the professor at the breakfast table-第38章

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with　milk…white　rays；　the　tall…stemmed　succory；　setting　its　pale

blue　flowers　aflame；　one　after　another；　sparingly；　as　the　lights　are

kindled　in　the　candelabra　of　decaying　palaces　where　the　heirs　of

dethroned　monarchs　are　dying　out；　the　red　and　white　clovers；　the

broad；　flat　leaves　of　the　plantain；〃the　white　man's　foot；〃　as　the

Indians　called　it；the　wiry；　jointed　stems　of　that　iron　creeping

plant　which　we　call　〃knot…grass；〃　and　which　loves　its　life　so　dearly

that　it　is　next　to　impossible　to　murder　it　with　a　hoe；　as　it　clings

to　the　cracks　of　the　pavement；all　these　plants；　and　many　more；　she

wove　into　her　fanciful　garlands　and　borders。　On　one　of　the　pages

were　some　musical　notes。　　I　touched　them　from　curiosity　on　a　piano

belonging　to　one　of　our　boarders。　　Strange！　　There　are　passages　that

I　have　heard　before；　plaintive；　full　of　some　hidden　meaning；　as　if

they　were　gasping　for　words　to　interpret　them。　　She　must　have　heard

the　strains　that　have　so　excited　my　curiosity；　coming　from　my

neighbor's　chamber。　　The　illuminated　border　she　had　traced　round　the

page　that　held　these　notes　took　the　place　of　the　words　they　seemed

to　be　aching　for。　　Above；　a　long　monotonous　sweep　of　waves；　leaden…

hued；　anxious　and　jaded　and　sullen；　if　you　can　imagine　such　an

expression　in　water。　　On　one　side　an　Alpine　needle；　as　it　were；　of

black　basalt；　girdled　with　snow。　　On　the　other　a　threaded　waterfall。

The　red　morning…tint　that　shone　in　the　drops　had　a　strange　look；

one　would　say　the　cliff　was　bleeding；perhaps　she　did　not　mean　it。

Below；　a　stretch　of　sand；　and　a　solitary　bird　of　prey；　with　his

wings　spread　over　some　unseen　object。　And　on　the　very　next　page　a

procession　wound　along；　after　the　fashion　of　that　on　the　title…page

of　Fuller's　〃Holy　War；〃　in　which　I　recognized　without　difficulty

every　boarder　at　our　table　in　all　the　glory　of　the　most　resplendent

caricaturethree　only　excepted；the　Little　Gentleman；　myself；　and

one　other。



I　confess　I　did　expect　to　see　something　that　would　remind　me　of　the

girl's　little　deformed　neighbor；　if　not　portraits　of　him。　There　is

a　left　arm　again；　though；no；that　is　from　the　〃Fighting

Gladiator；〃the　〃Jeune　Heros　combattant〃　of　the　Louvre；there　is　the

broad　ring　of　the　shield。　　From　a　cast；　doubtless。　　＇The　separate

casts　of　the　〃Gladiator's〃　arm　look　immense；　but　in　its　place　the

limb　looks　light；　almost　slender；such　is　the　perfection　of　that

miraculous　marble。　　I　never　felt　as　if　I　touched　the　life　of　the　old

Greeks　until　I　looked　on　that　statue。＇Here　is　something　very　odd；

to　be　sure。　　An　Eden　of　all　the　humped　and　crooked　creatures！　　What

could　have　been　in　her　head　when　she　worked　out　such　a　fantasy？　　She

has　contrived　to　give　them　all　beauty　or　dignity　or　melancholy

grace。　　A　Bactrian　camel　lying　under　a　palm。　　A　dromedary　flashing

up　the　sands；spray　of　the　dry　ocean　sailed　by　the　〃ship　of　the

desert。〃　　A　herd　of　buffaloes；　uncouth；　shaggy…maned；　heavy　in　the

forehand；　light　in　the　hind…quarter。　　＇The　buffalo　is　the　lion　of

the　ruminants。＇　And　there　is　a　Norman　horse；　with　his　huge；　rough

collar；　echoing；　as　it　were；　the　natural　form　of　the　other　beast。

And　here　are　twisted　serpents；　and　stately　swans；　with　answering

curves　in　their　bowed　necks；　as　if　they　had　snake's　blood　under

their　white　feathers；　and　grave；　high…shouldered　herons　standing　on

one　foot　like　cripples；　and　looking　at　life　round　them　with　the　cold

stare　of　monumental　effigies。　A　very　odd　page　indeed！　　Not　a

creature　in　it　without　a　curve　or　a　twist；　and　not　one　of　them　a

mean　figure　to　look　at。　　You　can　make　your　own　comment；　I　am

