idle ideas in 1905-第14节

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experience　of　life；　or　was　it　well　for　her　fame　that　nature　took　the
pen　so　soon　from　her　hand？　　Her　suppressed　vehemence　may　have　been
better　suited　to　those　tangled　Yorkshire　byways　than　to　the　more
open；　cultivated　fields　of　life。

There　is　not　much　similarity　between　the　two　books；　yet　when
recalling　Emily　Bronte　my　thoughts　always　run　on　to　Olive　Schreiner。
Here；　again；　was　a　young　girl　with　the　voice　of　a　strong　man。　　Olive
Schreiner；　more　fortunate；　has　lived；　but　I　doubt　if　she　will　ever
write　a　book　that　will　remind　us　of　her　first。　　〃The　Story　of　an
African　Farm〃　is　not　a　work　to　be　repeated。　　We　have　advanced　in
literature　of　late。　　I　can　well　remember　the　storm　of　indignation
with　which　the　〃African　Farm〃　was　received　by　Mrs。　Grundy　and　her
then　numerous；　but　now　happily　diminishing；　school。　　It　was　a　book
that　was　to　be　kept　from　the　hands　of　every　young　man　and　woman。　　But
the　hands　of　the　young　men　and　women　stretched　out　and　grasped　it；　to
their　help。　　It　is　a　curious　idea；　this　of　Mrs。　Grundy's；　that　the
young　man　and　woman　must　never　thinkthat　all　literature　that　does
anything　more　than　echo　the　conventions　must　be　hidden　away。

Then　there　are　times　when　I　love　to　gallop　through　history　on　Sir
Walter's　broomstick。　　At　other　hours　it　is　pleasant　to　sit　in
converse　with　wise　George　Eliot。　　From　her　garden　terrace　I　look　down
on　Loamshire　and　its　commonplace　people；　while　in　her　quiet；　deep
voice　she　tells　me　of　the　hidden　hearts　that　beat　and　throb　beneath
these　velveteen　jackets　and　lace　falls。

Who　can　help　loving　Thackeray；　wittiest；　gentlest　of　men；　in　spite　of
the　faint　suspicion　of　snobbishness　that　clings　to　him？　　There　is
something　pathetic　in　the　good　man's　horror　of　this　snobbishness；　to
which　he　himself　was　a　victim。　　May　it　not　have　been　an　affectation；
born　unconsciously　of　self…consciousness？　　His　heroes　and　heroines
must　needs　be　all　fine　folk；　fit　company　for　lady　and　gentlemen
readers。　　To　him　the　livery　was　too　often　the　man。　　Under　his　stuffed
calves　even　Jeames　de　la　Pluche　himself　stood　upon　the　legs　of　a　man；
but　Thackeray　could　never　see　deeper　than　the　silk　stockings。
Thackeray　lived　and　died　in　Clubland。　　One　feels　that　the　world　was
bounded　for　him　by　Temple　Bar　on　the　east　and　Park　Lane　on　the　west；
but　what　there　was　good　in　Clubland　he　showed　us；　and　for　the　sake　of
the　great　gentlemen　and　sweet　ladies　that　his　kindly　eyes　found　in
that　narrow　region；　not　too　overpeopled　with　great　gentlemen　and
sweet　women；　let　us　honour　him。

〃Tom　Jones；〃　〃Peregrine　Pickle；〃　and　〃Tristram　Shandy〃　are　books　a
man　is　the　better　for　reading；　if　he　read　them　wisely。　　They　teach
him　that　literature；　to　be　a　living　force；　must　deal　with　all　sides
of　life；　and　that　little　help　comes　to　us　from　that　silly　pretence　of
ours　that　we　are　perfect　in　all　things；　leading　perfect　lives；　that
only　the　villain　of　the　story　ever　deviates　from　the　path　of
rectitude。

