studies of lowell-第3章

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weightier　matters；　he　came　and　opened　his　door　to　me　himself；　welcoming
me　with　the　smile　that　was　like　no　other。　　Sometimes　he　said；　〃Siete　il
benvenuto；〃　or　used　some　other　Italian　phrase；　which　put　me　at　ease　with
him　in　the　region　where　we　were　most　at　home　together。

Looking　back　I　must　confess　that　I　do　not　see　what　it　was　he　found　to
make　him　wish　for　my　company；　which　he　presently　insisted　upon　having
once　a　week　at　dinner。　　After　the　meal　we　turned　into　his　study　where　we
sat　before　a　wood　fire　in　winter；　and　he　smoked　and　talked。　　He　smoked　a
pipe　which　was　always　needing　tobacco；　or　going　out；　so　that　I　have　the
figure　of　him　before　my　eyes　constantly　getting　out　of　his　deep　chair　to
rekindle　it　from　the　fire　with　a　paper　lighter。　　He　was　often　out　of　his
chair　to　get　a　book　from　the　shelves　that　lined　the　walls；　either　for　a
passage　which　he　wished　to　read；　or　for　some　disputed　point　which　he
wished　to　settle。　　If　I　had　caused　the　dispute；　he　enjoyed　putting　me　in
the　wrong；　if　he　could　not；　he　sometimes　whimsically　persisted　in　his
error；　in　defiance　of　all　authority；　but　mostly　he　had　such　reverence　for
the　truth　that　he　would　not　question　it　even　in　jest。

If　I　dropped　in　upon　him　in　the　afternoon　I　was　apt　to　find　him　reading
the　old　French　poets；　or　the　plays　of　Calderon；　or　the　'Divina　Commedia'；
which　he　magnanimously　supposed　me　much　better　acquainted　with　than　I　was
because　I　knew　some　passages　of　it　by　heart。　　One　day　I　came　in　quoting

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃Io　son；　cantava；　io　son　dolce　Sirena；
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Che　i　marinai　in　mezzo　al　mar　dismago。〃

He　stared　at　me　in　a　rapture　with　the　matchless　music；　and　then　uttered
all　his　adoration　and　despair　in　one　word。　　〃Damn！〃　he　said；　and　no　more。
I　believe　he　instantly　proposed　a　walk　that　day；　as　if　his　study　walls
with　all　their　vistas　into　the　great　literatures　cramped　his　soul
liberated　to　a　sense　of　ineffable　beauty　of　the　verse　of　the　'somma
poeta'。　　But　commonly　be　preferred　to　have　me　sit　down　with　him　there
among　the　mute　witnesses　of　the　larger　part　of　his　life。　　As　I　have
suggested　in　my　own　case；　it　did　not　matter　much　whether　you　brought
anything　to　the　feast　or　not。　　If　he　liked　you　he　liked　being　with　you；
not　for　what　he　got；　but　for　what　he　gave。　　He　was　fond　of　one　man　whom　I
recall　as　the　most　silent　man　I　ever　met。　　I　never　heard　him　say
anything；　not　even　a　dull　thing；　but　Lowell　delighted　in　him；　and　would
have　you　believe　that　he　was　full　of　quaint　humor。




V。

While　Lowell　lived　there　was　a　superstition；　which　has　perhaps　survived
him；　that　he　was　an　indolent　man；　wasting　himself　in　barren　studies　and
minor　efforts　instead　of　devoting　his　great　powers　to　some　monumental
work　worthy　of　them。　　If　the　robust　body　of　literature；　both　poetry　and
prose；　which　lives　after　him　does　not　yet　correct　this　vain　delusion；　the
time　will　come　when　it　must；　and　in　the　meantime　the　delusion　cannot　vex
him　now。　　I　think　it　did　vex　him；　then；　and　that　he　even　shared　it；　and
tried　at　times　to　meet　such　shadowy　claim　as　it　had。　　One　of　the　things
that　people　urged　upon　him　was　to　write　some　sort　of　story；　and　it　is
known　how　he　attempted　this　in　verse。　　It　is　less　known　that　he　attempted
it　in　prose；　and　that　he　went　so　far　as　to　write　the　first　chapter　of　a
novel。　　He　read　this　to　me；　and　though　I　praised　it　then；　I　have　a
feeling　now　that　if　he　had　finished　the　novel　it　would　have　been　a
failure。　　〃But　I　shall　never　finish　it；〃　he　sighed；　as　if　he　felt
irremediable　defects　in　it；　and　laid　the　manuscript　away；　to　turn　and
light　his　pipe。　　It　was　a　rather　old…fashioned　study　of　a　whimsical
character；　and　it　did　not　arrive　anywhere；　so　far　as　it　went；　but　I
believe　that　it　might　have　been　different　with　a　Yankee　story　in　verse
such　as　we　have　fragmentarily　in　'The　Nooning'　and　'FitzAdam's　Story'。
Still；　his　gift　was　essentially　lyrical　and　meditative；　with　the
universal　New　England　tendency　to　allegory。　　He　was　wholly　undramatic　in
the　actuation　of　the　characters　which　he　imagined　so　dramatically。　　He
liked　to　deal　with　his　subject　at　first　hand；　to　indulge　through　himself
all　the　whim　and　fancy　which　the　more　dramatic　talent　indulges　through
its　personages。

