some reminiscences-第19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！





days　of　destroyed　landmarks；　while　the　ingenious　minds　are　busy



inventing　the　forms　of　the　new　beacons　which；　it　is　consoling　to



think；　will　be　set　up　presently　in　the　old　places。　　But　what　is



interesting　to　a　writer　is　the　possession　of　an　inward　certitude



that　literary　criticism　will　never　die；　for　man　（so　variously



defined）　is；　before　everything　else；　a　critical　animal。　　And；　as



long　as　distinguished　minds　are　ready　to　treat　it　in　the　spirit



of　high　adventure；　literary　criticism　shall　appeal　to　us　with　all



the　charm　and　wisdom　of　a　well…told　tale　of　personal　experience。







For　Englishmen　especially；　of　all　the　races　of　the　earth；　a　task；



any　task；　undertaken　in　an　adventurous　spirit　acquires　the　merit



of　romance。　　But　the　critics　as　a　rule　exhibit　but　little　of　an



adventurous　spirit。　　They　take　risks；　of　courseone　can　hardly



live　without　that。　　The　daily　bread　is　served　out　to　us　（however



sparingly）　with　a　pinch　of　salt。　　Otherwise　one　would　get　sick　of



the　diet　one　prays　for；　and　that　would　be　not　only　improper；　but



impious。　　From　impiety　of　that　or　any　other　kindsave　us！　　An



ideal　of　reserved　manner；　adhered　to　from　a　sense　of　proprieties；



from　shyness；　perhaps；　or　caution；　or　simply　from　weariness；



induces；　I　suspect；　some　writers　of　criticism　to　conceal　the



adventurous　side　of　their　calling；　and　then　the　criticism　becomes



a　mere　〃notice；〃　as　it　were　the　relation　of　a　journey　where



nothing　but　the　distances　and　the　geology　of　a　new　country　should



be　set　down；　the　glimpses　of　strange　beasts；　the　dangers　of　flood



and　field；　the　hair's…breadth　escapes；　and　the　sufferings　（oh；



the　sufferings　too！　　I　have　no　doubt　of　the　sufferings）　of　the



traveller　being　carefully　kept　out；　no　shady　spot；　no　fruitful



plant　being　ever　mentioned　either；　so　that　the　whole　performance



looks　like　a　mere　feat　of　agility　on　the　part　of　a　trained　pen



running　in　a　desert。　　A　cruel　spectaclea　most　deplorable



adventure。　　〃Life；〃　in　the　words　of　an　immortal　thinker　of；　I



should　say；　bucolic　origin；　but　whose　perishable　name　is　lost　to



the　worship　of　posterity〃life　is　not　all　beer　and　skittles。〃



Neither　is　the　writing　of　novels。　　It　isn't　really。　　Je　vous



donne　ma　parole　d'honneur　that　itisnot。　　Not　all。　　I　am　thus



emphatic　because　some　years　ago；　I　remember；　the　daughter　of　a



general。　。　。







Sudden　revelations　of　the　profane　world　must　have　come　now　and



then　to　hermits　in　their　cells；　to　the　cloistered　monks　of　Middle



Ages；　to　lonely　sages；　men　of　science；　reformers；　the　revelations



of　the　world's　superficial　judgment；　shocking　to　the　souls



concentrated　upon　their　own　bitter　labour　in　the　cause　of



sanctity；　or　of　knowledge；　or　of　temperance；　let　us　say；　or　of



art；　if　only　the　art　of　cracking　jokes　or　playing　the　flute。　　And



thus　this　general's　daughter　came　to　meor　I　should　say　one　of



the　general's　daughters　did。　　There　were　three　of　these　bachelor



ladies；　of　nicely　graduated　ages；　who　held　a　neighbouring



farmhouse　in　a　united　and　more　or　less　military　occupation。　　The



eldest　warred　against　the　decay　of　manners　in　the　village



children；　and　executed　frontal　attacks　upon　the　village　mothers



for　the　conquest　of　curtseys。　　It　sounds　futile；　but　it　was



really　a　war　for　an　idea。　　The　second　skirmished　and　scouted　all



over　the　country；　and　it　was　that　one　who　pushed　a　reconnaissance