This　is　a　point　that　needs　to　be　considered　by　both　the　makers　and
the　buyers　of　stories。　　If　literature　is　to　be　regarded　solely　as　the
amusement　of　an　idle　hour；　then　the　less　relationship　it　has　to　life
the　better。　　Looking　into　a　truthful　mirror　of　nature　we　are
compelled　to　think；　and　when　thought　comes　in　at　the　window　self…
satisfaction　goes　out　by　the　door。　　Should　a　novel　or　play　call　us　to
ponder　upon　the　problems　of　existence；　or　lure　us　from　the　dusty　high
road　of　the　world；　for　a　while；　into　the　pleasant　meadows　of
dreamland？　　If　only　the　latter；　then　let　our　heroes　and　our　heroines
be　not　what　men　and　women　are；　but　what　they　should　be。　　Let　Angelina
be　always　spotless　and　Edwin　always　true。　　Let　virtue　ever　triumph
over　villainy　in　the　last　chapter；　and　let　us　assume　that　the
marriage　service　answers　all　the　questions　of　the　Sphinx。

Very　pleasant　are　these　fairy　tales　where　the　prince　is　always　brave
and　handsome；　where　the　princess　is　always　the　best　and　most
beautiful　princess　that　ever　lived；　where　one　knows　the　wicked　people
at　a　glance　by　their　ugliness　and　ill…temper；　mistakes　being　thus
rendered　impossible；　where　the　good　fairies　are；　by　nature；　more
powerful　than　the　bad；　where　gloomy　paths　lead　ever　to　fair　palaces；
where　the　dragon　is　ever　vanquished；　and　where　well…behaved　husbands
and　wives　can　rely　upon　living　happily　ever　afterwards。　　〃The　world
is　too　much　with　us；　late　and　soon。〃　　It　is　wise　to　slip　away　from　it
at　times　to　fairyland。　　But；　alas；　we　cannot　live　in　fairyland；　and
knowledge　of　its　geography　is　of　little　help　to　us　on　our　return　to
the　rugged　country　of　reality。

Are　not　both　branches　of　literature　needful？　　By　all　means　let　us
dream；　on　midsummer　nights；　of　fond　lovers　led　through　devious　paths
to　happiness　by　Puck；　of　virtuous　dukesone　finds　such　in　fairyland；
of　fate　subdued　by　faith　and　gentleness。　　But　may　we　not　also；　in　our
more　serious　humours；　find　satisfaction　in　thinking　with　Hamlet　or
Coriolanus？　　May　not　both　Dickens　and　Zola　have　their　booths　in
Vanity　Fair？　　If　literature　is　to　be　a　help　to　us；　as　well　as　a
pastime；　it　must　deal　with　the　ugly　as　well　as　with　the　beautiful；　it
must　show　us　ourselves；　not　as　we　wish　to　appear；　but　as　we　know
ourselves　to　be。　　Man　has　been　described　as　a　animal　with　aspirations
reaching　up　to　Heaven　and　instincts　rootedelsewhere。　　Is　literature
to　flatter　him；　or　reveal　him　to　himself？

Of　living　writers　it　is　not　safe；　I　suppose；　to　speak　except；
perhaps；　of　those　who　have　been　with　us　so　long　that　we　have　come　to
forget　they　are　not　of　the　past。　　Has　justice　ever　been　done　to
Ouida's　undoubted　genius　by　our　shallow　school　of　criticism；　always
very　clever　in　discovering　faults　as　obvious　as　pimples　on　a　fine
face？　　Her　guardsmen　〃toy〃　with　their　food。　　Her　horses　win　the　Derby
three　years　running。　　Her　wicked　women　throw　guinea　peaches　from　the
windows　of　the　Star　and　Garter　into　the　Thames　at　Richmond。　　The
distance　being　about　three　hundred　and　fifty　yards；　it　is　a　good
throw。　　Well；　well；　books　are　not　made　worth　reading　by　the　absence
of　absurdities。　　Ouida　possesses　strength；　tenderness；　truth；
passion；　and　these　be　qualities　in　a　writer　capable　of　carrying　many
more　faults　than　Ouida　is　burdened　with。　　But　that　is　the　method　of
our　little　criticism。　　It　views　an　artist　as　Gulliver　saw　the
Brobdingnag　ladies。　　It　is　too　small　to　see　them　in　their　entirety：
a　mole　or　a　wart　absorbs　all　its　vision。

