greville fane-第1节

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Greville　Fane



by　Henry　James









Coming　in　to　dress　for　dinner；　I　found　a　telegram：　　〃Mrs。　Stormer

dying；　can　you　give　us　half　a　column　for　to…morrow　evening？　　Let　her

off　easy；　but　not　too　easy。〃　　I　was　late；　I　was　in　a　hurry；　I　had

very　little　time　to　think；　but　at　a　venture　I　dispatched　a　reply：

〃Will　do　what　I　can。〃　　It　was　not　till　I　had　dressed　and　was　rolling

away　to　dinner　that；　in　the　hansom；　I　bethought　myself　of　the

difficulty　of　the　condition　attached。　　The　difficulty　was　not　of

course　in　letting　her　off　easy　but　in　qualifying　that　indulgence。　　〃I

simply　won't　qualify　it；〃　I　said　to　myself。　　I　didn't　admire　her；　but

I　liked　her；　and　I　had　known　her　so　long　that　I　almost　felt　heartless

in　sitting　down　at　such　an　hour　to　a　feast　of　indifference。　　I　must

have　seemed　abstracted；　for　the　early　years　of　my　acquaintance　with

her　came　back　to　me。　　I　spoke　of　her　to　the　lady　I　had　taken　down；

hut　the　lady　I　had　taken　down　had　never　heard　of　Greville　Fane。　　I

tried　my　other　neighbour；　who　pronounced　her　books　〃too　vile。〃　　I　had

never　thought　them　very　good；　but　I　should　let　her　off　easier　than

that。



I　came　away　early；　for　the　express　purpose　of　driving　to　ask　about

her。　　The　journey　took　time；　for　she　lived　in　the　north…west

district；　in　the　neighbourhood　of　Primrose　Hill。　　My　apprehension

that　I　should　be　too　late　was　justified　in　a　fuller　sense　than　I　had

attached　to　itI　had　only　feared　that　the　house　would　be　shut　up。

There　were　lights　in　the　windows；　and　the　temperate　tinkle　of　my　bell

brought　a　servant　immediately　to　the　door；　but　poor　Mrs。　Stormer　had

passed　into　a　state　in　which　the　resonance　of　no　earthly　knocker　was

to　be　feared。　　A　lady；　in　the　hall；　hovering　behind　the　servant；　came

forward　when　she　heard　my　voice。　　I　recognised　Lady　Luard；　but　she

had　mistaken　me　for　the　doctor。



〃Excuse　my　appearing　at　such　an　hour；〃　I　said；　〃it　was　the　first

possible　moment　after　I　heard。〃



〃It's　all　over；〃　Lady　Luard　replied。　　〃Dearest　mamma！〃



She　stood　there　under　the　lamp　with　her　eyes　on　me；　she　was　very

tall；　very　stiff；　very　cold；　and　always　looked　as　if　these　things；

and　some　others　beside；　in　her　dress；　her　manner　and　even　her　name；

were　an　implication　that　she　was　very　admirable。　　I　had　never　been

able　to　follow　the　argument；　but　that　is　a　detail。　　I　expressed

briefly　and　frankly　what　I　felt；　while　the　little　mottled　maidservant

flattened　herself　against　the　wall　of　the　narrow　passage　and　tried　to

look　detached　without　looking　indifferent。　　It　was　not　a　moment　to

make　a　visit；　and　I　was　on　the　point　of　retreating　when　Lady　Luard

arrested　me　with　a　queer；　casual；　drawling　〃Would　youawould　you；

perhaps；　be　WRITING　something？〃　　I　felt　for　the　instant　like　an

interviewer；　which　I　was　not。　　But　I　pleaded　guilty　to　this

intention；　on　which　she　rejoined：　　〃I'm　so　very　gladbut　I　think　my

brother　would　like　to　see　you。〃　　I　detested　her　brother；　but　it

wasn't　an　occasion　to　act　this　out；　so　I　suffered　myself　to　be

inducted；　to　my　surprise；　into　a　small　back　room　which　I　immediately

recognised　as　the　scene；　during　the　later　years；　of　Mrs。　Stormer's

imperturbable　industry。　　Her　table　was　there；　the　battered　and

blotted　accessory　to　innumerable　literary　lapses；　with　its　contracted

space　for　the　arms　（she　wrote　only　from　the　elbow　down）　and　the

confusion　of　scrappy；　scribbled　sheets　which　had　already　become

literary　remains。　　Leolin　was　also　there；　smoking　a　cigarette　before

the　fire　and　looking　impudent　even　in　his　grief；　sincere　as　it　well

might　have　been。



To　meet　him；　to　greet　him；　I　had　to　make　a　sharp　effort；　for　the　air

that　he　wore　to　me　as　he　stood　before　me　was　quite　that　of　his

mother's　murderer。　　She　lay　silent　for　ever　upstairsas　dead　as　an

unsuccessful　book；　and　his　swaggering　erectness　was　a　kind　of　symbol

of　his　having　killed　her。　　I　wondered　if　he　had　already；　with　his

sister；　been　calculating　what　they　could　get　for　the　poor　papers　on

the　table；　but　I　had　not　long　to　wait　to　learn；　for　in　reply　to　the

scanty　words　of　sympathy　I　addressed　him　he　puffed　out：　　〃It's

miserable；　miserable；　yes；　but　she　has　left　three　books　complete。〃

His　words　had　the　oddest　effect；　they　converted　the　cramped　little

room　into　a　seat　of　trade　and　made　the　〃book〃　wonderfully　feasible。

He　would　certainly　get　all　that　could　be　got　for　the　three。　　Lady

Luard　explained　to　me　that　her　husband　had　been　with　them　but　had　had

