a mortal antipathy-第24章

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three　stories　annually：　that　makes　thirty…three。　　In　five　years　one　a

year；thirty…eight。　　That　is　all；　is　n't　it？　　Yes。　　Thirty…eight；

not　forty。　　I　wish　I　could　make　them　all　into　one　composite　story；　as

Mr。　Galton　does　his　faces。



〃Heroheroinemammapapaunclesister；　and　so　on。　　Love

obstaclesmiserytearsdespairglimmer　of　hopeunexpected

solution　of　difficultieshappy　finale。



〃Landscape　for　background　according　to　season。　　Plants　of　each　month

got　up　from　botanical　calendars。





〃I　should　like　much　to　see　the　composite　novel。　　Why　not　apply　Mr。

Galton's　process；　and　get　thirty…eight　stories　all　in　one？　　All　the

Yankees　would　resolve　into　one　Yankee；　all　the　P　West　Britons

into　one　Patrick；　etc。；　what　a　saving　of　time　it　would　be！



〃I　got　along　pretty　well　with　my　first　few　stories。　　I　had　some

characters　around　me　which；　a　little　disguised；　answered　well　enough。

There　was　the　minister　of　the　parish；　and　there　was　an　old

schoolmaster　either　of　them　served　very　satisfactorily　for

grandfathers　and　old　uncles。　　All　I　had　to　do　was　to　shift　some　of

their　leading　peculiarities；　keeping　the　rest。　　The　old　minister　wore

knee…breeches。　　I　clapped　them　on　to　the　schoolmaster。　　The

schoolmaster　carried　a　tall　gold…headed　cane。　　I　put　this　in　the

minister's　hands。　　So　with　other　things；I　shifted　them　round；　and

got　a　set　of　characters　who；　taken　together；　reproduced　the　chief

persons　of　the　village　where　I　lived；　but　did　not　copy　any　individual

exactly。　　Thus　it　went　on　for　a　while；　but　by　and　by　my　stock　company

began　to　be　rather　too　familiarly　known；　in　spite　of　their　change　of

costume；　and　at　last　some　altogether　too　sagacious　person　published

what　he　called　a　'key'　to　several　of　my　earlier　stories；　in　which　I

found　the　names　of　a　number　of　neighbors　attached　to　aliases　of　my

own　invention。　　All　the　'types；'　as　he　called　them；　represented　by

these　personages　of　my　story　had　come　to　be　recognized；　each　as

standing　for　one　and　the　same　individual　of　my　acquaintance。　　It　had

been　of　no　use　to　change　the　costume。　　Even　changing　the　sex　did　no

good。　　I　had　a　famous　old　gossip　in　one　of　my　tales；a　much…babbling

Widow　Sertingly。　　'Sho！'　they　all　said；　that　's　old　Deacon　Spinner；

the　same　he　told　about　in　that　other　story　of　his；only　the　deacon's

got　on　a　petticoat　and　a　mob…cap；but　it's　the　same　old　sixpence。'

