novel notes-第42节

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y；　our　sentiments　we　learn　by　rote。　　At　cost　of　infinite　suffering；　we　study　to　love　whiskey　and　cigars；　high　art　and　classical　music。　　In　one　age　we　admire　Byron　and　drink　sweet　champagne：　　twenty　years　later　it　is　more　fashionable　to　prefer　Shelley；　and　we　like　our　champagne　dry。　　At　school　we　are　told　that　Shakespeare　is　a　great　poet；　and　that　the　Venus　di　Medici　is　a　fine　piece　of　sculpture；　and　so　for　the　rest　of　our　lives　we　go　about　saying　what　a　great　poet　we　think　Shakespeare；　and　that　there　is　no　piece　of　sculpture；　in　our　opinion；　so　fine　as　the　Venus　di　Medici。　If　we　are　Frenchmen　we　adore　our　mother；　if　Englishmen　we　love　dogs　and　virtue。　　We　grieve　for　the　death　of　a　near　relative　twelve　months；　but　for　a　second　cousin　we　sorrow　only　three。　　The　good　man　has　his　regulation　excellencies　to　strive　after；　his　regulation　sins　to　repent　of。　　I　knew　a　good　man　who　was　quite　troubled　because　he　was　not　proud；　and　could　not；　therefore；　with　any　reasonableness；　pray　for　humility。　　In　society　one　must　needs　be　cynical　and　mildly　wicked：　　in　Bohemia；　orthodoxly　unorthodox。　　I　remember　my　mother　expostulating　with　a　friend；　an　actress；　who　had　left　a　devoted　husband　and　eloped　with　a　disagreeable；　ugly；　little　low　comedian　（I　am　speaking　of　long；　long　ago）。

〃'You　must　be　mad；'　said　my　mother；　'what　on　earth　induced　you　to　take　such　a　step？'

〃'My　dear　Emma；'　replied　the　lady；　'what　else　was　there　for　me？　　You　know　I　can't　act。　　I　had　to　do　SOMETHING　to　show　I　was　'an　artiste！'

〃We　are　dressed…up　marionettes。　　Our　voice　is　the　voice　of　the　unseen　showman；　Convention；　our　very　movements　of　passion　and　pain　are　but　in　answer　to　his　jerk。　　A　man　resembles　one　of　those　gigantic　bundles　that　one　sees　in　nursemaids'　arms。　　It　is　very　bulky　and　very　long；　it　looks　a　mass　of　delicate　lace　and　rich　fur　and　fine　woven　stuffs；　and　somewhere；　hidden　out　of　sight　among　the　finery；　there　is　a　tiny　red　bit　of　bewildered　humanity；　with　no　voice　but　a　foolish　cry。

〃There　is　but　one　story；〃　he　went　on；　after　a　long　pause；　uttering　his　own　thoughts　aloud　rather　than　speaking　to　me。　　〃We　sit　at　our　desks　and　think　and　think；　and　write　and　write；　but　the　story　is　ever　the　same。　　Men　told　it　and　men　listened　to　it　many　years　ago；　we　are　telling　it　to　one　another　to…day；　we　shall　be　telling　it　to　one　another　a　thousand　years　hence；　and　the　story　is：　　'Once　upon　a　time　there　lived　a　man；　and　a　woman　who　loved　him。'　　The　little　critic　cries　that　it　is　not　new；　and　asks　for　something　fresh；　thinkingas　children　dothat　there　are　strange　things　in　the　world。〃


At　that　point　my　notes　end；　and　there　is　nothing　in　the　book　beyond。　Whether　any　of　us　thought　any　more　of　the　novel；　whether　we　ever　met　again　to　discuss　it；　whether　it　were　ever　begun；　whether　it　were　ever　abandonedI　cannot　say。　　There　is　a　fairy　story　that　I　read　many；　many　years　ago　that　has　never　ceased　to　haunt　me。　　It　told　how　a　little　boy　once　climbed　a　rainbow。　　And　at　the　end　of　the　rainbow；　just　behind　the　clouds；　he　found　a　wondrous　city。　　Its　houses　were　of　gold；　and　its　streets　were　paved　with　silver；　and　the　light　that　shone　upon　it　was　as　the　light　that　lies　upon　the　sleeping　world　at　dawn。　　In　this　city　there　were　palaces　so　beautiful　that　merely　to　look　upon　them　satisfied　all　desires；　temples　so　perfect　that　they　who　once　knelt　therein　were　cleansed　of　sin。　　And　all　the　men　who　dwelt　in　this　wondrous　city　were　great　and　good；　and　the　women　fairer　than　the　women　of　a　young　man's　dreams。　　And　the　name　of　the　city　was；　〃The　city　of　the　things　men　meant　to　do。〃







End