the professor at the breakfast table-第41部分

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like　one　that　has　thirsted　all　his　life　long　for　the　smile　of　youth

and　beauty；　and　seen　it　fly　his　presence　as　the　wave　ebbed　from　the

parched　lips　of　him　whose　fabled　punishment　is　the　perpetual　type　of

human　longing　and　disappointment？　　What　would　become　of　him；　if　this

fresh　soul　should　stoop　upon　him　in　her　first　young　passion；　as　the

flamingo　drops　out　of　the　sky　upon　some　lonely　and　dark　lagoon　in

the　marshes　of　Cagliari；　with　a　flutter　of　scarlet　feathers　and　a

kindling　of　strange　fires　in　the　shadowy　waters　that　hold　her

burning　image？



Marry　her；　of　course？Why；　no；　not　of　course。　　I　should　think　the

chance　less；　on　the　whole；　that　he　would　be　willing　to　marry　her

than　she　to　marry　him。



There　is　one　other　thing　that　might　happen。　　If　the　interest　he

awakes　in　her　gets　to　be　a　deep　one；　and　yet　has　nothing　of　love　in

it；　she　will　glance　off　from　him　into　some　great　passion　or　other。

All　excitements　run　to　love　in　women　of　a　certainlet　us　not　say

age；　but　youth。　　An　electrical　current　passing　through　a　coil　of

wire　makes　a　magnet　of　a　bar　of　iron　lying　within　it；　but　not

touching　it。　　So　a　woman　is　turned　into　a　love…magnet　by　a　tingling

current　of　life　running　round　her。　　I　should　like　to　see　one　of　them

balanced　on　a　pivot　properly　adjusted；　and　watch　if　she　did　not　turn

so　as　to　point　north　and　south；as　she　would；　if　the　love…currents

are　like　those　of　the　earth　our　mother。



Pray；　do　you　happen　to　remember　Wordsworth's　〃Boy　of　Windermere〃？

This　boy　used　to　put　his　hands　to　his　mouth；　and　shout　aloud；

mimicking　the　hooting　of　the　owls；　who　would　answer　him



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　〃with　quivering　peals；

　　　　　And　long　halloos　and　screams；　and　echoes　loud

　　　　　Redoubled　and　redoubled。〃



When　they　failed　to　answer　him；　and　he　hung　listening　intently　for

their　voices；　he　would　sometimes　catch　the　faint　sound　of　far

distant　waterfalls；　or　the　whole　scene　around　him　would　imprint

itself　with　new　force　upon　his　perceptions。　Read　the　sonnet；　if

you　please；it　is　Wordsworth　all　over；trivial　in　subject；　solemn

in　style；　vivid　in　description；　prolix　in　detail；　true　meta…

physically；　but　immensely　suggestive　of　〃imagination；〃　to　use　a　mild

term；　when　related　as　an　actual　fact　of　a　sprightly　youngster。

All　I　want　of　it　is　to　enforce　the　principle；　that；　when　the　door　of

the　soul　is　once　opened　to　a　guest；　there　is　no　knowing　who　will

come　in　next。



Our　young　girl　keeps　up　her　early　habit　of　sketching　heads　and

characters。　　Nobody　is；　I　should　think；　more　faithful　and　exact　in

the　drawing　of　the　academical　figures　given　her　as　lessons；　but

there　is　a　perpetual　arabesque　of　fancies　that　runs　round　the　margin

of　her　drawings；　and　there　is　one　book　which　I　know　she　keeps　to　run

riot　in；　where；　if　anywhere；　a　shrewd　eye　would　be　most　likely　to

read　her　thoughts。　　This　book　of　hers　I　mean　to　see；　if　I　can　get　at

it　honorably。



I　have　never　yet　crossed　the　threshold　of　the　Little　Gentleman's

chamber。　　How　he　lives；　when　he　once　gets　within　it；　I　can　only

guess。　　His　hours　are　late；　as　I　have　said；　often；　on　waking　late　in

the　night；　I　see　the　light　through　cracks　in　his　window…shutters　on

the　wall　of　the　house　opposite。　　If　the　times　of　witchcraft　were　not

over；　I　should　be　afraid　to　be　so　close　a　neighbor　to　a　place　from

which　there　come　such　strange　noises。　　Sometimes　it　is　the　dragging

of　something　heavy　over　the　floor；　that　makes　me　shiver　to　hear　it；…

