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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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Sometimes
a
man
survives
a
considerable
time
from
an
era
in
which
he
had
his
place
into
one
which
is
strange
to
him
,
and
then
the
curious
are
offered
one
of
the
most
singular
spectacles
in
the
human
comedy
.
Who
now
,
for
example
,
thinks
of
George
Crabbe
?
He
was
a
famous
poet
in
his
day
,
and
the
world
recognised
his
genius
with
a
unanimity
which
the
greater
complexity
of
modern
life
has
rendered
infrequent
.
He
had
learnt
his
craft
at
the
school
of
Alexander
Pope
,
and
he
wrote
moral
stories
in
rhymed
couplets
.
Then
came
the
French
Revolution
and
the
Napoleonic
Wars
,
and
the
poets
sang
new
songs
.
Mr
.
Crabbe
continued
to
write
moral
stories
in
rhymed
couplets
.
I
think
he
must
have
read
the
verse
of
these
young
men
who
were
making
so
great
a
stir
in
the
world
,
and
I
fancy
he
found
it
poor
stuff
.
Of
course
,
much
of
it
was
.
But
the
odes
of
Keats
and
of
Wordsworth
,
a
poem
or
two
by
Coleridge
,
a
few
more
by
Shelley
,
discovered
vast
realms
of
the
spirit
that
none
had
explored
before
.
Mr
.
Crabbe
was
as
dead
as
mutton
,
but
Mr
.
Crabbe
continued
to
write
moral
stories
in
rhymed
couplets
.
I
have
read
desultorily
the
writings
of
the
younger
generation
It
may
be
that
among
them
a
more
fervid
Keats
,
a
more
ethereal
Shelley
,
has
already
published
numbers
the
world
will
willingly
remember
.
I
cannot
tell
.
I
admire
their
polish
—
their
youth
is
already
so
accomplished
that
it
seems
absurd
to
speak
of
promise
—
I
marvel
at
the
felicity
of
their
style
;
but
with
all
their
copiousness
(
their
vocabulary
suggests
that
they
fingered
Roget
’
s
Thesaurus
in
their
cradles
)
they
say
nothing
to
me
:
to
my
mind
they
know
too
much
and
feel
too
obviously
;
I
cannot
stomach
the
heartiness
with
which
they
slap
me
on
the
back
or
the
emotion
with
which
they
hurl
themselves
on
my
bosom
;
their
passion
seems
to
me
a
little
anaemic
and
their
dreams
a
trifle
dull
.
I
do
not
like
them
.
I
am
on
the
shelf
.
I
will
continue
to
write
moral
stories
in
rhymed
couplets
.
But
I
should
be
thrice
a
fool
if
I
did
it
for
aught
but
my
own
entertainment
.
But
all
this
is
by
the
way
.
I
was
very
young
when
I
wrote
my
first
book
.
By
a
lucky
chance
it
excited
attention
,
and
various
persons
sought
my
acquaintance
.
It
is
not
without
melancholy
that
I
wander
among
my
recollections
of
the
world
of
letters
in
London
when
first
,
bashful
but
eager
,
I
was
introduced
to
it
.
It
is
long
since
I
frequented
it
,
and
if
the
novels
that
describe
its
present
singularities
are
accurate
much
in
it
is
now
changed
.
The
venue
is
different
.
Chelsea
and
Bloomsbury
have
taken
the
place
of
Hampstead
,
Notting
Hill
Gate
,
and
High
Street
,
Kensington
.
Then
it
was
a
distinction
to
be
under
forty
,
but
now
to
be
more
than
twenty
-
five
is
absurd
.
I
think
in
those
days
we
were
a
little
shy
of
our
emotions
,
and
the
fear
of
ridicule
tempered
the
more
obvious
forms
of
pretentiousness
.
I
do
not
believe
that
there
was
in
that
genteel
Bohemia
an
intensive
culture
of
chastity
,
but
I
do
not
remember
so
crude
a
promiscuity
as
seems
to
be
practised
in
the
present
day
.
We
did
not
think
it
hypocritical
to
draw
over
our
vagaries
the
curtain
of
a
decent
silence
.
The
spade
was
not
invariably
called
a
bloody
shovel
.
Woman
had
not
yet
altogether
come
into
her
own
.
I
lived
near
Victoria
Station
,
and
I
recall
long
excursions
by
bus
to
the
hospitable
houses
of
the
literary
.
