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The Black Robe-Part27_WILKIE COLLINS (1824-1899)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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There, truth to Nature and poetical feeling go hand in hand

together. It is absolutely lovely--I could kiss that picture."



They were in Romayne's study when this odd outburst of enthusiasm

escaped Winterfield. He happened to look toward the writing-table



next. Some pages of manuscript, blotted and interlined with

corrections, at once attracted his attention.



"Is that the forthcoming history?" he asked. "You are not one of

the authors who perform the process of correction mentally--you



revise and improve with the pen in your hand."

Romayne looked at him in surprise. "I suspect, Mr. Winterfield,



you have used your pen for other purposes than writing letters."

"No, indeed; you pay me an undeserved compliment. When you come



to see me in Devonshire, I can show you some manuscripts, and

corrected proofs, left by our great writers, collected by my



father. My knowledge of the secrets of the craft has been gained

by examining those literary treasures. If the public only knew



that every writerworthy of the name is the severest critic of

his own book before it ever gets into the hands of the reviewers,



how surprised they would be! The man who has worked in the full

fervor of compositionyesterday is the same man who sits in



severe and merciless judgment to-day on what he has himself

produced. What a fascination there must be in the Art which



exacts and receives such double labor as this?"

Romayne thought--not unkindly--of his wife. Stella had once asked



him how long a time he was usually occupied in writing one page.

The reply had filled her with pity and wonder. "Why do you take



all that trouble?" she had gently remonstrated. "It would be just

the same to the people, darling, if you did it in half the time."



By way of changing the topic, Romayne led his visitor into

another room. "I have a picture here," he said, "which belongs to



a newer school of painting. You have been talking of hard work in

one Art; there it is in another."



"Yes," said Winterfield,

"there it is--the misdirected hard work, which has been guided



by no critical faculty, and which doesn't know where to stop. I

try to admire it; and I end in pitying the poor artist. Look at



that leafless felled tree in the middle distance. Every little

twig, on the smallest branch, is conscientiously painted--and the



result is like a colored photograph. You don't look at a

landscape as a series of separate parts; you don't discover every



twig on a tree; you see the whole in Nature, and you want to see

the whole in a picture. That canvas presents a triumph of



patience and pains, produced exactly as a piece of embroidery is

produced, all in little separate bits, worked with the same



mechanically complete care. I turn away from it to your shrubbery

there, with an ungrateful sense of relief."



He walked to the window as he spoke. It looked out on the grounds

in front of the house. At the same moment the noise of rolling



wheels became audible on the drive. An open carriage appeared at

the turn in the road. Winterfield called Romayne to the window.



"A visitor," he began--and suddenly drew back, without saying a

word more.



Romayne looked out, and recognized his wife.

"Excuse me for one moment," he said, "it is Mrs. Romayne."



On that morning an improvement in the fluctuating state of Mrs.

Eyrecourt's health had given Stella another of those



opportunities of passing an hour or two with her husband, which

she so highly prized. Romayne withdrew, to meet her at the



door--too hurriedly to notice Winterfield standing, in the corner

to which he had retreated, like a man petrified.



Stella had got out of the carriage when her husband reached the

porch. She ascended the few steps that led to the hall as slowly



and painfully as if she had been an infirm old woman. The

delicately tinted color in her face had faded to an ashy white.



She had seen Winterfield at the window.

For the moment, Romayne looked at her in speechless



consternation. He led her into the nearest room that opened out

of the hall, and took her in his arms. "My love, this nursing of



your mother has completely broken you down!" he said, with the

tenderest pity for her. "If you won't think of yourself, you must






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