the choir invisible- 第19部分

〃Grace；〃　said　John。　〃Inability　to　express　thanks；〃　said　the　parson。

〃A　beautiful　form；〃　said　John。〃A　desire　to　be　stroked；〃　said　the　parson。　〃Sympathy；〃　said　John。　〃Oh；　no！〃　said　the　parson；　〃no　cat　has　any　sympathy。　A　dog　has：　a　man　is　more　of　a　dog。〃　〃Noble…mindedness；〃　said　John。

〃That　will　not　do　either；〃　said　the　parson。　〃Cats　are　not　noble…minded；　it's　preposterous！〃

〃Perfect　case　of　manner；〃　said　John。

〃Perfect　indifference　of　manner；〃　said　the　parson。〃

〃No　vanity；〃　said　John。　〃No　sense　of　humour；〃　said　the　parson。

〃Plenty　of　wit；〃　said　John。

〃You　keep　on　thinking　too　much　about　some　woman；〃　remonstrated　the　parson；　slightly　exasperated。

〃Fastidiousness；〃　said　John。

〃Soft　hands　and　beautiful　nails；〃　said　the　parson；　nodding　encouragingly。

〃A　gentle　footstep；〃　said　John　with　a　softened　look　coming　into　his　eyes。　〃A　quiet　presence。〃

〃Beautiful　taste　in　music；〃　said　John。

〃Oh！　dreadful！〃　said　the　parson。　〃What　on　earth　are　you　thinking　about？〃

〃The　love　of　rugs　and　cushions；〃　said　John；　groping　desperately。　〃The　love　of　a　lap；〃　said　the　parson　fluently。

〃The　love　of　playing　with　its　victim；〃　said　John；　thinking　of　another　woman。

〃Capital！〃　cried　the　parson。　〃That's　the　truest　thing　we've　said。　We'll　not　spoil　it　by　another　word；〃　but　he　searched　John's　face　covertly　to　see　whether　this　talk　had　beguiled　him。

All　this　satire　meant　nothing　sour；　or　bitter；　or　ignoble　with　the　parson。　It　was　merely　the　low；　far…off　play　of　the　northern　lights　of　his　mind；　irradiating　the　long　polar　night　of　his　bachelorhood。　But　even　on　the　polar　night　the　sun　risesa　little　way；　and　the　time　came　when　he　marriedas　one　might　expect　to　find　the　flame　of　a　volcano　hidden　away　in　a　mountain　of　Iceland　spar。

Toward　the　end　of　his　illness；　John　lay　one　night　inside　his　door；　looking　soberly；　sorrowfully　out　into　the　moonlight。　A　chair　sat　outside；　and　the　parson　walked　quietly　up　the　green　hill　and　took　it。　Then　he　laid　his　hat　on　the　grass；　and　passed　his　delicate　hands　slowly　backward　over　his　long　fine　straight　hair；　on　which　the　moonbeams　at　once　fell　with　a　luster　as　upon　still　water　or　the　finest　satin。

They　talked　awhile　of　the　best　things　in　life；　as　they　commonly　did。　At　length　the　parson　said　in　his　unworldly　way：

〃I　have　one　thing　against　Aristotle：　he　said　the　effect　of　the　flute　was　bad　and　exciting。　He　was　no　true　Greek。　John；　have　you　ever　thought　how　much　of　life　can　be　expressed　in　terms　of　music？　To　me　every　civilization　has　given　out　its　distinct　musical　quality；　the　ages　have　their　peculiar　tones；　each　century　its　key；　its　scale。　For　generations　in　Greece　you　can　hear　nothing　but　the　pipes；　during　other　generations　nothing　but　the　lyre。　Think　of　the　long；　long　time　among　the　Romans　when　your　ear　is　reached　by　the　trumpet　alone。

