a first family of tasajara-第25节

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！



looking　in　his　face　with　an　expression　of　unfeigned　concern；　〃you

were　at　work　of　some　kind；　I　know；　and　I　have　very　selfishly

thought　only　of　myself。　　But　the　whole　scene　was　so　new　to　me；　and

I　so　rarely　meet　any　one　who　sees　things　as　I　do；　that　I　know　you

will　forgive　me。〃　　She　bent　her　eyes　upon　him　with　a　certain　soft

timidity。　　〃You　are　an　artist？〃



〃I　am　afraid　not；〃　he　said；　coloring　and　smiling　faintly；　〃I　don't

think　I　could　draw　a　straight　line。〃



〃Don't　try　to；　they're　not　pretty；　and　the　mere　ability　to　draw

them　straight　or　curved　doesn't　make　an　artist。　　But　you　are　a

LOVER　of　nature；　I　know；　and　from　what　I　have　heard　you　say　I

believe　you　can　do　what　lovers　cannot　do；make　others　feel　as　they

do；and　that　is　what　I　call　being　an　artist。　　You　write？　　You　are

a　poet？〃



〃Oh　dear；　no；〃　he　said　with　a　smile；　half　of　relief　and　half　of

naive　superiority；　〃I'm　a　prose　writeron　a　daily　newspaper。〃



To　his　surprise　she　was　not　disconcerted；　rather　a　look　of

animation　lit　up　her　face　as　she　said　brightly；　〃Oh；　then；　you　can

of　course　satisfy　my　curiosity　about　something。　　You　know　the　road

from　San　Francisco　to　the　Cliff　House。　　Except　for　the　view　of　the

sea…lions　when　one　gets　there　it's　stupid；　my　brother　says　it's

like　all　the　San　Francisco　excursions；a　dusty　drive　with　a　julep

at　the　end　of　it。　　Well；　one　day　we　were　coming　back　from　a　drive

there；　and　when　we　were　beginning　to　wind　along　the　brow　of　that

dreadful　staring　Lone　Mountain　Cemetery；　I　said　I　would　get　out　and

walk；　and　avoid　the　obtrusive　glitter　of　those　tombstones　rising

before　me　all　the　way。　　I　pushed　open　a　little　gate　and　passed　in。

Once　among　these　funereal　shrubs　and　cold　statuesque　lilies

everything　was　changed；　I　saw　the　staring　tombstones　no　longer；

for；　like　them；　I　seemed　to　be　always　facing　the　sea。　　The　road　had

vanished；　everything　had　vanished　but　the　endless　waste　of　ocean

below　me；　and　the　last　slope　of　rock　and　sand。　　It　seemed　to　be　the

fittest　place　for　a　cemetery；this　end　of　the　crumbling　earth；

this　beginning　of　the　eternal　sea。　　There！　don't　think　that　idea　my

own；　or　that　I　thought　of　it　then。　　No；I　read　it　all　afterwards；

and　that's　why　I'm　telling　you　this。〃



She　could　not　help　smiling　at　his　now　attentive　face；　and　went　on：

〃Some　days　afterwards　I　got　hold　of　a　newspaper　four　or　six　months

old；　and　there　was　a　description　of　all　that　I　thought　I　had　seen

and　felt；only　far　more　beautiful　and　touching；　as　you　shall　see；

for　I　cut　it　out　of　the　paper　and　have　kept　it。　　It　seemed　to　me

that　it　must　be　some　personal　experience；as　if　the　writer　had

followed　some　dear　friend　there；although　it　was　with　the

unostentation　and　indefiniteness　of　true　and　delicate　feeling。　　It

impressed　me　so　much　that　I　went　back　there　twice　or　thrice；　and

always　seemed　to　move　to　the　rhythm　of　that　beautiful　funeral

marchand　I　am　afraid；　being　a　woman；　that　I　wandered　around　among

the　graves　as　though　I　could　find　out　who　it　was　that　had　been　sung

so　sweetly；　and　if　it　were　man　or　woman。　　I've　got　it　here；〃　she

said；　taking　a　dainty　ivory　porte…monnaie　from　her　pocket　and

picking　out　with　two　slim　finger…tips　a　folded　slip　of　newspaper；

〃and　I　thought　that　maybe　you　might　recognize　the　style　of　the

writer；　and　perhaps　know　something　of　his　history。　　For　I　believe

he　has　one。　　There！　that　is　only　a　part　of　the　article；　of　course；

but　it　is　the　part　that　interested　me。　　Just　read　from　there；〃　she

pointed；　leaning　partly　over　his　shoulder　so　that　her　soft　breath

stirred　his　hair；　〃to　the　end；　it　isn't　long。〃



In　the　film　that　seemed　to　come　across　his　eyes；　suddenly　the　print

appeared　blurred　and　indistinct。　　But　he　knew　that　she　had　put　into

his　hand　something　he　had　written　after　the　death　of　his　wife；

something　spontaneous　and　impulsive；　when　her　loss　still　filled　his

days　and　nights　and　almost　unconsciously　swayed　his　pen。　　He

remembered　that　his　eyes　had　been　as　dim　when　he　wrote　itand　now

handed　to　him　by　this　smiling；　well…to…do　woman；　he　was　as　shocked

at　first　as　if　he　had　suddenly　found　her　reading　his　private

letters。　　This　was　followed　by　a　sudden　sense　of　shame　that　he　had

ever　thus　publicly　bared　his　feelings；　and　then　by　the　illogical

but　irresistible　conviction　that　it　was　false　and　stupid。　　The　few

phrases　she　had　pointed　out　appeared　as　cheap　and　hollow　rhetoric

amid　the　surroundings　of　their　social　tete…a…tete　over　the