In
my
timidity
I
wandered
up
and
down
the
street
while
I
screwed
up
my
courage
to
ring
the
bell
;
and
then
,
sick
with
apprehension
,
was
ushered
into
an
airless
room
full
of
people
.
I
was
introduced
to
this
celebrated
person
after
that
one
,
and
the
kind
words
they
said
about
my
book
made
me
excessively
uncomfortable
.
I
felt
they
expected
me
to
say
clever
things
,
and
I
never
could
think
of
any
till
after
the
party
was
over
.
I
tried
to
conceal
my
embarrassment
by
handing
round
cups
of
tea
and
rather
ill
-
cut
bread
-
and
-
butter
.
I
wanted
no
one
to
take
notice
of
me
,
so
that
I
could
observe
these
famous
creatures
at
my
ease
and
listen
to
the
clever
things
they
said
.
I
have
a
recollection
of
large
,
unbending
women
with
great
noses
and
rapacious
eyes
,
who
wore
their
clothes
as
though
they
were
armour
;
and
of
little
,
mouse
-
like
spinsters
,
with
soft
voices
and
a
shrewd
glance
.
I
never
ceased
to
be
fascinated
by
their
persistence
in
eating
buttered
toast
with
their
gloves
on
,
and
I
observed
with
admiration
the
unconcern
with
which
they
wiped
their
fingers
on
their
chair
when
they
thought
no
one
was
looking
.
It
must
have
been
bad
for
the
furniture
,
but
I
suppose
the
hostess
took
her
revenge
on
the
furniture
of
her
friends
when
,
in
turn
,
she
visited
them
.
Some
of
them
were
dressed
fashionably
,
and
they
said
they
couldn
’
t
for
the
life
of
them
see
why
you
should
be
dowdy
just
because
you
had
written
a
novel
;
if
you
had
a
neat
figure
you
might
as
well
make
the
most
of
it
,
and
a
smart
shoe
on
a
small
foot
had
never
prevented
an
editor
from
taking
your
"
stuff
.
"
But
others
thought
this
frivolous
,
and
they
wore
"
art
fabrics
"
and
barbaric
jewelry
.
The
men
were
seldom
eccentric
in
appearance
.
They
tried
to
look
as
little
like
authors
as
possible
.
They
wished
to
be
taken
for
men
of
the
world
,
and
could
have
passed
anywhere
for
the
managing
clerks
of
a
city
firm
.
They
always
seemed
a
little
tired
.
I
had
never
known
writers
before
,
and
I
found
them
very
strange
,
but
I
do
not
think
they
ever
seemed
to
me
quite
real
.
I
remember
that
I
thought
their
conversation
brilliant
,
and
I
used
to
listen
with
astonishment
to
the
stinging
humour
with
which
they
would
tear
a
brother
-
author
to
pieces
the
moment
that
his
back
was
turned
.
The
artist
has
this
advantage
over
the
rest
of
the
world
,
that
his
friends
offer
not
only
their
appearance
and
their
character
to
his
satire
,
but
also
their
work
.
I
despaired
of
ever
expressing
myself
with
such
aptness
or
with
such
fluency
.
In
those
days
conversation
was
still
cultivated
as
an
art
;
a
neat
repartee
was
more
highly
valued
than
the
crackling
of
thorns
under
a
pot
;
and
the
epigram
,
not
yet
a
mechanical
appliance
by
which
the
dull
may
achieve
a
semblance
of
wit
,
gave
sprightliness
to
the
small
talk
of
the
urbane
.
It
is
sad
that
I
can
remember
nothing
of
all
this
scintillation
.
But
I
think
the
conversation
never
settled
down
so
comfortably
as
when
it
turned
to
the
details
of
the
trade
which
was
the
other
side
of
the
art
we
practised
.
When
we
had
done
discussing
the
merits
of
the
latest
book
,
it
was
natural
to
wonder
how
many
copies
had
been
sold
,
what
advance
the
author
had
received
,
and
how
much
he
was
likely
to
make
out
of
it
.
Then
we
would
speak
of
this
publisher
and
of
that
,
comparing
the
generosity
of
one
with
the
meanness
of
another
;
we
would
argue
whether
it
was
better
to
go
to
one
who
gave
handsome
royalties
or
to
another
who
"
pushed
"
a
book
for
all
it
was
worth
.
Some
advertised
badly
and
some
well
.
Some
were
modern
and
some
were
old
-
fashioned
