a death in the desert-第4章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！





and　day　by　day　he　felt　that　in　his　peculiar　relation　to　her　his



own　individuality　played　a　smaller　and　smaller　part。　　His　power



to　minister　to　her　comfort；　he　saw；　lay　solely　in　his　link　with



his　brother's　life。　　He　understood　all　that　his　physical



resemblance　meant　to　her。　　He　knew　that　she　sat　by　him　always



watching　for　some　common　trick　of　gesture；　some　familiar　play　of



expression；　some　illusion　of　light　and　shadow；　in　which　he　should



seem　wholly　Adriance。　　He　knew　that　she　lived　upon　this　and　that



her　disease　fed　upon　it；　that　it　sent　shudders　of　remembrance



through　her　and　that　in　the　exhaustion　which　followed　this



turmoil　of　her　dying　senses；　she　slept　deep　and　sweet　and



dreamed　of　youth　and　art　and　days　in　a　certain　old　Florentine



garden；　and　not　of　bitterness　and　death。







The　question　which　most　perplexed　him　was；　〃How　much　shall　I



know？　　How　much　does　she　wish　me　to　know？〃　　A　few　days　after　his



first　meeting　with　Katharine　Gaylord；　he　had　cabled　his　brother



to　write　her。　　He　had　merely　said　that　she　was　mortally　ill；　he



could　depend　on　Adriance　to　say　the　right　thingthat　was　a　part



of　his　gift。　　Adriance　always　said　not　only　the　right　thing；　but



the　opportune；　graceful；　exquisite　thing。　　His　phrases　took　the



color　of　the　moment　and　the　then…present　condition；　so　that　they



never　savored　of　perfunctory　compliment　or　frequent　usage。　　He



always　caught　the　lyric　essence　of　the　moment；　the　poetic



suggestion　of　every　situation。　　Moreover；　he　usually　did　the



right　thing；　the　opportune；　graceful；　exquisite　thingexcept；



when　he　did　very　cruel　thingsbent　upon　making　people　happy



when　their　existence　touched　his；　just　as　he　insisted　that　his



material　environment　should　be　beautiful；　lavishing　upon　those



near　him　all　the　warmth　and　radiance　of　his　rich　nature；　all　the



homage　of　the　poet　and　troubadour；　and；　when　they　were　no　longer



near；　forgettingfor　that　also　was　a　part　of　Adriance's　gift。







Three　weeks　after　Everett　had　sent　his　cable；　when　he　made



his　daily　call　at　the　gaily　painted　ranch　house；　he　found



Katharine　laughing　like　a　schoolgirl。　　〃Have　you　ever　thought；〃



she　said；　as　he　entered　the　music　room；　〃how　much　these　seances



of　ours　are　like　Heine's　'Florentine　Nights；'　except　that　I　don't



give　you　an　opportunity　to　monopolize　the　conversation　as　Heine



did？〃　　She　held　his　hand　longer　than　usual；　as　she　greeted　him；



and　looked　searchingly　up　into　his　face。　　〃You　are　the　kindest



man　living；　the　kindest；〃　she　added；　softly。







Everett's　gray　face　colored　faintly　as　he　drew　his　hand



away；　for　he　felt　that　this　time　she　was　looking　at　him　and　not



at　a　whimsical　caricature　of　his　brother。　　〃Why；　what　have　I　done



now？〃　he　asked；　lamely。　　〃I　can't　remember　having　sent　you　any



stale　candy　or　champagne　since　yesterday。〃







She　drew　a　letter　with　a　foreign　postmark　from　between



the　leaves　of　a　book　and　held　it　out；　smiling。　　〃You　got　him　to



write　it。　　Don't　say　you　didn't；　for　it　came　direct；　you　see；　and



the　last　address　I　gave　him　was　a　place　in　Florida。　　This　deed



shall　be　remembered　of　you　when　I　am　with　the　just　in　Paradise。



But　one　thing　you　did　not　ask　him　to　do；　for　you　didn't　know　about



it。　　He　has　sent　me　his　latest　work；　the　new　sonata；　the　most



ambitious　thing　he　has　ever　done；　and　you　are　to　play　it　for　me



directly；　though　it　looks　horribly　intricate。　　But　first　for　the