fanciful；　you　know。　　I　believe　she　is　trying　to　idealize　what　we

vulgarly　call　deformity；　which　she　strives　to　look　at　in　the　light

of　one　of　Nature's　eccentric　curves；　belonging　to　her　system　of

beauty；　as　the　hyperbola；　and　parabola　belong　to　the　conic　sections；

though　we　cannot　see　them　as　symmetrical　and　entire　figures；　like

the　circle　and　ellipse。　　At　any　rate；　I　cannot　help　referring　this

paradise　of　twisted　spines　to　some　idea　floating　in　her　head

connected　with　her　friend　whom　Nature　has　warped　in　the　moulding。

That　is　nothing　to　another　transcendental　fancy　of　mine。　　I

believe　her　soul　thinks　itself　in　his　little　crooked　body　at　times；

if　it　does　not　really　get　freed　or　half　freed　from　her　own。　　Did

you　ever　see　a　case　of　catalepsy？　　You　know　what　I　mean；transient

loss　of　sense；　will；　and　motion；　body　and　limbs　taking　any　position

in　which　they　are　put；　as　if　they　belonged　to　a　lay…figure。　　She　had

been　talking　with　him　and　listening　to　him　one　day　when　the　boarders

moved　from　the　table　nearly　all　at　once。　　But　she　sat　as　before；　her

cheek　resting　on　her　hand；　her　amber　eyes　wide　open　and　still。　　I

went　to　her；　she　was　breathing　as　usual；　and　her　heart　was　beating

naturally　enough；but　she　did　not　answer。　　I　bent　her　arm；　it　was

as　plastic　as　softened　wag；　and　kept　the　place　I　gave　it。　This


will　never　do；　though；　and　I　sprinkled　a　few　drops　of　water　on　her

forehead。　　She　started　and　looked　round。　I　have　been　in　a　dream；

she　said；I　feel　as　if　all　my　strength　were　in　this　arm；give　me

your　hand！　She　took　my　right　hand　in　her　left；　which　looked　soft

and　white　enough；　butGood　Heaven！　　I　believe　she　will　crack　my

bones！　　All　the　nervous　power　in　her　body　must　have　flashed　through

those　muscles；　as　when　a　crazy　lady　snaps　her　iron　window…bars；she

who　could　hardly　glove　herself　when　in　her　common　health。　　Iris

turned　pale；　and　the　tears　came　to　her　eyes；she　saw　she　had　given

pain。　　Then　she　trembled；　and　might　have　fallen　but　for　me；the

poor　little　soul　had　been　in　one　of　those　trances　that　belong　to　the

spiritual　pathology　of　higher　natures；　mostly　those　of　women。



To　come　back　to　this　wondrous　book　of　Iris。　　Two　pages　faced　each

other　which　I　took　for　symbolical　expressions　of　two　states　of　mind。

On　the　left　hand；　a　bright　blue　sky　washed　over　the　page；　specked

with　a　single　bird。　　No　trace　of　earth；　but　still　the　winged

creature　seemed　to　be　soaring　upward　and　upward。　　Facing　it；　one　of

those　black　dungeons　such　as　Piranesi　alone　of　all　men　has　pictured。

I　am　sure　she　must　have　seen　those　awful　prisons　of　his；　out　of

which　the　Opium…Eater　got　his　nightmare　vision；　described　by　another

as　〃cemeteries　of　departed　greatness；　where　monstrous　and　forbidden

things　are　crawling　and　twining　their　slimy　convolutions　among

mouldering　bones；　broken　sculpture；　and　mutilated　inscriptions。〃

Such　a　black　dungeon　faced　the　page　that　held　the　blue　sky　and　the

single　bird；　at　the　bottom　of　it　something　was　coiled；what；　and

whether　meant　for　dead　or　alive；　my　eyes　could　not　make　out。



I　told　you　the　young　girl's　soul　was　in　this　book。　　As　I　turned　over

the　last　leaves　I　could　not　help　starting。　　There　were　all　sorts　of

faces　among　the　arabesques　which　laughed　and　scowled　in　the　borders

that　ran　round　the　pages。　　They　had　mostly　the　outline　of　childish

or　womanly　or　manly　beauty；　without　very　distinct　individuality。

But　at　last　it　seemed　to　me　that　some　of　them　were　taking　on　a　look

not　wholly　unfamiliar　to　me；　there　were　features　that　did　not　seem

new。　Can　it　be　so？　　Was　there　ever　such　innocence　in　a　creature　so

full　of　life？　　She　tells　her　heart's　secrets　as　a　three…years…old

