letters to dead authors-第11部分

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ities；　to　breathe　the　free　air　of　your　books；　and　dwell　in　the　company　of　Dumas's　menso　gallant；　so　frank；　so　indomitable；　such　swordsmen；　and　such　trenchermen。　　Like　M。　de　Rochefort　in　〃Vingt　Ans　Apres；〃　like　that　prisoner　of　the　Bastille；　your　genius　〃n'est　que　d'un　parti；　c'est　du　parti　du　grand　air。〃

There　seems　to　radiate　from　you　a　still　persistent　energy　and　enjoyment；　in　that　current　of　strength　not　only　your　characters　live；　frolic；　kindly；　and　sane；　but　even　your　very　collaborators　were　animated　by　the　virtue　which　went　out　of　you。　　How　else　can　we　explain　it；　the　dreary　charge　which　feeble　and　envious　tongues　have　brought　against　you；　in　England　and　at　home？　　They　say　you　employed　in　your　novels　and　dramas　that　vicarious　aid　which；　in　the　slang　of　the　studio；　the　〃sculptor's　ghost〃　is　fabled　to　afford。

Well；　let　it　be　so；　these　ghosts；　when　uninspired　by　you；　were　faint　and　impotent　as　〃the　strengthless　tribes　of　the　dead〃　in　Homer's　Hades；　before　Odysseus　had　poured　forth　the　blood　that　gave　them　a　momentary　valour。　　It　was　from　you　and　your　inexhaustible　vitality　that　these　collaborating　spectres　drew　what　life　they　possessed；　and　when　they　parted　from　you　they　shuddered　back　into　their　nothingness。　　Where　are　the　plays；　where　the　romances　which　Maquet　and　the　rest　wrote　in　their　own　strength？　　They　are　forgotten　with　last　year's　snows；　they　have　passed　into　the　wide　waste…paper　basket　of　the　world。　　You　say　of　D'Artagnan；　when　severed　from　his　three　friendsfrom　Porthos；　Athos；　and　Aramis〃he　felt　that　he　could　do　nothing；　save　on　the　condition　that　each　of　these　companions　yielded　to　him；　if　one　may　so　speak；　a　share　of　that　electric　fluid　which　was　his　gift　from　heaven。〃

No　man　of　letters　ever　had　so　great　a　measure　of　that　gift　as　you；　none　gave　of　it　more　freely　to　all　who　cameto　the　chance　associate　of　the　hour；　as　to　the　characters；　all　so　burly　and　full…blooded；　who　flocked　from　your　brain。　　Thus　it　was　that　you　failed　when　you　approached　the　supernatural。　　Your　ghosts　had　too　much　flesh　and　blood；　more　than　the　living　persons　of　feebler　fancies。　　A　writer　so　fertile；　so　rapid；　so　masterly　in　the　ease　with　which　he　worked；　could　not　escape　the　reproaches　of　barren　envy。　　Because　you　overflowed　with　wit；　you　could　not　be　〃serious；〃　because　you　created　with　a　word；　you　were　said　to　scamp　your　work；　because　you　were　never　dull；　never　pedantic；　incapable　of　greed；　you　were　to　be　censured　as　desultory；　inaccurate；　and　prodigal。

A　generation　suffering　from　mental　and　physical　anaemiaa　generation　devoted　to　the　〃chiselled　phrase；〃　to　accumulated　〃documents；〃　to　microscopic　porings　over　human　baseness；　to　minute　and　disgustful　records　of　what　in　humanity　is　least　humanmay　readily　bring　these　unregarded　and　railing　accusations。　　Like　one　of　the　great　and　good…humoured　Giants　of　Rabelais；　you　may　hear　the　murmurs　from　afar；　and　smile　with　disdain。　　To　you；　who　can　amuse　the　worldto　you　who　offer　it　the　fresh　air　of　the　highway；　the　battlefield；　and　the　seathe　world　must　always　return：　　escaping　gladly　from　the　boudoirs　and　the　bouges；　from　the　surgeries　and　hospitals；　and　dead　rooms；　of　M。　Daudet　and　M。　Zola　and　of　the　wearisome　De　Goncourt。

