some reminiscences-第18章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！





next　daytell　next　week　as　likely　as　not！　　The　neglected；



uncared…for　pen；　flung　away　at　the　slightest　provocation；　and



under　the　stress　of　dire　necessity　hunted　for　without　enthusiasm；



in　a　perfunctory；　grumpy　worry；　in　the　〃Where　the　devil　is　the



beastly　thing　gone　to？〃　ungracious　spirit。　　Where　indeed！　　It



might　have　been　reposing　behind　the　sofa　for　a　day　or　so。　　My



landlady's　anaemic　daughter　（as　Ollendorff　would　have　expressed



it）；　though　commendably　neat；　had　a　lordly；　careless　manner　of



approaching　her　domestic　duties。　　Or　it　might　even　be　resting



delicately　poised　on　its　point　by　the　side　of　the　table…leg；　and



when　picked　up　show　a　gaping；　inefficient　beak　which　would　have



discouraged　any　man　of　literary　instincts。　　But　not　me！　　〃Never



mind。　　This　will　do。〃







O　days　without　guile！　　If　anybody　had　told　me　then　that　a　devoted



household；　having　a　generally　exaggerated　idea　of　my　talents　and



importance；　would　be　put　into　a　state　of　tremor　and　flurry　by　the



fuss　I　would　make　because　of　a　suspicion　that　somebody　had



touched　my　sacrosanct　pen　of　authorship；　I　would　have　never



deigned　as　much　as　the　contemptuous　smile　of　unbelief。　　There　are



imaginings　too　unlikely　for　any　kind　of　notice；　too　wild　for



indulgence　itself；　too　absurd　for　a　smile。　　Perhaps；　had　that



seer　of　the　future　been　a　friend；　I　should　have　been　secretly



saddened。　　〃Alas！〃　I　would　have　thought；　looking　at　him　with　an



unmoved　face；　〃the　poor　fellow　is　going　mad。〃







I　would　have　been；　without　doubt；　saddened；　for　in　this　world



where　the　journalists　read　the　signs　of　the　sky；　and　the　wind　of



heaven　itself；　blowing　where　it　listeth；　does　so　under　the



prophetical　management　of　the　Meteorological　Office；　but　where



the　secret　of　human　hearts　cannot　be　captured　either　by　prying　or



praying；　it　was　infinitely　more　likely　that　the　sanest　of　my



friends　should　nurse　the　germ　of　incipient　madness　than　that　I



should　turn　into　a　writer　of　tales。







To　survey　with　wonder　the　changes　of　one's　own　self　is　a



fascinating　pursuit　for　idle　hours。　　The　field　is　so　wide；　the



surprises　so　varied；　the　subject　so　full　of　unprofitable　but



curious　hints　as　to　the　work　of　unseen　forces；　that　one　does　not



weary　easily　of　it。　　I　am　not　speaking　here　of　megalomaniacs　who



rest　uneasy　under　the　crown　of　their　unbounded　conceitwho



really　never　rest　in　this　world；　and　when　out　of　it　go　on



fretting　and　fuming　on　the　straitened　circumstances　of　their　last



habitation；　where　all　men　must　lie　in　obscure　equality。　　Neither



am　I　thinking　of　those　ambitious　minds　who；　always　looking



forward　to　some　aim　of　aggrandisement；　can　spare　no　time　for　a



detached；　impersonal　glance　upon　themselves。







And　that's　a　pity。　　They　are　unlucky。　　These　two　kinds；　together



with　the　much　larger　band　of　the　totally　unimaginative；　of　those



unfortunate　beings　in　whose　empty　and　unseeing　gaze　（as　a　great



French　writer　has　put　it）　〃the　whole　universe　vanishes　into　blank



nothingness；〃　miss；　perhaps；　the　true　task　of　us　men　whose　day　is



short　on　this　earth；　the　abode　of　conflicting　opinions。　　The



ethical　view　of　the　universe　involves　us　at　last　in　so　many　cruel



and　absurd　contradictions；　where　the　last　vestiges　of　faith；



hope；　charity；　and　even　of　reason　itself；　seem　ready　to　perish；



that　I　have　come　to　suspect　that　the　aim　of　creation　cannot　be



