the red cross girl(红十字姑娘)-第2节
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in bloom； and the monthly roses； you could always find a sweet violet or
two somewhere in the yard； here and there splotches of deep pink against
gray cabin walls proved that precocious peach…trees were in bloom。 It
never rained。 At night it was cold enough for fires。 In the middle of the
day it was hot。 The wind never blew； and every morning we had a four for
tennis and every afternoon we rode in the woods。 And every night we sat
in front of the fire （that didn't smoke because of pretending） and talked
until the next morning。
He was one of those rarely gifted men who find their chiefest pleasure
not in looking backward or forward； but in what is going on at the moment。
Weeks did not have to pass before it was forced upon his knowledge that
Tuesday； the fourteenth （let us say）； had been a good Tuesday。 He knew it
the moment he waked at 7 A。 M。 and perceived the Tuesday sunshine
making patterns of bright light upon the floor。 The sunshine rejoiced him
and the knowledge that even before breakfast there was vouchsafed to him
a whole hour of life。 That day began with attentions to his physical well…
being。 There were exercises conducted with great vigor and rejoicing；
followed by a tub； artesian cold； and a loud and joyous singing of ballads。
At fifty R。 H。 D。 might have posed to some Praxiteles and； copied in
marble； gone down the ages as 〃statue of a young 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
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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
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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。
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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
