tea-table talk-第7部分

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　for　sweetness　and　for　peace。　　So　much　do　I　admire　the　poem；　I　naturally　feel　desire　and　curiosity　to　meet　its　author；　to　know　him。　I　should　delight；　drawing　him　aside　from　the　crowded　room；　to　grasp　him　by　the　hand；　to　say　to　him：　　'My　dearmy　very　dear　Mr。　Minor　Poet；　I　am　so　glad　to　meet　you！　　I　would　I　could　tell　you　how　much　your　beautiful　work　has　helped　me。　　This；　my　dear　sirthis　is　indeed　privilege！'　　But　I　can　picture　so　vividly　the　bored　look　with　which　he　would　receive　my　gush。　　I　can　imagine　the　contempt　with　which　he；　the　pure　liver；　would　regard　me　did　he　know　meme；　the　liver　of　the　fool's　hot　days。〃

〃A　short　French　story　I　once　read　somewhere；〃　I　said；　〃rather　impressed　me。　　A　poet　or　dramatistI　am　not　sure　whichhad　married　the　daughter　of　a　provincial　notary。　　There　was　nothing　particularly　attractive　about　her　except　her　dot。　　He　had　run　through　his　own　small　fortune　and　was　in　some　need。　　She　worshipped　him　and　was；　as　he　used　to　boast　to　his　friends；　the　ideal　wife　for　a　poet。　　She　cooked　admirablya　useful　accomplishment　during　the　first　half…　dozen　years　of　their　married　life；　and　afterwards；　when　fortune　came　to　him；　managed　his　affairs　to　perfection；　by　her　care　and　economy　keeping　all　worldly　troubles　away　from　his　study　door。　　An　ideal　Hausfrau；　undoubtedly；　but　of　course　no　companion　for　our　poet。　　So　they　went　their　ways；　till；　choosing　as　in　all　things　the　right　moment；　when　she　could　best　be　spared；　the　good　lady　died　and　was　buried。

〃And　here　begins　the　interest　of　the　story；　somewhat　late。　　One　article　of　furniture；　curiously　out　of　place　among　the　rich　appointments　of　their　fine　hotel；　the　woman　had　insisted　on　retaining；　a　heavy；　clumsily　carved　oak　desk　her　father　had　once　used　in　his　office；　and　which　he　had　given　to　her　for　her　own　as　a　birthday　present　back　in　the　days　of　her　teens。

〃You　must　read　the　story　for　yourselves　if　you　would　enjoy　the　subtle　sadness　that　surrounds　it；　the　delicate　aroma　of　regret　through　which　it　moves。　　The　husband　finding　after　some　little　difficulty　the　right　key；　fits　it　into　the　lock　of　the　bureau。　　As　a　piece　of　furniture；　plain；　solid；　squat；　it　has　always　jarred　upon　his　artistic　sense。　　She　too；　his　good；　affectionate　Sara；　had　been　plain；　solid；　a　trifle　squat。　　Perhaps　that　was　why　the　poor　woman　had　clung　so　obstinately　to　the　one　thing　in　the　otherwise　perfect　house　that　was　quite　out　of　place　there。　　Ah；　well！　she　is　gone　now；　the　good　creature。　　And　the　bureauno；　the　bureau　shall　remain。　Nobody　will　need　to　come　into　this　room；　no　one　ever　did　come　there　but　the　woman　herself。　　Perhaps　she　had　not　been　altogether　so　happy　as　she　might　have　been。　　A　husband　less　intellectualone　from　whom　she　would　not　have　lived　so　far　apartone　who　could　have　entered　into　her　simple；　commonplace　life！　it　might　have　been　better　for　both　of　them。　　He　draws　down　the　lid；　pulls　out　the　largest　drawer。　It　is　full　of　manuscripts；　folded　and　tied　neatly　with　ribbons　once　gay；　now　faded。　　He　thinks　at　first　they　are　his　own　writings　things　begun　and　discarded；　reserved　by　her　with　fondness。　　She　thought　so　much　of　him；　the　good　soul！　Really；　she　could　not　have　been　so　dull　as　he　had　deemed　her。　　The　power　to　appreciate　rightly…　…this；　at　least；　she　must　have　possessed。　　He　unties　the　ribbon。　No；　the　writing　is　her　own；　corrected；　altered；　underlined。　　He　opens　a　second；　a　third。　　Then　with　a　smile　he　sits　down　to　read。　What　can　they　be　like；　these　poems；　these　stories？　　He　laughs；　smoothing　the　crumpled　paper；　foreseeing　the　trite　commonness；　the　shallow　sentiment。　　The　poor　child！　　So　she　likewise　would　have　been　a　litterateure。　　Even　she　had　her　ambition；　her　dream。

