the author of beltraffio-第2章
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asked me about his friend in America； about the length of my stay in
England； about the last news in London and the people I had seen
there； and I remember looking for the signs of genius in the very
form of his questions and thinking I found it。 I liked his voice as
if I were somehow myself having the use of it。
There was genius in his house too I thought when we got there； there
was imagination in the carpets and curtains； in the pictures and
books； in the garden behind it； where certain old brown walls were
muffled in creepers that appeared to me to have been copied from a
masterpiece of one of the pre…Raphaelites。 That was the way many
things struck me at that time； in Englandas reproductions of
something that existed primarily in art or literature。 It was not
the picture； the poem； the fictive page； that seemed to me a copy；
these things were the originals； and the life of happy and
distinguished people was fashioned in their image。 Mark Ambient
called his house a cottage； and I saw afterwards he was right for if
it hadn't been a cottage it must have been a villa； and a villa； in
England at least； was not a place in which one could fancy him at
home。 But it was； to my vision； a cottage glorified and translated；
it was a palace of art； on a slightly reduced scaleand might
besides have been the dearest haunt of the old English genius loci。
It nestled under a cluster of magnificent beeches； it had little
creaking lattices that opened out of； or into； pendent mats of ivy；
and gables； and old red tiles； as well as a general aspect of being
painted in water…colours and inhabited by people whose lives would go
on in chapters and volumes。 The lawn seemed to me of extraordinary
extent； the garden…walls of incalculable height； the whole air of the
place delightfully still； private； proper to itself。 〃My wife must
be somewhere about；〃 Mark Ambient said as we went in。 〃We shall
find her perhapswe've about an hour before dinner。 She may be in
the garden。 I'll show you my little place。〃
We passed through the house and into the grounds； as I should have
called them； which extended into the rear。 They covered scarce
three or four acres； but； like the house； were very old and crooked
and full of traces of long habitation； with inequalities of level and
little flights of stepsmossy and cracked were thesewhich
connected the different parts with each other。 The limits of the
place； cleverly dissimulated； were muffled in the great verdurous
screens。 They formed； as I remember； a thick loose curtain at the
further end； in one of the folds of which； as it were； we presently
made out from afar a little group。 〃Ah there she is！〃 said Mark
Ambient； 〃and she has got the boy。〃 He noted that last fact in a
slightly different tone from any in which he yet had spoken。 I
wasn't fully aware of this at the time； but it lingered in my ear and
I afterwards understood it。
〃Is it your son？〃 I inquired； feeling the question not to be
brilliant。
〃Yes； my only child。 He's always in his mother's pocket。 She
coddles him too much。〃 It came back to me afterwards toothe sound
of these critical words。 They weren't petulant； they expressed
rather a sudden coldness； a mechanical submission。 We went a few
steps further； and then he stopped short and called the boy；
beckoning to him repeatedly。
〃Dolcino； come and see your daddy！〃 There was something in the way
he stood still and waited that made me think he did it for a purpose。
Mrs。 Ambient had her arm round the child's waist； and he was leaning
against her knee； but though he moved at his father's call she gave
no sign of releasing him。 A lady； apparently a neighbour； was
seated near her； and before them was a garden…table on which a tea…
service had been placed。
Mark Ambient called again； and Dolcino struggled in the maternal
embrace； but； too tightly held； he after two or three fruitless
efforts jerked about and buried his head deep in his mother's lap。
There was a certain awkwardness in the scene； I thought it odd Mrs。
Ambient should pay so little attention to her husband。 But I
wouldn't for the world have betrayed my thought； and； to conceal it；
I began loudly to rejoice in the prospect of our having tea in the
garden。 〃Ah she won't let him come！〃 said my host with a sigh； and
we went our way till we reached the two ladies。 He mentioned my
name to his wife； and I noticed that he addressed her as 〃My dear；〃
very genially； without a trace of resentment at her detention of the
child。 The quickness of the transition made me vaguely ask myself
if he were perchance henpeckeda shocking surmise which I instantly
dismissed。 Mrs。 Ambient was quite such a wife as I should have
expected him to have； slim and fair； with a long neck and pretty eyes
and an air of good breeding。 She shone with a certain coldness and
practised in intercourse a certain bland detachment； but she was
clothed in gentleness as in one of those vaporous redundant scarves
that muffle the heroines of Gainsborough and Romney。 She had also a
vague air of race； justified by my afterwards learning that she was
〃connected with the aristocracy。〃 I have seen poets married to women
of whom it was difficult to conceive that they should gratify the
poetic fancywomen with dull faces and glutinous minds； who were
none the less； however； excellent wives。 But there was no obvious
disparity in Mark Ambient's union。 My hostessso far as she could
be called sodelicate and quiet； in a white dress； with her
beautiful child at her side； was worthy of the author of a work so
distinguished as 〃Beltraffio。〃 Round her neck she wore a black
velvet ribbon； of which the long ends； tied behind； hung down her
back； and to which； in front； was attached a miniature portrait of
her little boy。 Her smooth shining hair was confined in a net。 She
gave me an adequate greeting； and DolcinoI thought this small name
of endearment delightfultook advantage of her getting up to slip
away from her and go to his father； who seized him in silence and
held him high for a long moment； kissing him several times。
I had lost no time in observing that the child； not more than seven
years old； was extraordinarily beautiful。 He had the face of an
angelthe eyes； the hair； the smile of innocence； the more than
mortal bloom。 There was something that deeply touched； that almost
alarmed； in his beauty； composed； one would have said； of elements
too fine and pure for the breath of this world。 When I spoke to him
and he came and held out his hand and smiled at me I felt a sudden
strange pity for himquite as if he had been an orphan or a
changeling or stamped with some social stigma。 It was impossible to
be in fact more exempt from these misfortunes； and yet； as one kissed
him； it was hard to keep from murmuring all tenderly 〃Poor little
devil！〃 though why one should have applied this epithet to a living
cherub is more than I can say。 Afterwards indeed I knew a trifle
better； I grasped the truth of his being too fair to live； wondering
at the same time that his parents shouldn't have guessed it and have
been in proportionate grief and despair。 For myself I had no doubt
of his evanescence； having already more than once caught in the fact
the particular infant charm that's as good as a death…warrant。
The lady who had been sitting with Mrs。 Ambient was a jolly ruddy
personage in velveteen and limp feathers； whom I guessed to be the
vicar's wifeour hostess didn't introduce meand who immediately
began to talk to Ambient about chrysanthemums。 This was a safe
subject； and yet there was a certain surprise for me in seeing the
author of 〃Beltraffio〃 even in such superficial communion with the
Church of England。 His writings implied so much detachment from that
institution； expressed a view of life so profane； as it were； so
independent and so little likely in general to be thought edifying；
that I should have expected to find him an object of horror to vicars
and their ladiesof horror repaid on his own part by any amount of
effortless derision。 This proved how little I knew as yet of the
English people and their extraordinary ta
