greville fane-第2部分

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remember　having　heard　with　wonder　and　envy　of　what　she　〃got；〃　in

those　days；　for　a　novel。　　The　revelation　gave　me　a　pang：　　it　was　such

a　proof　that；　practising　a　totally　different　style；　I　should　never

make　my　fortune。　　And　yet　when；　as　I　knew　her　better　she　told　me　her

real　tariff　and　I　saw　how　rumour　had　quadrupled　it；　I　liked　her

enough　to　be　sorry。　　After　a　while　I　discovered　too　that　if　she　got

less　it　was　not　that　_I_　was　to　get　any　more。　　My　failure　never　had

what　Mrs。　Stormer　would　have　called　the　banality　of　being　relative

it　was　always　admirably　absolute。　　She　lived　at　ease　however　in　those

daysease　is　exactly　the　word；　though　she　produced　three　novels　a

year。　　She　scorned　me　when　I　spoke　of　difficultyit　was　the　only

thing　that　made　her　angry。　　If　I　hinted　that　a　work　of　art　required　a

tremendous　licking　into　shape　she　thought　it　a　pretension　and　a　pose。

She　never　recognised　the　〃torment　of　form〃；　the　furthest　she　went　was

to　introduce　into　one　of　her　books　（in　satire　her　hand　was　heavy）　a

young　poet　who　was　always　talking　about　it。　　I　couldn't　quite

understand　her　irritation　on　this　score；　for　she　had　nothing　at　stake

in　the　matter。　　She　had　a　shrewd　perception　that　form；　in　prose　at

least；　never　recommended　any　one　to　the　public　we　were　condemned　to

address；　and　therefore　she　lost　nothing　（putting　her　private

humiliation　aside）　by　not　having　any。　　She　made　no　pretence　of

producing　works　of　art；　but　had　comfortable　tea…drinking　hours　in

which　she　freely　confessed　herself　a　common　pastrycook；　dealing　in

such　tarts　and　puddings　as　would　bring　customers　to　the　shop。　　She

put　in　plenty　of　sugar　and　of　cochineal；　or　whatever　it　is　that　gives

these　articles　a　rich　and　attractive　colour。　　She　had　a　serene

superiority　to　observation　and　opportunity　which　constituted　an

inexpugnable　strength　and　would　enable　her　to　go　on　indefinitely。　　It

is　only　real　success　that　wanes；　it　is　only　solid　things　that　melt。

Greville　Fane's　ignorance　of　life　was　a　resource　still　more　unfailing

than　the　most　approved　receipt。　　On　her　saying　once　that　the　day

would　come　when　she　should　have　written　herself　out　I　answered：　　〃Ah；

you　look　into　fairyland；　and　the　fairies　love　you；　and　THEY　never

change。　　Fairyland　is　always　there；　it　always　was　from　the　beginning

of　time；　and　it　always　will　be　to　the　end。　　They've　given　you　the　key

and　you　can　always　open　the　door。　　With　me　it's　different；　I　try；　in

my　clumsy　way；　to　be　in　some　direct　relation　to　life。〃　　〃Oh；　bother

your　direct　relation　to　life！〃　she　used　to　reply；　for　she　was　always

annoyed　by　the　phrasewhich　would　not　in　the　least　prevent　her　from

using　it　when　she　wished　to　try　for　style。　　With　no　more　prejudices

than　an　old　sausage…mill；　she　would　give　forth　again　with　patient

punctuality　any　poor　verbal　scrap　that　had　been　dropped　into　her。　　I

cheered　her　with　saying　that　the　dark　day；　at　the　end；　would　be　for

the　like　of　ME；　inasmuch　as；　going　in　our　small　way　by　experience　and

observation；　we　depended　not　on　a　revelation；　but　on　a　little

tiresome　process。　　Observation　depended　on　opportunity；　and　where

should　we　be　when　opportunity　failed？



One　day　she　told　me　that　as　the　novelist's　life　was　so　delightful　and

during　the　good　years　at　least　such　a　comfortable　support　（she　had

