第45部分(第4/7 頁)

ted　London　News　before　its　appearance　in　book　form。　It　is　a　work　that　has　found　many　friends；　but　my　recollection　is　that；　as　my　mother　foresaw；　it　was　a　good　deal　attacked　by　the　critics　who　were　angry　that；　after　Shakespeare’s　play；　I　should　dare　to　write　of　Cleopatra。　However；　I　have　not　kept　any　of　the　notices；　indeed　I　think　I　saw　but　few。　Of　professional　critics　already　I　began　to　feel　a　certain　repletion。　Little　do　these　gentlemen　know　the　harm　that　they　do　sometimes。　A　story　es　into　my　mind　in　illustration　of　this　truth。　One　day；　years　later；　I　was　in　the　little　writing…room　of　the　Savile　Club；　that　on　the　first　floor　with　fern…cases　in　the　windows　where　one　may　not　smoke。　At　least；　so　things　were　when　I　ceased　to　be　a　member。　Presently　Thomas　Hardy　entered　and　took　up　one　of　the　leading　weekly　papers　in　which　was　a　long　review　of　his　last　novel。　He　read　it；　then　came　to　me　—　there　were　no　others　in　the　room　—　and　pointed　out　a　certain　passage。

“There’s　a　nice　thing　to　say　about　a　man！”　he　exclaimed。　“Well；　I’ll　never　write　another　novel。”

And　he　never　did。　This　happened　quite　fifteen　years　ago。　By　the　way；　the　Savile　was　a　very　pleasant　club　in　the　late　‘eighties。　There　was　a　certain　table　in　the　corner；　near　the　window；　where　a　little　band　of　us　were　wont　to　lunch　on　Saturdays：　Lang；　Gosse；　Besant；　A。　Ross；　Loftie；　Stevenson　（the　cousin　of　the　writer）；　Eustace　Balfour；　and　some　others。　Of　this　pany　the　most　are　dead；　though　I　believe　Gosse　still　lunches　there。　He　must　feel　himself　to　be　a　kind　of　monument　erected　over　many　graves。　The　last　time　that　I　visited　the　club　there　was　not　a　soul　in　the　place　whom　I　knew。　So　feeling　lonely　and　over…oppressed　by　sundry　memories；　I　sent　in　my　resignation　of　membership。　But　often　as　I　walk　down　Piccadilly　I