American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
The result of the whole quality of her welcome, at any rate, was that
the first evening, in his room, before going to bed, he relieved his
mind in a letter to Addie, which, if space allowed us to embody it in
our text, would usefully perform the office of a "plate." It would
enable us to present ourselves as profusely illustrated. But the process
of reproduction, as we say, costs. He wished his friend to know how
grandly their affair turned out. She had put him in the way of something
absolutely special--an old house untouched, untouchable, indescribable,
an old corner such as one didn't believe existed, and the holy calm of
which made the chatter of studios, the smell of paint, the slang of
critics, the whole sense and sound of Paris, come back as so many signs
of a huge monkey-cage. He moved about, restless, while he wrote; he
lighted cigarettes and, nervous and suddenly scrupulous, put them out
again; the night was mild and one of the windows of his large high room,
which stood over the garden, was up. He lost himself in the things about
him, in the type of the room, the last century with not a chair moved,
not a point stretched. He hung over the objects and ornaments,
blissfully few and adorably good, perfect pieces all, and never one, for
a change, French. The scene was as rare as some fine old print with the
best bits down in the corners. Old books and old pictures, allusions
remembered and aspects conjectured, reappeared to him; he knew not what
anxious islanders had been trying for in their backward hunt for the
homely. But the homely at Flickerbridge was all style, even as style at
the same time was mere honesty. The larger, the smaller past--he scarce
knew which to call it--was at all events so hushed to sleep round him as
he wrote that he had almost a bad conscience about having come. How one
might love it, but how one might spoil it! To look at it too hard was
positively to make it conscious, and to make it conscious was positively
to wake it up. Its only safety, of a truth, was to be left still to
sleep--to sleep in its large fair chambers and under its high clean
canopies.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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