a death in the desert-第4章

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merely　an　ordinary　family　likeness　of　feature；　you　know；　but　a



sort　of　interchangeable　individuality；　the　suggestion　of　the



other　man's　personality　in　your　face　like　an　air　transposed　to



another　key。　　But　I'm　not　attempting　to　define　it；　it's　beyond



me；　something　altogether　unusual　and　a　triflewell；　uncanny；〃



she　finished；　laughing。







〃I　remember；〃　Everett　said　seriously；　twirling　the　pencil



between　his　fingers　and　looking；　as　he　sat　with　his　head　thrown



back；　out　under　the　red　window　blind　which　was　raised　just　a



little；　and　as　it　swung　back　and　forth　in　the　wind　revealed　the



glaring　panorama　of　the　deserta　blinding　stretch　of　yellow；



flat　as　the　sea　in　dead　calm；　splotched　here　and　there　with　deep



purple　shadows；　and；　beyond；　the　ragged…blue　outline　of　the



mountains　and　the　peaks　of　snow；　white　as　the　white　clouds〃I



remember；　when　I　was　a　little　fellow　I　used　to　be　very　sensitive



about　it。　I　don't　think　it　exactly　displeased　me；　or　that　I　would



have　had　it　otherwise　if　I　could；　but　it　seemed　to　me　like　a



birthmark；　or　something　not　to　be　lightly　spoken　of。　　People　were



naturally　always　fonder　of　Ad　than　of　me；　and　I　used　to　feel　the



chill　of　reflected　light　pretty　often。　　It　came　into　even　my



relations　with　my　mother。　　Ad　went　abroad　to　study　when　he　was



absurdly　young；　you　know；　and　mother　was　all　broken　up　over　it。　



She　did　her　whole　duty　by　each　of　us；　but　it　was　sort　of



generally　understood　among　us　that　she'd　have　made　burnt



offerings　of　us　all　for　Ad　any　day。　　I　was　a　little　fellow　then；



and　when　she　sat　alone　on　the　porch　in　the　summer　dusk　she　used



sometimes　to　call　me　to　her　and　turn　my　face　up　in　the　light　that



streamed　out　through　the　shutters　and　kiss　me；　and　then　I　always



knew　she　was　thinking　of　Adriance。〃







〃Poor　little　chap；〃　said　Katharine；　and　her　tone　was　a



trifle　huskier　than　usual。　　〃How　fond　people　have　always　been　of



Adriance！　　Now　tell　me　the　latest　news　of　him。　　I　haven't　heard；



except　through　the　press；　for　a　year　or　more。　　He　was　in　Algeria



then；　in　the　valley　of　the　Chelif；　riding　horseback　night　and　day



in　an　Arabian　costume；　and　in　his　usual　enthusiastic　fashion　he



had　quite　made　up　his　mind　to　adopt　the　Mohammedan　faith



and　become　as　nearly　an　Arab　as　possible。　　How　many　countries　and



faiths　has　be　adopted；　I　wonder？　　Probably　he　was　playing　Arab　to



himself　all　the　time。　　I　remember　he　was　a　sixteenth…century　duke



in　Florence　once　for　weeks　together。〃







〃Oh；　that's　Adriance；〃　chuckled　Everett。　　〃He　is　himself



barely　long　enough　to　write　checks　and　be　measured　for　his



clothes。　　I　didn't　hear　from　him　while　he　was　an　Arab；　I　missed



that。〃







〃He　was　writing　an　Algerian　suite　for　the　piano　then；　it



must　be　in　the　publisher's　hands　by　this　time。　　I　have　been　too



ill　to　answer　his　letter；　and　have　lost　touch　with　him。〃







Everett　drew　a　letter　from　his　pocket。　　〃This　came　about　a



month　ago。　　It's　chiefly　about　his　new　opera；　which　is　to　be



brought　out　in　London　next　winter。　　Read　it　at　your　leisure。〃







〃I　think　I　shall　keep　it　as　a　hostage；　so　that　I　may　be　sure



you　will　come　again。　　Now　I　want　you　to　play　for　me。　　Whatever



you　like；　but　if　there　is　anything　new　in　the　world；　in　mercy　let



me　hear　it。　　For　nine　months　I　have　heard　nothing　but　'The



Baggage　Coach　Ahead'　and　'She　Is　My　Baby's　Mother。'〃







He　sat　down　at　the　piano；　and　Katharine　sat　near　him；



absorbed　in　his　remarkable　physical　likeness　to　his　brother　and



trying　to　discover　in　just　what　it　consisted。　　She　told　herself



that　it　was　very　much　as　though　a　sculptor's　finished　work　had



been　rudely　copied　in　wood。　　He　was　of　a　larger　build　than



Adriance；　and　his　shoulders　were　broad　and　heavy；　while　those　of