to　go　down　to　the　House。　　To　her　brother　she　explained　that　I　was

going　to　write　something；　and　to　me　again　she　made　it　clear　that　she

hoped　I　would　〃do　mamma　justice。〃　　She　added　that　she　didn't　think

this　had　ever　been　done。　　She　said　to　her　brother：　　〃Don't　you　think

there　are　some　things　he　ought　thoroughly　to　understand？〃　and　on　his

instantly　exclaiming　〃Oh；　thoroughlythoroughly！〃　she　went　on；

rather　austerely：　　〃I　mean　about　mamma's　birth。〃



〃Yes；　and　her　connections；〃　Leolin　added。



I　professed　every　willingness；　and　for　five　minutes　I　listened；　but

it　would　be　too　much　to　say　that　I　understood。　　I　don't　even　now；　but

it　is　not　important。　　My　vision　was　of　other　matters　than　those　they

put　before　me；　and　while　they　desired　there　should　be　no　mistake

about　their　ancestors　I　became　more　and　more　lucid　about　themselves。

I　got　away　as　soon　as　possible；　and　walked　home　through　the　great

dusky；　empty　Londonthe　best　of　all　conditions　for　thought。　　By　the

time　I　reached　my　door　my　little　article　was　practically　composed

ready　to　be　transferred　on　the　morrow　from　the　polished　plate　of

fancy。　　I　believe　it　attracted　some　notice；　was　thought　〃graceful〃

and　was　said　to　be　by　some　one　else。　　I　had　to　be　pointed　without

being　lively；　and　it　took　some　tact。　　But　what　I　said　was　much　less

interesting　than　what　I　thoughtespecially　during　the　half…hour　I

spent　in　my　armchair　by　the　fire；　smoking　the　cigar　I　always　light

before　going　to　bed。　　I　went　to　sleep　there；　I　believe；　but　I

continued　to　moralise　about　Greville　Fane。　　I　am　reluctant　to　lose

that　retrospect　altogether；　and　this　is　a　dim　little　memory　of　it；　a

document　not　to　〃serve。〃　　The　dear　woman　had　written　a　hundred

stories；　but　none　so　curious　as　her　own。



When　first　I　knew　her　she　had　published　half…a…dozen　fictions；　and　I

believe　I　had　also　perpetrated　a　novel。　　She　was　more　than　a　dozen

years　older　than　I；　but　she　was　a　person　who　always　acknowledged　her

relativity。　　It　was　not　so　very　long　ago；　but　in　London；　amid　the　big

waves　of　the　present；　even　a　near　horizon　gets　hidden。　　I　met　her　at

some　dinner　and　took　her　down；　rather　flattered　at　offering　my　arm　to

a　celebrity。　　She　didn't　look　like　one；　with　her　matronly；　mild；

inanimate　face；　but　I　supposed　her　greatness　would　come　out　in　her

conversation。　　I　gave　it　all　the　opportunities　I　could；　but　I　was　not

disappointed　when　I　found　her　only　a　dull；　kind　woman。　　This　was　why

I　liked　hershe　rested　me　so　from　literature。　　To　myself　literature

was　an　irritation；　a　torment；　but　Greville　Fane　slumbered　in　the

intellectual　part　of　it　like　a　Creole　in　a　hammock。　　She　was　not　a

woman　of　genius；　but　her　faculty　was　so　special；　so　much　a　gift　out

of　hand；　that　I　have　often　wondered　why　she　fell　below　that

distinction。　　This　was　doubtless　because　the　transaction；　in　her

case；　had　remained　incomplete；　genius　always　pays　for　the　gift；　feels

the　debt；　and　she　was　placidly　unconscious　of　obligation。　　She　could

invent　stories　by　the　yard；　but　she　couldn't　write　a　page　of　English。

She　went　down　to　her　grave　without　suspecting　that　though　she　had

contributed　volumes　to　the　diversion　of　her　contemporaries　she　had

not　contributed　a　sentence　to　the　language。　　This　had　not　prevented

bushels　of　criticism　from　being　heaped　upon　her　head；　she　was　worth　a

couple　of　columns　any　day　to　the　weekly　papers；　in　which　it　was　shown

that　her　pictures　of　life　were　dreadful　but　her　style　really

charming。　　She　asked　me　to　come　and　see　her；　and　I　went。　　She　lived

then　in　Montpellier　Square；　which　helped　me　to　see　how　dissociated

her　imagination　was　from　her　character。



An　industrious　widow；　devoted　to　her　daily　stint；　to　meeting　the

butcher　and　baker　and　making　a　home　for　her　son　and　daughter；　from

the　moment　she　took　her　pen　in　her　hand　she　became　a　creature　of

passion。　　She　thought　the　English　novel　deplorably　wanting　in　that

element；　and　the　task　she　had　cut　out　for　herself　was　to　supply　the

deficiency。　　Passion　in　high　life　was　the　general　formula　of　this

work；　for　her　imagination　was　at　home　only　in　the　most　exalted

circles。　　She　adored；　in　truth；　the　aristocracy；　and　they　constituted

for　her　the　romance　of　the　world　or；　what　is　more　to　the　point；　the

prime　material　of　fiction。　　Their　beauty　and　luxury；　their　loves　and

revenges；　their　temptations　and　surrenders；　their　immoralities　and

diamonds　were　as　familiar　to　her　as　the　blots　on　her　writing…table。

She　was　not　a　belated　producer　of　the　old　fashionable　novel；