the professor at the breakfast table-第42部分

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forehand；　light　in　the　hind…quarter。　　＇The　buffalo　is　the　lion　of

the　ruminants。＇　And　there　is　a　Norman　horse；　with　his　huge；　rough

collar；　echoing；　as　it　were；　the　natural　form　of　the　other　beast。

And　here　are　twisted　serpents；　and　stately　swans；　with　answering

curves　in　their　bowed　necks；　as　if　they　had　snake's　blood　under

their　white　feathers；　and　grave；　high…shouldered　herons　standing　on

one　foot　like　cripples；　and　looking　at　life　round　them　with　the　cold

stare　of　monumental　effigies。　A　very　odd　page　indeed！　　Not　a

creature　in　it　without　a　curve　or　a　twist；　and　not　one　of　them　a

mean　figure　to　look　at。　　You　can　make　your　own　comment；　I　am

fanciful；　you　know。　　I　believe　she　is　trying　to　idealize　what　we

vulgarly　call　deformity；　which　she　strives　to　look　at　in　the　light

of　one　of　Nature's　eccentric　curves；　belonging　to　her　system　of

beauty；　as　the　hyperbola；　and　parabola　belong　to　the　conic　sections；

though　we　cannot　see　them　as　symmetrical　and　entire　figures；　like

the　circle　and　ellipse。　　At　any　rate；　I　cannot　help　referring　this

paradise　of　twisted　spines　to　some　idea　floating　in　her　head

connected　with　her　friend　whom　Nature　has　warped　in　the　moulding。

That　is　nothing　to　another　transcendental　fancy　of　mine。　　I

believe　her　soul　thinks　itself　in　his　little　crooked　body　at　times；

if　it　does　not　really　get　freed　or　half　freed　from　her　own。　　Did

you　ever　see　a　case　of　catalepsy？　　You　know　what　I　mean；transient

loss　of　sense；　will；　and　motion；　body　and　limbs　taking　any　position

in　which　they　are　put；　as　if　they　belonged　to　a　lay…figure。　　She　had

been　talking　with　him　and　listening　to　him　one　day　when　the　boarders

moved　from　the　table　nearly　all　at　once。　　But　she　sat　as　before；　her

cheek　resting　on　her　hand；　her　amber　eyes　wide　open　and　still。　　I

went　to　her；　she　was　breathing　as　usual；　and　her　heart　was　beating

naturally　enough；but　she　did　not　answer。　　I　bent　her　arm；　it　was

as　plastic　as　softened　wag；　and　kept　the　place　I　gave　it。　This


will　never　do；　though；　and　I　sprinkled　a　few　drops　of　water　on　her

forehead。　　She　started　and　looked　round。　I　have　been　in　a　dream；

she　said；I　feel　as　if　all　my　strength　were　in　this　arm；give　me

your　hand！　She　took　my　right　hand　in　her　left；　which　looked　soft

and　white　enough；　butGood　Heaven！　　I　believe　she　will　crack　my

bones！　　All　the　nervous　power　in　her　body　must　have　flashed　through

those　muscles；　as　when　a　crazy　lady　snaps　her　iron　window…bars；she

who　could　hardly　glove　herself　when　in　her　common　health。　　Iris

turned　pale；　and　the　tears　came　to　her　eyes；she　saw　she　had　given

pain。　　Then　she　trembled；　and　might　have　fallen　but　for　me；the

poor　little　soul　had　been　in　one　of　those　trances　that　belong　to　the

spiritual　pathology　of　higher　natures；　mostly　those　of　women。



To　come　back　to　this　wondrous　book　of　Iris。　　Two　pages　faced　each

other　which　I　took　for　symbolical　expressions　of　two　states　of　mind。

On　the　left　hand；　a　bright　blue　sky　washed　over　the　page；　specked

with　a　single　bird。　　No　trace　of　earth；　but　still　the　winged

creature　seemed　to　be　soaring　upward　and　upward。　　Facing　it；　one　of

those　black　dungeons　such　as　Piranesi　alone　of　all　men　has　pictured。

I　am　sure　she　must　have　seen　those　awful　prisons　of　his；　out　of

