Читать книгу The Death of the Lion - Генри Джеймс, Henry Foss James - Страница 3

I was frankly, at the end of three days, a very prejudiced critic, so that one morning when, in the garden, my great man had offered to read me something I quite held my breath as I listened.  It was the written scheme of another book—something put aside long ago, before his illness, but that he had lately taken out again to reconsider.  He had been turning it round when I came down on him, and it had grown magnificently under this second hand.  Loose liberal confident, it might have passed for a great gossiping eloquent letter—the overflow into talk of an artist’s amorous plan.  The theme I thought singularly rich, quite the strongest he had yet treated; and this familiar statement of it, full too of fine maturities, was really, in summarised splendour, a mine of gold, a precious independent work.  I remember rather profanely wondering whether the ultimate production could possibly keep at the pitch.  His reading of the fond epistle, at any rate, made me feel as if I were, for the advantage of posterity, in close correspondence with him—were the distinguished person to whom it had been affectionately addressed.  It was a high distinction simply to be told such things.  The idea he now communicated had all the freshness, the flushed fairness, of the conception untouched and untried: it was Venus rising from the sea and before the airs had blown upon her.  I had never been so throbbingly present at such an unveiling.  But when he had tossed the last bright word after the others, as I had seen cashiers in banks, weighing mounds of coin, drop a final sovereign into the tray, I knew a sudden prudent alarm.

“My dear master, how, after all, are you going to do it?  It’s infinitely noble, but what time it will take, what patience and independence, what assured, what perfect conditions!  Oh for a lone isle in a tepid sea!”

“Isn’t this practically a lone isle, and aren’t you, as an encircling medium, tepid enough?” he asked, alluding with a laugh to the wonder of my young admiration and the narrow limits of his little provincial home.  “Time isn’t what I’ve lacked hitherto: the question hasn’t been to find it, but to use it.  Of course my illness made, while it lasted, a great hole—but I dare say there would have been a hole at any rate.  The earth we tread has more pockets than a billiard-table.  The great thing is now to keep on my feet.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Neil Paraday looked at me with eyes—such pleasant eyes as he had—in which, as I now recall their expression, I seem to have seen a dim imagination of his fate.  He was fifty years old, and his illness had been cruel, his convalescence slow.  “It isn’t as if I weren’t all right.”

“Oh if you weren’t all right I wouldn’t look at you!” I tenderly said.

We had both got up, quickened as by this clearer air, and he had lighted a cigarette.  I had taken a fresh one, which with an intenser smile, by way of answer to my exclamation, he applied to the flame of his match.  “If I weren’t better I shouldn’t have thought of that!”  He flourished his script in his hand.

“I don’t want to be discouraging, but that’s not true,” I returned.  “I’m sure that during the months you lay here in pain you had visitations sublime.  You thought of a thousand things.  You think of more and more all the while.  That’s what makes you, if you’ll pardon my familiarity, so respectable.  At a time when so many people are spent you come into your second wind.  But, thank God, all the same, you’re better!  Thank God, too, you’re not, as you were telling me yesterday, ‘successful.’  If you weren’t a failure what would be the use of trying?  That’s my one reserve on the subject of your recovery—that it makes you ‘score,’ as the newspapers say.  It looks well in the newspapers, and almost anything that does that’s horrible.  ‘We are happy to announce that Mr. Paraday, the celebrated author, is again in the enjoyment of excellent health.’  Somehow I shouldn’t like to see it.”

“You won’t see it; I’m not in the least celebrated—my obscurity protects me.  But couldn’t you bear even to see I was dying or dead?” my host enquired.

“Dead—passe encore; there’s nothing so safe.  One never knows what a living artist may do—one has mourned so many.  However, one must make the worst of it.  You must be as dead as you can.”

“Don’t I meet that condition in having just published a book?”

“Adequately, let us hope; for the book’s verily a masterpiece.”

At this moment the parlour-maid appeared in the door that opened from the garden: Paraday lived at no great cost, and the frisk of petticoats, with a timorous “Sherry, sir?” was about his modest mahogany.  He allowed half his income to his wife, from whom he had succeeded in separating without redundancy of legend.  I had a general faith in his having behaved well, and I had once, in London, taken Mrs. Paraday down to dinner.  He now turned to speak to the maid, who offered him, on a tray, some card or note, while, agitated, excited, I wandered to the end of the precinct.  The idea of his security became supremely dear to me, and I asked myself if I were the same young man who had come down a few days before to scatter him to the four winds.  When I retraced my steps he had gone into the house, and the woman—the second London post had come in—had placed my letters and a newspaper on a bench.  I sat down there to the letters, which were a brief business, and then, without heeding the address, took the paper from its envelope.  It was the journal of highest renown, The Empire of that morning.  It regularly came to Paraday, but I remembered that neither of us had yet looked at the copy already delivered.  This one had a great mark on the “editorial” page, and, uncrumpling the wrapper, I saw it to be directed to my host and stamped with the name of his publishers.  I instantly divined that The Empire had spoken of him, and I’ve not forgotten the odd little shock of the circumstance.  It checked all eagerness and made me drop the paper a moment.  As I sat there conscious of a palpitation I think I had a vision of what was to be.  I had also a vision of the letter I would presently address to Mr. Pinhorn, breaking, as it were, with Mr. Pinhorn.  Of course, however, the next minute the voice of The Empire was in my ears.

The article wasn’t, I thanked heaven, a review; it was a “leader,” the last of three, presenting Neil Paraday to the human race.  His new book, the fifth from his hand, had been but a day or two out, and The Empire, already aware of it, fired, as if on the birth of a prince, a salute of a whole column.  The guns had been booming these three hours in the house without our suspecting them.  The big blundering newspaper had discovered him, and now he was proclaimed and anointed and crowned.  His place was assigned him as publicly as if a fat usher with a wand had pointed to the topmost chair; he was to pass up and still up, higher and higher, between the watching faces and the envious sounds—away up to the dais and the throne.  The article was “epoch-making,” a landmark in his life; he had taken rank at a bound, waked up a national glory.  A national glory was needed, and it was an immense convenience he was there.  What all this meant rolled over me, and I fear I grew a little faint—it meant so much more than I could say “yea” to on the spot.  In a flash, somehow, all was different; the tremendous wave I speak of had swept something away.  It had knocked down, I suppose, my little customary altar, my twinkling tapers and my flowers, and had reared itself into the likeness of a temple vast and bare.  When Neil Paraday should come out of the house he would come out a contemporary.  That was what had happened: the poor man was to be squeezed into his horrible age.  I felt as if he had been overtaken on the crest of the hill and brought back to the city.  A little more and he would have dipped down the short cut to posterity and escaped.