〃The　sunshine　climbs　the　wall　behind　him；　creeps　stealthily　across　the　ceiling　of　the　room；　slips　out　softly　by　the　window；　leaving　him　alone。　　All　these　years　he　had　been　living　with　a　fellow　poet。　　They　should　have　been　comrades；　and　they　had　never　spoken。　　Why　had　she　hidden　herself？　　Why　had　she　left　him；　never　revealing　herself？　Years　ago；　when　they　were　first　marriedhe　remembers　nowshe　had　slipped　little　blue…bound　copy…books　into　his　pocket；　laughing；　blushing；　asking　him　to　read　them。　　How　could　he　have　guessed？　　Of　course；　he　had　forgotten　them。　　Later；　they　had　disappeared　again；　it　had　never　occurred　to　him　to　think。　　Often　in　the　earlier　days　she　had　tried　to　talk　to　him　about　his　work。　　Had　he　but　looked　into　her　eyes；　he　might　have　understood。　　But　she　had　always　been　so　homely…seeming；　so　good。　　Who　would　have　suspected？　　Then　suddenly　the　blood　rushes　into　his　face。　　What　must　have　been　her　opinion　of　his　work？　　All　these　years　he　had　imagined　her　the　amazed　devotee；　uncomprehending　but　admiring。　　He　had　read　to　her　at　times；　comparing　himself　the　while　with　Moliere　reading　to　his　cook。　　What　right　had　she　to　play　this　trick　upon　him？　　The　folly　of　it！　　The　pity　of　it！　　He　would　have　been　so　glad　of　her。〃

〃What　becomes；　I　wonder；〃　mused　the　Philosopher；　〃of　the　thoughts　that　are　never　spoken？　　We　know　that　in　Nature　nothing　is　wasted；　the　very　cabbage　is　immortal；　living　again　in　altered　form。　　A　thought　published　or　spoken　we　can　trace；　but　such　must　only　be　a　small　percentage。　　It　often　occurs　to　me　walking　down　the　street。　Each　man　and　woman　that　I　pass　by；　each　silently　spinning　his　silken　thought；　short　or　long；　fine　or　coarse。　　What　becomes　of　it？〃

〃I　heard　you　say　once；〃　remarked　the　Old　Maid　to　the　Minor　Poet；　〃that　'thoughts　are　in　the　air；'　that　the　poet　but　gathers　them　as　a　child　plucks　wayside　blossoms　to　shape　them　into　nosegays。〃

〃It　was　in　confidence；〃　replied　the　Minor　Poet。　　〃Please　do　not　let　it　get　about；　or　my　publisher　will　use　it　as　an　argument　for　cutting　down　my　royalties。〃

〃I　have　always　remembered　it；〃　answered　the　Old　Maid。　　〃It　seemed　so　true。　　A　thought　suddenly　comes　to　you。　　I　think　of　them　sometimes；　as　of　little　motherless　babes　creeping　into　our　brains　for　shelter。〃

〃It　is　a　pretty　idea；〃　mused　the　Minor　Poet。　　〃I　shall　see　them　in　the　twilight：　　pathetic　little　round…eyed　things　of　goblin　shape；　dimly　luminous　against　the　darkening　air。　　Whence　come　you；　little　tender　Thought；　tapping　at　my　brain？　　From　the　lonely　forest；　where　the　peasant　mother　croons　above　the　cradle　while　she　knits？　　Thought　of　Love　and　Longing：　　lies　your　gallant　father　with　his　boyish　eyes　unblinking　underneath　some　tropic　sun？　　Thought　of　Life　and　Thought　of　Death：　　are　you　of　patrician　birth；　cradled　by　some　high…born　maiden；　pacing　slowly　some　sweet　garden？　　Or　did　you　spring　to　life　amid　the　din　of　loom　or　factory？　　Poor　little　nameless　foundlings！　I　shall　feel　myself　in　future　quite　a　philanthropist；　taking　them　in；　adopting　them。〃

〃You　have　not　yet　decided；〃　reminded　him　the　Woman　of　the　World；　〃which　you　really　are：　　the　gentleman　we　get　for　three　and　sixpence　net；　or　the　one　we　are　familiar　with；　the　one　we　get　for　nothing。〃

