first visit to new england-第11部分

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Nothing　could　have　been　further　from　the　behavior　of　this　very　great　man
than　any　sort　of　posing；　apparently；　or　a　wish　to　affect　me　with　a　sense
of　his　greatness。　　I　saw　that　he　was　as　much　abashed　by　our　encounter　as
I　was；　he　was　visibly　shy　to　the　point　of　discomfort；　but　in　no　ignoble
sense　was　he　conscious；　and　as　nearly　as　he　could　with　one　so　much　his
younger　he　made　an　absolute　equality　between　us。　　My　memory　of　him　is
without　alloy　one　of　the　finest　pleasures　of　my　life：　　In　my　heart　I　paid
him　the　same　glad　homage　that　I　paid　Lowell　and　Holmes；　and　he　did
nothing　to　make　me　think　that　I　had　overpaid　him。　　This　seems　perhaps
very　little　to　say　in　his　praise；　but　to　my　mind　it　is　saying　everything；
for　I　have　known　but　few　great　men；　especially　of　those　I　met　in　early
life；　when　I　wished　to　lavish　my　admiration　upon　them；　whom　I　have　not
the　impression　of　having　left　in　my　debt。　　Then；　a　defect　of　the　Puritan
quality；　which　I　have　found　in　many　New…Englanders；　is　that；　wittingly　or
unwittingly；　they　propose　themselves　to　you　as　an　example；　or　if　not
quite　this；　that　they　surround　themselves　with　a　subtle　ether　of
potential　disapprobation；　in　which；　at　the　first　sign　of　unworthiness　in
you；　they　helplessly　suffer　you　to　gasp　and　perish；　they　have　good
hearts；　and　they　would　probably　come　to　your　succor　out　of　humanity；　if
they　knew　how；　but　they　do　not　know　how。　　Hawthorne　had　nothing　of　this
about　him；　he　was　no　more　tacitly　than　he　was　explicitly　didactic。
I　thought　him　as　thoroughly　in　keeping　with　his　romances　as　Doctor　Holmes
had　seemed　with　his　essays　and　poems；　and　I　met　him　as　I　had　met　the
Autocrat　in　the　supreme　hour　of　his　fame。　　He　had　just　given　the　world
the　last　of　those　incomparable　works　which　it　was　to　have　finished　from
his　hand；　the　'Marble　Faun'　had　worthily　followed；　at　a　somewhat　longer
interval　than　usual；　the　'Blithedale　Romance'；　and　the　'House　of　Seven
Gables'；　and　the　'Scarlet　Letter'；　and　had；　perhaps　carried　his　name
higher　than　all　the　rest；　and　certainly　farther。　　Everybody　was　reading
it；　and　more　or　less　bewailing　its　indefinite　close；　but　yielding　him
that　full　honor　and　praise　which　a　writer　can　hope　for　but　once　in　his
life。　　Nobody　dreamed　that　thereafter　only　precious　fragments；　sketches
more　or　less　faltering；　though　all　with　the　divine　touch　in　them；　were
further　to　enrich　a　legacy　which　in　its　kind　is　the　finest　the　race　has
received　from　any　mind。　　As　I　have　said；　we　are　always　finding　new
Hawthornes；　but　the　illusion　soon　wears　away；　and　then　we　perceive　that
they　were　not　Hawthornes　at　all；　that　he　had　some　peculiar　difference
from　them；　which；　by　and…by；　we　shall　no　doubt　consent　must　be　his
difference　from　all　men　evermore。

I　am　painfully　aware　that　I　have　not　summoned　before　the　reader　the　image
of　the　man　as　it　has　always　stood　in　my　memory；　and　I　feel　a　sort　of
shame　for　my　failure。　　He　was　so　altogether　simple　that　it　seems　as　if　it
would　be　easy　to　do　so；　but　perhaps　a　spirit　from　the　other　world　would
be　simple　too；　and　yet　would　no　more　stand　at　parle；　or　consent　to　be
sketched；　than　Hawthorne。　　In　fact；　he　was　always　more　or　less　merging
into　the　shadow；　which　was　in　a　few　years　wholly　to　close　over　him；　there
was　nothing　uncanny　in　his　presence；　there　was　nothing　even　unwilling；
but　he　had　that　apparitional　quality　of　some　great　minds　which　kept
Shakespeare　largely　unknown　to　those　who　thought　themselves　his
intimates；　and　has　at　last　left　him　a　sort　of　doubt。　　There　was　nothing
teasing　or　wilfully　elusive　in　Hawthorne's　impalpability；　such　as　I
afterwards　felt　in　Thoreau；　if　he　was　not　there　to　your　touch；　it　was　no
fault　of　his；　it　was　because　your　touch　was　dull；　and　wanted　the　use　of
contact　with　such　natures。　　The　hand　passes　through　the　veridical　phantom
without　a　sense　of　its　presence；　but　the　phantom　is　none　the　less
veridical　for　all　that。




