the red cross girl-第2节

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athlete。〃　He　stood　six　feet　and　over；　straight　as　a　Sioux
chief；　a　noble　and　leonine　head　carried　by　a　splendid　torso。
His　skin　was　as　fine　and　clean　as　a　child's。　He　weighed
nearly　two　hundred　pounds　and　had　no　fat　on　him。　He　was　the
weight…throwing　rather　than　the　running　type　of　athlete；　but
so　tenaciously　had　he　clung　to　the　suppleness　of　his
adolescent　days　that　he　could　stand　stiff…legged　and　lay　his
hands　flat　upon　the　floor。

The　singing　over；　silence　reigned。　But　if　you　had　listened　at
his　door　you　must　have　heard　a　pen　going；　swiftly　and　boldly。
He　was　hard　at　work；　doing　unto　others　what　others　had　done
unto　him。　You　were　a　stranger　to　him；　some　magazine　had
accepted　a　story　that　you　had　written　and　published　it。
R。　H。　D。　had　found　something　to　like　and　admire　in　that　story
（very　little　perhaps）；　and　it　was　his　duty　and　pleasure　to
tell　you　so。　If　he　had　liked　the　story　very　much　he　would
send　you　instead　of　a　note　a　telegram。　Or　it　might　be　that
you　had　drawn　a　picture；　or；　as　a　cub　reporter；　had　shown
golden　promise　in　a　half　column　of　unsigned　print；　R。　H。　D。
would　find　you　out；　and　find　time　to　praise　you　and　help　you。
So　it　was　that　when　he　emerged　from　his　room　at　sharp　eight
o'clock；　he　was　wide…awake　and　happy　and　hungry；　and　whistled
and　double…shuffled　with　his　feet；　out　of　excessive　energy；
and　carried　in　his　hands　a　whole　sheaf　of　notes　and　letters
and　telegrams。

Breakfast　with　him　was　not　the　usual　American　breakfast；　a
sullen；　dyspeptic　gathering　of　persons　who　only　the　night
before　had　rejoiced　in　each　other's　society。　With　him　it　was
the　time　when　the　mind　is；　or　ought　to　be；　at　its　best；　the
body　at　its　freshest　and　hungriest。　Discussions　of　the　latest
plays　and　novels；　the　doings　and　undoings　of　statesmen；
laughter　and　sentimentto　him；　at　breakfast；　these　things
were　as　important　as　sausages　and　thick　cream。

Breakfast　over；　there　was　no　dawdling　and　putting　off　of　the
day's　work　（else　how；　at　eleven　sharp；　could　tennis　be　played
with　a　free　conscience？）。　Loving；　as　he　did；　everything
connected　with　a　newspaper；　he　would　now　pass　by　those　on　the
hall…table　with　never　so　much　as　a　wistful　glance；　and　hurry
to　his　workroom。

He　wrote　sitting　down。　He　wrote　standing　up。　And；　almost　you
may　say；　he　wrote　walking　up　and　down。　Some　people；
accustomed　to　the　delicious　ease　and　clarity　of　his　style；
imagine　that　he　wrote　very　easily。　He　did　and　he　didn't。
Letters；　easy；　clear；　to　the　point；　and　gorgeously　human；
flowed　from　him　without　let　or　hindrance。　That　masterpiece　of
corresponding；　〃The　German　March　Through　Brussels；〃　was
probably　written　almost　as　fast　as　he　could　talk　（next　to
Phillips　Brooks；　he　was　the　fastest　talker　I　ever　heard）；　but
when　it　came　to　fiction　he　had　no　facility　at　all。　Perhaps　I
should　say　that　he　held　in　contempt　any　facility　that　he　may
have　had。　It　was　owing　to　his　incomparable　energy　and　Joblike
patience　that　he　ever　gave　us　any　fiction　at　all。　Every
phrase　in　his　fiction　was；　of　all　the　myriad　phrases　he　could
think　of；　the　fittest　in　his　relentless　judgment　to　survive。
Phrases；　paragraphs；　pages；　whole　stories　even；　were　written
over　and　over　again。　He　worked　upon　a　principle　of
elimination。　If　he　wished　to　describe　an　automobile　turning
in　at　a　gate；　he　made　first　a　long　and　elaborate　description
from　which　there　was　omitted　no　detail；　which　the　most
observant　pair　of　eyes　in　Christendom　had　ever　noted　with
reference　to　just　such　a　turning。　Thereupon　he　would　begin　a
process　of　omitting　one　by　one　those　details　which　he　had
been　at　such　pains　to　recall；　and　after　each　omission　he
would　ask　himself：　〃Does　the　picture　remain？〃　If　it　did　not；
he　restored　the　detail　which　he　had　just　omitted；　and
experimented　with　the　sacrifice　of　some　other；　and　so　on；　and
so　on；　until　after　Herculean　labor　there　remained　for　the
reader　one　of　those　swiftly　flashed；　ice…clear　pictures
（complete　in　every　detail）　with　which　his　tales　and　romances
are　so　delightfully　and　continuously　adorned。

But　it　is　quarter　to　eleven；　and；　this　being　a　time　of
holiday；　R。　H。　D。　emerges　from　his　workroom　happy　to　think
that　he　has　placed　one　hundred　and　seven　words　between
himself　and　the　wolf　who　hangs　about　every　writer's　door。　He
isn't　satisfied　with　those　hundred　and　seven　words。　He　never
was　in　the　least　satisfied　with　anything　that　he　wrote；　but
he　has　searched　his　mind　and　his　conscience　and　he　believes
that　under　the　circumstances　they　are　the　very　best　that　he
can　do。　Anyway；　they　can　stand　in　their　present　order　until
after　lunch。

