a personal record-第27章

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daythe　litter　of　a　cruel　battle…field；　of　a　long；　long；　and



desperate　fray。　　Long！　　I　suppose　I　went　to　bed　sometimes；　and



got　up　the　same　number　of　times。　　Yes；　I　suppose　I　slept；　and　ate



the　food　put　before　me；　and　talked　connectedly　to　my　household　on



suitable　occasions。　　But　I　had　never　been　aware　of　the　even　flow



of　daily　life；　made　easy　and　noiseless　for　me　by　a　silent；



watchful；　tireless　affection。　　Indeed；　it　seemed　to　me　that　I　had



been　sitting　at　that　table　surrounded　by　the　litter　of　a



desperate　fray　for　days　and　nights　on　end。　　It　seemed　so；　because



of　the　intense　weariness　of　which　that　interruption　had　made　me



awarethe　awful　disenchantment　of　a　mind　realizing　suddenly　the



futility　of　an　enormous　task；　joined　to　a　bodily　fatigue　such　as



no　ordinary　amount　of　fairly　heavy　physical　labour　could　ever



account　for。　　I　have　carried　bags　of　wheat　on　my　back；　bent



almost　double　under　a　ship's　deck…beams；　from　six　in　the　morning



till　six　in　the　evening　（with　an　hour　and　a　half　off　for　meals）；



so　I　ought　to　know。







And　I　love　letters。　　I　am　jealous　of　their　honour　and　concerned



for　the　dignity　and　comeliness　of　their　service。　　I　was；　most



likely；　the　only　writer　that　neat　lady　had　ever　caught　in　the



exercise　of　his　craft；　and　it　distressed　me　not　to　be　able　to



remember　when　it　was　that　I　dressed　myself　last；　and　how。　　No



doubt　that　would　be　all　right　in　essentials。　　The　fortune　of　the



house　included　a　pair　of　gray…blue　watchful　eyes　that　would　see



to　that。　　But　I　felt；　somehow；　as　grimy　as　a　Costaguana　lepero



after　a　day's　fighting　in　the　streets；　rumpled　all　over　and



dishevelled　down　to　my　very　heels。　　And　I　am　afraid　I　blinked



stupidly。　　All　this　was　bad　for　the　honour　of　letters　and　the



dignity　of　their　service。　　Seen　indistinctly　through　the　dust　of



my　collapsed　universe；　the　good　lady　glanced　about　the　room　with



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