XVI。

I　kept　the　evening　of　the　day　I　met　Hawthorne　wholly　for　the　thoughts　of
him；　or　rather　for　that　reverberation　which　continues　in　the　young
sensibilities　after　some　important　encounter。　　It　must　have　been　the　next
morning　that　I　went　to　find　Thoreau；　and　I　am　dimly　aware　of　making　one
or　two　failures　to　find　him；　if　I　ever　really　found　him　at　all。

He　is　an　author　who　has　fallen　into　that　abeyance；　awaiting　all　authors；
great　or　small；　at　some　time　or　another；　but　I　think　that　with　him；　at
least　in　regard　to　his　most　important　book；　it　can　be　only　transitory。
I　have　not　read　the　story　of　his　hermitage　beside　Walden　Pond　since　the
year　1858；　but　I　have　a　fancy　that　if　I　should　take　it　up　now；　I　should
think　it　a　wiser　and　truer　conception　of　the　world　than　I　thought　it
then。　　It　is　no　solution　of　the　problem；　men　are　not　going　to　answer　the
riddle　of　the　painful　earth　by　building　themselves　shanties　and　living
upon　beans　and　watching　ant…fights；　but　I　do　not　believe　Tolstoy　himself
has　more　clearly　shown　the　hollowness；　the　hopelessness；　the　unworthiness
of　the　life　of　the　world　than　Thoreau　did　in　that　book。　　If　it　were　newly
written　it　could　not　fail　of　a　far　vaster　acceptance　than　it　had　then；
when　to　those　who　thought　and　felt　seriously　it　seemed　that　if　slavery
could　only　be　controlled；　all　things　else　would　come　right　of　themselves
with　us。　　Slavery　has　not　only　been　controlled；　but　it　has　been
destroyed；　and　yet　things　have　not　begun　to　come　right　with　us；　but　it
was　in　the　order　of　Providence　that　chattel　slavery　should　cease　before
industrial　slavery；　and　the　infinitely　crueler　and　stupider　vanity　and
luxury　bred　of　it；　should　be　attacked。　　If　there　was　then　any　prevision
of　the　struggle　now　at　hand；　the　seers　averted　their　eyes；　and　strove
only　to　cope　with　the　less　evil。　　Thoreau　himself；　who　had　so　clear　a
vision　of　the　falsity　and　folly　of　society　as　we　still　have　it；　threw
himself　into　the　tide　that　was　already；　in　Kansas　and　Virginia；　reddened
with　war；　he　aided　and　abetted　the　John　Brown　raid；　I　do　not　recall　how
much　or　in　what　sort；　and　he　had　suffered　in　prison　for　his　opinions　and
actions。　　It　was　this　inevitable　heroism　of　his　that；　more　than　his
literature　even；　made　me　wish　to　see　him　and　revere　him；　and　I　do　not
believe　that　I　should　have　found　the　veneration　difficult；　when　at　last
I　met　him　in　his　insufficient　person；　if　he　had　otherwise　been　present　to
my　glowing　expectation。　　He　came　into　the　room　a　quaint；　stump　figure　of
a　man；　whose　effect　of　long　trunk　and　short　limbs　was　heightened　by　his
fashionless　trousers　being　let　down　too　low。　　He　had　a　noble　face；　with
tossed　hair；　a　distraught　eye；　and　a　fine　aquilinity　of　profile；　which
made　me　think　at　once　of　Don　Quixote　and　of　Cervantes；　but　his　nose
failed　to　add　that　foot　to　his　stature　which　Lamb　says　a　nose　of　that
shape　will　always　give　a　man。　　He　tried　to　place　me　geographically　after
he　had　given　me　a　chair　not　quite　so　far　off　as　Ohio；　though　still　across
the　whole　room；　for　he　sat　against　one　wall；　and　I　against　the　other；
but　apparently　he　failed　to　pull　himself　out　of　his　revery　by　the　effort；
for　he　remained　in　a　dreamy　muse；　which　all　my　attempts　to　say　something
fit　about　John　Brown　and　Walden　Pond　seemed　only　to　deepen　upon　him。
I　have　not　the　least　doubt　that　I　was　needless　and　valueless　about　both；
and　that　what　I　said　could　not　well　have　prompted　an　important　response；
but　I　did　my　poor　best；　and　I　was　terribly　disappointed　in　the　result。
The　truth　is　that　in　those　days　I　was　a　helplessly　concrete　young　person；
and　all　forms　of　the　abstract；　the　air…drawn；　afflicted　me　like　physical
discomforts。　　I　do　not　remember　that　Thoreau　spoke　of　his　books　or　of
himself　at　all；　and　when　he　began　to　speak　of　John　Brown；　it　was　not　the
warm；　palpable；　loving；　fearful　old　man　of　my　conception；　but　a　sort　of
John　Brown　type；　a　John　Brown　ideal；　a　John　Brown　principle；　which　we
were　somehow　（with　long　pauses　between　the　vague；　orphic　phrases）　to
cherish；　and　to　nourish　ourselves　upon。