A　sign　of　his　youth　was　the　fact　that　to　the　day　of　his　death
he　had　denied　himself　the　luxury　and　slothfulness　of　habits。
I　have　never　seen　him　smoke　automatically　as　most　men　do。　He
had　too　much　respect　for　his　own　powers　of　enjoyment　and　for
the　sensibilities；　perhaps；　of　the　best　Havana　tobacco。　At　a
time　of　his　own　deliberate　choosing；　often　after　many　hours
of　hankering　and　renunciation；　he　smoked　his　cigar。　He　smoked
it　with　delight；　with　a　sense　of　being　rewarded；　and　he　used
all　the　smoke　there　was　in　it。

He　dearly　loved　the　best　food；　the　best　champagne；　and　the
best　Scotch　whiskey。　But　these　things　were　friends　to　him；
and　not　enemies。　He　had　toward　food　and　drink　the　Continental
attitude；　namely；　that　quality　is　far　more　important　than
quantity；　and　he　got　his　exhilaration　from　the　fact　that　he
was　drinking　champagne　and　not　from　the　champagne。　Perhaps　I
shall　do　well　to　say　that　on　questions　of　right　and　wrong　he
had　a　will　of　iron。　All　his　life　he　moved　resolutely　in
whichever　direction　his　conscience　pointed；　and；　although
that　ever　present　and　never　obtrusive　conscience　of　his　made
mistakes　of　judgment　now　and　then；　as　must　all　consciences；　I
think　it　can　never　once　have　tricked　him　into　any　action　that
was　impure　or　unclean。　Some　critics　maintain　that　the　heroes
and　heroines　of　his　books　are　impossibly　pure　and　innocent
young　people。　R。　H。　D。　never　called　upon　his　characters　for
any　trait　of　virtue；　or　renunciation；　or　self…mastery　of
which　his　own　life　could　not　furnish　examples。

Fortunately；　he　did　not　have　for　his　friends　the　same
conscience　that　he　had　for　himself。　His　great　gift　of
eyesight　and　observation　failed　him　in　his　judgments　upon　his
friends。　If　only　you　loved　him；　you　could　get　your　biggest
failures　of　conduct　somewhat　more　than　forgiven；　without　any
trouble　at　all。　And　of　your　mole…hill　virtues　he　made
splendid　mountains。　He　only　interfered　with　you　when　he　was
afraid　that　you　were　going　to　hurt　some　one　else　whom　he　also
loved。　Once　I　had　a　telegram　from　him　which　urged　me　for
heaven's　sake　not　to　forget　that　the　next　day　was　my　wife's
birthday。　Whether　I　had　forgotten　it　or　not　is　my　own　private
affair。　And　when　I　declared　that　I　had　read　a　story　which　I
liked　very；　very　much　and　was　going　to　write　to　the　author　to
tell　him　so；　he　always　kept　at　me　till　the　letter　was
written。

Have　I　said　that　he　had　no　habits？　Every　day；　when　he　was
away　from　her；　he　wrote　a　letter　to　his　mother；　and　no　swift
scrawl　at　that；　for；　no　matter　how　crowded　and　eventful　the
day；　he　wrote　her　the　best　letter　that　he　could　write。　That
was　the　only　habit　he　had。　He　was　a　slave　to　it。

Once　I　saw　R。　H。　D。　greet　his　old　mother　after　an　absence。
They　threw　their　arms　about　each　other　and　rocked　to　and　fro
for　a　long　time。　And　it　hadn't　been　a　long　absence　at　that。
No　ocean　had　been　between　them；　her　heart　had　not　been　in　her
mouth　with　the　thought　that　he　was　under　fire；　or　about　to
become　a　victim　of　jungle　fever。　He　had　only　been　away　upon　a
little　expedition；　a　mere　matter　of　digging　for　buried
treasure。　We　had　found　the　treasure；　part　of　it　a　chipmunk's
skull　and　a　broken　arrow…head；　and　R。　H。　D。　had　been　absent
from　his　mother　for　nearly　two　hours　and　a　half。

I　set　about　this　article　with　the　knowledge　that　I　must　fail
to　give　more　than　a　few　hints　of　what　he　was　like。　There
isn't　much　more　space　at　my　command；　and　there　were　so　many
sides　to　him　that　to　touch　upon　them　all　would　fill　a　volume。
There　were　the　patriotism　and　the　Americanism；　as　much　a　part
of　him　as　the　marrow　of　his　bones；　and　from　which　sprang　all
those　brilliant　headlong　letters　to　the　newspapers；　those
trenchant　assaults　upon　evil…doers　in　public　office；　those
quixotic　efforts　to　redress　wrongs；　and　those　simple　and
dexterous　exposures　of　this　and　that；　from　an　absolutely
unexpected　point　of　view。　He　was　a　quickener　of　the　public
conscience。　That　people　are　beginning　to　think　tolerantly　of
preparedness；　that　a　nation　which　at　one　time　looked　yellow
as　a　dandelion　is　beginning　to　turn　Red；　White；　and　Blue　is
owing　in　some　measure　to　him。

R。　H。　D。　thought　that　war　was　unspeakably　terrible。　He
thought　that　peace　at　the　price　which　our　country　has　been
forced　to　pay　for　it　was　infinitely　worse。　And　he　was　one　of
those　who　have　gradually　taught　this　country　to　see　the
matter　in　the　same　way。

I　must　come　to　a　close　now；　and　I　have　hardly　scratched　the
surface　of　my　subject。　And　that　is　a　failure　which　I　feel
keenly　but　which　was　inevitable。　As　R。　H。　D。　himself　used　to
say　of　those　deplorable　〃personal　interviews〃　which　appear　in
th