a personal record-第2章

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One's　literary　life　must　turn　frequently　for　sustenance　to



memories　and　seek　discourse　with　the　shades；　unless　one　has　made



up　one's　mind　to　write　only　in　order　to　reprove　mankind　for　what



it　is；　or　praise　it　for　what　it　is　not；　orgenerallyto　teach



it　how　to　behave。　　Being　neither　quarrelsome；　nor　a　flatterer；



nor　a　sage；　I　have　done　none　of　these　things；　and　I　am　prepared



to　put　up　serenely　with　the　insignificance　which　attaches　to



persons　who　are　not　meddlesome　in　some　way　or　other。　　But



resignation　is　not　indifference。　　I　would　not　like　to　be　left



standing　as　a　mere　spectator　on　the　bank　of　the　great　stream



carrying　onward　so　many　lives。　　I　would　fain　claim　for　myself　the



faculty　of　so　much　insight　as　can　be　expressed　in　a　voice　of



sympathy　and　compassion。







It　seems　to　me　that　in　one；　at　least；　authoritative　quarter　of



criticism　I　am　suspected　of　a　certain　unemotional；　grim



acceptance　of　factsof　what　the　French　would　call　secheresse　du



coeur。　　Fifteen　years　of　unbroken　silence　before　praise　or　blame



testify　sufficiently　to　my　respect　for　criticism；　that　fine



flower　of　personal　expression　in　the　garden　of　letters。　But　this



is　more　of　a　personal　matter；　reaching　the　man　behind　the　work；



and　therefore　it　may　be　alluded　to　in　a　volume　which　is　a



personal　note　in　the　margin　of　the　public　page。　　Not　that　I　feel



hurt　in　the　least。　　The　chargeif　it　amounted　to　a　charge　at



allwas　made　in　the　most　considerate　terms；　in　a　tone　of　regret。







My　answer　is　that　if　it　be　true　that　every　novel　contains　an



element　of　autobiographyand　this　can　hardly　be　denied；　since



the　creator　can　only　express　himself　in　his　creationthen　there



are　some　of　us　to　whom　an　open　display　of　sentiment　is　repugnant。







I　would　not　unduly　praise　the　virtue　of　restraint。　　It　is　often



merely　temperamental。　　But　it　is　not　always　a　sign　of　coldness。　



It　may　be　pride。　　There　can　be　nothing　more　humiliating　than　to



see　the　shaft　of　one's　emotion　miss　the　mark　of　either　laughter



or　tears。　　Nothing　more　humiliating！　　And　this　for　the　reason



that　should　the　mark　be　missed；　should　the　open　display　of



emotion　fail　to　move；　then　it　must　perish　unavoidably　in　disgust



or　contempt。　　No　artist　can　be　reproached　for　shrinking　from　a



risk　which　only　fools　run　to　meet　and　only　genius　dare　confront



with　impunity。　　In　a　task　which　mainly　consists　in　laying　one's



soul　more　or　less　bare　to　the　world；　a　regard　for　decency；　even



at　the　cost　of　success；　is　but　the　regard　for　one's　own　dignity



which　is　inseparably　united　with　the　dignity　of　one's　work。







And　thenit　is　very　difficult　to　be　wholly　joyous　or　wholly　sad



on　this　earth。　　The　comic；　when　it　is　human；　soon　takes　upon



itself　a　face　of　pain；　and　some　of　our　griefs　（some　only；　not



all；　for　it　is　the　capacity　for　suffering　which　makes　man　August



in　the　eyes　of　men）　have　their　source　in　weaknesses　which　must　be



recognized　with　smiling　com　passion　as　the　common　inheritance　of



us　all。　　Joy　and　sorrow　in　this　world　pass　into　each　other；



mingling　their　forms　and　their　murmurs　in　the　twilight　of　life　as



mysterious　as　an　over　shadowed　ocean；　while　the　dazzling



brightness　of　supreme　hopes　lies　far　off；　fascinating　and　still；



on　the　distant　edge　of　the　horizon。







Yes！　　I；　too；　would　like　to　hold　the　magic　wand　giving　that



command　over　laughter　and　tears　which　is　declared　to　be　the



highest　achievement　of　imaginative　literature。　　Only；　to　be　a



great　magician　one　must　surrender　oneself　to　occult　and



irresponsible　powers；　either　outside　or　within　one's　breast。　　We



have　all　heard　of　simple　men　selling　their　souls　for　love　or



power　to　some　grotesque　devil。　　The　most　ordinary　intelligence