〃Please　don't　think　I　am　suggesting　any　comparison；〃　continued　the　Woman　of　the　World；　〃but　I　have　been　interested　in　the　question　since　George　joined　a　Bohemian　club　and　has　taken　to　bringing　down　minor　celebrities　from　Saturday　to　Monday。　　I　hope　I　am　not　narrow…　minded；　but　there　is　one　gentleman　I　have　been　compelled　to　put　my　foot　down　on。〃

〃I　really　do　not　think　he　will　complain；〃　I　interrupted。　　The　Woman　of　the　World　possesses；　I　should　explain；　the　daintiest　of　feet。

〃It　is　heavier　than　you　think；〃　replied　the　Woman　of　the　World。　〃George　persists　I　ought　to　put　up　with　him　because　he　is　a　true　poet。　　I　cannot　admit　the　argument。　　The　poet　I　honestly　admire。　　I　like　to　have　him　about　the　place。　　He　lies　on　my　drawing…room　table　in　white　vellum；　and　helps　to　give　tone　to　the　room。　　For　the　poet　I　am　quite　prepared　to　pay　the　four…and…six　demanded；　the　man　I　don't　want。　　To　be　candid；　he　is　not　worth　his　own　discount。〃

〃It　is　hardly　fair；〃　urged　the　Minor　Poet；　〃to　confine　the　discussion　to　poets。　　A　friend　of　mine　some　years　ago　married　one　of　the　most　charming　women　in　New　York；　and　that　is　saying　a　good　deal。　Everybody　congratulated　him；　and　at　the　outset　he　was　pleased　enough　with　himself。　　I　met　him　two　years　later　in　Geneva；　and　we　travelled　together　as　far　as　Rome。　　He　and　his　wife　scarcely　spoke　to　one　another　the　whole　journey；　and　before　I　left　him　he　was　good　enough　to　give　me　advice　which　to　another　man　might　be　useful。　　'Never　marry　a　charming　woman；'　he　counselled　me。　　'Anything　more　unutterably　dull　than　〃the　charming　woman〃　outside　business　hours　you　cannot　conceive。'〃

〃I　think　we　must　agree　to　regard　the　preacher；〃　concluded　the　Philosopher；　〃merely　as　a　brother　artist。　　The　singer　may　be　a　heavy；　fleshy　man　with　a　taste　for　beer；　but　his　voice　stirs　our　souls。　　The　preacher　holds　aloft　his　banner　of　purity。　　He　waves　it　over　his　own　head　as　much　as　over　the　heads　of　those　around　him。　　He　does　not　cry　with　the　Master；　'Come　to　Me；'　but　'Come　with　me；　and　be　saved。'　　The　prayer　'Forgive　them'　was　the　prayer　not　of　the　Priest；　but　of　the　God。　　The　prayer　dictated　to　the　Disciples　was　'Forgive　us；'　'Deliver　us。'　　Not　that　he　should　be　braver；　not　that　he　should　be　stronger　than　they　that　press　behind　him；　is　needed　of　the　leader；　but　that　he　should　know　the　way。　　He；　too；　may　faint；　he；　too；　may　fall；　only　he　alone　must　never　turn　his　back。〃

〃It　is　quite　comprehensible；　looked　at　from　one　point　of　view；〃　remarked　the　Minor　Poet；　〃that　he　who　gives　most　to　others　should　himself　be　weak。　　The　professional　athlete　pays；　I　believe；　the　price　of　central　weakness。　　It　is　a　theory　of　mine　that　the　charming；　delightful　people　one　meets　with　in　society　are　people　who　have　dishonestly　kept　to　themselves　gifts　entrusted　to　them　by　Nature　for　the　benefit　of　the　whole　community。　　Your　conscientious；　hard…working　humorist　is　in　private　life　a　dull　dog。　　The　dishonest　trustee　of　laughter；　on　the　other　hand；　robbing　the　world　of　wit　bestowed　upon　him　for　public　purposes；　becomes　a　brilliant　conversationalist。〃

〃But；〃　added　the　Minor　Poet；　turning　to　me；　〃you　were　speaking　of　a　man　named　Longrush；　a　great　talker。〃

〃A　long　talker；〃　I　corrected。　　〃My　cousin　mentioned　him　third　in　her　list　of　invitations。　　'Longrush；'　she　said　with　conviction；　'we　must　have　Longrush。'　　'Isn't　he　rather　tiresome？'　I　suggested。　　'He　is　tireso