letter；　I　think　you　would　better　read　it　aloud　to　me。〃







Everett　sat　down　in　a　low　chair　facing　the　window　seat　in



which　she　reclined　with　a　barricade　of　pillows　behind　her。　　He



opened　the　letter；　his　lashes　half…veiling　his　kind　eyes；　and　saw



to　his　satisfaction　that　it　was　a　long　onewonderfully　tactful



and　tender；　even　for　Adriance；　who　was　tender　with　his　valet　and



his　stable　boy；　with　his　old　gondolier　and　the　beggar…women　who



prayed　to　the　saints　for　him。







The　letter　was　from　Granada；　written　in　the　Alhambra；　as　he



sat　by　the　fountain　of　the　Patio　di　Lindaraxa。　　The　air　was



heavy；　with　the　warm　fragrance　of　the　South　and　full　of　the　sound



of　splashing；　running　water；　as　it　had　been　in　a　certain　old



garden　in　Florence；　long　ago。　　The　sky　was　one　great　turquoise；



heated　until　it　glowed。　　The　wonderful　Moorish　arches　threw



graceful　blue　shadows　all　about　him。　　He　had　sketched　an　outline



of　them　on　the　margin　of　his　notepaper。　　The　subtleties　of　Arabic



decoration　had　cast　an　unholy　spell　over　him；　and　the　brutal



exaggerations　of　Gothic　art　were　a　bad　dream；　easily　forgotten。　



The　Alhambra　itself　had；　from　the　first；　seemed　perfectly



familiar　to　him；　and　he　knew　that　he　must　have　trod　that　court；



sleek　and　brown　and　obsequious；　centuries　before　Ferdinand　rode



into　Andalusia。　　The　letter　was　full　of　confidences　about　his



work；　and　delicate　allusions　to　their　old　happy　days　of　study　and



comradeship；　and　of　her　own　work；　still　so　warmly　remembered　and



appreciatively　discussed　everywhere　he　went。







As　Everett　folded　the　letter　he　felt　that　Adriance　had



divined　the　thing　needed　and　had　risen　to　it　in　his　own　wonderful



way。　　The　letter　was　consistently　egotistical　and　seemed　to　him



even　a　trifle　patronizing；　yet　it　was　just　what　she　had



wanted。　　A　strong　realization　of　his　brother's　charm　and　intensity



and　power　came　over　him；　he　felt　the　breath　of　that　whirlwind　of



flame　in　which　Adriance　passed；　consuming　all　in　his　path；　and



himself　even　more　resolutely　than　he　consumed　others。　　Then　he



looked　down　at　this　white；　burnt…out　brand　that　lay　before　him。



〃Like　him；　isn't　it？〃　she　said；　quietly。







〃I　think　I　can　scarcely　answer　his　letter；　but　when　you　see



him　next　you　can　do　that　for　me。　　I　want　you　to　tell　him　many



things　for　me；　yet　they　can　all　be　summed　up　in　this：　I　want　him



to　grow　wholly　into　his　best　and　greatest　self；　even　at　the　cost



of　the　dear　boyishness　that　is　half　his　charm　to　you　and　me。　　Do



you　understand　me？〃







〃I　know　perfectly　well　what　you　mean；〃　answered　Everett；



thoughtfully。　　〃I　have　often　felt　so　about　him　myself。　　And　yet



it's　difficult　to　prescribe　for　those　fellows；　so　little　makes；



so　little　mars。〃







Katharine　raised　herself　upon　her　elbow；　and　her　face



flushed　with　feverish　earnestness。　　〃Ah；　but　it　is　the　waste　of



himself　that　I　mean；　his　lashing　himself　out　on　stupid　and



uncomprehending　people　until　they　take　him　at　their　own　estimate。　



He　can　kindle　marble；　strike　fire　from　putty；　but　is　it　worth



what　it　costs　him？〃







〃Come；　come；〃　expostulated　Everett；　alarmed　at　her　excitement。　



〃Where　is　the　new　sonata？　　Let　him　speak　for　himself。〃







He　sat　down　at　the　piano　and　began　playing　the　first



movement；　which　was　indeed　the　voice　of　Adriance；　his　proper



speech。　　The　sonata　was　the　most　ambitious　work　he　had　done　up　to



that　time　and　marked　the　transition　from　his　purely　lyric　vein　to



