a far country-第19节

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At　the　end　of　the　freshman　year　we　abandoned　Mrs。　Bolton's　for　more
desirable　quarters。

I　shall　not　go　deeply　into　my　college　career；　recalling　only　such
incidents　as；　seen　in　the　retrospect；　appear　to　have　had　significance。　　I
have　mentioned　my　knack　for　song…writing；　but　it　was　not；　I　think；　until
my　junior　year　there　was　startlingly　renewed　in　me　my　youthful　desire　to
write；　to　create　something　worth　while；　that　had　so　long　been　dormant。

The　inspiration　came　from　Alonzo　Cheyne；　instructor　in　English；　a
remarkable　teacher；　in　spite　of　the　finicky　mannerisms　which　Tom
imitated。　　And　when；　in　reading　aloud　certain　magnificent　passages；　he
forgot　his　affectations；　he　managed　to　arouse　cravings　I　thought　to　have
deserted　me　forever。　　Was　it　possible；　after　all；　that　I　had　been　right
and　my　father　wrong？　that　I　might　yet　be　great　in　literature？

A　mere　hint　from　Alonzo　Cheyne　was　more　highly　prized　by　the　grinds　than
fulsome　praise　from　another　teacher。　　And　to　his　credit　it　should　be
recorded　that　the　grinds　were　the　only　ones　he　treated　with　any
seriousness；　he　took　pains　to　answer　their　questions；　but　towards　the
rest　of　us；　the　Chosen；　he　showed　a　thinly　veiled　contempt。　　None　so
quick　as　he　to　detect　a　simulated　interest；　or　a　wily　effort　to　make　him
ridiculous；　and　few　tried　this　a　second　time；　for　he　had　a　rapier…like
gift　of　repartee　that　transfixed　the　offender　like　a　moth　on　a　pin。　　He
had　a　way　of　eyeing　me　at　times；　his　glasses　in　his　hand；　a　queer　smile
on　his　lips；　as　much　as　to　imply　that　there　was　one　at　least　among　the
lost　who　was　made　for　better　things。　　Not　that　my　work　was　poor；　but　I
knew　that　it　might　have　been　better。　　Out　of　his　classes；　however；　beyond
the　immediate；　disturbing　influence　of　his　personality　I　would　relapse
into　indifference。。。。

Returning　one　evening　to　our　quarters；　which　were　now　in　the　〃Yard；〃
I　found　Tom　seated　with　a　blank　sheet　before　him；　thrusting　his　hand
through　his　hair　and　biting　the　end　of　his　penholder　to　a　pulp。　　In　his
muttering；　which　was　mixed　with　the　curious；　stingless　profanity　of　which
he　was　master；　I　caught　the　name　of　Cheyne；　and　I　knew　that　he　was　facing
the　crisis　of　a　fortnightly　theme。　　The　subject　assigned　was　a　narrative
of　some　personal　experience；　and　it　was　to　be　handed　in　on　the　morrow。
My　own　theme　was　already；　written。

〃I've　been　holding　down　this　chair　for　an　hour；　and　I　can't　seem　to　think
of　a　thing。〃　　He　rose　to　fling　himself　down　on　the　lounge。　　〃I　wish　I　was
in　Canada。〃

〃Why　Canada？〃

〃Trout　fishing　with　Uncle　Jake　at　that　club　of　his　where　he　took　me　last
summer。〃　　Tom　gazed　dreamily　at　the　ceiling。　　〃Whenever　I　have　some
darned　foolish　theme　like　this　to　write　I　want　to　go　fishing；　and　I　want
to　go　like　the　devil。　　I'll　get　Uncle　Jake　to　take　you；　too；　next
summer。〃

〃I　wish　you　would。〃

〃Say；　that's　living　all　right；　Hughie；　up　there　among　the　tamaracks　and
balsams！〃　　And　he　began；　for　something　like　the　thirtieth　time；　to　relate
the　adventures　of　the　trip。

