CHAPTER V
關燈
小
中
大
ngethemeversoslightly.Onachairstoodastackofphotographsofstatuesandpictures,whichitwashishabittoexhibit,onebyone,forthespaceofadayortwo.Thebooksonhisshelveswereasorderlyasregimentsofsoldiers,andthebacksofthemshonelikesomanybronzebeetle-wingsthough,ifyoutookonefromitsplaceyousawashabbiervolumebehindit,sincespacewaslimited.AnovalVenetianmirrorstoodabovethefireplace,andreflectedduskilyinitsspotteddepthsthefaintyellowandcrimsonofajarfuloftulipswhichstoodamongthelettersandpipesandcigarettesuponthemantelpiece.Asmallpianooccupiedacorneroftheroom,withthescoreof“DonGiovanni”openuponthebracket.
“Well,Rodney,”saidDenham,ashefilledhispipeandlookedabouthim,“thisisallveryniceandcomfortable.”
Rodneyturnedhisheadhalfroundandsmiled,withtheprideofaproprietor,andthenpreventedhimselffromsmiling.
“Tolerable,”hemuttered.
“ButIdaresayit’sjustaswellthatyouhavetoearnyourownliving.”
“IfyoumeanthatIshouldn’tdoanythinggoodwithleisureifIhadit,Idaresayyou’reright.ButIshouldbetentimesashappywithmywholedaytospendasIliked.”
“Idoubtthat,”Denhamreplied.
Theysatsilent,andthesmokefromtheirpipesjoinedamicablyinabluevaporabovetheirheads.
“IcouldspendthreehourseverydayreadingShakespeare,”Rodneyremarked.“Andthere’smusicandpictures,letalonethesocietyofthepeopleonelikes.”
“You’dbeboredtodeathinayear’stime.”
“Oh,IgrantyouIshouldbeboredifIdidnothing.ButIshouldwriteplays.”
“H’m!”
“Ishouldwriteplays,”herepeated.“I’vewrittenthree-quartersofonealready,andI’monlywaitingforaholidaytofinishit.Andit’snotbad—no,someofit’sreallyrathernice.”
ThequestionaroseinDenham’smindwhetherheshouldasktoseethisplay,as,nodoubt,hewasexpectedtodo.HelookedratherstealthilyatRodney,whowastappingthecoalnervouslywithapoker,andquiveringalmostphysically,soDenhamthought,withdesiretotalkaboutthisplayofhis,andvanityunrequitedandurgent.HeseemedverymuchatDenham’smercy,andDenhamcouldnothelplikinghim,partlyonthataccount.
“Well,...willyouletmeseetheplay?”Denhamasked,andRodneylookedimmediatelyappeased,but,nevertheless,hesatsilentforamoment,holdingthepokerperfectlyuprightintheair,regardingitwithhisratherprominenteyes,andopeninghislipsandshuttingthemagain.
“Doyoureallycareforthiskindofthing?”heaskedatlength,inadifferenttoneofvoicefromthatinwhichhehadbeenspeaking.And,withoutwaitingforananswer,hewenton,ratherquerulously:“Veryfewpeoplecareforpoetry.Idaresayitboresyou.”
“Perhaps,”Denhamremarked.
“Well,I’lllendityou,”Rodneyannounced,puttingdownthepoker.
Ashemovedtofetchtheplay,Denhamstretchedahandtothebookcasebesidehim,andtookdownthefirstvolumewhichhisfingerstouched.IthappenedtobeasmallandverylovelyeditionofSirThomasBrowne,containingthe“UrnBurial,”the“Hydriotaphia,”andthe“GardenofCyrus,”and,openingitatapassagewhichheknewverynearlybyheart,Denhambegantoreadand,forsometime,continuedtoread.
Rodneyresumedhisseat,withhismanuscriptonhisknee,andfromtimetotimeheglancedatDenham,andthenjoinedhisfinger-tipsandcrossedhisthinlegsoverthefender,asifheexperiencedagooddealofpleasure.AtlengthDenhamshutthebook,andstood,withhisbacktothefireplace,occasionallymakinganinarticulatehummingsoundwhichseemedtorefertoSirThomasBrowne.Heputhishatonhishead,andstoodoverRodney,whostilllaystretchedbackinhischair,withhistoeswithinthefender.
“Ishalllookinagainsometime,”Denhamremarked,uponwhichRodneyhelduphishand,containinghismanuscript,withoutsayinganythingexcept—“Ifyoulike.”
Denhamtookthemanuscriptandwent.Twodayslaterhewasmuchsurprisedtofindathinparcelonhisbreakfast-plate,which,onbeingopened,revealedtheverycopyofSirThomasBrownewhichhehadstudiedsointentlyinRodney’srooms.Fromsheerlazinesshereturnednothanks,buthethoughtofRodneyfromtimetotimewithinterest,disconnectinghimfromKatharine,andmeanttogoroundoneeveningandsmokeapipewithhim.ItpleasedRodneythustogiveawaywhateverhisfriendsgenuinelyadmired.Hislibrarywasconstantlybeingdiminished.
