Пробний камінь
IV
Againstthisbackground,whichseemedthevisibleexpressionofitsowner’sintellectualtolerance,rowsoffinebooksdetachedthemselveswithaprominence,showingthemtobeFlamel’schiefcare.
Glennardglancedwiththeeyeofuntrainedcuriosityatthelinesofwarm-tonedmorocco,whilehishostbusiedhimselfwiththeuncorkingofApollinaris.
“You’vegotasplendidlotofbooks,”hesaid.
“They’refairlydecent,”theotherassented,inthecurttoneofthecollectorwhowillnottalkofhispassionforfearoftalkingofnothingelse;then,asGlennard,hishandsinhispockets,begantostrollperfunctorilydownthelonglineofbookcases—“Somemen,”Flamelirresistiblyadded,“thinkofbooksmerelyastools,othersastooling.I’mbetweenthetwo;therearedayswhenIusethemasscenery,otherdayswhenIwantthemassociety;sothat,asyousee,mylibraryrepresentsamakeshiftcompromisebetweenlooksandbrains,andthecollectorslookdownonmealmostasmuchasthestudents.”
Glennard,withoutanswering,wasmechanicallytakingonebookafteranotherfromtheshelves.Hishandsslippedcuriouslyoverthesmoothcoversandthenoiselesssubsidenceofopeningpages.Suddenlyhecameonathinvolumeoffadedmanuscript.
“What’sthis?”heasked,withalistlesssenseofwonder.
“Ah,you’reatmymanuscriptshelf.I’vebeengoinginforthatsortofthinglately.”Flamelcameupandlookedoverhisshoulders.“That’sabitofStendhal—oneoftheItalianstories—andherearesomelettersofBalzactoMadameCommanville.