As　he　talked；　the　idea　presented　itself　to　me　with　sudden　fascination　to
use　this　incident　as　the　subject　of　Tom's　theme；　to　write　it　for　him；
from　his　point　of　view；　imitating　the　droll　style　he　would　have　had　if　he
had　been　able　to　write；　for；　when　he　was　interested　in　any　matter；　his
oral　narrative　did　not　lack　vividness。　　I　began　to　ask　him　questions：
what　were　the　trees　like；　for　instance？　　How　did　the　French…Canadian
guides　talk？　　He　had　the　gift　of　mimicry：　aided　by　a　partial　knowledge　of
French　I　wrote　down　a　few　sentences　as　they　sounded。　　The　canoe　had　upset
and　he　had　come　near　drowning。　　I　made　him　describe　his　sensations。

〃I'll　write　your　theme　for　you；〃　I　exclaimed；　when　he　had　finished。

〃Gee；　not　about　that！〃

〃Why　not？　　It's　a　personal　experience。〃

His　gratitude　was　pathetic。。。。　　By　this　time　I　was　so　full　of　the　subject
that　it　fairly　clamoured　for　expression；　and　as　I　wrote　the　hours　flew。
Once　in　a　while　I　paused　to　ask　him　a　question　as　he　sat　with　his　chair
tilted　back　and　his　feet　on　the　table；　reading　a　detective　story。　　I
sketched　in　the　scene　with　bold　strokes；　the　desolate　bois　brule　on　the
mountain　side；　the　polished　crystal　surface　of　the　pool　broken　here　and
there　with　the　circles　left　by　rising　fish；　I　pictured　Armand；　the　guide；
his　pipe　between　his　teeth；　holding　the　canoe　against　the　current；　and　I
seemed　to　smell　the　sharp　tang　of　the　balsams；　to　hear　the　roar　of　the
rapids　below。　　Then　came　the　sudden　hooking　of　the　big　trout；　habitant
oaths　from　Armand；　bouleversement；　wetness；　darkness；　confusion；　a　half…
strangled　feeling；　a　brief　glimpse　of　green　things　and　sunlight；　and　then
strangulation；　or　what　seemed　like　it；　strangulation；　the　sense　of　being
picked　up　and　hurled　by　a　terrific　force　whither？　a　blinding　whiteness；
in　which　it　was　impossible　to　breathe；　one　sharp；　almost　unbearable　pain；
then　another；　then　oblivion。。。。　　Finally；　awakening；　to　be　confronted　by
a　much　worried　Uncle　Jake。

By　this　time　the　detective　story　had　fallen　to　the　floor；　and　Tom　was
huddled　up　in　his　chair；　asleep。　　He　arose　obediently　and　wrapped　a　wet
towel　around　his　head；　and　began　to　write。　　Once　he　paused　long　enough　to
mutter：

〃Yes；　that's　about　it；that's　the　way　I　felt！〃　and　set　to　work　again；
mechanically；all　the　praise　I　got　for　what　I　deemed　a　literary
achievement　of　the　highest　order！　　At　three　o'clock；　a。m。；　he　finished；
pulled　off　his　clothes　automatically　and　tumbled　into　bed。　　I　had　no
desire　for　sleep。　　My　brain　was　racing　madly；　like　an　engine　without　a
governor。　　I　could　write！　　I　could　write！　　I　repeated　the　words　over　and
over　to　myself。　　All　the　complexities　of　my　present　life　were　blotted
out；　and　I　beheld　only　the　long；　sweet　vista　of　the　career　for　which　I
was　now　convinced　that　nature　had　intended　me。　　My　immediate　fortunes
became　unimportant；　immaterial。　　No　juice　of　the　grape　I　had　ever　tasted
made　me　half　so　drunk。。。。　　With　the　morning；　of　course；　came　the
reaction；　and　I　suffered　the　after　sensations　of　an　orgie；　awaking　to　a
world　of　necessity；　cold　and　grey　and　slushy；　and　necessity　alone　made　me
rise　from　my　bed。　　My　experience　of　the　night　before　might　have　taught　me
that　happiness　lies　in　the　trick　of　transforming　necessity；　but　it　did
not。　　The　vision　had　faded；temporarily；　at　least；　and　such　was　the
distraction　of　the　succeeding　days　that　the　subject　of　the　theme　passed
from　my　mind。。。。