right　to　my　very　tableI　mean　the　one　who　wore　stand…up　collars。



She　was　really　calling　upon　my　wife　in　the　soft　spirit　of



afternoon　friendliness；　but　with　her　usual　martial　determination。



She　marched　into　my　room　swinging　her　stick。　。　。but　noI　mustn't



exaggerate。　　It　is　not　my　speciality。　　I　am　not　a　humoristic



writer。　　In　all　soberness；　then；　all　I　am　certain　of　is　that　she



had　a　stick　to　swing。







No　ditch　or　wall　encompassed　my　abode。　　The　window　was　open；　the



door　too　stood　open　to　that　best　friend　of　my　work；　the　warm；



still　sunshine　of　the　wide　fields。　　They　lay　around　me　infinitely



helpful；　but　truth　to　say　I　had　not　known　for　weeks　whether　the



sun　shone　upon　the　earth　and　whether　the　stars　above　still　moved



on　their　appointed　courses。　　I　was　just　then　giving　up　some　days



of　my　allotted　span　to　the　last　chapters　of　the　novel　〃Nostromo；〃



a　tale　of　an　imaginary　（but　true）　seaboard；　which　is　still



mentioned　now　and　again；　and　indeed　kindly；　sometimes　in



connection　with　the　word　〃failure〃　and　sometimes　in　conjunction



with　the　word　〃astonishing。〃　　I　have　no　opinion　on　this



discrepancy。　　It's　the　sort　of　difference　that　can　never　be



settled。　　All　I　know　is　that；　for　twenty　months；　neglecting　the



common　joys　of　life　that　fall　to　the　lot　of　the　humblest　on　this



earth；　I　had；　like　the　prophet　of　old；　〃wrestled　with　the　Lord〃



for　my　creation；　for　the　headlands　of　the　coast；　for　the　darkness



of　the　Placid　Gulf；　the　light　on　the　snows；　the　clouds　on　the



sky；　and　for　the　breath　of　life　that　had　to　be　blown　into　the



shapes　of　men　and　women；　of　Latin　and　Saxon；　of　Jew　and　Gentile。



These　are；　perhaps；　strong　words；　but　it　is　difficult　to



characterise　otherwise　the　intimacy　and　the　strain　of　a　creative



effort　in　which　mind　and　will　and　conscience　are　engaged　to　the



full；　hour　after　hour；　day　after　day；　away　from　the　world；　and　to



the　exclusion　of　all　that　makes　life　really　lovable　and　gentle



something　for　which　a　material　parallel　can　only　be　found　in　the



everlasting　sombre　stress　of　the　westward　winter　passage　round



Cape　Horn。　　For　that　too　is　the　wrestling　of　men　with　the　might



of　their　Creator；　in　a　great　isolation　from　the　world；　without



the　amenities　and　consolations　of　life；　a　lonely　struggle　under　a



sense　of　over…matched　littleness；　for　no　reward　that　could　be



adequate；　but　for　the　mere　winning　of　a　longitude。　　Yet　a　certain



longitude；　once　won；　cannot　be　disputed。　　The　sun　and　the　stars



and　the　shape　of　your　earth　are　the　witnesses　of　your　gain；



whereas　a　handful　of　pages；　no　matter　how　much　you　have　made　them



your　own；　are　at　best　but　an　obscure　and　questionable　spoil。



Here　they　are。　　〃Failure〃〃Astonishing〃：　　take　your　choice；　or



perhaps　both；　or　neithera　mere　rustle　and　flutter　of　pieces　of



paper　settling　down　in　the　night；　and　undistinguishable；　like　the



snowflakes　of　a　great　drift　destined　to　melt　away　in　the



sunshine。







〃How　do　you　do？〃







It　was　the　greeting　of　the　general's　daughter。　　I　had　heard



nothingno　rustle；　no　footsteps。　　I　had　felt　only　a　moment



before　a　sort　of　premonition　of　evil；　I　had　the　sense　of　an



inauspicious　presencejust　that　much　warning　and　no　more；　and



then　came　the　sound　of　the　voice　and　the　jar　as　of　a　terrible



fall　from　a　great　heighta　fall；　let　us　say；　from　the　highest　of



the　clouds　floating　in　gentle　procession　over　the　fields　in　the



faint　westerly　air　of　that　July　afternoon。　　I　picked　myself　up



quickly；　of　course；　in　other　words；　I　jumped　up　from　my　chair