Why　was　not　George　Gissing　more　widely　read？　　If　faithfulness　to　life
were　the　key　to　literary　success；　Gissing's　sales　would　have　been
counted　by　the　million　instead　of　by　the　hundred。

Have　Mark　Twain's　literary　qualities；　apart　altogether　from　his
humour；　been　recognised　in　literary　circles　as　they　ought　to　have
been？　〃Huck　Finn〃　would　be　a　great　work　were　there　not　a　laugh　in　it
from　cover　to　cover。　　Among　the　Indians　and　some　other　savage　tribes
the　fact　that　a　member　of　the　community　has　lost　one　of　his　senses
makes　greatly　to　his　advantage；　he　is　then　regarded　as　a　superior
person。　　So　among　a　school　of　Anglo…Saxon　readers；　it　is　necessary　to
a　man；　if　he　would　gain　literary　credit；　that　he　should　lack　the
sense　of　humour。　　One　or　two　curious　modern　examples　occur　to　me　of
literary　success　secured　chiefly　by　this　failing。

All　these　authors　are　my　favourites；　but　such　catholic　taste　is　held
nowadays　to　be　no　taste。　　One　is　told　that　if　one　loves　Shakespeare；
one　must　of　necessity　hate　Ibsen；　that　one　cannot　appreciate　Wagner
and　tolerate　Beethoven；　that　if　we　admit　any　merit　in　Dore；　we　are
incapable　of　understanding　Whistler。　　How　can　I　say　which　is　my
favourite　novel？　　I　can　only　ask　myself　which　lives　clearest　in　my
memory；　which　is　the　book　I　run　to　more　often　than　to　another　in　that
pleasant　half　hour　before　the　dinner…bell；　when；　with　all　apologies
to　good　Mr。　Smiles；　it　is　useless　to　think　of　work。

I　find；　on　examination；　that　my　〃David　Copperfield〃　is　more
dilapidated　than　any　other　novel　upon　my　shelves。　　As　I　turn　its　dog…
eared　pages；　reading　the　familiar　headlines　〃Mr。　Micawber　in
difficulties；〃　〃Mr。　Micawber　in　prison；〃　〃I　fall　in　love　with　Dora；〃
〃Mr。　Barkis　goes　out　with　the　tide；〃　〃My　child　wife；〃　〃Traddles　in　a
nest　of　roses〃pages　of　my　own　life　recur　to　me；　so　many　of　my
sorrows；　so　many　of　my　joys　are　woven　in　my　mind　with　this　chapter　or
the　other。　　That　dayhow　well　I　remember　it　when　I　read　of　〃David's〃
wooing；　but　Dora's　death　I　was　careful　to　skip。　　Poor；　pretty　little
Mrs。　Copperfield　at　the　gate；　holding　up　her　baby　in　her　arms；　is
always　associated　in　my　memory　with　a　child's　cry；　long　listened　for。
I　found　the　book；　face　downwards　on　a　chair；　weeks　afterwards；　not
moved　from　where　I　had　hastily　laid　it。

Old　friends；　all　of　you；　how　many　times　have　I　not　slipped　away　from
my　worries　into　your　pleasant　company！　　Peggotty；　you　dear　soul；　the
sight　of　your　kind　eyes　is　so　good　to　me。　　Our　mutual　friend；　Mr。
Charles　Dickens；　is　prone；　we　know；　just　ever　so　slightly　to　gush。
Good　fellow　that　he　is；　he　can　see　no　flaw　in　those　he　loves；　but
you；　dear　lady；　if　you　will　permit　me　to　call　you　by　a　name　much
abused；　he　has　drawn　in　true　colours。　　I　know　you　well；　with　your　big
heart；　your　quick　temper