It　was　not　merely　a　defeat　of　my　hopes；　it　was　a　rout；　and　I　felt　myself
so　scattered　over　the　field　of　thought　that　I　could　hardly　bring　my
forces　together　for　retreat。　　I　must　have　made　some　effort；　vain　and
foolish　enough；　to　rematerialize　my　old　demigod；　but　when　I　came　away　it
was　with　the　feeling　that　there　was　very　little　more　left　of　John　Brown
than　there　was　of　me。　　His　body　was　not　mouldering　in　the　grave；　neither
was　his　soul　marching　on；　his　ideal；　his　type；　his　principle　alone
existed；　and　I　did　not　know　what　to　do　with　it。　　I　am　not　blaming
Thoreau；　his　words　were　addressed　to　a　far　other　understanding　than　mine；
and　it　was　my　misfortune　if　I　could　not　profit　by　them。　　I　think；　or　I
venture　to　hope；　that　I　could　profit　better　by　them　now；　but　in　this
record　I　am　trying　honestly　to　report　their　effect　with　the　sort　of　youth
I　was　then。




XVII。

Such　as　I　was；　I　rather　wonder　that　I　had　the　courage；　after　this
experiment　of　Thoreau；　to　present　the　card　Hawthorne　had　given　me　to
Emerson。　　I　must　have　gone　to　him　at　once；　however；　for　I　cannot　make　out
any　interval　of　time　between　my　visit　to　the　disciple　and　my　visit　to　the
master。　　I　think　it　was　Emerson　himself　who　opened　his　door　to　me；　for　I
have　a　vision　of　the　fine　old　man　standing　tall　on　his　threshold；　with
the　card　in　his　hand；　and　looking　from　it　to　me　with　a　vague　serenity；
while　I　waited　a　moment　on　the　door…step　below　him。　　He　must　then　have
been　about　sixty；　but　I　remember　nothing　of　age　in　his　aspect；　though　I
have　called　him　an　old　man。　　His　hair；　I　am　sure；　was　still　entirely
dark；　and　his　face　had　a　kind　of　marble　youthfulness；　chiselled　to　a
delicate　intelligence　by　the　highest　and　noblest　thinking　that　any　man
has　done。　　There　was　a　strange　charm　in　Emerson's　eyes；　which　I　felt　then
and　always；　something　like　that　I　saw　in　Lincoln's；　but　shyer；　but
sweeter　and　less　sad。　　His　smile　was　the　very　sweetest　I　have　ever
beheld；　and　the　contour　of　the　mask　and　the　line　of　the　profile　were　in
keeping　with　this　incomparable　sweetness　of　the　mouth；　at　once　grave　and
quaint；　though　quaint　is　not　quite　the　word　for　it　either；　but　subtly；
not　unkindly　arch；　which　again　is　not　the　word。

It　was　his　great　fortune　to　have　been　mostly　misu