the poet at the breakfast table-第27节

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complementary　colors。

Goodness！exclaimed　the　Landlady。…What！　　complimentary　to　our
party？

Her　wits　must　have　been　a　good　deal　confused　by　the　strange　sights　of
the　evening。　　She　had　seen　tickets　marked　complimentary；　she
remembered；　but　she　could　not　for　the　life　of　her　understand　why　our
party　should　be　particularly　favored　at　a　celestial　exhibition　like
this。　　On　the　whole；　she　questioned　inwardly　whether　it　might　not　be
some　subtle　pleasantry；　and　smiled；　experimentally；　with　a　note　of
interrogation　in　the　smile；　but；　finding　no　encouragement；　allowed
her　features　to　subside　gradually　as　if　nothing　had　happened。　　I　saw
all　this　as　plainly　as　if　it　had　all　been　printed　in　great…primer
type；　instead　of　working　itself　out　in　her　features。　　I　like　to　see
other　people　muddled　now　and　then；　because　my　own　occasional　dulness
is　relieved　by　a　good　solid　background　of　stupidity　in　my　neighbors。

And　the　two　revolve　round　each　other？　said　the　Young　Girl。

Yes；he　answered；two　suns；　a　greater　and　a　less；　each　shining；
but　with　a　different　light；　for　the　other。

How　charming！　　It　must　be　so　much　pleasanter　than　to　be　alone　in
such　a　great　empty　space！　　I　should　think　one　would　hardly　care　to
shine　if　its　light　wasted　itself　in　the　monstrous　solitude　of　the
sky。　　Does　not　a　single　star　seem　very　lonely　to　you　up　there？

Not　more　lonely　than　I　am　myself；answered　the　Young　Astronomer。

I　don't　know　what　there　was　in　those　few　words；　but　I　noticed　that
for　a　minute　or　two　after　they；　were　uttered　I　heard　the　ticking　of
the　clock…work　that　moved　the　telescope　as　clearly　as　if　we　had　all
been　holding　our　breath；　and　listening　for　the　music　of　the　spheres。

The　Young　Girl　kept　her　eye　closely　applied　to　the　eye…piece　of　the
telescope　a　very　long　time；　it　seemed　to　me。　　Those　double　stars
interested　her　a　good　deal；　no　doubt。　　When　she　looked　off　from　the
glass　I　thought　both　her　eyes　appeared　very　much　as　if　they　had　been
a　little　strained；　for　they　were　suffused　and　glistening。　　It　may　be
that　she　pitied　the　lonely　young　man。

I　know　nothing　in　the　world　tenderer　than　the　pity　that　a　kind…
hearted　young　girl　has　for　a　young　man　who　feels　lonely。　　It　is　true
that　these　dear　creatures　are　all　compassion　for　every　form　of　human
woe；　and　anxious　to　alleviate　all　human　misfortunes。　　They　will　go　to
Sunday…schools　through　storms　their　brothers　are　afraid　of；　to　teach
the　most　unpleasant　and　intractable　classes　of　little　children　the
age　of　Methuselah　and　the　dimensions　of　Og　the　King　of　Bashan's
bedstead。　　They　will　stand　behind　a　table　at　a　fair　all　day　until
they　are　ready　to　drop；　dressed　in　their　prettiest　clothes　and　their
sweetest　smiles；　and　lay　hands　upon　you；　likeso　many　Lady
Potiphars；perfectly　correct　ones；　of　course；to　make　you　buy　what
you　do　not　want；　at　prices　which　you　cannot　afford；　all　this　as
cheerfully　as　if　it　were　not　martyrdom　to　them　as　well　as　to　you。
Such　is　their　love　for　all　good　objects；　such　their　eagerness　to
sympathize　with　all　their　suffering　fellow…creatures！　　But　there　is
nothing　they　pity　as　they　pity　a　lonely　young　man。

I　am　sure；　I　sympathize　with　her　in　this　instance。　　To　see　a　pale
student　burning　away；　like　his　own　midnight　lamp；　with　only　dead
men's　hands　to　hold；　stretched　out　to　him　from　the　sepulchres　of
books；　and　dead　men's　souls　imploring　him　from　their　tablets　to　warm
them　over　again　just　for　a　little　while　in　a　human　consciousness；
when　all　this　time　there　are　soft；　warm；　living　hands　that　would　ask
nothing　better　than　to　bring　the　blood　back　into　those　cold　thin
fingers；　and　gently　caressing　natures　that　would　wind　all　their
tendrils　about　the　unawakened　heart　which　knows　so　little　of　itself；
is　pitiable　enough　and　would　be　sadder　still　if　we　did　not　have　the
feeling　that　sooner　or　later　the　pale　student　will　be　pretty　sure　to
feel　the　breath　of　a　young　girl　against　his　cheek　as　she　looks　over
his　shoulder；　and　that　he　will　come　all　at　once　to　an　illuminated
page　in　his　book　that　never　writer　traced　in　characters；　and　never
printer　set　up　in　type；　and　never　binder　enclosed　within　his　covers！
But　our　young　man　seems　farther　away　from　life　than　any　student　whose
head　is　bent　downwards　over　his　books。　　His　eyes　are　turned　away　from
all　human　things。　　How　cold　the　moonlight　is　that　falls　upon　his
forehead；　and　how　white　he　looks　in　it！　　Will　not　the　rays　strike
through　to　his　brain　at　last；　and　send　him　to　a　narrower　cell　than
this　egg…shell　dome　which　is　his　workshop　and　his　prison？