One　morning　Tom　was　later　than　usual　in　getting　home。　　I　was　writing　a
letter　when　he　came　in；　and　did　not　notice　him；　yet　I　was　vaguely　aware
of　his　standing　over　me。　　When　at　last　I　looked　up　I　gathered　from　his
expression　that　something　serious　had　happened；　so　mournful　was　his　face；
and　yet　so　utterly　ludicrous。

〃Say；　Hugh；　I'm　in　the　deuce　of　a　mess；〃　he　announced。

〃What's　the　matter？〃　I　inquired。

He　sank　down　on　the　table　with　a　groan。

〃It's　Alonzo；〃　he　said。

Then　I　remembered　the　theme。

〃Whatwhat's　he　done？〃　I　demanded。

〃He　says　I　must　become　a　writer。　　Think　of　it；　me　a　writer！　　He　says　I'm
a　young　Shakespeare；　that　I've　been　lazy　and　hid　my　light　under　a　bushel！
He　says　he　knows　now　what　I　can　do；　and　if　I　don't　keep　up　the　quality；
he'll　know　the　reason　why；　and　write　a　personal　letter　to　my　father。　　Oh；
hell！〃

In　spite　of　his　evident　anguish；　I　was　seized　with　a　convulsive　laughter。
Tom　stood　staring　at　me　moodily。

〃You　think　it's　funny；don't　you？　　I　guess　it　is；　but　what's　going　to
become　of　me？　　That's　what　I　want　to　know。　　I've　been　in　trouble　before；
but　never　in　any　like　this。　　And　who　got　me　into　it？　　You！〃

Here　was　gratitude！

〃You've　got　to　go　on　writing　'em；　now。〃　　His　voice　became　desperately
pleading。　　〃Say；　Hugh；　old　man；　you　can　temper　'em　downtemper　'em　down
gradually。　　And　by　the　end　of　the　year；　let's　say；　they'll　be　about
normal　again。〃

He　seemed　actually　shivering。

〃The　end　of　the　year！〃　I　cried；　the　predicament　striking　me　for　the　first
time　in　its　fulness。　　〃Say；　you've　got　a　crust！〃

〃You'll　do　it；　if　I　have　to　hold　a　gun　over　you；〃　he　announced　grimly。

Mingled　with　my　anxiety；　which　was　real；　was　an　exultation　that　would　not
down。　　Nevertheless；　the　idea　of　developing　Tom　into　a　Shakespeare；Tom；
who　had　not　the　slightest　desire　to　be　one　I　was　appalling；　besides
having　in　it　an　element　of　useless　self…sacrifice　from　which　I　recoiled。
On　the　other　hand；　if　Alonzo　should　discover　that　I　had　written　his
theme；　there　were　penalties　I　did　not　care　to　dwell　upon　。。。。　　With　such
a　cloud　hanging　over　me　I　passed　a　restless　night。

As　luck　would　have　it　the　very　next　evening　in　the　level　light　under　the
elms　of　the　Square　I　beheld　sauntering　towards　me　a　dapper　figure　which　I
recognized　as　that　of　Mr。　Cheyne　himself。　　As　I　saluted　him　he　gave　me　an
amused　and　most　disconcerting　glance；　and　when　I　was　congratulating
myself　that　he　had　passed　me　he　stopped。

〃Fine　weather　for　March；　Paret；〃　he　observed。

〃Yes；　sir；〃　I　agreed　in　a　strange　voice。

〃By　the　way；〃　he　remarked；　contemplating　the　bare　branches　above　our
heads；　〃that　was　an　excellent　theme　your　roommate　handed　in。　　I　had　no
idea　that　he　possessed　suchsuch　genius。　　Did　you；　by　any　chance；