a personal record-第23节

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



who　relates　the　adventures　of　his　soul　among　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　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　with　out　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　hairbreadth　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



farm…house　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　courtesies。　　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　specialty。　　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　in　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



characterize　other　wise　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



gentlesomething　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　overmatched　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　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　up　setting　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。