can　perceive　without　much　reflection　that　anything　of　the　sort　is



bound　to　be　a　fool's　bargain。　　I　don't　lay　claim　to　particular



wisdom　because　of　my　dislike　and　distrust　of　such　transactions。



It　may　be　my　sea　training　acting　upon　a　natural　disposition　to



keep　good　hold　on　the　one　thing　really　mine；　but　the　fact　is　that



I　have　a　positive　horror　of　losing　even　for　one　moving　moment



that　full　possession　of　my　self　which　is　the　first　condition　of



good　service。　　And　I　have　carried　my　notion　of　good　service　from



my　earlier　into　my　later　existence。　　I；　who　have　never　sought　in



the　written　word　anything　else　but　a　form　of　the　BeautifulI



have　carried　over　that　article　of　creed　from　the　decks　of　ships



to　the　more　circumscribed　space　of　my　desk；　and　by　that　act；　I



suppose；　I　have　become　permanently　imperfect　in　the　eyes　of　the



ineffable　company　of　pure　esthetes。







As　in　political　so　in　literary　action　a　man　wins　friends　for



himself　mostly　by　the　passion　of　his　prejudices　and　by　the



consistent　narrowness　of　his　outlook。　　But　I　have　never　been　able



to　love　what　was　not　lovable　or　hate　what　was　not　hateful　out　of



deference　for　some　general　principle。　　Whether　there　be　any



courage　in　making　this　admission　I　know　not。　　After　the　middle



turn　of　life's　way　we　consider　dangers　and　joys　with　a　tranquil



mind。　　So　I　proceed　in　peace　to　declare　that　I　have　always



suspected　in　the　effort　to　bring　into　play　the　extremities　of



emotions　the　debasing　touch　of　insincerity。　　In　order　to　move



others　deeply　we　must　deliberately　allow　ourselves　to　be　carried



away　beyond　the　bounds　of　our　normal　sensibilityinnocently



enough；　perhaps；　and　of　necessity；　like　an　actor　who　raises　his



voice　on　the　stage　above　the　pitch　of　natural　conversationbut



still　we　have　to　do　that。　　And　surely　this　is　no　great　sin。　But



the　danger　lies　in　the　writer　becoming　the　victim　of　his　own



exaggeration；　losing　the　exact　notion　of　sincerity；　and　in　the



end　coming　to　despise　truth　itself　as　something　too　cold；　too



blunt　for　his　purposeas；　in　fact；　not　good　enough　for　his



insistent　emotion。　　From　laughter　and　tears　the　descent　is　easy



to　snivelling　and　giggles。







These　may　seem　selfish　considerations；　but　you　can't；　in　sound



morals；　condemn　a　man　for　taking　care　of　his　own　integrity。　　It



is　his　clear　duty。　　And　least　of　all　can　you　condemn　an　artist



pursuing；　however　humbly　and　imperfectly；　a　creative　aim。　　In



that　interior　world　where　his　thought　and　his　emotions　go　seeking



for　the　experience　of　imagined　adventures；　there　are　no



policemen；　no　law；　no　pressure　of　circumstance　or　dread　of



opinion　to　keep　him　within　bounds。　　Who　then　is　going　to　say　Nay



to　his　temptations　if　not　his　conscience？







And　besidesthis；　remember；　is　the　place　and　the　moment　of



perfectly　open　talkI　think　that　all　ambitions　are　lawful　except



those　which　climb　upward　on　the　miseries　or　credulities　of



mankind。　　All　intellectual　and　artistic　ambitions　are



permissible；　up　to　and　even　beyond　the　limit　of　prudent　sanity。



They　can　hurt　no　one。　　If　they　are　mad；　then　so　much　the　worse



for　the　artist。　　Indeed；　as　virtue　is　said　to　be；　such　ambitions



are　their　own　reward。　　Is　it　such　a　very　mad　presumption　to



believe　in　the　sovereign　power　of　one's　art；　to　try　for　other



means；　for　other　ways　of　affirming　this　belief　in　the　deeper



appeal　of　one's　work？　　To　try　to　go　deeper　is　not　to　be



insensible。　　A　historian　of　hearts　is　not　a　historian　of



emotions；　yet　he　penetrates　further；　restrained　as　he　may　be；



since　his　aim　is　to　reach　the　very　fount　of　laughter　and　tears。　



The　sight　of　human　affairs　deserves　admiration　and　pity。　　They



are　worthy　of　respect；　too。　　And　he　is　not　insensible　who　pays



them　the　undemonstrative　tribute　of　a　sigh　which　is　not　a　sob；



and　of　a　smile　which　is　not　a　grin。　　Resi