which　the　Opium…Eater　got　his　nightmare　vision；　described　by　another

as　〃cemeteries　of　departed　greatness；　where　monstrous　and　forbidden

things　are　crawling　and　twining　their　slimy　convolutions　among

mouldering　bones；　broken　sculpture；　and　mutilated　inscriptions。〃

Such　a　black　dungeon　faced　the　page　that　held　the　blue　sky　and　the

single　bird；　at　the　bottom　of　it　something　was　coiled；what；　and

whether　meant　for　dead　or　alive；　my　eyes　could　not　make　out。



I　told　you　the　young　girl's　soul　was　in　this　book。　　As　I　turned　over

the　last　leaves　I　could　not　help　starting。　　There　were　all　sorts　of

faces　among　the　arabesques　which　laughed　and　scowled　in　the　borders

that　ran　round　the　pages。　　They　had　mostly　the　outline　of　childish

or　womanly　or　manly　beauty；　without　very　distinct　individuality。

But　at　last　it　seemed　to　me　that　some　of　them　were　taking　on　a　look

not　wholly　unfamiliar　to　me；　there　were　features　that　did　not　seem

new。　Can　it　be　so？　　Was　there　ever　such　innocence　in　a　creature　so

full　of　life？　　She　tells　her　heart's　secrets　as　a　three…years…old

child　betrays　itself　without　need　of　being　questioned！　　This　was　no

common　miss；　such　as　are　turned　out　in　scores　from　the　young…lady…

factories；　with　parchments　warranting　them　accomplished　and

virtuous；in　case　anybody　should　question　the　fact。　　I　began　to

understand　her；and　what　is　so　charming　as　to　read　the　secret　of　a

real　femme　incomprise？for　such　there　are；　though　they　are　not　the

ones　who　think　themselves　uncomprehended　women。



Poets　are　never　young；　in　one　sense。　　Their　delicate　ear　hears　the

far…off　whispers　of　eternity；　which　coarser　souls　must　travel

towards　for　scores　of　years　before　their　dull　sense　is　touched　by

them。　　A　moment's　insight　is　sometimes　worth　a　life's　experience。　　I

have　frequently　seen　children；　long　exercised　by　pain　and

exhaustion；　whose　features　had　a　strange　look　of　advanced　age。　　Too

often　one　meets　such　in　our　charitable　institutions。　　Their　faces

are　saddened　and　wrinkled；　as　if　their　few　summers　were　threescore

years　and　ten。



And　so；　many　youthful　poets　have　written　as　if　their　hearts　were　old

before　their　time；　their　pensive　morning　twilight　has　been　as　cool

and　saddening　as　that　of　evening　in　more　common　lives。　　The　profound

melancholy　of　those　lines　of　Shelley；



　　　　　〃I　could　lie　down　like　a　tired　child

　　　　　　And　weep　away　the　life　of　care

　　　　　　Which　I　have　borne　and　yet　must　bear　〃



came　from　a　heart；　as　he　says；　〃too　soon　grown　old；〃at　twenty…six

years；　as　dull　people　count　time；　even　when　they　talk　of　poets。



I　know　enough　to　be　prepared　for　an　exceptional　nature；only　this

gift　of　the　hand　in　rendering　every　thought　in　form　and　color；　as

well　as　in　words；　gives　a　richness　to　this　young　girl's　alphabet　of

feeling　and　imagery　that　takes　me　by　surprise。　　And　then　besides；

and　most　of　all；　I　am　puzzled　at　her　sudden　and　seemingly　easy

confidence　in　me。　　Perhaps　I　owe　it　to　myWell；　no　matter！　　How　one

must　love　the　editor　who　first　calls　him　the　venerable　So…and…So！



I　locked　the　book　and　sighed　as　I　laid　it　down。　　The　world　is

always　ready　to　receive　talent　with　open　arms。　　Very　often　it　does

not　know　what　to　do　with　genius。　　Talent　is　a　docile　creature。　　It

bows　its　head　meekly　while　the　world　slips　the　collar　over　it。　　It

backs　into　the　shafts　like　a　lamb。　　It　draws　its　load　cheerfully；