I　cannot　say　that　the　Young　Astronomer　seemed　particularly　impressed
with　a　sense　of　his　miserable　condition。　　He　said　he　was　lonely；　it
is　true；　but　he　said　it　in　a　manly　tone；　and　not　as　if　he　were
repining　at　the　inevitable　condition　of　his　devoting　himself　to　that
particular　branch　of　science。　　Of　course；　he　is　lonely；　the　most
lonely　being　that　lives　in　the　midst　of　our　breathing　world。　　If　he
would　only　stay　a　little　longer　with　us　when　we　get　talking；　but　he
is　busy　almost　always　either　in　observation　or　with　his　calculations
and　studies；　and　when　the　nights　are　fair　loses　so　much　sleep　that　he
must　make　it　up　by　day。　　He　wants　contact　with　human　beings。　　I　wish
he　would　change　his　seat　and　come　round　and　sit　by　our　Scheherezade！

The　rest　of　the　visit　went　off　well　enough；　except　that　the　〃Man　of
Letters；〃　so　called；　rather　snubbed　some　of　the　heavenly　bodies　as
not　quite　up　to　his　standard　of　brilliancy。　　I　thought　myself　that
the　double…star　episode　was　the　best　part　of　it。


I　have　an　unexpected　revelation　to　make　to　the　reader。　　Not　long
after　our　visit　to　the　Observatory；　the　Young　Astronomer　put　a
package　into　my　hands；　a　manuscript；　evidently；　which　he　said　he
would　like　to　have　me　glance　over。　　I　found　something　in　it　which
interested　me；　and　told　him　the　next　day　that　I　should　like　to　read
it　with　some　care。　　He　seemed　rather　pleased　at　this；　and　said　that
he　wished　I　would　criticise　it　as　roughly　as　I　liked；　and　if　I　saw
anything　in　it　which　might　be　dressed　to　better　advantage　to　treat　it
freely；　just　as　if　it　were　my　own　production。　　It　had　often　happened
to　him；　he　went　on　to　say；　to　be　interrupted　in　his　observations　by
clouds　covering　the　objects　he　was　examining　for　a　longer　or　shorter
time。　　In　these　idle　moments　he　had　put　down　many　thoughts；
unskilfully　he　feared；　but　just　as　they　came　into　his　mind。　　His
blank　verse　he　suspected　was　often　faulty。　　His　thoughts　he　knew　must
be　crude；　many　of　them。　　It　would　please　him　to　have　me　amuse　myself
by　putting　them　into　shape。　　He　was　kind　enough　to　say　that　I　was　an
artist　in　words；　but　he　held　himself　as　an　unskilled　apprentice。

I　confess　I　was　appalled　when　I　cast　my　eye　upon　the　title　of　the
manuscript；　〃Cirri　and　Nebulae。〃

Oh！　　oh！I　said；that　will　never　do。　　People　don't　know　what
Cirri　are；　at　least　not　one　out　of　fifty　readers。　　〃Wind…Clouds　and
Star…Drifts〃　will　do　better　than　that。

Anything　you　like；he　answered；what　difference　does　it　make　how
you　christen　a　foundling？　　These　are　not　my　legitimate　scientific
offspring；　and　you　may　consider　them　left　on　your　doorstep。

I　will　not　attempt　to　say　just　how　much　of　the　diction　of　these
lines　belongs　to　him；　and　how　much　to　me。　　He　said　he　would　never
claim　them；　after　I　read　them　to　him　in　my　version。　　I；　on　my　part；
do　not　wish　to　be　held　responsible　for　some　of　his　more　daring
thoughts；　if　I　should　see　fit　to　reproduce　them　hereafter。　　At　this
time　I　shall　give　only　the　first　part　of　the　series　of　poetical
outbreaks　for　which　the　young　devotee　of　science　must　claim　his　share
of　the　responsibility。　　I　may　put　some　more　passages　into　shape　by
and　by。


　　　　　WIND…CLOUDS　AND　STAR…DRIFTS。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　I

Another　clouded　night；　the　stars　are　hid；
The　orb　that　waits　my　search　is　hid　with　them。
Patience！　　Why　grudge　an　hour；　a　month；　a　year；
To　plant　my　ladder　and　to　gain　the　round
That　leads　my　footsteps　to　the　heaven　of　fame；
Where　waits　the　wreath　my　sleepless　midnights　won？
Not　the　stained　laurel　such　as　heroes　wear
That　withers　when　some　stronger　conqueror's　heel
Treads　down　their　shrivelling　trophies　in　the　dust；
But　the　fair　garland　whose　undying　green
Not　time　can　change；　nor　wrath　of　gods　or　men！

With　quickened　heart…beats　I　shall　hear　the　tongues
That　speak　my　praise；　but　better　far　the　sense
That　in　the　unshaped　ages；　buried　deep
In　the　dark　mines　of　unaccomplished　time
Yet　to　be　stamped　with　morning's　royal　die
And　coined　in　golden　days；in　those　dim　years
I　shall　be　reckoned　with　the　undying　dead；
My　name　emblazoned　on　the　fiery　arch；
Unfading　till　the　stars　themselves　shall　fade。
Then；　as　they　call　the　roll　of　shining　worlds；
Sages　of　race　unborn　in　accents　new
Shall　count　me　with　the　Olympian　ones　of　old；
Whose　glories　kindle　through　the　midnight　sky
Here　glows　the　God　of　Battles；　this　recalls
The　Lord　of　Ocean；　and　yon　far…off　sphere
The　Sire　of　Him　who　gave　his　ancient　name
To　the　dim　planet　with　the　wondrous　rings；
Here　flames　the　Queen　of　Beauty's　silver　lamp；
And　there　the　moon…girt　orb　of　mighty　Jove；
But　this；　unseen　through　all　earth's　aeons　past；
A　youth　who　watched　beneath　the　western　star
Sought　in　the　darknes