〃Then　again　whole　events　in　history　come　down　to　me　with　the　effect　of　an　orchestra；　playing　in　the　distance；　single　lives　sometimes　like　a　great　solo。　As　for　the　people　I　know　or　have　known；　some　have　to　me　the　sound　of　brass；　some　the　sound　of　wood；　some　the　sound　of　strings。　Onlyso　few；　so　very；　very　few　yield　the　perfect　music　of　their　kind。　The　brass　is　a　little　too　loud；　the　wood　a　little　too　muffled；　the　stringssome　of　the　strings　are　invariably　broken。　I　know　a　big　man　who　is　nothing　but　a　big　drum；　and　I　know　another　whose　whole　existence　has　been　a　jig　on　a　fiddle；　and　I　know　a　shrill　little　fellow　who　is　a　fife；　and　I　know　a　brassy　girl　who　is　a　pair　of　cymbals；　and　onceonce；〃　repeated　the　parson　whimsically；　〃I　knew　an　old　maid　who　was　a　real　living　spinet。　I　even　know　another　old　maid　now　who　is　nothing　but　an　old　music　booklong　ago　sung　through；　learned　by　heart；　and　laid　aside：　in　a　faded；　wrinkled　bindingyellowed　paper　stained　by　tearsand　haunted　by　an　odour　of　rose…petals；　crushed　between　the　leaves　of　memory：　a　genuine　very　thin　and　stiff　collection　of　the　rarest　original　songsnot　songs　without　words；　but　songs　without　soundsthe　ballads　of　an　undiscovered　heart；　the　hymns　of　an　unanswered　spirit。〃

After　a　pause　during　which　neither　of　the　men　spoke；　the　parson　went　on：

〃All　Irelandit　is　a　harp！　We　know　what　Scotland　is。　John；〃　he　exclaimed；　suddenly　turning　toward　the　dark　figure　lying　just　inside　the　shadow；　〃you　are　a　discord　of　the　bagpipe　and　the　harp：　there's　the　trouble　with　you。　Sometimes　I　can　hear　the　harp　alone　in　you；　and　then　I　like　you；　but　when　the　bagpipe　begins；　you　are　worse　than　a　big　bumblebee　with　a　bad　cold。〃

〃I　know　it；〃　said　John　sorrowfully。　〃My　only　hope　is　that　the　harp　will　outlast　the　bee。〃

〃At　least　that　was　a　chord　finely　struck；〃　said　the　parson　warmly。　After　another　silence　he　went　on。

〃Martin　Lutherhe　was　a　cathedral　organ。　And　so　it　goes。　And　so　the　whole　past　sounds　to　me：　it　is　the　music　of　the　world：　it　is　the　vast　choir　of　the　ever…living　dead。〃　He　gazed　dreamily　up　at　the　heavens：　〃Plato！　he　is　the　music　of　the　stars。〃

After　a　little　while；　bending　over　and　looking　at　the　earth　and　speaking　in　a　tone　of　unconscious　humility；　he　added：

〃The　most　that　we　can　do　is　to　begin　a　strain　that　will　swell　the　general　volume　and　last　on　after　we　have　perished。　As　for　me；　when　I　am　gone；　I　should　like　the　memory　of　my　life　to　give　out　the　sound　of　a　flute。〃

He　slipped　his　hand　softly　into　the　breastpocket　of　his　coat　and　more　softly　drew　something　out。

〃Would　you　like　a　little　music？〃　he　asked　shyly；　his　cold　beautiful　face　all　at　once　taking　on　an　expression　of　angelic　sweetness。

John　quickly　reached　out　and　caught　his　hand　in　a　long；　crushing　grip：　he　knew　this　was　the　last　proof　the　parson　could　ever　have　given　him　that　he　loved　him。　And　then　as　he　lay　back　on　his　pillow；　he　turned　his　face　back　into　the　dark　cabin。

Out　upon　the　stillness　of　the　night　floated　the　parson's　passion　silver…clear；　but　in　an　undertone　of　such　peace；　of　such　immortal　gentleness。　　It　was　as　though　the　very　beams　of　the　far…off　serenest　moon；　falling　upon　his　flute　and　dropping　down　into　its　interior　through　its　little　round　openings；　were　by　his　touch　shorn　of　all　their　lustre；　their　softness；　their　celestial　energy；　and　made　to　reissue　as　music。　It　was　as　though　his　flute　had　been　stuffed　with　frozen　Alpine　blossoms　and　these　had　been　melted　away　by　the　passionate　breath　of　his　soul　into　the　coldest　invisible　flowers　of　sound。　At　last；　as　though　all　these　blossoms　in　his　flute　had　been　used　upblown　out　upon　the　warm；　moon…lit　air　as　the　snow…white　fragrances　of　the　earthe　parson　buried　his　face　softly　upon　his　elbow　which　rested　on　the　back　of　his　chair。　And　neither　man　spoke　again。　XIII