these　staggering　optimisms）　she　meant　to　train　up　her　boy　to　follow

it。　　She　took　the　ingenious　view　that　it　was　a　profession　like

another　and　that　therefore　everything　was　to　be　gained　by　beginning

young　and　serving　an　apprenticeship。　　Moreover　the　education　would　be

less　expensive　than　any　other　special　course；　inasmuch　as　she　could

administer　it　herself。　　She　didn't　profess　to　keep　a　school；　but　she

could　at　least　teach　her　own　child。　　It　was　not　that　she　was　so　very

clever；　but　（she　confessed　to　me　as　if　she　were　afraid　I　would　laugh

at　her）　that　HE　was。　　I　didn't　laugh　at　her　for　that；　for　I　thought

the　boy　sharpI　had　seen　him　at　sundry　times。　　He　was　well　grown　and

good…looking　and　unabashed；　and　both　he　and　his　sister　made　me　wonder

about　their　defunct　papa；　concerning　whom　the　little　I　knew　was　that

he　had　been　a　clergyman。　　I　explained　them　to　myself　by　suppositions

and　imputations　possibly　unjust　to　the　departed；　so　little　were　they…

…superficially　at　leastthe　children　of　their　mother。　　There　used　to

be；　on　an　easel　in　her　drawing…room；　an　enlarged　photograph　of　her

husband；　done　by　some　horrible　posthumous　〃process〃　and　draped；　as　to

its　florid　frame；　with　a　silken　scarf；　which　testified　to　the　candour

of　Greville　Fane's　bad　taste。　　It　made　him　look　like　an　unsuccessful

tragedian；　but　it　was　not　a　thing　to　trust。　　He　may　have　been　a

successful　comedian。　　Of　the　two　children　the　girl　was　the　elder；　and

struck　me　in　all　her　younger　years　as　singularly　colourless。　　She　was

only　very　long；　like　an　undecipherable　letter。　　It　was　not　till　Mrs。

Stormer　came　back　from　a　protracted　residence　abroad　that　Ethel

（which　was　this　young　lady's　name）　began　to　produce　the　effect；　which

was　afterwards　remarkable　in　her；　of　a　certain　kind　of　high

resolution。　　She　made　one　apprehend　that　she　meant　to　do　something

for　herself。　　She　was　long…necked　and　near…sighted　and　striking；　and

I　thought　I　had　never　seen　sweet　seventeen　in　a　form　so　hard　and　high

and　dry。　　She　was　cold　and　affected　and　ambitious；　and　she　carried　an

eyeglass　with　a　long　handle；　which　she　put　up　whenever　she　wanted　not

to　see。　　She　had　come　out；　as　the　phrase　is；　immensely；　and　yet　I

felt　as　if　she　were　surrounded　with　a　spiked　iron　railing。　　What　she

meant　to　do　for　herself　was　to　marry；　and　it　was　the　only　thing；　I

think；　that　she　meant　to　do　for　any　one　else；　yet　who　would　be

inspired　to　clamber　over　that　bristling　barrier？　　What　flower　of

tenderness　or　of　intimacy　would　such　an　adventurer　conceive　as　his

reward？



This　was　for　Sir　Baldwin　Luard　to　say；　but　he　naturally　never

confided　to　me　the　secret。　　He　was　a　joyless；　jokeless　young　man；

with　the　air　of　having　other　secrets　as　well；　and　a　determination　to

get　on　politically　that　was　indicated　by　his　never　having　been　known

to　commit　himselfas　regards　any　proposition　whateverbeyond　an

exclamatory　〃Oh！〃　　His　wife　and　he　must　have　conversed　mainly　in　prim

ejaculations；　but　they　understood　sufficiently　that　they　were　kindred

spirits。　　I　remember　being　angry　with　Greville　Fane　when　she

announced　these　nuptials　to　me　as　magnificent；　I　remember　asking　her

what　splendour　there　was　in　the　union　of　the　daughter　of　a　woman　of

genius　with　an　irredeemable　mediocrity。　　〃Oh！　he's　awfully　clever；〃

she　said；　but　she　blushed　for　the　maternal　fib。　　What　she　meant　was

