a belated guest-第2部分

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by　finding　that　Harte　was　at　least　half　a　Jew　on　his　father's　side；　he
had　long　contended　for　the　Hebraicism　of　his　name。

With　all　his　appreciation　of　the　literary　eminences　whom　Fields　used　to
class　together　as　〃the　old　saints；〃　Harte　had　a　spice　of　irreverence　that
enabled　him　to　take　them　more　ironically　than　they　might　have　liked；　and
to　see　the　fun　of　a　minor　literary　man's　relation　to　them。　　Emerson's
smoking　amused　him；　as　a　Jovian　self…indulgence　divinely　out　of　character
with　so　supreme　a　god；　and　he　shamelessly　burlesqued　it；　telling　how
Emerson　at　Concord　had　proposed　having　a　〃wet　night〃　with　him　over　a
glass　of　sherry；　and　had　urged　the　scant　wine　upon　his　young　friend　with
a　hospitable　gesture　of　his　cigar。　　But　this　was　long　after　the　Cambridge
episode；　in　which　Longfellow　alone　escaped　the　corrosive　touch　of　his
subtle　irreverence；　or；　more　strictly　speaking；　had　only　the　effect　of
his　reverence。　　That　gentle　and　exquisitely　modest　dignity；　of
Longfellow's　he　honored　with　as　much　veneration　as　it　was　in　him　to
bestow；　and　he　had　that　sense　of　Longfellow's　beautiful　and　perfected　art
which　is　almost　a　test　of　a　critic's　own　fineness。




III。

As　for　Harte's　talk；　it　was　mostly　ironical；　not　to　the　extreme　of
satire；　but　tempered　to　an　agreeable　coolness　even　for　the　things　he
admired。　　He　did　not　apparently　care　to　hear　himself　praised；　but　he
could　very　accurately　and　perfectly　mark　his　discernment　of　excellence　in
others。　　He　was　at　times　a　keen　observer　of　nature　and　again　not；
apparently。　　Something　was　said　before　him　and　Lowell　of　the　beauty　of
his　description　of　a　rabbit；　startled　with　fear　among　the　ferns；　and
lifting　its　head　with　the　pulsation　of　its　frightened　heart　visibly
shaking　it；　then　the　talk　turned　on　the　graphic　homeliness　of　Dante's
noticing　how　the　dog's　skin　moves　upon　it；　and　Harte　spoke　of　the
exquisite　shudder　with　which　a　horse　tries　to　rid　itself　of　a　fly。

But　once　again；　when　an　azalea　was　shown　to　him　as　the　sort　of　bush　that
Sandy　drunkenly　slept　under　in　'The　Idyl　of　Iced　Gulch'；　he　asked；　〃Why；
is　that　an　azalea？〃　　To　be　sure；　this　might　have　been　less　from　his
ignorance　or　indifference　concerning　the　quality　of　the　bush　he　had　sent
Sandy　to　sleep　under　than　from　his　willingness　to　make　a　mock　of　an
azalea　in　a　very　small　pot；　so　disproportionate　to　uses　which　an　azalea
of　Californian　size　could　easily　lend　itself　to。

You　never　could　be　sure　of　Harte；　he　could　only　by　chance　be　caught　in
earnest　about　anything　or　anybody。　　Except　for　those　slight　recognitions
of　literary；　traits　in　his　talk　with　Lowell；　nothing　remained　from　his
conversation　but　the　general　criticism　he　passed　upon　his　brilliant
fellow…Hebrew　Heine；　as　〃rather　scorbutic。〃　　He　preferred　to　talk　about
the　little　matters　of　common　incident　and　experience。　　He　amused　himself
with　such　things　as　the　mystification　of　the　postman　of　whom　he　asked　his
way　to　Phillips　Avenue；　where　he　adventurously　supposed　his　host　to　be
living。　　〃Why；〃　the　postman　said；　〃there　is　no　Phillips　Avenue　in
Cambridge。　　There's　Phillips　Place。〃　　〃Well；〃　Harte　assented；　〃Phillips
Place　will　do；　but　there　is　a　Phillips　Avenue。〃　　He　entered　eagerly　into
the　canvass　of　the　distinctions　and　celebrities　asked　to　meet　him　at　the
reception　made　for　him；　but　he　had　even　a　greater　pleasure　in
compassionating　his　host　for　the　vast　disparity　between　the　caterer's
china　and　plated　ware　and　the　simplicities　and　humilities　of　the　home　of
virtuous　poverty；　and　he　spluttered　with　delight　at　the　sight　of　the
lofty　'epergnes'　set　up　and　down　the　supper…table　when　he　was　brought　in
to　note　the　preparations　made　in　his　honor。　　Those　monumental　structures
were　an　inexhaustible　joy　to　him；　he　walked　round　and　round　the　room；　and
viewed　them　in　different　perspectives；　so　as　to　get　the　full　effect　of
the　towering　forms　that　dwarfed　it　so。

