cambridge neighbors-第2部分

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o'clock　dinner；　and　when　we　came　to　coffee　in　the　study；　Boyesen　took
from　the　pocket　nearest　his　heart　a　chapter　of　'Gunnar'；　and　read　it　to
us。

Perhaps　the　good　professor　who　brought　us　together　had　plotted　to　have
both　novel　and　novelist　make　their　impression　at　once　upon　the　youthful
sub…editor；　but　at　any　rate　they　did　not　fail　of　an　effect。　　I　believe　it
was　that　chapter　where　Gunnar　and　Ragnhild　dance　and　sing　a　'stev'
together；　for　I　associate　with　that　far　happy　time　the　rich　mellow　tones
of　the　poet's　voice　in　the　poet's　verse。　　These　were　most　characteristic
of　him；　and　it　is　as　if　I　might　put　my　ear　against　the　ethereal　wall
beyond　which　he　is　rapt　and　hear　them　yet。

Our　meeting　was　on　a　lovely　afternoon　of　summer；　and　the　odor　of　the
professor's　roses　stole　in　at　the　open　windows；　and　became　part　of　the
gentle　event。　　Boyesen　walked　home　with　me；　and　for　a　fortnight　after　I
think　we　parted　only　to　dream　of　the　literature　which　we　poured　out　upon
each　other　in　every　waking　moment。　　I　had　just　learned　to　know　Bjornson's
stories；　and　Boyesen　told　me　of　his　poetry　and　of　his　drama；　which　in
even　measure　embodied　the　great　Norse　literary　movement；　and　filled　me
with　the　wonder　and　delight　of　that　noble　revolt　against　convention；　that
brave　return　to　nature　and　the　springs　of　poetry　in　the　heart　and　the
speech　of　the　common　people。　　Literature　was　Boyesen's　religion　more　than
the　Swedenborgian　philosophy　in　which　we　had　both　been　spiritually
nurtured；　and　at　every　step　of　our　mounting　friendship　we　found　ourselves
on　common　ground　in　our　worship　of　it。　　I　was　a　decade　his　senior；　but　at
thirty…five　I　was　not　yet　so　stricken　in　years　as　not　to　be　able　fully　to
rejoice　in　the　ardor　which　fused　his　whole　being　in　an　incandescent
poetic　mass。　　I　have　known　no　man　who　loved　poetry　more　generously　and
passionately；　and　I　think　he　was　above　all　things　a　poet。　　His　work　took
the　shape　of　scholarship；　fiction；　criticism；　but　poetry　gave　it　all　a
touch　of　grace　and　beauty。　　Some　years　after　this　first　meeting　of　ours　I
remember　a　pathetic　moment　with　him；　when　I　asked　him　why　he　had　not
written　any　verse　of　late；　and　he　answered；　as　if　still　in　sad
astonishment　at　the　fact；　that　he　had　found　life　was　not　all　poetry。　　In
those　earlier　days　I　believe　he　really　thought　it　was！

Perhaps　it　really　is；　and　certainly　in　the　course　of　a　life　that
stretched　almost　to　half　a　century　Boyesen　learned　more　and　more　to　see
the　poetry　of　the　everyday　world　at　least　as　the　material　of　art。　　He　did
battle　valiantly　for　that　belief　in　many　polemics；　which　I　suppose　gave
people　a　sufficiently　false　notion　of　him；　and　he　showed　his　faith　by
works　in　fiction　which　better　illustrated　his　motive。　　Gunnar　stands　at
the　beginning　of　these　works；　and　at　the　farthest　remove　from　it　in
matter　and　method　stands　'The　Mammon　of　Unrighteousness'。　　The　lovely
idyl　won　him　fame　and　friendship；　and　the　great　novel　added　neither　to
him；　though　he　had　put　the　experience　and　the　observation　of　his　ripened
life　into　it。　　Whether　it　is　too　late　or　too　early　for　it　to　win　the
place　in　literature　which　it　merits　I　do　not　know；　but　it　always　seemed
to　me　the　very　spite　of　fate　that　it　should　have　failed　of　popular
effect。　　Yet　I　must　own　that　it　has　so　failed；　and　I　own　this　without
bitterness　towards　Gunnar；　which　embalmed　the　spirit　of　his　youth　as
'The　Mammon　of　Unrighteousness'　embodied　the　thought　of　his　manhood。




III。

It　was　my　pleasure；　my　privilege；　to　bring　Gunnar　before　the　public　as
editor　of　the　Atlantic　Monthly；　and　to　second　the　author　in　many　a
struggle　with　the　strange　idiom　he　had　cast　the　story　in。　　The　proofs
went　back　and　forth　between　us　till　the　author　had　profited　by　every　hint
and　suggestion　of　the　editor。　　He　was　quick　to　profit　by　any　hint；　and　he
never　made　the　same　mistake　twice。　　He　lived　his　English　as　fast　as　he
learned　it；　the　right　word　became　part　of　him；　and　he　put　away　the　wrong
word　with　instant　and　final　rejection。　　He　had　not　learned　American
English　without　learning　newspaper　English；　but　if　one　touched　a　phrase
of　it　in　his　work；　he　felt　in　his　nerves；　which　are　the　ultimate　arbiters
in　such　matters；　its　difference　from　true　American　and　true　English。
It　was　wonderful　how　apt　and　how　elect　his　diction　was　in　those　days；
it　seemed　as　if　his　thought　clothed　itself　in　the　fittest　phrase　without
his　choosing。　　In　his　poetry　he　had　extraordinary　good　fortune　from　the
first；　　his　mind　had　an　apparent　affinity　with　what　was　most　native；　most
racy　in　our　speech；　and　I　have　just　been　looking　over　Gunnar　and
marvelling　anew　at　the　felicity　and　the　beauty　of　his　phrasing。