that　though　Sir　Baldwin's　estates　were　not　vast　（he　had　a　dreary

house　in　South　Kensington　and　a　still　drearier　〃Hall〃　somewhere　in

Essex；　which　was　let）；　the　connection　was　a　〃smarter〃　one　than　a

child　of　hers　could　have　aspired　to　form。　　In　spite　of　the　social

bravery　of　her　novels　she　took　a　very　humble　and　dingy　view　of

herself；　so　that　of　all　her　productions　〃my　daughter　Lady　Luard〃　was

quite　the　one　she　was　proudest　of。　　That　personage　thought　her　mother

very　vulgar　and　was　distressed　and　perplexed　by　the　occasional

license　of　her　pen；　but　had　a　complicated　attitude　in　regard　to　this

indirect　connection　with　literature。　　So　far　as　it　was　lucrative　her

ladyship　approved　of　it；　and　could　compound　with　the　inferiority　of

the　pursuit　by　doing　practical　justice　to　some　of　its　advantages。　　I

had　reason　to　know　（my　reason　was　simply　that　poor　Mrs。　Stormer　told

me）　that　she　suffered　the　inky　fingers　to　press　an　occasional　bank…

note　into　her　palm。　　On　the　other　hand　she　deplored　the　〃peculiar

style〃　to　which　Greville　Fane　had　devoted　herself；　and　wondered　where

an　author　who　had　the　convenience　of　so　lady…like　a　daughter　could

have　picked　up　such　views　about　the　best　society。　　〃She　might　know

better；　with　Leolin　and　me；〃　Lady　Luard　had　been　known　to　remark；　but

it　appeared　that　some　of　Greville　Fane's　superstitions　were

incurable。　　She　didn't　live　in　Lady　Luard's　society；　and　the　best　was

not　good　enough　for　hershe　must　make　it　still　better。



I　could　see　that　this　necessity　grew　upon　her　during　the　years　she

spent　abroad；　when　I　had　glimpses　of　her　in　the　shifting　sojourns

that　lay　in　the　path　of　my　annual　ramble。　　She　betook　herself　from

Germany　to　Switzerland　and　from　Switzerland　to　Italy；　she　favoured

cheap　places　and　set　up　her　desk　in　the　smaller　capitals。　　I　took　a

look　at　her　whenever　I　could；　and　I　always　asked　how　Leolin　was

getting　on。　　She　gave　me　beautiful　accounts　of　him；　and　whenever　it

was　possible　the　boy　was　produced　for　my　edification。　　I　had　entered

from　the　first　into　the　joke　of　his　careerI　pretended　to　regard　him

as　a　consecrated　child。　　It　had　been　a　joke　for　Mrs。　Stormer　at

first；　but　the　boy　himself　had　been　shrewd　enough　to　make　the　matter

serious。　　If　his　mother　accepted　the　principle　that　the　intending

novelist　cannot　begin　too　early　to　see　life；　Leolin　was　not

interested　in　hanging　back　from　the　application　of　it。　　He　was　eager

to　qualify　himself；　and　took　to　cigarettes　at　ten；　on　the　highest

literary　grounds。　　His　poor　mother　gazed　at　him　with　extravagant　envy

and；　like　Desdemona；　wished　heaven　had　made　HER　such　a　man。　　She

explained　to　me　more　than　once　that　in　her　profession　she　had　found

her　sex　a　dreadful　drawback。　　She　loved　the　story　of　Madame　George

Sand's　early　rebellion　against　this　hindrance；　and　believed　that　if

she　had　worn　trousers　she　could　have　written　as　well　as　that　lady。

Leolin　had　for　the　career　at　least　the　qualification　of　trousers；　and

as　he　grew　older　he　recognised　its　importance　by　laying　in　an　immense

assortment。　　He　grew　up　in　gorgeous　apparel；　which　was　his　way　of

interpreting　his　mother's　system。　　Whenever　I　met　her　I　found　her

still　under　the　impression　that　she　was　carrying　this　system　out　and

that　Leolin's　training　was　bearing　fruit。　　She　was　giving　him

experience；　she　was　gi