He　was　a　tease；　as　many　a　sweet　and　fine　wit　is　apt　to　be；　but　his
teasing　was　of　the　quality　of　a　caress；　so　much　kindness　went　with　it。
He　lamented　as　an　irreparable　loss　his　having　missed　seeing　that　night　an
absent…minded　brother　in　literature；　who　came　in　rubber　shoes；　and
forgetfully　wore　them　throughout　the　evening。　　That　hospitable　soul　of
Ralph　Keeler；　who　had　known　him　in　California；　but　had　trembled　for　their
acquaintance　when　he　read　of　all　the　honors　that　might　well　have　spoiled
Harte　for　the　friends　of　his　simpler　days；　rejoiced　in　the　unchanged
cordiality　of　his　nature　when　they　met；　and　presently　gave　him　one　of
those　restaurant　lunches　in　Boston；　which　he　was　always　sumptuously
providing　out　of　his　destitution。　　Harte　was　the　life　of　a　time　which　was
perhaps　less　a　feast　of　reason　than　a　flow　of　soul。　　The　truth　is；　there
was　nothing　but　careless　stories　carelessly　told；　and　jokes　and　laughing；
and　a　great　deal　of　mere　laughing　without　the　jokes；　the　whole　as　unlike
the　ideal　of　a　literary　symposium　as　well　might　be；　but　there　was　present
one　who　met　with　that　pleasant　Boston　company　for　the　first　time；　and　to
whom　Harte　attributed　a　superstition　of　Boston　seriousness　not　realized
then　and　there。　　〃Look　at　him；〃　he　said；　from　time　to　time。　　〃This　is　the
dream　of　his　life；〃　and　then　shouted　and　choked　with　fun　at　the
difference　between　the　occasion　and　the　expectation　he　would　have
imagined　in　his　commensal's　mind。　　At　a　dinner　long　after　in　London；
where　several　of　the　commensals　of　that　time　met　again；　with　other
literary　friends　of　a　like　age　and　stature；　Harte　laid　his　arms　well
along　their　shoulders　as　they　formed　in　a　half…circle　before　him；　and
screamed　out　in　mocking　mirth　at　the　bulbous　favor　to　which　the　slim
shapes　of　the　earlier　date　had　come。　　The　sight　was　not　less　a　rapture　to
him　that　he　was　himself　the　prey　of　the　same　practical　joke　from　the
passing　years。　　The　hair　which　the　years　had　wholly　swept　from　some　of
those　thoughtful　brows；　or　left　spindling　autumnal　spears；　〃or　few　or
none；〃　to　〃shake　against　the　cold；〃　had　whitened　to　a　wintry　snow　on　his；
while　his　mustache　had　kept　its　youthful　black。　　〃He　looks；〃　one　of　his
friends　said　to　another　as　they　walked　home　together；　〃like　a　French
marquis　of　the　ancien　regime。〃　　〃Yes；〃　the　other　assented；　thoughtfully；
〃or　like　an　American　actor　made　up　for　the　part。〃