I　do　not　know　whether　those　who　read　his　books　stop　much　to　consider　how
rare　his　achievement　was　in　the　mere　means　of　expression。　　Our　speech　is
rather　more　hospitable　than　most；　and　yet　I　can　remember　but　five　other
writers　born　to　different　languages　who　have　handled　English　with
anything　like　his　mastery。　　Two　Italians；　Ruffini；　the　novelist；　and
Gallenga；　the　journalist；　two　Germans；　Carl　Schurz　and　Carl　Hillebrand；
and　the　Dutch　novelist　Maarten　Maartens；　have　some　of　them　equalled　but
none　of　them　surpassed　him。　　Yet　he　was　a　man　grown　when　he　began　to
speak　and　to　write　English；　though　I　believe　he　studied　it　somewhat　in
Norway　before　he　came　to　America。　　What　English　he　knew　he　learned　the
use　of　here；　and　in　the　measure　of　its　idiomatic　vigor　we　may　be　proud　of
it　as　Americans。

He　had　least　of　his　native　grace；　I　think；　in　his　criticism；　and　yet　as　a
critic　he　had　qualities　of　rare　temperance；　acuteness；　and　knowledge。
He　had　very　decided　convictions　in　literary　art；　one　kind　of　thing　he
believed　was　good　and　all　other　kinds　less　good　down　to　what　was　bad；　but
he　was　not　a　bigot；　and　he　made　allowances　for　art…in…error。　　His　hand
fell　heavy　only　upon　those　heretics　who　not　merely　denied　the　faith　but
pretended　that　artifice　was　better　than　nature；　that　decoration　was　more
than　structure；　that　make…believe　was　something　you　could　live　by　as　you
live　by　truth。　　He　was　not　strongest；　however；　in　damnatory　criticism。
His　spirit　was　too　large；　too　generous　to　dwell　in　that；　and　it　rose
rather　to　its　full　height　in　his　appreciations　of　the　great　authors　whom
he　loved；　and　whom　he　commented　from　the　plenitude　of　his　scholarship　as
well　as　from　his　delighted　sense　of　their　grandeur。　　Here　he　was　almost
as　fine　as　in　his　poetry；　and　only　less　fine　than　in　his　more　fortunate
essays　in　fiction。

After　Gunnar　he　was　a　long　while　in　striking　another　note　so　true。　　He
did　not　strike　it　again　till　he　wrote　'The　Mammon　of　Unrighteousness'；
and　after　that　he　was　sometimes　of　a　wandering　and　uncertain　touch。
There　are　certain　stories　of　his　which　I　cannot　read　without　a　painful
sense　of　their　inequality　not　only　to　his　talent；　but　to　his　knowledge　of
human　nature；　and　of　American　character。　　He　understood　our　character
quite　as　well　as　he　understood　our　language；　but　at　times　he　seemed　not
to　do　so。　　I　think　these　were　the　times　when　he　was　overworked；　and　ought
to　have　been　resting　instead　of　writing。　　In　such　fatigue　one　loses
command　of　alien　words；　alien　situations；　and　in　estimating　Boyesen's
achievements　we　must　never　forget　that　he　was　born　strange　to　our
language　and　to　our　life。　　In　'Gunnar'　he　handled　the　one　with　grace　and
charm；　in　his　great　novel　he　handled　both　with　masterly　strength。　　I　call
'The　Mammon　of　Unrighteousness'　a　great　novel；　and　I　am　quite　willing　to
say　that　I　know　few　novels　by　born　Americans　that　surpass　it　in　dealing
with　American　types　and　conditions。　　It　has　the　vast　horizon　of　the
masterpieces　of　fictions；　its　meanings　are　not　for　its　characters　alone；
but　for　every　reader　of　it；　when　you　close　the　book　the　story　is　not　at
an　end。

I　have　a　pang　in　praising　it；　for　I　remember　that　my　praise　cannot　please
him　any　more。　　But　it　was　a　book　worthy　the　powers　which　could　have　given
us　yet　greater　things　if　they　had　not　been　spent　on　lesser　things。
Boyesen　could　〃toil　terribly；〃　but　for　his　fame　he　did　not　always　toil
wisely；　though　he　gave　himself　as　utterly　in　his　unwise　work　as　in　his
best；　it　was　always　the　best　he　could　do。　　Several　years　after　our　first
meeting　in　Cambridge；　he　went　to　live　in　New　York；　a　city　where　money
counts　for　more　and　goes　for　less　than　in　any　other　city　of　the　world；
and　he　could　not　resist　the　temptation　to　write　more　and　more　when　he
should　have　written　less　and　less。　　He　never　wrote　anything　that　was　not
worth　reading；　but　he　wrote　too　much　for　one　who　was　giving　himself　with
all　his　conscience　to　his　academic　work　in　the　university　honored　by　his
gifts　and　his　attainments；　and　was　lecturing　far　and　near　in　the
vacations　which　should　have　been　days　and　weeks　and　months　of　leisure。
The　wonder　is　that　even　such　a　stock　of　health　as　his　could　stand　the
strain　so　long；　but　he　had　no　vices；　and　his　only　excesses　were　in　the
direction　of　the　work　which　he　loved　so　well。　　When　a　man　adds　to　his
achievements　every　year；　we　are　apt　to　forget　the　things　he　has　already
done；　and　I　think　it　well　to　remind　the　reader　that　Boyesen；　who　died　at
forty…eight；　had　written；　besides　articles；　reviews；