a personal record-第22节

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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　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　aggrandizement；　can　spare　no　time　for　a



detached；　impersonal　glance　upon　them　selves。







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　eartha　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　among　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　imagined



phraseseven　he　has　his　place　among　kings；　demagogues；　priests；



charlatans；　dukes；　giraffes；　cabinet　ministers；　Fabians；



bricklayers；　apostles；　ants；　scientists；　Kafirs；　soldiers；



sailors；　elephants；　lawyers；　dandies；　microbes；　and



constellations　of　a　universe　whose　amazing　spectacle　is　a　moral



end　in　itself。







Here　I　perceive　（without　speaking　offense）　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



among　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；



everyone　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



recognize　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　among　ma