his　brother　were　slender　and　rather　girlish。　　His　face　was　of　the



same　oval　mold；　but　it　was　gray　and　darkened　about　the　mouth　by



continual　shaving。　　His　eyes　were　of　the　same　inconstant　April



color；　but　they　were　reflective　and　rather　dull；　while　Adriance's



were　always　points　of　highlight；　and　always　meaning　another　thing



than　the　thing　they　meant　yesterday。　　But　it　was　hard　to　see　why



this　earnest　man　should　so　continually　suggest　that　lyric；



youthful　face　that　was　as　gay　as　his　was　grave。　　For　Adriance；



though　he　was　ten　years　the　elder；　and　though　his　hair　was



streaked　with　silver；　had　the　face　of　a　boy　of　twenty；　so　mobile



that　it　told　his　thoughts　before　he　could　put　them　into　words。



A　contralto；　famous　for　the　extravagance　of　her　vocal



methods　and　of　her　affections；　had　once　said　to　him　that　the



shepherd　boys　who　sang　in　the　Vale　of　Tempe　must　certainly　have



looked　like　young　Hilgarde；　and　the　comparison　had　been



appropriated　by　a　hundred　shyer　women　who　preferred　to　quote。











As　Everett　sat　smoking　on　the　veranda　of　the　InterOcean



House　that　night；　he　was　a　victim　to　random　recollections。　　His



infatuation　for　Katharine　Gaylord；　visionary　as　it　was；　had　been



the　most　serious　of　his　boyish　love　affairs；　and　had　long



disturbed　his　bachelor　dreams。　　He　was　painfully　timid　in



everything　relating　to　the　emotions；　and　his　hurt　had　withdrawn



him　from　the　society　of　women。　　The　fact　that　it　was　all　so　done



and　dead　and　far　behind　him；　and　that　the　woman　had　lived　her



life　out　since　then；　gave　him　an　oppressive　sense　of　age　and



loss。　　He　bethought　himself　of　something　he　had　read　about



〃sitting　by　the　hearth　and　remembering　the　faces　of　women　without



desire；〃　and　felt　himself　an　octogenarian。







He　remembered　how　bitter　and　morose　he　had　grown　during　his



stay　at　his　brother's　studio　when　Katharine　Gaylord　was　working



there；　and　how　he　had　wounded　Adriance　on　the　night　of　his　last



concert　in　New　York。　　He　had　sat　there　in　the　box　while　his



brother　and　Katharine　were　called　back　again　and　again　after　the



last　number；　watching　the　roses　go　up　over　the　footlights　until



they　were　stacked　half　as　high　as　the　piano；　brooding；　in　his



sullen　boy's　heart；　upon　the　pride　those　two　felt　in　each　other's



workspurring　each　other　to　their　best　and　beautifully



contending　in　song。　　The　footlights　had　seemed　a　hard；　glittering



line　drawn　sharply　between　their　life　and　his；　a　circle　of　flame



set　about　those　splendid　children　of　genius。　　He　walked　back　to



his　hotel　alone　and　sat　in　his　window　staring　out　on　Madison



Square　until　long　after　midnight；　resolving　to　beat　no　more　at



doors　that　he　could　never　enter　and　realizing　more　keenly　than



ever　before　how　far　this　glorious　world　of　beautiful　creations



lay　from　the　paths　of　men　like　himself。　　He　told　himself　that　he



had　in　common　with　this　woman　only　the　baser　uses　of　life。







Everett's　week　in　Cheyenne　stretched　to　three；　and　he　saw　no



prospect　of　release　except　through　the　thing　he　dreaded。　　The



bright；　windy　days　of　the　Wyoming　autumn　passed　swiftly。　　Letters



and　telegrams　came　urging　him　to　hasten　his　trip　to　the　coast；



but　he　resolutely　postponed　his　business　engagements。　　The



mornings　he　spent　on　one　of　Charley　Gaylord's　ponies；　or　fishing



in　the　mountains；　and　in　the　evenings　he　sat　in　his　room　writing



letters　or　reading。　　In　the　afternoon　he　was　usually　at　his　post



of　duty。　　Destiny；　he　reflected；　seems　to　have　very　positive



notions　about　the　sort　of　parts　we　are　fitted　to　play。　　The　scene



changes　and　the　compensation　varies；　but　in　the　end　we　usually



find　that　we　have　played　the　same　class　of　business　from　first　to



last。　　Everett　had　been　a　stopgap　all　his　life。　　He　remembered



going　through　a　looking　glass　labyrinth　when　he