Four Years- 第4部分

he　had　just　renounced　his　velveteen；　and　even　those　cuffs　turned　backward　over　the　sleeves；　and　had　begun　to　dress　very　carefully　in　the　fashion　of　the　moment。　he　lived　in　a　little　house　at　chelsea　that　the　architect　godwin　had　decorated　with　an　elegance　that　owed　something　to　whistler。　there　was　nothing　mediaeval；　nor　pre？raphaelite；　no　cupboard　door　with　figures　upon　flat　gold；　no　peacock　blue；　no　dark　background。　i　remember　vaguely　a　white　drawing　room　with　whistler　etchings；　let　in　to　white　panels；　and　a　dining　room　all　white：　chairs；　walls；　mantlepiece；　carpet；　except　for　a　diamond？shaped　piece　of　red　cloth　in　the　middle　of　the　table　under　a　terra　cotta　statuette；　and　i　think　a　red　shaded　lamp　hanging　from　the　ceiling　to　a　little　above　the　statuette。　it　was　perhaps　too　perfect　in　its　unity；　his　past　of　a　few　years　before　had　gone　too　pletely；　and　i　remember　thinking　that　the　perfect　harmony　of　his　life　there；　with　his　beautiful　wife　and　his　two　young　children；　suggested　some　deliberate　artistic　position。

he　mended；　&　dispraised　himself；　during　dinner　by　attributing　characteristics　like　his　own　to　his　country：　we　irish　are　too　poetical　to　be　poets；　we　are　a　nation　of　brilliant　failures；　but　we　are　the　greatest　talkers　since　the　greeks。　when　dinner　was　over　he　read　me　from　the　proofs　of　the　decay　of　lying　and　when　he　came　to　the　sentence：　schopenhauer　has　analysed　the　pessimism　that　characterises　modern　thought；　but　hamlet　invented　it。　the　world　has　bee　sad　because　a　puppet　was　once　melancholy；　i　said；　why　do　you　change　〃sad〃　to　〃melancholy？〃　he　replied　that　he　wanted　a　full　sound　at　the　close　of　his　sentence；　and　i　thought　it　no　excuse　and　an　example　of　the　vague　impressiveness　that　spoilt　his　writing　for　me。　only　when　he　spoke；　or　when　his　writing　was　the　mirror　of　his　speech；　or　in　some　simple　fairytale；　had　he　words　exact　enough　to　hold　a　subtle　ear。　he　alarmed　me；　though　not　as　henley　did　for　i　never　left　his　house　thinking　myself　fool　or　dunce。

he　flattered　the　intellect　of　every　man　he　liked；　he　made　me　tell　him　long　irish　stories　and　pared　my　art　of　story？telling　to　homers；　and　once　when　he　had　described　himself　as　writing　in　the　census　paper　age　19；　profession　genius；　infirmity　talent；　the　other　guest；　a　young　journalist　fresh　from　oxford　or　cambridge；　said　what　should　i　have　written？　and　was　told　that　it　should　have　been　profession　talent；　infirmity　genius。　when；　however；　i　called；　wearing　shoes　a　little　too　yellow？？unblackened　leather　had　just　bee　fashionable？？i　understood　their　extravagence　when　i　saw　his　eyes　fixed　upon　them；　an　another　day　wilde　asked　me　to　tell　his　little　boy　a　fairy　story；　and　i　had　but　got　as　far　as　once　upon　a　time　there　was　a　giant　when　the　little　boy　screamed　and　ran　out　of　the　room。　wilde　looked　grave　and　i　was　plunged　into　the　shame　of　clumsiness　that　afflicts　the　young。　when　i　asked　for　some　literary　gossip　for　some　provincial　newspaper；　that　paid　me　a　few　shillings　a　month；　he　explained　very　explicitly　that　writing　literary　gossip　was　no　job　for　a　gentleman。　though　to　be　pared　to　homer　passed　the　time　pleasantly；　i　had　not　been　greatly　perturbed　had　he　stopped　me　with　is　it　a　long　story？　as　henley　would　certainly　have　done。　i　was　abashed　before　him　as　wit　and　man　of　the　world　alone。　i　remember　that　he　deprecated　the　very　general　belief　in　his　success　or　his　efficiency；　and　i　think　with　sincerity。　one　form　of　success　had　gone：　he　was　no　more　the　lion　of　the　season；　and　he　had　not　discovered　his　gift　for　writing　edy；　yet　i　think　i　knew　him　at　the　happiest　moment　of　his　life。　no　scandal　had　darkened　his　fame；　his　fame　as　a　talker　was　growing　among　his　equals；　&　he　seemed　to　live　in　the　enjoyment　of　his　own　spontaneity。　one　day　he　began：　i　have　been　inventing　a　christian　heresy；　and　he　told　a　detailed　story；　in　the　style　of　some　early　father；　of　how　christ　recovered　after　the　crucifixion　and；　escaping　from　the　tomb；　lived　on　for　many　years；　the　one　man　upon　earth　who　knew　the　falsehood　of　christianity。　once　st。　paul　visited　his　town　and　he　alone　in　the　carpenters　quarter　did　not　go　to　hear　him　preach。　the　other　carpenters　noticed　that　henceforth；　for　some　unknown　reason；　he　kept　his　hands　covered。　a　few　days　afterwards　i　found　wilde；　with　smock　frocks　in　various　colours　spread　out　upon　the　floor　in　front　of　him；　while　a　missionary　explained　that　he　did　not　object　to　the　heathen　going　naked　upon　week　days；　but　insisted　upon　clothes　in　church。　he　had　brought　the　smock　frocks　in　a　cab　that　the　only　art？critic　whose　fame　had　reached　central　africa　might　select　a　colour；　so　wilde　sat　there　weighing　all　with　a　conscious　ecclesiastic　solemnity。