ethical　at　all。　　I　would　fondly　believe　that　its　object　is　purely



spectacular：　　a　spectacle　for　awe；　love；　adoration；　or　hate；　if



you　like；　but　in　this　viewand　in　this　view　alonenever　for



despair！　　Those　visions；　delicious　or　poignant；　are　a　moral　end



in　themselves。　　The　rest　is　our　affairthe　laughter；　the　tears；



the　tenderness；　the　indignation；　the　high　tranquillity　of　a



steeled　heart；　the　detached　curiosity　of　a　subtle　mindthat's



our　affair！　　And　the　unwearied　self…forgetful　attention　to　every



phase　of　the　living　universe　reflected　in　our　consciousness　may



be　our　appointed　task　on　this　earth。　　A　task　in　which　fate　has



perhaps　engaged　nothing　of　us　except　our　conscience；　gifted　with



a　voice　in　order　to　bear　true　testimony　to　the　visible　wonder；



the　haunting　terror；　the　infinite　passion　and　the　illimitable



serenity；　to　the　supreme　law　and　the　abiding　mystery　of　the



sublime　spectacle。







Chi　lo　sa？　　It　may　be　true。　　In　this　view　there　is　room　for　every



religion　except　for　the　inverted　creed　of　impiety；　the　mask　and



cloak　of　arid　despair；　for　every　joy　and　every　sorrow；　for　every



fair　dream；　for　every　charitable　hope。　　The　great　aim　is　to



remain　true　to　the　emotions　called　out　of　the　deep　encircled　by



the　firmament　of　stars；　whose　infinite　numbers　and　awful



distances　may　move　us　to　laughter　or　tears　（was　it　the　Walrus　or



the　Carpenter；　in　the　poem；　who　〃wept　to　see　such　quantities　of



sand〃？）；　or；　again；　to　a　properly　steeled　heart；　may　matter



nothing　at　all。







The　casual　quotation；　which　had　suggested　itself　out　of　a　poem



full　of　merit；　leads　me　to　remark　that　in　the　conception　of　a



purely　spectacular　universe；　where　inspiration　of　every　sort　has



a　rational　existence；　the　artist　of　every　kind　finds　a　natural



place；　and　amongst　them　the　poet　as　the　seer　par　excellence。



Even　the　writer　of　prose；　who　in　his　less　noble　and　more　toilsome



task　should　be　a　man　with　the　steeled　heart；　is　worthy　of　a



place；　providing　he　looks　on　with　undimmed　eyes　and　keeps



laughter　out　of　his　voice；　let　who　will　laugh　or　cry。　　Yes！　　Even



he；　the　prose　artist　of　fiction；　which　after　all　is　but　truth



often　dragged　out　of　a　well　and　clothed　in　the　painted　robe　of



imaged　phraseseven　he　has　his　place　amongst　kings；　demagogues；



priests；　charlatans；　dukes；　giraffes；　Cabinet　Ministers；　Fabians；



bricklayers；　apostles；　ants；　scientists；　Kaffirs；　soldiers；



sailors；　elephants；　lawyers；　dandies；　microbes　and　constellations



of　a　universe　whose　amazing　spectacle　is　a　moral　end　in　itself。







Here　I　perceive　（speaking　without　offence）　the　reader　assuming　a



subtle　expression；　as　if　the　cat　were　out　of　the　bag。　　I　take　the



novelist's　freedom　to　observe　the　reader's　mind　formulating　the



exclamation；　〃That's　it！　　The　fellow　talks　pro　domo。〃







Indeed　it　was　not　the　intention！　　When　I　shouldered　the　bag　I　was



not　aware　of　the　cat　inside。　　But；　after　all；　why　not？　　The　fair



courtyards　of　the　House　of　Art　are　thronged　by　many　humble



retainers。　　And　there　is　no　retainer　so　devoted　as　he　who　is



allowed　to　sit　on　the　doorstep。　　The　fellows　who　have　got　inside



are　apt　to　think　too　much　of　themselves。　　This　last　remark；　I　beg



to　state；　is　not　malicious　within　the　definition　of　the　law　of



libel。　　It's　fair　comment　on　a　matter　of　public　interest。　　But



never　mind。　　Pro　domo。　　So　be　it。　　For　his　house　tant　que　vous



voudrez。　　And　yet　in　truth　I　was　by　no　means　anxious　to　justify



my　existence。　　The　attempt　would　have　been　not　only　needless　and