WHEN　Mrs。　Falconer　had　drawn　near　John's　hut　on　the　morning　of　his　misfortune；　it　was　past　noon　despite　all　her　anxious；　sorrowful　haste　to　reach　him。　His　wounds　had　been　dressed。　The　crowd　of　people　that　had　gathered　about　his　cabin　were　gone　back　to　their　occupations　or　their　homesexcept　a　group　that　sat　on　the　roots　of　a　green　tree　several　yards　from　his　door。　Some　of　these　were　old　wilderness　folk　living　near　by　who　had　offered　to　nurse　him　and　otherwise　to　care　for　his　comforts　and　needs。　The　affair　furnished　them　that　renewed　interest　in　themselves　which　is　so　liable　to　revisit　us　when　we　have　escaped　a　fellow…creature's　suffering　but　can　relate　good　things　about　ourselves　in　like　risks　and　dangers；　and　they　were　drawing　out　their　reminiscences　now　with　unconscious　gratitude　for　so　excellent　an　opportunity　befalling　them　in　these　peaceful　unadventurous　days。　Several　of　John's　boys　lay　in　the　grass　and　hung　upon　these　narratives。　Now　and　then　they　cast　awe…stricken　glances　at　his　door　which　had　been　pushed　to；　that　he　might　be　quiet；　or；　if　his　pain　would　let　him；　drop　into　a　little　sleep。　They　made　it　their　especial　care；　when　any　new…comer　hurried　past；　to　arrest　him　with　the　command　that　he　must　not　go　in；　and　they　would　thus　have　stopped　Mrs。　Falconer　but　she　put　them　gently　aside　without　heed　or　hearing。

When　she　softly　pushed　the　door　open；　John　was　not　asleep。　He　lay　in　a　corner　on　his　low　hard　bed　of　skins　against　the　wall　of　logs　his　eyes　wide　open；　the　hard　white　glare　of　the　small　shutter…less　window　falling　on　his　face。　He　turned　to　her　the　look　of　a　dumb　animal　that　can　say　nothing　of　why　it　has　been　wounded　or　of　how　it　is　suffering；　stretched　out　his　hand　gratefully；　and　drew　her　toward　him。　She　sat　down　on　the　edge　of　the　bed；　folded　her　quivering　fingers　across　his　temples；　smoothed　back　his　heavy；　coarse；　curling　hair；　and　bending　low　over　his　eyes；　rained　down　into　them　the　whole　unuttered；　tearless　passion　of　her　distress；　her　sympathy。　Major　Falconer　came　for　her　within　the　hour　and　she　left　with　him　almost　as　soon　as　he　arrived。　When　she　was　gone；　John　lay　thinking　of　her。

〃What　a　nurse　she　is！〃　he　said；　remembering　how　she　had　concerned　herself　solely　his　about　life；　his　safety；　his　wounds。　Once　she　had　turned　quickly：

〃Now　you　can't　go　away！〃　she　had　said　with　a　smile　that　touched　him　deeply。

〃I　wish　you　didn't　have　to　go！〃　he　had　replied　mourningfully；　feeling　his　sudden　dependence　on　her。

This　was　the　first　time　she　had　ever　been　in　roomwith　its　poverty；　its　bareness。　She　must　have　cast　about　it　a　look　of　delicate　inquiryas　a　woman　is　apt　to　do　in　a　singleman's　abode；　for　when　she　came　again；　in　addition　to　pieces　of　soft　old　linen　for　bandages　brought　fresh　cool　fragrant　sheetsthe　work　of　her　own　looms；　a　better　pillow　with　a　pillow…case　on　it　that　was　delicious　to　his　cheek；　for　he　had　his　weakness　about　clean；　white　linen。　She　put　a　curtain　over　the　pitiless　window。　He　saw　a　wild　rose　in　a　glass　beside　his　Testament。　He　discovered　moccasin　slippers　beside　his　bed。

〃And　here；〃　she　had　said　just　before　leaving；　with　her　hand　on　a　pile　of　things　and　with　an　embarrassed　laughkeeping　her　face　turned　away〃here　are　some　towels。〃　Under　the　towels　he　found　two　night　shirtsnew　ones。

When　she　was　gone；　he　lay　thinking　of　her　again。

He　had　gratefully　slipped　on　one　of　the　shirts。　He　was　feeling　the　new　sense　of　luxury　that　is　imparted　by　a　bed　enriched　with　snow…white；　sweet…smelling　pillows　and　sheets。　The　curtain　over　his　window　strained　into　his　room　a　light　shadowy；　restful。　The　flower　on　his　table；the　transforming　touch　in　his　roomher　noble　brooding　tendernesseveryth