　。。



Four　YearsVIII

…。网
of　late　years　i　have　often　explained　wilde　to　myself　by　his　family　history。　his　father；　was　a　friend　or　acquaintance　of　my　fathers　father　and　among　my　family　traditions　there　is　an　old　dublin　riddle：　why　are　sir　william　wildes　nails　so　black？　answer；　because　he　has　scratched　himself。　and　there　is　an　old　story　still　current　in　dublin　of　lady　wilde　saying　to　a　servant。　why　do　you　put　the　plates　on　the　coal？scuttle？　what　are　the　chairs　meant　for？　they　were　famous　people　and　there　are　many　like　stories；　and　even　a　horrible　folk　story；　the　invention　of　some　connaught　peasant；　that　tells　how　sir　william　wilde　took　out　the　eyes　of　some　men；　who　had　e　to　consult　him　as　an　oculist；　and　laid　them　upon　a　plate；　intending　to　replace　them　in　a　moment；　and　how　the　eyes　were　eaten　by　a　cat。　as　a　certain　friend　of　mine；　who　has　made　a　prolonged　study　of　the　nature　of　cats；　said　when　he　first　heard　the　tale；　catslove　eyes。　the　wilde　family　was　clearly　of　the　sort　that　fed　the　imagination　of　charles　lever；　dirty；　untidy；　daring；　and　what　charles　lever；　who　loved　more　normal　activities；　might　not　have　valued　so　highly；　very　imaginative　and　learned。　lady　wilde；　who　when　i　knew　her　received　her　friends　with　blinds　drawn　and　shutters　closed　that　none　might　see　her　withered　face；　longed　always　perhaps；　though　certainly　amid　much　self　mockery；　for　some　impossible　splendour　of　character　and　circumstance。　she　lived　near　her　son　in　level　chelsea；　but　i　have　heard　her　say；　i　want　to　live　on　somehigh　place；　primrose　hill　or　highgate；　because　i　was　an　eagle　in　my　youth。　i　think　her　son　lived　with　no　self　mockery　at　all　an　imaginary　life；　perpetually　performed　a　play　which　was　in　all　things　the　opposite　of　all　that　he　had　known　in　childhood　and　early　youth；　never　put　off　pletely　his　wonder　at　opening　his　eyes　every　morning　on　his　own　beautiful　house；　and　in　remembering　that　he　had　dined　yesterday　with　a　duchess　and　that　he　delighted　in　flaubert　and　pater；　read　homer　in　the　original　and　not　as　a　school？master　reads　him　for　the　grammar。　i　think；　too；　that　because　of　all　that　half？civilized　blood　in　his　veins；　he　could　not　endure　the　sedentary　toil　of　creative　art　and　so　remained　a　man　of　action；　exaggerating；　for　the　sake　of　immediate　effect；　every　trick　learned　from　his　masters；　turning　their　easel　painting　into　painted　scenes。　he　was　a　parvenu；　but　a　parvenu　whose　whole　bearing　proved　that　if　he　did　dedicate　every　story　in　the　house　of　pomegranates　to　a　lady　of　title；　it　was　but　to　show　that　he　was　jack　and　the　social　ladder　his　pantomime　beanstalk。　〃did　you　ever　hear　him　say　marquess　of　dimmesdale？〃　a　friend　of　his　once　asked　me。　〃he　does　not　say　the　duke　of　york

with　any　pleasure。〃

he　told　me　once　that　he　had　been　offered　a　safe　seat　in　parliament　and；　had　he　accepted；　he　might　have　had　a　career　like　that　of　beaconsfield；　whose　early　style　resembles　his；　being　meant　for　crowds；　for　excitement；　for　hurried　decisions；　for　immediate　triumphs。　such　men　get　their　sincerity；　if　at　all；　from　the　contact　of　events；　the　dinner　table　was　wildes　event　and　made　him　the　greatest　talker　of　his　time；　and　his　plays　and　dialogues　have　what　merit　they　possess　from　being　now　an　imitation；　now　a　record；　of　his　talk。　even　in　those　days　i　would　often　defend　him　by　saying　that　his　very　admiration　for　his　predecessors　in　poetry；　for　browning；　for　swinburne　and　rossetti；　in　their　first　vogue　while　he　was　a　very　young　man；　made　any　success　seem　impossible　that　could　satisfy　his　immense　ambition：　never　but　once　before　had　the　artist　seemed　so　great；　never　had　the　work　of　art　seemed　so　difficult。　i　would　then　pare　him　with　benvenuto　cellini　who；　ing　after　michael　angelo；　found　nothing　left　to　do　so　satisfactory　as　to　turn　bravo　and　assassinate　the　man　who　broke　michael　angelos　nose。

　。。



Four　YearsIX

；
i　cannot　remember　who　first　brought　me　to　the　old　stable　beside　kelmscott　house；　william　morris　house　at　hammersmith；　&　to　the　debates　held　there　upon　sunday　evenings　by　the　socialist　league。　i　was　soon　of　the　little　group　who　had　supper　with　morris　afterwards。　i　met　at　these　suppers　very　constantly　walter　crane；　emery　walker　presently；　in　association　with　cobden　sanderson；　the　printer　of　many　fine　books；　and　less　constantly　bernard　shaw　and　cockerell；　now　of　the　museum　of　cambridge；　and　perhaps　but　once　or　twice　hyndman　the　socialist　and　the　anarchist　prince　krapotkin。　there　too　one　always　met　certain　more　or　less　educated　workmen；　rough　of　speech　and　manner；　with　a　conviction　to　meet　every　turn。　i　was　told　by　one　of　them；　on　a　night　when　i　had　done　perhaps　m