The　saying　closely　fitted　the　outward　fact；　but　was　of　a　subtle　injustice
in　its　implication　of　anything　histrionic　in　Harte's　nature。　　Never　was
any　man　less　a　'poseur'；　he　made　simply　and　helplessly　known　what　he　was
at　any　and　every　moment；　and　he　would　join　the　witness　very　cheerfully　in
enjoying　whatever　was　amusing　in　the　disadvantage　to　himself。　　In　the
course　of　events；　which　were　in　his　case　so　very　human；　it　came　about　on
a　subsequent　visit　of　his　to　Boston　that　an　impatient　creditor　decided　to
right　himself　out　of　the　proceeds　of　the　lecture　which　was　to　be　given；
and　had　the　law　corporeally　present　at　the　house　of　the　friend　where
Harte　dined；　and　in　the　anteroom　at　the　lecture…hall；　and　on　the
platform；　where　the　lecture　was　delivered　with　beautiful　aplomb　and
untroubled　charm。　　He　was　indeed　the　only　one　privy　to　the　law's　presence
who　was　not　the　least　affected　by　it；　so　that　when　his　host　of　an　earlier
time　ventured　to　suggest；　〃Well；　Harte；　this　is　the　old　literary
tradition；　this　is　the　Fleet　business　over　again；〃　he　joyously　smote　his
thigh　and　crowed　out；　〃Yes；　the　Fleet！〃　　No　doubt　he　tasted　all　the
delicate　humor　of　the　situation；　and　his　pleasure　in　it　was　quite
unaffected。

If　his　temperament　was　not　adapted　to　the　harsh　conditions　of　the　elder
American　world；　it　might　very　well　be　that　his　temperament　was　not
altogether　in　the　wrong。　　If　it　disabled　him　for　certain　experiences　of
life；　it　was　the　source　of　what　was　most　delightful　in　his　personality；
and　perhaps　most　beautiful　in　his　talent。　　It　enabled　him　to　do　such
things　as　he　did　without　being　at　all　anguished　for　the　things　he　did　not
do；　and　indeed　could　not。　　His　talent　was　not　a　facile　gift；　he　owned
that　he　often　went　day　after　day　to　his　desk；　and　sat　down　before　that
yellow　post…office　paper　on　which　he　liked　to　write　his　literature；　in
that　exquisitely　refined　script　of　his；　without　being　able　to　inscribe　a
line。　　It　may　be　owned　for　him　that　though　he　came　to　the　East　at　thirty…
four；　which　ought　to　have　been　the　very　prime　of　his　powers；　he　seemed　to
have　arrived　after　the　age　of　observation　was　past　for　him。　　He　saw
nothing　aright；　either　in　Newport；　where　he　went　to　live；　or　in　New　York；
where　he　sojourned；　or　on　those　lecturing　tours　which　took　him　about　the
whole　country；　or　if　he　saw　it　aright；　he　could　not　report　it　aright；　or
would　not。　　After　repeated　and　almost　invariable　failures　to　deal　with
the　novel　characters　and　circumstances　which　he　encountered　he　left　off
trying；　and　frankly　went　back　to　the　semi…mythical　California　he　had　half
discovered；　half　created；　and　wrote　Bret　Harte　over　and　over　as　long　as
he　lived。　　This；　whether　he　did　it　from　instinct　or　from　reason；　was　the
best　thing　he　could　do；　and　it　went　as　nearly　as　might　be　to　satisfy　the
insatiable　English　fancy　for　the　wild　America　no　longer　to　be　found　on
our　map。

It　is　imaginable　of　Harte　that　this　temperament　defended　him　from　any
bitterness　in　the　disappointment　he　may　have　shared　with　that　simple
American　public　which　in　the　early　eighteen…seventies　expected　any　and
everything　of　him　in　fiction　and　drama。　　The　long　breath　was　not　his；　he
could　not　write　a　novel；　though　he　produced　the　like　of　one　or　two；　and
his　plays　were　too　bad　for　the　stage；　or　else　too　good　for　it。　　At　any
rate；　they　could　not　keep　it；　even　when　they　got　it；　and　they　denoted　the
fatigue　or　the　indifference　of　their　author　in　being　dramatizations　of
his　longer　or　shorter　fictions；　and　not　originally　dramatic　efforts。
The　direction　in　which　his　originality　lasted　longest；　and　most
strikingly　affirmed　his　power；　was　in　the　direction　of　his　verse。

Whatever　minds　there　may　be　about　Harte's　fiction　finally；　there　can
hardly　be　more　than　one　mind　about　his　poetry。　　He　was　indeed　a　poet；
whether　he　wrote　what　drolly　called　itself　〃dialect；〃　or　wrote　language；
he　was　a　poet　of　a　fine　and　fresh　touch。　　It　must　be　al