“Do dey vid you here？ I ‘ad drouble wid dat bair， I remember.” I assured him that they had fitted beautifully.
“Do you wand any boods？” he said. “I can make dem quickly； id is a slack dime.”
I answered： “Please， please！ I want boots all round—every kind！”
“I will make a vresh model. Your food must be bigger.” And with utter slowness， he traced round my foot， and felt my toes， only once looking up to say：
“Did I dell you my brudder was dead？”
To watch him was painful， so feeble had he grown； I was glad to get away.
I had given those boots up， when one evening they came. Opening the parcel， I set the four pairs out in a row. Then one by one I tried them on. There was no doubt about it. In shape and fit， in finish and quality ofleather， they were the best he had ever made me. And in the mouth of one of the Town walking-boots I found his bill.
The amount was the same as usual， but it gave me quite a shock. He had never before sent it in till quarter day. I flew down-stairs， and wrote a cheque， and posted it at once with my own hand.
A week later， passing the little street， I thought I would go in and tell him how splendidly the new boots fitted. But when I came to where his shop had been， his name was gone. Still there， in the window， were the slim pumps， the patent leathers with cloth tops， the sooty riding boots.
I went in， very much disturbed. In the two little shops—again made into one—was a young man with an English face.
“Mr. Gessler in？” I said.
He gave me a strange， ingratiating look.
“No， sir，” he said， “no. But we can attend to anything with pleasure. We’ve taken the shop over. You’ve seen our name， no doubt， next door. We make for some very good people.”
“Yes， Yes，” I said； “but Mr. Gessler？” “Oh！” he answered； “dead.”
“Dead！ But I only received these boots from him last Wednesday week.”
“Ah！” he said； “a shockin’ go. Poor old man starved ‘imself.” “Good God！”
“Slow starvation， the doctor called it！ You see he went to work in such a way！ Would keep the shop on； wouldn’t have a soul touch his boots except himself. When he got an order， it took him such a time. People won’t wait. He lost everybody. And there he’d sit， goin’ on and on—I will say that for him not a man in London made a better boot！ But look at the competition！ He never advertised！ Would ‘ave the best leather， too， and do it all ‘imself. Well， there it is. What could you expect with his ideas？”
“But starvation—！”
“That may be a bit flowery， as the sayin’ is—but I know myself he was sittin’ over his boots day and night， to the very last. You see I used to watchhim. Never gave ‘imself time to eat； never had a penny in the house. All went in rent and leather. How he lived so long I don’t know. He regular let his fire go out. He was a character. But he made good boots.”
“Yes，” I said， “he made good boots.”
And I turned and went out quickly， for I did not want that youth to know that I could hardly see.
47
“Robinson Crusoe”
读《鲁滨孙漂流记》
However we may wind and wriggle， loiter and dally in our approach to books， a lonely battle waits us at the end. There is a piece of business to be transacted between writer and reader before any further dealings are possible， and to be reminded in the middle of this private interview that Defoe sold stockings， had brown hair， and was stood in the pillory is a distraction and a worry. Our first task， and it is often formidable enough， is to master his perspective. Until we know how the novelist orders his world， the ornaments of that world， which the critics press upon us， the adventures of the writer， to which biographers draw attention， are superfluous possessions of which we can make no use. All alone we must climb upon the novelist’s shoulders and gaze through his eyes until we， too， understand in what order he ranges the large common objects upon which novelists are fated to gaze： man and men； behind them Nature； and above them that power which for convenience and brevity we may call God. And at once confusion， misjudgement， and difficulty begin. Simple as they appear to us， these objects can be made monstrous and indeed unrecognizable by the manner in which the novelist relates them to each other. It would seem to be true that people who live cheek by jowl and breathe the same air vary enormously in their sense of proportion； to one the human being is vast， the tree minute； to the other， trees are huge and human beings insignificant little objects in the background. So， in spite of the text-books， writers may live at the same time and see nothing the same size. Here is Scott， for example， with his mountains looming hugeand his men therefore drawn to scale； Jane Austen picking out the roses on her teacups to match the wit of her dialogues； while Peacock bends over heaven and earth one fantastic distorting mirror in which a tea-cup may be Vesuvius or Vesuvius a tea-cup. Nevertheless Scott， Jane Austen， and Peacock lived through the same years； they saw the same world； they are covered in the text-books by the same stretch of literary history. It is in their perspective that they are different. If， then， it were granted us to grasp this firmly， for ourselves， the battle would end in victory； and we could turn， secure in our intimacy， to enjoy the various delights with which the critics and biographers so generously supply us.