stunned　and　dazed；　every　nerve　quivering　with　the　pain　of　being



uprooted　out　of　one　world　and　flung　down　into　anotherperfectly



civil。







〃Oh！　　How　do　you　do？　　Won't　you　sit　down？〃







That's　what　I　said。　　This　horrible　but；　I　assure　you；　perfectly



true　reminiscence　tells　you　more　than　a　whole　volume　of



confessions　a　la　Jean　Jacques　Rousseau　would　do。　　Observe！　　I



didn't　howl　at　her；　or　start　upsetting　furniture；　or　throw　myself



on　the　floor　and　kick；　or　allow　myself　to　hint　in　any　other　way



at　the　appalling　magnitude　of　the　disaster。　　The　whole　world　of



Costaguana　（the　country；　you　may　remember；　of　my　seaboard　tale）；



men；　women；　headlands；　houses；　mountains；　town；　campo　（there　was



not　a　single　brick；　stone；　or　grain　of　sand　of　its　soil　I　had　not



placed　in　position　with　my　own　hands）；　all　the　history；



geography；　politics；　finance；　the　wealth　of　Charles　Gould's



silver…mine；　and　the　splendour　of　the　magnificent　Capataz　de



Cargadores；　whose　name；　cried　out　in　the　night　（Dr。　Monygham



heard　it　pass　over　his　headin　Linda　Viola's　voice）；　dominated



even　after　death　the　dark　gulf　containing　his　conquests　of



treasure　and　loveall　that　had　come　down　crashing　about　my　ears。



I　felt　I　could　never　pick　up　the　piecesand　in　that　very　moment



I　was　saying；　〃Won't　you　sit　down？〃







The　sea　is　strong　medicine。　　Behold　what　the　quarter…deck



training　even　in　a　merchant　ship　will　do！　　This　episode　should



give　you　a　new　view　of　the　English　and　Scots　seamen　（a　much…



caricatured　folk）　who　had　the　last　say　in　the　formation　of　my



character。　　One　is　nothing　if　not　modest；　but　in　this　disaster　I



think　I　have　done　some　honour　to　their　simple　teaching。　　〃Won't



you　sit　down？〃　　Very　fair；　very　fair　indeed。　　She　sat　down。　　Her



amused　glance　strayed　all　over　the　room。　　There　were　pages　of　MS。



on　the　table　and　under　the　table；　a　batch　of　typed　copy　on　a



chair；　single　leaves　had　fluttered　away　into　distant　corners；



there　were　there　living　pages；　pages　scored　and　wounded；　dead



pages　that　would　be　burnt　at　the　end　of　the　daythe　litter　of　a



cruel　battlefield；　of　a　long；　long　and　desperate　fray。　　Long！　　I



suppose　I　went　to　bed　sometimes；　and　got　up　the　same　number　of



times。　　Yes；　I　suppose　I　slept；　and　ate　the　food　put　before　me；



and　talked　connectedly　to　my　household　on　suitable　occasions。



But　I　had　never　been　aware　of　the　even　flow　of　daily　life；　made



easy　and　noiseless　for　me　by　a　silent；　watchful；　tireless



affection。　　Indeed；　it　seemed　to　me　that　I　had　been　sitting　at



that　table　surrounded　by　the　litter　of　a　desperate　fray　for　days



and　nights　on　end。　　It　seemed　so；　because　of　the　intense



weariness　of　which　that　interruption　had　made　me　awarethe　awful



disenchantment　of　a　mind　realising　suddenly　the　futility　of　an



enormous　task；　joined　to　a　bodily　fatigue　such　as　no　ordinary



amount　of　fairly　heavy　physical　labour　could　ever　account　for。　　I



have　carried　bags　of　wheat　on　my　back；　bent　almost　double　under　a



ship's　deck…beams；　from　six　in　the　morning　till　six　in　the



evening　（with　an　hour　and　a　half　off　for　meals）；　so　I　ought　to



know。







And　I　love　letters。　　I　am　jealous　of　their　honour　and　concerned



for　the　dignity　and　comeliness　of　their　service。　　I　was；　most



likely；　the　only　writer　that　neat　lady　had　ever　caught　in　the



exercise　of　his　craft；　and　it　distressed　me　not　to　be　able　to



remember　when　it　was　that　I　dressed　myself　last；　and　how。　　No



doubt　that　would　be　all　right　in　e