and　is　patient　of　the　bit　and　of　the　whip。　　But　genius　is　always

impatient　of　its　harness；　its　wild　blood　makes　it　hard　to　train。



Talent　seems；　at　first；　in　one　sense；　higher　than　genius；namely；

that　it　is　more　uniformly　and　absolutely　submitted　to　the　will；　and

therefore　more　distinctly　human　in　its　character。　　Genius；　on　the

other　hand；　is　much　more　like　those　instincts　which　govern　the

admirable　movements　of　the　lower　creatures；　and　therefore　seems　to

have　something　of　the　lower　or　animal　character。　　A　goose　flies　by　a

chart　which　the　Royal　Geographical　Society　could　not　mend。　　A　poet；

like　the　goose；　sails　without　visible　landmarks　to　unexplored

regions　of　truth；　which　philosophy　has　yet　to　lay　down　on　its　atlas。

The　philosopher　gets　his　track　by　observation；　the　poet　trusts　to

his　inner　sense；　and　makes　the　straighter　and　swifter　line。



And　yet；　to　look　at　it　in　another　light；　is　not　even　the　lowest

instinct　more　truly　divine　than　any　voluntary　human　act　done　by　the

suggestion　of　reason？　　What　is　a　bee's　architecture　but　an

unobstructed　divine　thought？what　is　a　builder's　approximative　rule

but　an　obstructed　thought　of　the　Creator；　a　mutilated　and　imperfect

copy　of　some　absolute　rule　Divine　Wisdom　has　established；

transmitted　through　a　human　soul　as　an　image　through　clouded　glass？



Talent　is　a　very　common　family…trait；　genius　belongs　rather　to

individuals；just　as　you　find　one　giant　or　one　dwarf　in　a　family；

but　rarely　a　whole　brood　of　either。　　Talent　is　often　to　be　envied；

and　genius　very　commonly　to　be　pitied。　　It　stands　twice　the　chance

of　the　other　of　dying　in　hospital；　in　jail；　in　debt；　in　bad　repute。

It　is　a　perpetual　insult　to　mediocrity；　its　every　word　is　a　trespass

against　somebody's　vested　ideas；blasphemy　against　somebody's　O'm；

or　intangible　private　truth。



What　is　the　use　of　my　weighing　out　antitheses　in　this　way；　like　a

rhetorical　grocer？You　know　twenty　men　of　talent；　who　are　making

their　way　in　the　world；　you　may；　perhaps；　know　one　man　of　genius；

and　very　likely　do　not　want　to　know　any　more。　　For　a　divine

instinct；　such　as　drives　the　goose　southward　and　the　poet

heavenward；　is　a　hard　thing　to　manage；　and　proves　too　strong　for

many　whom　it　possesses。　　It　must　have　been　a　terrible　thing　to　have

a　friend　like　Chatterton　or　Burns。　　And　here　is　a　being　who

certainly　has　more　than　talent；　at　once　poet　and　artist　in　tendency；

if　not　yet　fairly　developed；a　woman；　too；and　genius　grafted　on

womanhood　is　like　to　overgrow　it　and　break　its　stem；　as　you　may　see

a　grafted　fruit…tree　spreading　over　the　stock　which　cannot　keep　pace

with　its　evolution。



I　think　now　you　know　something　of　this　young　person。　　She　wants

nothing　but　an　atmosphere　to　expand　in。　　Now　and　then　one　meets　with

a　nature　for　which　our　hard；　practical　New　England　life　is　obviously

utterly　incompetent。　　It　comes　up；　as　a　Southern　seed；　dropped　by

accident　in　one　of　our　gardens；　finds　itself　trying　to　grow　and　blow

into　flower　among　the　homely　roots　and　the　hardy　shrubs　that

surround　it。　　There　is　no　question　that　certain　persons　who　are　born

among　us　find　themselves　many　degrees　too　far　north。　　Tropical　by

organization；　they　cannot　fight　for　life　with　our　eastern　and

northwestern　breezes　without　losing　the　color　and　fragrance　into

which　their　lives　would　have