luncheon…table。　　There　was　small　danger　that　this　heady　wine　of

woman's　praise　would　make　him　betray　himself；　there　was　no　sign　of

gratified　authorship　in　his　voice　as　he　quietly　laid　down　the　paper

and　said　dryly：　〃I　am　afraid　I　can't　help　you。　　You　know　it　may　be

purely　fanciful。〃



〃I　don't　think　so；〃　said　Mrs。　Ashwood　thoughtfully。　　〃At　the　same

time　it　doesn't　strike　me　as　a　very　abiding　grief　for　that　very

reason。　　It's　TOO　sympathetic。　　It　strikes　me　that　it　might　be　the

first　grief　of　some　one　too　young　to　be　inured　to　sorrow　or

experienced　enough　to　accept　it　as　the　common　lot。　　But　like　all

youthful　impressions　it　is　very　sincere　and　true　while　it　lasts。　　I

don't　know　whether　one　gets　anything　more　real　when　one　gets

older。〃



With　an　insincerity　he　could　not　account　for；　he　now　felt　inclined

to　defend　his　previous　sentiment；　although　all　the　while　conscious

of　a　certain　charm　in　his　companion's　graceful　skepticism。　　He　had

in　his　truthfulness　and　independence　hitherto　always　been　quite

free　from　that　feeble　admiration　of　cynicism　which　attacks　the

intellectually　weak　and　immature；　and　his　present　predilection　may

have　been　due　more　to　her　charming　personality。　　She　was　not　at　all

like　his　sisters；　she　had　none　of　Clementina's　cold　abstraction；

and　none　of　Euphemia's　sharp　and　demonstrative　effusiveness。　　And

in　his　secret　consciousness　of　her　flattering　foreknowledge　of　him；

with　her　assurance　that　before　they　had　ever　met　he　had　unwittingly

influenced　her；　he　began　to　feel　more　at　his　ease。　　His　fair

companion　also；　in　the　equally　secret　knowledge　she　had　acquired　of

his　history；　felt　as　secure　as　if　she　had　been　formally　introduced。

Nobody　could　find　fault　with　her　for　showing　civility　to　the

ostensible　son　of　her　host；　it　was　not　necessary　that　she　should　be

aware　of　their　family　differences。　　There　was　a　charm　too　in　their

enforced　isolation；　in　what　was　the　exceptional　solitude　of　the

little　hotel　that　day；　and　the　seclusion　of　their　table　by　the

window　of　the　dining…room；　which　gave　a　charming　domesticity　to

their　repast。　　From　time　to　time　they　glanced　down　the　lonely

canyon；　losing　itself　in　the　afternoon　shadow。　　Nevertheless　Mrs。

Ashwood's　preoccupation　with　Nature　did　not　preclude　a　human

curiosity　to　hear　something　more　of　John　Milton's　quarrel　with　his

father。　　There　was　certainly　nothing　of　the　prodigal　son　about　him；

there　was　no　precocious　evil　knowledge　in　his　frank　eyes；　no　record

of　excesses　in　his　healthy；　fresh　complexion；　no　unwholesome　or

disturbed　tastes　in　what　she　had　seen　of　his　rural　preferences　and

understanding　of　natural　beauty。　　To　have　attempted　any　direct

questioning　that　would　have　revealed　his　name　and　identity　would

have　obliged　her　to　speak　of　herself　as　his　father's　guest。　　She

began　indirectly；　he　had　said　he　had　been　a　reporter；　and　he　was

still　a　chronicler　of　this　strange　life。　　He　had　of　course　heard　of

many　cases　of　family　feuds　and　estrangements？　　Her　brother　had　told

her　of　some　dreadful　vendettas　he　had　known　in　the　Southwest；　and

how　whole　families　had　been　divided。　　Since　she　had　been　here　she

had　heard　of　odd　cases　of　brothers　meeting　accidentally　after　long

and　unaccounted　separations；　of　husbands　suddenly　confronted　with

wives　they　had　deserted；　of　fathers　encountering　discarded　sons！



John　Milton's　face　betrayed　no　uneasy　consciousness。　　If　anything

it　was　beginning　to　glow　with　a　boyish　admiration　of　the　grace　and

intelligence　of　the　fair　speaker；　that　was　perhaps　heightened　by　an

assumption　of　half　coquettish　discomfiture。



〃You　are　laughing　at　me！〃　she　said　finally。　　〃But　inhuman　and

selfish　as　these　stories　may　seem；　and　sometimes　are；　I　believe

that　these　curious　estrangements　and　separations　often　come　from

some　fatal　weakness　of　temperament　that　might　be　strengthened；　or

some　trivial　misunderstanding　that　could　be　explained。　　It　is

separation　that　makes　them　seem　irrevocable　only　because　they　are

inexplicable；　and　a　vague　memory　always　seems　more　terrible　than　a

definite　one。　　Facts　may　be　forgiven　and　forgotten；　but　mysteries

haunt　one　always。　　I　believe　there　are　weak；　sensitive　people　who

dread　to　put　their　wrongs　into　shape；　those　are　the　kind　who　sulk；

and　when　you　add　separation　to　sulking；　reconciliation　becomes

impossible。　　I　knew　a　very　singular　case　of　that　kind　once。　　If　you

like；　I'll　tell　it　to　you。　　May　be　you　will　be　able；　some　day；　to

weave　it　into　one　of　your　writings。　　And　it's　quite　true。〃



It　is　har