a death in the desert-第6章

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〃Come；　come；〃　expostulated　Everett；　alarmed　at　her　excitement。　



〃Where　is　the　new　sonata？　　Let　him　speak　for　himself。〃







He　sat　down　at　the　piano　and　began　playing　the　first



movement；　which　was　indeed　the　voice　of　Adriance；　his　proper



speech。　　The　sonata　was　the　most　ambitious　work　he　had　done　up　to



that　time　and　marked　the　transition　from　his　purely　lyric　vein　to



a　deeper　and　nobler　style。　　Everett　played　intelligently　and　with



that　sympathetic　comprehension　which　seems　peculiar　to　a　certain



lovable　class　of　men　who　never　accomplish　anything　in　particular。　



When　he　had　finished　he　turned　to　Katharine。







〃How　he　has　grown！〃　she　cried。　　〃What　the　three　last　years　have



done　for　him！　　He　used　to　write　only　the　tragedies　of　passion；　but



this　is　the　tragedy　of　the　soul；　the　shadow　coexistent　with　the



soul。　　This　is　the　tragedy　of　effort　and　failure；　the　thing　Keats



called　hell。　　This　is　my　tragedy；　as　I　lie　here　spent　by　the



racecourse；　listening　to　the　feet　of　the　runners　as　they　pass　me。　



Ah；　God！　　The　swift　feet　of　the　runners！〃







She　turned　her　face　away　and　covered　it　with　her　straining



hands。　　Everett　crossed　over　to　her　quickly　and　knelt　beside　her。　



In　all　the　days　he　had　known　her　she　had　never　before；　beyond　an



occasional　ironical　jest；　given　voice　to　the　bitterness　of　her



own　defeat。　　Her　courage　had　become　a　point　of　pride　with　him；



and　to　see　it　going　sickened　him。







〃Don't　do　it；〃　he　gasped。　　〃I　can't　stand　it；　I　really



can't；　I　feel　it　too　much。　　We　mustn't　speak　of　that；　it's　too



tragic　and　too　vast。〃







When　she　turned　her　face　back　to　him　there　was　a　ghost　of　the　old；



brave；　cynical　smile　on　it；　more　bitter　than　the　tears　she　could



not　shed。　　〃No；　I　won't　be　so　ungenerous；　I　will　save　that　for　the



watches　of　the　night　when　I　have　no　better　company。　　Now　you　may



mix　me　another　drink　of　some　sort。　　Formerly；　when　it　was　not



if　I　should　ever　sing　Brunnhilde；　but　quite　simply　when　I



should　sing　Brunnhilde；　I　was　always　starving　myself　and



thinking　what　I　might　drink　and　what　I　might　not。　　But　broken　music



boxes　may　drink　whatsoever　they　list；　and　no　one　cares　whether　they



lose　their　figure。　　Run　over　that　theme　at　the　beginning　again。　



That；　at　least；　is　not　new。　　It　was　running　in　his　head　when　we



were　in　Venice　years　ago；　and　he　used　to　drum　it　on　his　glass　at



the　dinner　table。　　He　had　just　begun　to　work　it　out　when　the　late



autumn　came　on；　and　the　paleness　of　the　Adriatic　oppressed　him；



and　he　decided　to　go　to　Florence　for　the　winter；　and　lost　touch



with　the　theme　during　his　illness。　　Do　you　remember　those



frightful　days？　　All　the　people　who　have　loved　him　are　not　strong



enough　to　save　him　from　himself！　　When　I　got　word　from　Florence



that　he　had　been　ill　I　was　in　Nice　filling　a　concert　engagement。　



His　wife　was　hurrying　to　him　from　Paris；　but　I　reached　him　first。　



I　arrived　at　dusk；　in　a　terrific　storm。　　They　had　taken　an　old



palace　there　for　the　winter；　and　I　found　him　in　the　librarya



long；　dark　room　full　of　old　Latin　books　and　heavy　furniture　and



bronzes。　　He　was　sitting　by　a　wood　fire　at　one　end　of　the　room；



looking；　oh；　so　worn　and　pale！as　he　always　does　when　he　is　ill；



you　know。　　Ah；　it　is　so　good　that　you　do　know！　　Even



his　red　smoking　jacket　lent　no　color　to　his　face。　　His　first　words



were　not　to　tell　me　how　ill　he　had　been；　but　that　that　morning　he



had　been　well　enough　to　put　the　last　strokes　to　the　score　of　his



Souvenirs　d'Automne。　　He　was　as　I　most　like　to　remember　him：



so　calm　and　happy　and　tired；　not　gay；　as　he　usually　is；　but　just



contented　and　tired　with　that　heavenly　tiredness　that　comes　after



a　good　work　done　at　last。　　Outside；　the　rain　poured　down　in



