按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
slaves。 He was thinking of the shame of our municipal corruptions； the
debased quality of our national statesmanship； the decadence of our whole
civic tone； rather than of the increasing disabilities of the hard…
working poor； though his heart when he thought of them was with them；
too； as it was in 〃the time when the slave would not let him sleep。〃
He spoke very rarely of those times； perhaps because their political and
social associations were so knit up with the saddest and tenderest
personal memories； which it was still anguish to touch。 Not only was he
〃not of the race
That hawk； their sorrows in the market place；〃
but so far as my witness went he shrank from mention of them。 I do not
remember hearing him speak of the young wife who influenced him so
potently at the most vital moment； and turned him from his whole
scholarly and aristocratic tradition to an impassioned championship of
the oppressed； and he never spoke of the children he had lost。 I recall
but one allusion to the days when he was fighting the anti…slavery battle
along the whole line； and this was with a humorous relish of his Irish
servant's disgust in having to wait upon a negro whom he had asked to his
table。
He was rather severe in his notions of the subordination his domestics
owed him。 They were 〃to do as they were bid；〃 and yet he had a
tenderness for such as had been any time with him； which was wounded when
once a hired man long in his employ greedily overreached him in a certain
transaction。 He complained of that with a simple grief for the man's
indelicacy after so many favors from him； rather than with any
resentment。 His hauteur towards his dependents was theoretic； his actual
behavior was of the gentle consideration common among Americans of good
breeding； and that recreant hired man had no doubt never been suffered to
exceed him in shows of mutual politeness。 Often when the maid was about
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 wa