…it　sounds　so　like　what　people　that　kill　other　people　have　to　do　now

and　then。　　Occasionally　I　hear　very　sweet　strains　of　music；whether

of　a　wind　or　stringed　instrument；　or　a　human　voice；　strange　as　it

may　seem；　I　have　often　tried　to　find　out；　but　through　the　partition

I　could　not　be　quite　sure。　　If　I　have　not　heard　a　woman　cry　and

moan；　and　then　again　laugh　as　though　she　would　die　laughing；　I　have

heard　sounds　so　like　them　thatI　am　a　fool　to　confess　itI　have

covered　my　head　with　the　bedclothes；　for　I　have　had　a　fancy　in　my

dreams；　that　I　could　hardly　shake　off　when　I　woke　up；　about　that　so…

called　witch　that　was　his　great…grandmother；　or　whatever　it　was；a

sort　of　fancy　that　she　visited　the　Little　Gentleman；a　young　woman

in　old…fashioned　dress；　with　a　red　ring　round　her　white　neck；not　a

neck…lace；　but　a　dull…stain。



Of　course　you　don't　suppose　that　I　have　any　foolish　superstitions

about　the　matter；I；　the　Professor；　who　have　seen　enough　to　take

all　that　nonsense　out　of　any　man's　head！　　It　is　not　our　beliefs　that

frighten　us　half　so　much　as　our　fancies。　　A　man　not　only　believes；

but　knows　he　runs　a　risk；　whenever　he　steps　into　a　railroad　car；　but

it　does　n't　worry　him　much。　　On　the　other　hand；　carry　that　man

across　a　pasture　a　little　way　from　some　dreary　country…village；　and

show　him　an　old　house　where　there　were　strange　deaths　a　good　many

years　ago；　and　there　are　rumors　of　ugly　spots　on　the　walls；the　old

man　hung　himself　in　the　garret；　that　is　certain；　and　ever　since　the

country…people　have　called　it　〃the　haunted　house；〃the　owners

have　n't　been　able　to　let　it　since　the　last　tenants　left　on　account

of　the　noises；so　it　has　fallen　into　sad　decay；　and　the　moss　grows

on　the　rotten　shingles　of　the　roof；　and　the　clapboards　have　turned

black；　and　the　windows　rattle　like　teeth　that　chatter　with　fear；　and

the　walls　of　the　house　begin　to　lean　as　if　its　knees　were　shaking；

take　the　man　who　did　n't　mind　the　real　risk　of　the　cars　to　that　old

house；　on　some　dreary　November　evening；　and　ask　him　to　sleep　there

alone；how　do　you　think　he　will　like　it？　　He　doesn't　believe　one

word　of　ghosts；but　then　he　knows；　that；　whether　waking　or

sleeping；　his　imagination　will　people　the　haunted　chambers　with

ghostly　images。　　It　is　not　what　we　believe；　as　I　said　before；　that

frightens　us　commonly；　but　what　we　conceive。　　A　principle　that

reaches　a　good　way　if　I　am　not　mistaken。　　I　say；　then；　that；　if

these　odd　sounds　coming　from　the　Little　Gentleman's　chamber

sometimes　make　me　nervous；　so　that　I　cannot　get　to　sleep；　it　is　not

because　I　suppose　he　is　engaged　in　any　unlawful　or　mysterious　way。

The　only　wicked　suggestion　that　ever　came　into　my　head　was　one　that

was　founded　on　the　landlady's　story　of　his　having　a　pile　of　gold；　it

was　a　ridiculous　fancy；　besides；　I　suspect　the　story　of　sweating

gold　was　only　one　of　the　many　fables　got　up　to　make　the　Jews　odious

and　afford　a　pretext　for　plundering　them。　　As　for　the　sound　like　a

woman　laughing　and　crying；　I　never　said　it　was　a　woman's　voice；　for；

in　the　first　place；　I　could　only　hear　indistinctly；　and；　secondly；

he　may　have　an　organ；　or　some　queer　instrument　or　other；　with　what

they　call　the　vox　humana　stop。　　If　he　moves　his　bed　round　to　get

away　from　the　window；　or　for　any　such　reason；　there　is　nothing　very

frightful　in　that　simple　operation。　　Most　of　our　foolish　conceits

explain　themselves　in　some　such　simple　way。　　And；　yet；　for　all　that；

I　confess；　that；　when　I　woke　up　the　other　evening；　and　heard；　first

a　sweet　complaining　cry；　and　then　foo