So　I　said　to　myself；　I　must　have　some　new　characters。　　I　had　no

trouble　with　young　characters；　they　are　all　pretty　much　alike；dark…

haired　or　light…haired；　with　the　outfits　belonging　to　their

complexion；　respectively。　　I　had　an　old　great…aunt；　who　was　a　tip…top

eccentric。　　I　had　never　seen　anything　just　like　her　in　books。　　So　I

said；　I　will　have　you；　old　lady；　in　one　of　my　stories；　and；　sure

enough；　I　fitted　her　out　with　a　first…rate　odd…sounding　name；　which　I

got　from　the　directory；　and　sent　her　forth　to　the　world；　disguised；

as　I　supposed；　beyond　the　possibility　of　recognition。　　The　book　sold

well；　and　the　eccentric　personage　was　voted　a　novelty。　　A　few　weeks

after　it　was　published　a　lawyer　called　upon　me；　as　the　agent　of　the

person　in　the　directory；　whose　family　name　I　had　used；　as　he

maintained；　to　his　and　all　his　relatives'　great　damage；　wrong；　loss；

grief；　shame；　and　irreparable　injury；　for　which　the　sum　of　blank

thousand　dollars　would　be　a　modest　compensation。　　The　story　made　the

book　sell；　but　not　enough　to　pay　blank　thousand　dollars。　　In　the　mean

time　a　cousin　of　mine　had　sniffed　out　the　resemblance　between　the

character　in　my　book　and　our　great…aunt。　　We　were　rivals　in　her　good

graces。　　'Cousin　Pansie'　spoke　to　her　of　my　book　and　the　trouble　it

was　bringing　on　me；she　was　so　sorry　about　it！　　She　liked　my　story；

only　those　personalities；　you　know。　　'What　personalities？'　says　old

granny…aunt。　　'Why；　auntie；　dear；　they　do　say　that　he　has　brought　in

everybody　we　know；did　n't　anybody　tell　you　aboutwell；I　suppose

you　ought　to　know　it；did　n't　anybody　tell　you　you　were　made　fun　of

in　that　novel？'　　Somebodyno　matter　whohappened　to　hear　all　this；

and　told　me。　　She　said　granny…aunt's　withered　old　face　had　two　red

spots　come　to　it；　as　if　she　had　been　painting　her　cheeks　from　a　pink

saucer。　　No；　she　said；　not　a　pink　saucer；　but　as　if　they　were　two

coals　of　fire。　　She　sent　out　and　got　the　book；　and　made　her　（the

somebody　that　I　was　speaking　of）　read　it　to　her。　　When　she　had　heard

as　much　as　she　could　stand；for　'Cousin　Pansie'　explained　passages

to　her；explained；　you　know；she　sent　for　her　lawyer；　and　that　same

somebody　had　to　be　a　witness　to　a　new　will　she　had　drawn　up。　　It　was

not　to　my　advantage。　　'Cousin　Pansie'　got　the　corner　lot　where　the

grocery　is；　and　pretty　much　everything　else。　　The　old　woman　left　me　a

legacy。　　What　do　you　think　it　was？　　An　old　set　of　my　own　books；　that

looked　as　if　it　had　been　bought　out　of　a　bankrupt　circulating

library。



〃After　that　I　grew　more　careful。　　I　studied　my　disguises　much　more

diligently。　　But　after　all；　what　could　I　do？　　Here　I　was；　writing

stories　for　my　living　and　my　reputation。　　I　made　a　pretty　sum　enough；

and　worked　hard　enough　to　earn　it。　　No　tale；　no　money。　　Then　every

story　that　went　from　my　workshop　had　to　come　up　to　the　standard　of　my

reputation；　and　there　was　a　set　of　critics；there　is　a　set　of

critics　now　and　everywhere；that　watch　as　narrowly　for　the　decline

of　a　man's　reputation　as　ever　a　village　half　drowned　out　by　an

inundation　watched　for　the　falling　of　the　waters。　　The　fame　I　had

won；　such　as　it　was；　seemed　to　attend　me；not　going　before　me　in　the

shape　of　a　woman　with　a　trumpet；　but　rather　following　me　like　one　of

Actaeon's　hounds；　his　throat　open；　ready　to　pull　me　down　and　tear　me。

What　a　fierce　enemy　is　that　which　bays　behind　us　in　the　voice　of　our

proudest　bygone　achievement！



〃But；　as　I　said　above；　what　could　I　do？　　I　must　write　novels；　and　I

must　have　characters。　　'Then　why　not　invent　them？'　asks　some　novice。

Oh；　yes！　　Invent　them！　　You　can　invent　a　human　being　that　in　certain

aspects　of　humanity　will　answer　every　purpose　for　which　your

invention　was　intended。　　A　basket　of　straw；　an　old　coat　and　pair　of

breeches；　a　hat　which　has　been　soaked；　sat　upon；　stuffed　a　broken

window；　and　had　a　brood　of　chickens　raised　in　it；these　elements；

duly　adjusted　to　each　other；　will　represent　humanity　so　truthfully

that　the　crows　will　avoid　the　cornfield　when　your　scarecrow　displays

his　personality。　　Do　you　think　you　can　make　your　heroes　and

heroines；nay；　even　your　scrappy　supernumeraries；out　of　refuse

material；　as　you　made　your　scarecrow？　　You　can't　do　it。　　You　must

study　living　people　and　reproduce　them。　　And　whom　do　you　know　so　well

as　your　friends？　　You　will　show　up　your　friends；　then；　one　after

another。　　When　your　friends　give　out；　who　is　left　for　you？　　Why；

nobody　but　your　own　family；　of　course。　　When　you　have　used　up　your

family；　there　is　nothing　left　for　you　but　to　write　your

autobiography。



〃After　my　experience　with　my　grand…aunt；　I　be　came　more　cautious；

very　naturally。　　I　kept　traits　of　character；　but　I　mixed　ages　as　well

as　sexes。　　In　this　way　I　continued　to　use　up　a　large　amount　of

material；　which　looked　as　if　it　were　as　dangerous　as　dynamite　to

meddle　with。　　Who　would　have　expected　to　meet　my　maternal　uncle　in

the　guise　of　a　schoolboy？　　Yet　I　managed　to　decant　his

characteristics　as　nicely　as　the　old　gentleman　would　have　decanted　a

bottle　of　Juno　Madeira　through　that　long　siphon　which　he　always　used

when　the　most　sacred　vintages　were　summoned　from　their　crypts　to

render　an　account　of　themselves　on　his　hospitable　board。　　It　was　a

nice　business；　I　confess；　but　I　did　it；　and　I　drink　cheerfully　to

that　good　uncle's　memory　in　a　glass　of　wine　from　his　own　cellar；

which；　with　many　other　more　important　tokens　of　his　good　will；　I　call

my　own　since　his　lamented　demise。



〃I　succeeded　so　well　with　my　uncle　that　I　thought　I　would　try　a

course　of　cousins。　　I　had　enough　of　them　to　furnish　out　a　whole

gallery　of　portraits。