He　enjoyed　writing　such　a　poem　as　〃The　Cathedral；〃　which　is　not　of　his
best；　but　which　is　more　immediately　himself；　in　all　his　moods；　than　some
better　poems。　　He　read　it　to　me　soon　after　it　was　written；　and　in　the
long　walk　which　we　went　hard　upon　the　reading　（our　way　led　us　through　the
Port　far　towards　East　Cambridge；　where　he　wished　to　show　me　a　tupelo…tree
of　his　acquaintance；　because　I　said　I　had　never　seen　one）；　his　talk　was
still　of　the　poem　which　he　was　greatly　in　conceit　of。　　Later　his
satisfaction　with　it　received　a　check　from　the　reserves　of　other　friends
concerning　some　whimsical　lines　which　seemed　to　them　too　great　a　drop
from　the　higher　moods　of　the　piece。　　Their　reluctance　nettled　him；
perhaps　he　agreed　with　them；　but　he　would　not　change　the　lines；　and　they
stand　as　he　first　wrote　them。　　In　fact；　most　of　his　lines　stand　as　he
first　wrote　them；　he　would　often　change　them　in　revision；　and　then；　in　a
second　revision　go　back　to　the　first　version。

He　was　very　sensitive　to　criticism；　especially　from　those　he　valued
through　his　head　or　heart。　　He　would　try　to　hide　his　hurt；　and　he　would
not　let　you　speak　of　it；　as　though　your　sympathy　unmanned　him；　but　you
could　see　that　he　suffered。　　This　notably　happened　in　my　remembrance　from
a　review　in　a　journal　which　he　greatly　esteemed；　and　once　when　in　a
notice　of　my　own　I　had　put　one　little　thorny　point　among　the　flowers；　he
confessed　a　puncture　from　it。　　He　praised　the　criticism　hardily；　but　I
knew　that　he　winced　under　my　recognition　of　the　didactic　quality　which　he
had　not　quite　guarded　himself　against　in　the　poetry　otherwise　praised。
He　liked　your　liking；　and　he　openly　rejoiced　in　it；　and　I　suppose　he　made
himself　believe　that　in　trying　his　verse　with　his　friends　he　was　testing
it；　but　I　do　not　believe　that　he　was；　and　I　do　not　think　he　ever
corrected　his　judgment　by　theirs；　however　he　suffered　from　it。

In　any　matter　that　concerned　literary　morals　he　was　more　than　eager　to
profit　by　another　eye。　　One　summer　he　sent　me　for　the　Magazine　a　poem
which；　when　I　read　it；　I　trembled　to　find　；in　motive　almost　exactly　like
one　we　had　lately　printed　by　another　contributor。　　There　was　nothing　for
it　but　to　call　his　attention　to　the　resemblance；　and　I　went　over　to
Elmwood　with　the　two　poems。　　He　was　not　at　home；　and　I　was　obliged　to
leave　the　poems；　I　suppose　with　some　sort　of　note；　for　the　next　morning's
post　brought　me　a　delicious　letter　from　him；　all　one　cry　of　confession；
the　most　complete；　the　most　ample。　　He　did　not　trouble　himself　to　say
that　his　poem　was　an　unconscious　reproduction　of　the　other；　that　was　for
every　reason　unnecessary；　but　he　had　at　once　rewritten　it　upon　wholly
different　lines；　and　I　do　not　think　any　reader　was　reminded　of　Mrs。
Akers's　〃Among　the　Laurels〃　by　Lowell's　〃Foot…path。〃　　He　was　not　only
much　more　sensitive　of　others'　rights　than　his　own；　but　in　spite　of　a
certain　severity　in　him；　he　was　most　tenderly　regardful　of　their
sensibilities　when　he　had　imagined　them：　he　did　not　always　imagine　them。




VI。

At　this　period；　between　the　years　1866　and　1874；　when　he　unwillingly　went
abroad　for　a　twelvemonth；　Lowell　was　seen　in　very　few　Cambridge　houses；
and　in　still　fewer　Boston　houses。　　He　was　not　an　unsocial　man；　but　he　was
most　distinctly　not　a　society　man。　　He　loved　chiefly　the　companionship　of
books；　and　of　men　who　loved　books；　but　of　women　generally　he　had　an
amusing　diffidence；　he　revered　them　and　honored　them；　but　he　would　rather
not　have　had　them　about。　　This　is　over…saying　it；　of　course；　but　the
truth　is　in　what　I　say。　There　was　never　a　more　devoted　husband；　and　he
was　content　to　let　his　devotion　to　the　sex　end　with　that。　　He　especially
could　not　abide　difference　of　opinion　in　women；　he　valued　their　taste；
their　wit；　their　humor；　but　he　would　have　none　of　their　reason。　　I　was　by
one　day　when　he　was　arguing　a　point　with　one　of　his　nieces；　and　after　it
had　gone　on　for　some　time；　and　the　impartial　witness　must