With　all　your　frankness；　and　with　that　queer　morality　of　the　Camp　which；　if　it　swallows　a　camel　now　and　again；　never　strains　at　a　gnat；　how　healthy　and　wholesome；　and　even　pure；　are　your　romances！　You　never　gloat　over　sin；　nor　dabble　with　an　ugly　curiosity　in　the　corruptions　of　sense。　　The　passions　in　your　tales　are　honourable　and　brave；　the　motives　are　clearly　human。　　Honour；　Love；　Friendship　make　the　threefold　cord；　the　clue　your　knights　and　dames　follow　through　how　delightful　a　labyrinth　of　adventures！　　Your　greatest　books；　I　take　the　liberty　to　maintain；　are　the　Cycle　of　the　Valois　（〃La　Reine　Margot；〃　〃La　Dame　de　Montsoreau；〃　〃Les　Quarante…cinq〃）；　and　the　Cycle　of　Louis　Treize　and　Louis　Quatorze　（〃Les　Trois　Mousquetaires；〃　〃Vingt　Ans　Apres；〃　〃Le　Vicomte　de　Bragelonne〃）；　and；　beside　these　two　trilogiesa　lonely　monument；　like　the　sphinx　hard　by　the　three　pyramids〃Monte　Cristo。〃

In　these　romances　how　easy　it　would　have　been　for　you　to　burn　incense　to　that　great　goddess；　Lubricity；　whom　our　critic　says　your　people　worship。　　You　had　Brantome；　you　had　Tallemant；　you　had　Retif；　and　a　dozen　others；　to　furnish　materials　for　scenes　of　voluptuousness　and　of　blood　that　would　have　outdone　even　the　present　naturalistes。　　From　these　alcoves　of　〃Les　Dames　Galantes；〃　and　from　the　torture　chambers　（M。　Zola　would　not　have　spared　us　one　starting　sinew　of　brave　La　Mole　on　the　rack）　you　turned；　as　Scott　would　have　turned；　without　a　thought　of　their　profitable　literary　uses。　　You　had　other　metal　to　work　on：　　you　gave　us　that　superstitious　and　tragical　true　love　of　La　Mole's；　that　devotionhow　tender　and　how　pure！of　Bussy　for　the　Dame　de　Montsoreau。　　You　gave　us　the　valour　of　D'Artagnan；　the　strength　of　Porthos；　the　melancholy　nobility　of　Athos：　　Honour；　Chivalry；　and　Friendship。　　I　declare　your　characters　are　real　people　to　me　and　old　friends。　　I　cannot　bear　to　read　the　end　of　〃Bragelonne；〃　and　to　part　with　them　for　ever。　　〃Suppose　Porthos；　Athos；　and　Aramis　should　enter　with　a　noiseless　swagger；　curling　their　moustaches。〃　　How　we　would　welcome　them；　forgiving　D'Artagnan　even　his　hateful　fourberie　in　the　case　of　Milady。　　The　brilliance　of　your　dialogue　has　never　been　approached：　　there　is　wit　everywhere；　repartees　glitter　and　ring　like　the　flash　and　clink　of　small…swords。　　Then　what　duels　are　yours！　and　what　inimitable　battle…pieces！　　I　know　four　good　fights　of　one　against　a　multitude；　in　literature。　　These　are　the　Death　of　Gretir　the　Strong；　the　Death　of　Gunnar　of　Lithend；　the　Death　of　Hereward　the　Wake；　the　Death　of　Bussy　d'Amboise。　　We　can　compare　the　strokes　of　the　heroic　fighting…　times　with　those　described　in　later　days；　and；　upon　my　word；　I　do　not　know　that　the　short　sword　of　Gretir；　or　the　bill　of　Skarphedin；　or　the　bow　of　Gunnar　was　better　wielded　than　the　rapier　of　your　Bussy　or　the　sword　and　shield　of　Kingsley's　Hereward。

They　say　your　fencing　is　unhistorical；　no　doubt　it　is　so；　and　you　knew　it。　　La　Mole　could　not　have　lunged　on　Coconnas　〃after　deceiving　circle；〃　for　the　parry　was　not　invented　except　by　your　immortal　Chicot；　a　genius　in　advance　of　his　time。　　Even　so　Hamlet　and　Laertes　would　have　fought　with　shields　and　axes；　not　with　small　swords。　　But　what　matters　this　pedantry？　　In　your　works　we　hear　the　Homeric　Muse　again；　rejoicing　in　the　clash　of　steel；　and　even；　at　times；　your　very　phrases　are　unconsciously　Homeric。

