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Dumas's。 And this is the particular crown and triumph of the
artist … not to be true merely； but to be lovable； not simply to
convince； but to enchant。
There is yet another point in the VICOMTE which I find
incomparable。 I can recall no other work of the imagination in
which the end of life is represented with so nice a tact。 I was
asked the other day if Dumas made me laugh or cry。 Well in this my
late fifth reading of the VICOMTE； I did laugh once at the small
Coquelin de Voliere business； and was perhaps a thought surprised
at having done so： to make up for it； I smiled continually。 But
for tears； I do not know。 If you put a pistol to my throat； I must
own the tale trips upon a very airy foot … within a measurable
distance of unreality； and for those who like the big guns to be
discharged and the great passions to appear authentically； it may
even seem inadequate from first to last。 Not so to me； I cannot
count that a poor dinner； or a poor book； where I meet with those I
love； and； above all； in this last volume； I find a singular charm
of spirit。 It breathes a pleasant and a tonic sadness； always
brave； never hysterical。 Upon the crowded； noisy life of this long
tale； evening gradually falls； and the lights are extinguished； and
the heroes pass away one by one。 One by one they go； and not a
regret embitters their departure； the young succeed them in their
places； Louis Quatorze is swelling larger and shining broader；
another generation and another France dawn on the horizon； but for
us and these old men whom we have loved so long； the inevitable end
draws near and is welcome。 To read this well is to anticipate
experience。 Ah； if only when these hours of the long shadows fall
for us in reality and not in figure； we may hope to face them with
a mind as quiet！
But my paper is running out； the siege guns are firing on the Dutch
frontier； and I must say adieu for the fifth time to my old comrade
fallen on the field of glory。 ADIEU … rather AU REVOIR！ Yet a
sixth time； dearest d'Artagnan； we shall kidnap Monk and take horse
together for Belle Isle。
CHAPTER XV。 A GOSSIP ON ROMANCE
IN anything fit to be called by the name of reading； the process
itself should be absorbing and voluptuous； we should gloat over a
book； be rapt clean out of ourselves； and rise from the perusal；
our mind filled with the busiest； kaleidoscopic dance of images；
incapable of sleep or of continuous thought。 The words； if the
book be eloquent； should run thenceforward in our ears like the
noise of breakers； and the story； if it be a story； repeat itself
in a thousand coloured pictures to the eye。 It was for this last
pleasure that we read so closely； and loved our books so dearly； in
the bright； troubled period of boyhood。 Eloquence and thought；
character and conversation； were but obstacles to brush aside as we
dug blithely after a certain sort of incident； like a pig for
truffles。 For my part； I liked a story to begin with an old
wayside inn where； 〃towards the close of the year 17…；〃 several
gentlemen in three…cocked hats were playing bowls。 A friend of
mine preferred the Malabar coast in a storm； with a ship beating to
windward； and a scowling fellow of Herculean proportions striding
along the beach； he； to be sure； was a pirate。 This was further
afield than my home…keeping fancy loved to travel； and designed
altogether for a larger canvas than the tales that I affected。
Give me a highwayman and I was full to the brim； a Jacobite would
do； but the highwayman was my favourite dish。 I can still hear
that merry clatter of the hoofs along the moonlit lane； night and
the coming of day are still related in my mind with the doings of
John Rann or Jerry Abershaw； and the words 〃post…chaise；〃 the
〃great North road；〃 〃ostler；〃 and 〃nag〃 still sound in my ears like
poetry。 One and all； at least； and each with his particular fancy；
we read story…books in childhood； not for eloquence or character or
thought； but for some quality of the brute incident。 That quality
was not mere bloodshed or wonder。 Although each of these was
welcome in its place； the charm for the sake of which we read
depended on something different from either。 My elders used to
read novels aloud； and I can still remember four different passages
which I heard； before I was ten； with the same keen and lasting
pleasure。 One I discovered long afterwards to be the admirable
opening of WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT： it was no wonder I was pleased
with that。 The other three still remain unidentified。 One is a
little vague； it was about a dark； tall house at night； and people
groping on the stairs by the light that escaped from the open door
of a sickroom。 In another； a lover left a ball； and went walking
in a cool； dewy park； whence he could watch the lighted windows and
the figures of the dancers as they moved。 This was the most
sentimental impression I think I had yet received； for a child is
somewhat deaf to the sentimental。 In the last； a poet； who had
been tragically wrangling with his wife； walked forth on the sea…
beach on a tempestuous night and witnessed the horrors of a wreck。
（8） Different as they are； all these early favourites have a
common note … they have all a touch of the romantic。
Drama is the poetry of conduct； romance the poetry of circumstance。
The pleasure that we take in life is of two sorts … the active and
the passive。 Now we are conscious of a great command over our
destiny； anon we are lifted up by circumstance； as by a breaking
wave； and dashed we know not how into the future。 Now we are
pleased by our conduct； anon merely pleased by our surroundings。
It would be hard to say which of these modes of satisfaction is the
more effective； but the latter is surely the more constant。
Conduct is three parts of life； they say； but I think they put it
high。 There is a vast deal in life and letters both which is not
immoral； but simply a…moral； which either does not regard the human
will at all； or deals with it in obvious and healthy relations；
where the interest turns； not upon what a man shall choose to do；
but on how he manages to do it； not on the passionate slips and
hesitations of the conscience； but on the problems of the body and
of the practical intelligence； in clean； open…air adventure； the
shock of arms or the diplomacy of life。 With such material as this
it is impossible to build a play； for the serious theatre exists
solely on moral grounds； and is a standing proof of the
dissemination of the human conscience。 But it is possible to
build； upon this ground； the most joyous of verses； and the most
lively； beautiful； and buoyant tales。
One thing in life calls for another； there is a fitness in events
and places。 The sight of a pleasant arbour puts it in our mind to
sit there。 One place suggests work； another idleness； a third
early rising and long rambles in the dew。 The effect of night； of
any flowing water； of lighted cities； of the peep of day； of ships；
of the open ocean； calls up in the mind an army of anonymous
desires and pleasures。 Something； we feel； should happen； we know
not what； yet we proceed in quest of it。 And many of the happiest
hours of life fleet by us in this vain attendance on the genius of
the place and moment。 It is thus that tracts of young fir； and low
rocks that reach into deep soundings； particularly torture and
delight me。 Something must have happened in such places； and
perhaps ages back； to members of my race； and when I was a child I
tried in vain to invent appropriate games for them； as I still try；
just as vainly； to fit them with the proper story。 Some places
speak distinctly。 Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder；
certain old houses demand to be haunted； certain coasts are set
apart for