absurd；　but　almost　inconceivable；　in　a　purely　spectacular



universe；　where　no　such　disagreeable　necessity　can　possibly



arise。　　It　is　sufficient　for　me　to　say　（and　I　am　saying　it　at



some　length　in　these　pages）：　　〃J'ai　vecu。〃　　I　have　existed；



obscure　amongst　the　wonders　and　terrors　of　my　time；　as　the　Abbe



Sieyes；　the　original　utterer　of　the　quoted　words；　had　managed　to



exist　through　the　violences；　the　crimes；　and　the　enthusiasms　of



the　French　Revolution。　　〃J'ai　vecu〃；　as　I　apprehend　most　of　us



manage　to　exist；　missing　all　along　the　varied　forms　of



destruction　by　a　hair's…breadth；　saving　my　body；　that's　clear；



and　perhaps　my　soul　also；　but　not　without　some　damage　here　and



there　to　the　fine　edge　of　my　conscience；　that　heirloom　of　the



ages；　of　the　race；　of　the　group；　of　the　family；　colourable　and



plastic；　fashioned　by　the　words；　the　looks；　the　acts；　and　even　by



the　silences　and　abstentions　surrounding　one's　childhood；　tinged



in　a　complete　scheme　of　delicate　shades　and　crude　colours　by　the



inherited　traditions；　beliefs；　or　prejudicesunaccountable；



despotic；　persuasive；　and　often；　in　its　texture；　romantic。







And　often　romantic！。　。　。The　matter　in　hand；　however；　is　to　keep



these　reminiscences　from　turning　into　confessions；　a　form　of



literary　activity　discredited　by　Jean　Jacques　Rousseau　on　account



of　the　extreme　thoroughness　he　brought　to　the　work　of　justifying



his　own　existence；　for　that　such　was　his　purpose　is　palpably；



even　grossly；　visible　to　an　unprejudiced　eye。　　But　then；　you　see；



the　man　was　not　a　writer　of　fiction。　　He　was　an　artless　moralist；



as　is　clearly　demonstrated　by　his　anniversaries　being　celebrated



with　marked　emphasis　by　the　heirs　of　the　French　Revolution；　which



was　not　a　political　movement　at　all；　but　a　great　outburst　of



morality。　　He　had　no　imagination；　as　the　most　casual　perusal　of



〃Emile〃　will　prove。　　He　was　no　novelist；　whose　first　virtue　is



the　exact　understanding　of　the　limits　traced　by　the　reality　of



his　time　to　the　play　of　his　invention。　　Inspiration　comes　from



the　earth；　which　has　a　past；　a　history；　a　future；　not　from　the



cold　and　immutable　heaven。　　A　writer　of　imaginative　prose　（even



more　than　any　other　sort　of　artist）　stands　confessed　in　his



works。　　His　conscience；　his　deeper　sense　of　things；　lawful　and



unlawful；　gives　him　his　attitude　before　the　world。　　Indeed；　every



one　who　puts　pen　to　paper　for　the　reading　of　strangers　（unless　a



moralist；　who；　generally　speaking；　has　no　conscience　except　the



one　he　is　at　pains　to　produce　for　the　use　of　others）　can　speak　of



nothing　else。　　It　is　M。　Anatole　France；　the　most　eloquent　and



just　of　French　prose　writers；　who　says　that　we　must　recognise　at



last　that；　〃failing　the　resolution　to　hold　our　peace；　we　can　only



talk　of　ourselves。〃







This　remark；　if　I　remember　rightly；　was　made　in　the　course　of　a



sparring　match　with　the　late　Ferdinand　Brunetiere　over　the



principles　and　rules　of　literary　criticism。　　As　was　fitting　for　a



man　to　whom　we　owe　the　memorable　saying；　〃The　good　critic　is　he



who　relates　the　adventures　of　his　soul　amongst　masterpieces；〃　M。



Anatole　France　maintained　that　there　were　no　rules　and　no



principles。　　And　that　may　be　very　true。　　Rules；　principles　and



standards　die　and　vanish　every　day。　　Perhaps　they　are　all　dead



and　vanished　by　this　time。　　These；　if　ever；　are　the　brave；　free



days　of　destroyed　landmarks；　while　the　ingenious　minds　are　busy



inventing　the　forms　of　the　new　beaco