Look　at　these　men　of　murder；　on　the　Eve　of　St。　Bartholomew；　who　flee　in　terror　from　the　Queen's　chamber；　and　〃find　the　door　too　narrow　for　their　flight：〃　the　very　words　were　anticipated　in　a　line　of　the　〃Odyssey〃　concerning　the　massacre　of　the　Wooers。　　And　the　picture　of　Catherine　de　Medicis；　prowling　〃like　a　wolf　among　the　bodies　and　the　blood；〃　in　a　passage　of　the　Louvrethe　picture　is　taken　unwittingly　from　the　〃Iliad。〃　　There　was　in　you　that　reserve　of　primitive　force；　that　epic　grandeur　and　simplicity　of　diction。　　This　is　the　force　that　animates　〃Monte　Cristo；〃　the　earlier　chapters；　the　prison；　and　the　escape。　　In　later　volumes　of　that　romance；　methinks；　you　stoop　your　wing。　　Of　your　dramas　I　have　little　room；　and　less　skill；　to　speak。　　〃Antony；〃　they　tell　me；　was　〃the　greatest　literary　event　of　its　time；〃　was　a　restoration　of　the　stage。　　〃While　Victor　Hugo　needs　the　cast…off　clothes　of　history；　the　wardrobe　and　costume；　the　sepulchre　of　Charlemagne；　the　ghost　of　Barbarossa；　the　coffins　of　Lucretia　Borgia；　Alexandre　Dumas　requires　no　more　than　a　room　in　an　inn；　where　people　meet　in　riding　cloaks；　to　move　the　soul　with　the　last　degree　of　terror　and　of　pity。〃

The　reproach　of　being　amusing　has　somewhat　dimmed　your　famefor　a　moment。　　The　shadow　of　this　tyranny　will　soon　be　overpast；　and　when　〃La　Curee〃　and　〃Pot…Bouille〃　are　more　forgotten　than　〃Le　Grand　Cyrus；〃　men　and　womenand；　above　all；　boyswill　laugh　and　weep　over　the　page　of　Alexandre　Dumas。　　Like　Scott　himself；　you　take　us　captive　in　our　childhood。　　I　remember　a　very　idle　little　boy　who　was　busy　with　the　〃Three　Musketeers〃　when　he　should　have　been　occupied　with　〃Wilkins's　Latin　Prose。〃　　〃Twenty　years　after〃　（alas！　and　more）　he　is　still　constant　to　that　gallant　company；　and；　at　this　very　moment；　is　breathlessly　wondering　whether　Grimaud　will　steal　M。　de　Beaufort　out　of　the　Cardinal's　prison。



LETTERTo　Theocritus



〃Sweet；　methinks；　is　the　whispering　sound　of　yonder　pine…tree；〃　so；　Theocritus；　with　that　sweet　word　＇Greek　text＇；　didst　thou　begin　and　strike　the　keynote　of　thy　songs。　　〃Sweet；〃　and　didst　thou　find　aught　of　sweet；　when　thou；　like　thy　Daphnis；　didst　〃go　down　the　stream；　when　the　whirling　wave　closed　over　the　man　the　Muses　loved；　the　man　not　hated　of　the　Nymphs〃？　　Perchance　below　those　waters　of　death　thou　didst　find；　like　thine　own　Hylas；　the　lovely　Nereids　waiting　thee；　Eunice；　and　Malis；　and　Nycheia　with　her　April　eyes。　　In　the　House　of　Hades；　Theocritus；　doth　there　dwell　aught　that　is　fair；　and　can　the　low　light　on　the　fields　of　asphodel　make　thee　forget　thy　Sicily？　　Nay；　methinks　thou　hast　not　forgotten；　and　perchance　for　poets　dead　there　is　prepared　a　place　more　beautiful　than　their　dreams。　　It　was　well　for　the　later　minstrels　of　another　day；　it　was　well　for　Ronsard　and　Du　Bellay　to　desire　a　dim　Elysium　of　their　own；　where　the　sunlight　comes　faintly　through　the　shadow　of　the　earth；　where　the　poplars　are　duskier；　and　the　waters　more　pale　than　in　the　meadows　of　Anjou。

There；　in　that　restful　twilight；　far　remote　from　war　and　plot；　from　sword　and　fire；　and　from　religions　that　sharpened　the　steel　and　lit　the　torch；　there　these　learned　singers　would　fain　have　wandered　with　their　learned　ladies；　satiated　with　life　and　in　love　with　an　unearthly　quiet。　　But　to　thee；　Theocritus；　no　twilight　of　the　Hollow　Land　was　dear；　but　the　high　suns　of　Sicily　and　the　brown　cheeks　of　the　country　maidens　were　happiness　enough。　　For　thee；　therefore；　methinks；　surely　is　reserved　an　Elysium　beneath　the　summer　of　a　far…　off　system；　with　stars　not　ours　and　alien　seasons。　　There；　as　Bion　prayed；　shall　Spring；　the　thrice　desirable；　be　with　thee　the　whole　year　through；　where　there　is　neither　frost；　nor　is　the