a　deeper　and　nobler　style。　　Everett　played　intelligently　and　with



that　sympathetic　comprehension　which　seems　peculiar　to　a　certain



lovable　class　of　men　who　never　accomplish　anything　in　particular。　



When　he　had　finished　he　turned　to　Katharine。







〃How　he　has　grown！〃　she　cried。　　〃What　the　three　last　years　have



done　for　him！　　He　used　to　write　only　the　tragedies　of　passion；　but



this　is　the　tragedy　of　the　soul；　the　shadow　coexistent　with　the



soul。　　This　is　the　tragedy　of　effort　and　failure；　the　thing　Keats



called　hell。　　This　is　my　tragedy；　as　I　lie　here　spent　by　the



racecourse；　listening　to　the　feet　of　the　runners　as　they　pass　me。　



Ah；　God！　　The　swift　feet　of　the　runners！〃







She　turned　her　face　away　and　covered　it　with　her　straining



hands。　　Everett　crossed　over　to　her　quickly　and　knelt　beside　her。　



In　all　the　days　he　had　known　her　she　had　never　before；　beyond　an



occasional　ironical　jest；　given　voice　to　the　bitterness　of　her



own　defeat。　　Her　courage　had　become　a　point　of　pride　with　him；



and　to　see　it　going　sickened　him。







〃Don't　do　it；〃　he　gasped。　　〃I　can't　stand　it；　I　really



can't；　I　feel　it　too　much。　　We　mustn't　speak　of　that；　it's　too



tragic　and　too　vast。〃







When　she　turned　her　face　back　to　him　there　was　a　ghost　of　the　old；



brave；　cynical　smile　on　it；　more　bitter　than　the　tears　she　could



not　shed。　　〃No；　I　won't　be　so　ungenerous；　I　will　save　that　for　the



watches　of　the　night　when　I　have　no　better　company。　　Now　you　may



mix　me　another　drink　of　some　sort。　　Formerly；　when　it　was　not



if　I　should　ever　sing　Brunnhilde；　but　quite　simply　when　I



should　sing　Brunnhilde；　I　was　always　starving　myself　and



thinking　what　I　might　drink　and　what　I　might　not。　　But　broken　music



boxes　may　drink　whatsoever　they　list；　and　no　one　cares　whether　they



lose　their　figure。　　Run　over　that　theme　at　the　beginning　again。　



That；　at　least；　is　not　new。　　It　was　running　in　his　head　when　we



were　in　Venice　years　ago；　and　he　used　to　drum　it　on　his　glass　at



the　dinner　table。　　He　had　just　begun　to　work　it　out　when　the　late



autumn　came　on；　and　the　paleness　of　the　Adriatic　oppressed　him；



and　he　decided　to　go　to　Florence　for　the　winter；　and　lost　touch



with　the　theme　during　his　illness。　　Do　you　remember　those



frightful　days？　　All　the　people　who　have　loved　him　are　not　strong



enough　to　save　him　from　himself！　　When　I　got　word　from　Florence



that　he　had　been　ill　I　was　in　Nice　filling　a　concert　engagement。　



His　wife　was　hurrying　to　him　from　Paris；　but　I　reached　him　first。　



I　arrived　at　dusk；　in　a　terrific　storm。　　They　had　taken　an　old



palace　there　for　the　winter；　and　I　found　him　in　the　librarya



long；　dark　room　full　of　old　Latin　books　and　heavy　furniture　and



bronzes。　　He　was　sitting　by　a　wood　fire　at　one　end　of　the　room；



looking；　oh；　so　worn　and　pale！as　he　always　does　when　he　is　ill；



you　know。　　Ah；　it　is　so　good　that　you　do　know！　　Even



his　red　smoking　jacket　lent　no　color　to　his　face。　　His　first　words



were　not　to　tell　me　how　ill　he　had　been；　but　that　that　morning　he



had　been　well　enough　to　put　the　last　strokes　to　the　score　of　his



Souvenirs　d'Automne。　　He　was　as　I　most　like　to　remember　him：



so　calm　and　happy　and　tired；　not　gay；　as　he　usually　is；　but　just



contented　and　tired　with　that　heavenly　tiredness　that　comes　after



a　good　work　done　at　last。　　Outside；　the　rain　poured　down　in



torrents；　and　the　wind　moaned　for　the　pain　of　all　the　world　and



sobbed　in　the　branches　of　the　shiver