torrents；　and　the　wind　moaned　for　the　pain　of　all　the　world　and



sobbed　in　the　branches　of　the　shivering　olives　and　about　the　walls



of　that　desolated　old　palace。　　How　that　night　comes　back　to　me！



There　were　no　lights　in　the　room；　only　the　wood　fire　which　glowed



upon　the　hard　features　of　the　bronze　Dante；　like　the　reflection　of



purgatorial　flames；　and　threw　long　black　shadows　about　us；　beyond



us　it　scarcely　penetrated　the　gloom　at　all；　Adriance　sat　staring　at



the　fire　with　the　weariness　of　all　his　life　in　his　eves；　and　of　all



the　other　lives　that　must　aspire　and　suffer　to　make　up　one　such



life　as　his。　　Somehow　the　wind　with　all　its　world…pain　had　got　into



the　room；　and　the　cold　rain　was　in　our　eyes；　and　the　wave　came　up



in　both　of　us　at　oncethat　awful；　vague；　universal　pain；　that



cold　fear　of　life　and　death　and　God　and　hopeand　we　were　like



two　clinging　together　on　a　spar　in　midocean　after　the　shipwreck



of　everything。　　Then　we　heard　the　front　door　open　with　a　great



gust　of　wind　that　shook　even　the　walls；　and　the　servants　came



running　with　lights；　announcing　that　Madam　had　returned；　'and　in



the　book　we　read　no　more　that　night。'〃







She　gave　the　old　line　with　a　certain　bitter　humor；　and　with



the　hard；　bright　smile　in　which　of　old　she　had　wrapped　her



weakness　as　in　a　glittering　garment。　　That　ironical　smile；　worn



like　a　mask　through　so　many　years；　had　gradually　changed　even　the



lines　of　her　face　completely；　and　when　she　looked　in　the　mirror



she　saw　not　herself；　but　the　scathing　critic；　the　amused　observer



and　satirist　of　herself。　　Everett　dropped　his　head　upon　his　hand



and　sat　looking　at　the　rug。　　〃How　much　you　have　cared！〃　he　said。







〃Ah；　yes；　I　cared；〃　she　replied；　closing　her　eyes　with　a



long…drawn　sigh　of　relief；　and　lying　perfectly　still；　she　went



on：　〃You　can't　imagine　what　a　comfort　it　is　to　have　you　know　how　I



cared；　what　a　relief　it　is　to　be　able　to　tell　it　to　someone。　　I



used　to　want　to　shriek　it　out　to　the　world　in　the　long　nights　when



I　could　not　sleep。　　It　seemed　to　me　that　I　could　not　die　with　it。　



It　demanded　some　sort　of　expression。　　And　now　that　you　know；　you



would　scarcely　believe　how　much　less　sharp　the　anguish　of　it　is。〃







Everett　continued　to　look　helplessly　at　the　floor。　　〃I　was



not　sure　how　much　you　wanted　me　to　know；〃　he　said。







〃Oh；　I　intended　you　should　know　from　the　first　time　I　looked



into　your　face；　when　you　came　that　day　with　Charley。　　I　flatter



myself　that　I　have　been　able　to　conceal　it　when　I　chose；　though　I



suppose　women　always　think　that。　　The　more　observing　ones　may



have　seen；　but　discerning　people　are　usually　discreet　and　often



kind；　for　we　usually　bleed　a　little　before　we　begin　to　discern。　



But　I　wanted　you　to　know；　you　are　so　like　him　that　it　is　almost



like　telling　him　himself。　　At　least；　I　feel　now　that　he　will　know



some　day；　and　then　I　will　be　quite　sacred　from　his　compassion；



for　we　none　of　us　dare　pity　the　dead。　　Since　it　was　what　my　life



has　chiefly　meant；　I　should　like　him　to　know。　　On　the　whole　I　am



not　ashamed　of　it。　　I　have　fought　a　good　fight。〃







〃And　has　he　never　known　at　all？〃　asked　Everett；　in　a　thick　voice。







〃Oh！　　Never　at　all　in　the　way　that　you　mean。　　Of　course；　he



is　accustomed　to　looking　into　the　eyes　of　women　and　finding　love



there；　when　he　doesn't　find　it　there　he　thinks　he　must　have　been



guilty　of　some　discourtesy　and　is　miserable　about　it。　　He　has　a



genuine　fondness　for　everyone　who　is　not　stupid　or　gloomy；　or　old



or　preternaturally　ugly。　　Granted　youth　and　cheerfulness；　and　a



moderate　amount　of　wit　and　some　tact；　and　Adriance　will　always　be



glad　to　see　you　coming　around　the　corner。　　I　shared　with　the



rest；　shared　the　smiles　and　the　gallantries　and　the　droll　little



sermons。　　It　was　quite　like