child　betrays　itself　without　need　of　being　questioned！　　This　was　no

common　miss；　such　as　are　turned　out　in　scores　from　the　young…lady…

factories；　with　parchments　warranting　them　accomplished　and

virtuous；in　case　anybody　should　question　the　fact。　　I　began　to

understand　her；and　what　is　so　charming　as　to　read　the　secret　of　a

real　femme　incomprise？for　such　there　are；　though　they　are　not　the

ones　who　think　themselves　uncomprehended　women。



Poets　are　never　young；　in　one　sense。　　Their　delicate　ear　hears　the

far…off　whispers　of　eternity；　which　coarser　souls　must　travel

towards　for　scores　of　years　before　their　dull　sense　is　touched　by

them。　　A　moment's　insight　is　sometimes　worth　a　life's　experience。　　I

have　frequently　seen　children；　long　exercised　by　pain　and

exhaustion；　whose　features　had　a　strange　look　of　advanced　age。　　Too

often　one　meets　such　in　our　charitable　institutions。　　Their　faces

are　saddened　and　wrinkled；　as　if　their　few　summers　were　threescore

years　and　ten。



And　so；　many　youthful　poets　have　written　as　if　their　hearts　were　old

before　their　time；　their　pensive　morning　twilight　has　been　as　cool

and　saddening　as　that　of　evening　in　more　common　lives。　　The　profound

melancholy　of　those　lines　of　Shelley；



　　　　　〃I　could　lie　down　like　a　tired　child

　　　　　　And　weep　away　the　life　of　care

　　　　　　Which　I　have　borne　and　yet　must　bear　〃



came　from　a　heart；　as　he　says；　〃too　soon　grown　old；〃at　twenty…six

years；　as　dull　people　count　time；　even　when　they　talk　of　poets。



I　know　enough　to　be　prepared　for　an　exceptional　nature；only　this

gift　of　the　hand　in　rendering　every　thought　in　form　and　color；　as

well　as　in　words；　gives　a　richness　to　this　young　girl's　alphabet　of

feeling　and　imagery　that　takes　me　by　surprise。　　And　then　besides；

and　most　of　all；　I　am　puzzled　at　her　sudden　and　seemingly　easy

confidence　in　me。　　Perhaps　I　owe　it　to　myWell；　no　matter！　　How　one

must　love　the　editor　who　first　calls　him　the　venerable　So…and…So！



I　locked　the　book　and　sighed　as　I　laid　it　down。　　The　world　is

always　ready　to　receive　talent　with　open　arms。　　Very　often　it　does

not　know　what　to　do　with　genius。　　Talent　is　a　docile　creature。　　It

bows　its　head　meekly　while　the　world　slips　the　collar　over　it。　　It

backs　into　the　shafts　like　a　lamb。　　It　draws　its　load　cheerfully；

and　is　patient　of　the　bit　and　of　the　whip。　　But　genius　is　always

impatient　of　its　harness；　its　wild　blood　makes　it　hard　to　train。



Talent　seems；　at　first；　in　one　sense；　higher　than　genius；namely；

that　it　is　more　uniformly　and　absolutely　submitted　to　the　will；　and

therefore　more　distinctly　human　in　its　character。　　Genius；　on　the

other　hand；　is　much　more　like　those　instincts　which　govern　the

admirable　movements　of　the　lower　creatures；　and　therefore　seems　to

have　something　of　the　lower　or　animal　character。　　A　goose　flies　by　a

chart　which　the　Royal　Geographical　Society　could　not　mend。　　A　poet；

like　the　goose；　sails　without　visible　landmarks　to　unexplored

regions　of　truth；　which　philosophy　has　yet　to　lay　down　on　its　atlas。

The　philosopher　gets　his　track　by　observation；　the　poet　trusts　to

his　inner　sense；　and　makes　the　straighter　and　swifter　line。



And　yet；　to　look　at　it　in　another　light；　is　not　even　the　lowest

instinct　more　truly　divine　than　any　voluntary　human　act　done　by　the

suggestion　of　reason？　　What　is　a　bee's　architecture　but　an

unobstructed　divine　thought？what　is　a　builder's　approximative　rule

but　an　obstructed　thought　of　the　Creator；　a　mutilated　and　imperfect

copy　of　some　absolute　rule　Divine　Wisdom　has　established；

transmitted　through　a　human　soul　as　an　image　through　clouded　glass？



Talent　is　a　very　common　family…trait；　genius