



attend　the　little　two…legged　creature　of　your　adoption；　being



yourself　treated　in　the　exercise　of　your　duties　with　every



possible　regard；　with　infinite　consideration；　by　every　person　in



the　houseeven　as　I　myself　am　treated；　only　you　deserve　it　more。







The　general's　daughter　would　tell　you　that　it　must　be　〃perfectly



delightful。〃







Aha！　old　dog。　　She　never　heard　you　yelp　with　acute　pain　（it's



that　poor　left　ear）　the　while；　with　incredible　self…command；　you



preserve　a　rigid　immobility　for　fear　of　overturning　the　little



two…legged　creature。　　She　has　never　seen　your　resigned　smile　when



the　little　two…legged　creature；　interrogated；　sternly；　〃What　are



you　doing　to　the　good　dog？〃　answers；　with　a　wide；　innocent　stare：



〃Nothing。　　Only　loving　him；　mamma　dear！〃







The　general's　daughter　does　not　know　the　secret　terms　of



self…imposed　tasks；　good　dog；　the　pain　that　may　lurk　in　the　very



rewards　of　rigid　self…command。　　But　we　have　lived　together　many



years。　　We　have　grown　older；　too；　and　though　our　work　is　not



quite　done　yet　we　may　indulge　now　and　then　in　a　little



introspection　before　the　firemeditate　on　the　art　of　bringing　up



babies　and　on　the　perfect　delight　of　writing　tales　where　so　many



lives　come　and　go　at　the　cost　of　one　which　slips　imperceptibly



away。











VI　







In　the　retrospect　of　a　life　which　had；　besides　its　preliminary



stage　of　childhood　and　early　youth；　two　distinct　developments；



and　even　two　distinct　elements；　such　as　earth　and　water；　for　its



successive　scenes；　a　certain　amount　of　naiveness　is　unavoidable。　



I　am　conscious　of　it　in　these　pages。　　This　remark　is　put　forward



in　no　apologetic　spirit。　As　years　go　by　and　the　number　of　pages



grows　steadily；　the　feeling　grows　upon　one；　too；　that　one　can



write　only　for　friends。　　Then　why　should　one　put　them　to　the



necessity　of　protesting　（as　a　friend　would　do）　that　no　apology　is



necessary；　or　put；　perchance；　into　their　heads　the　doubt　of　one's



discretion？　　So　much　as　to　the　care　due　to　those　friends　whom　a



word　here；　a　line　there；　a　fortunate　page　of　just　feeling　in　the



right　place；　some　happy　simplicity；　or　even　some　lucky　subtlety；



has　drawn　from　the　great　multitude　of　fellow　beings　even　as　a



fish　is　drawn　from　the　depths　of　the　sea。　　Fishing　is　notoriously



（I　am　talking　now　of　the　deep　sea）　a　matter　of　luck。　　As　to　one's



enemies；　they　will　take　care　of　themselves。







There　is　a　gentleman；　for　instance；　who；　metaphorically　speaking；



jumps　upon　me　with　both　feet。　　This　image　has　no　grace；　but　it　is



exceedingly　apt　to　the　occasionto　the　several　occasions。　　I



don't　know　precisely　how　long　he　has　been　indulging　in　that



intermittent　exercise；　whose　seasons　are　ruled　by　the　custom　of



the　publishing　trade。　　Somebody　pointed　him　out　（in　printed



shape；　of　course）　to　my　attention　some　time　ago；　and　straightway



I　experienced　a　sort　of　reluctant　affection　for　that　robust　man。　



He　leaves　not　a　shred　of　my　substance　untrodden：　for　the　writer's



substance　is　his　writing；　the　rest　of　him　is　but　a　vain　shadow；



cherished　or　hated　on　uncritical　grounds。　　Not　a　shred！　　Yet　the



sentiment　owned　to　is　not　a　freak　of　affectation　or　perversity。　



It　has　a　deeper；　and；　I　venture　to　think；　a　more　estimable　origin



than　the　caprice　of　emotional　lawlessness。　　It　is；　indeed；



lawful；　in　so　much　that　it　is　given　（reluctantly）　for　a



consideration；　for　several　considerations。　　There　is　that



robustness；　for　instance；　so　often　the　sign　of　good　moral



balance。　　That's　a　consideration。　　It　is　not；　indeed；　pleasant　to



be　stamped　upon；　but　the　very　thoroughness　of　the　operation；



implying　not　only　a　careful　reading；　but　some　real　insight　into



work　whose　qualities　and　defects；　whatever　they　may　be；　are　not



so　much　on　the　surface；　is　something　to　be　thankful　for　in　view



of　the　fact　that　it　may　happen　to　one's　work　to　be　condemned



without　being　read　at　all。　　This　is　the　most　fatuous　adventure



that　can　well　happen　to　a　writer　venturing　his　soul　among



criticisms。　　It　can　do　one　no　harm；　of　course；　but　it　is



disagreeable。　　It　is　disagreeable　in　the　same　way　as　discovering



a　three…card…trick　man　among　a　decent　lot　of　folk　in　a



third…class　compartment。　　The　open　impudence　of　the　whole



transaction；　appealing　insidiously　to　the　folly　and　credulity　of



man　kind；　the　brazen；　shamele