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第34章

memories and portraits-第34章

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five years old and could neither read nor write; when he heard a 

chapter of ROBINSON read aloud in a farm kitchen。  Up to that 

moment he had sat content; huddled in his ignorance; but he left 

that farm another man。  There were day…dreams; it appeared; divine 

day…dreams; written and printed and bound; and to be bought for 

money and enjoyed at pleasure。  Down he sat that day; painfully 

learned to read Welsh; and returned to borrow the book。  It had 

been lost; nor could he find another copy but one that was in 

English。  Down he sat once more; learned English; and at length; 

and with entire delight; read ROBINSON。  It is like the story of a 

love…chase。  If he had heard a letter from CLARISSA; would he have 

been fired with the same chivalrous ardour?  I wonder。  Yet 

CLARISSA has every quality that can be shown in prose; one alone 

excepted … pictorial or picture…making romance。  While ROBINSON 

depends; for the most part and with the overwhelming majority of 

its readers; on the charm of circumstance。



In the highest achievements of the art of words; the dramatic and 

the pictorial; the moral and romantic interest; rise and fall 

together by a common and organic law。  Situation is animated with 

passion; passion clothed upon with situation。  Neither exists for 

itself; but each inheres indissolubly with the other。  This is high 

art; and not only the highest art possible in words; but the 

highest art of all; since it combines the greatest mass and 

diversity of the elements of truth and pleasure。  Such are epics; 

and the few prose tales that have the epic weight。  But as from a 

school of works; aping the creative; incident and romance are 

ruthlessly discarded; so may character and drama be omitted or 

subordinated to romance。  There is one book; for example; more 

generally loved than Shakespeare; that captivates in childhood; and 

still delights in age … I mean the ARABIAN NIGHTS … where you shall 

look in vain for moral or for intellectual interest。  No human face 

or voice greets us among that wooden crowd of kings and genies; 

sorcerers and beggarmen。  Adventure; on the most naked terms; 

furnishes forth the entertainment and is found enough。  Dumas 

approaches perhaps nearest of any modern to these Arabian authors 

in the purely material charm of some of his romances。  The early 

part of MONTE CRISTO; down to the finding of the treasure; is a 

piece of perfect story…telling; the man never breathed who shared 

these moving incidents without a tremor; and yet Faria is a thing 

of packthread and Dantes little more than a name。  The sequel is 

one long…drawn error; gloomy; bloody; unnatural and dull; but as 

for these early chapters; I do not believe there is another volume 

extant where you can breathe the same unmingled atmosphere of 

romance。  It is very thin and light to be sure; as on a high 

mountain; but it is brisk and clear and sunny in proportion。  I saw 

the other day; with envy; an old and a very clever lady setting 

forth on a second or third voyage into MONTE CRISTO。  Here are 

stories which powerfully affect the reader; which can he reperused 

at any age; and where the characters are no more than puppets。  The 

bony fist of the showman visibly propels them; their springs are an 

open secret; their faces are of wood; their bellies filled with 

bran; and yet we thrillingly partake of their adventures。  And the 

point may be illustrated still further。  The last interview between 

Lucy and Richard Feveril is pure drama; more than that; it is the 

strongest scene; since Shakespeare; in the English tongue。  Their 

first meeting by the river; on the other hand; is pure romance; it 

has nothing to do with character; it might happen to any other boy 

or maiden; and be none the less delightful for the change。  And yet 

I think he would be a bold man who should choose between these 

passages。  Thus; in the same book; we may have two scenes; each 

capital in its order: in the one; human passion; deep calling unto 

deep; shall utter its genuine voice; in the second; according 

circumstances; like instruments in tune; shall build up a trivial 

but desirable incident; such as we love to prefigure for ourselves; 

and in the end; in spite of the critics; we may hesitate to give 

the preference to either。  The one may ask more genius … I do not 

say it does; but at least the other dwells as clearly in the 

memory。



True romantic art; again; makes a romance of all things。  It 

reaches into the highest abstraction of the ideal; it does not 

refuse the most pedestrian realism。  ROBINSON CRUSOE is as 

realistic as it is romantic; both qualities are pushed to an 

extreme; and neither suffers。  Nor does romance depend upon the 

material importance of the incidents。  To deal with strong and 

deadly elements; banditti; pirates; war and murder; is to conjure 

with great names; and; in the event of failure; to double the 

disgrace。  The arrival of Haydn and Consuelo at the Canon's villa 

is a very trifling incident; yet we may read a dozen boisterous 

stories from beginning to end; and not receive so fresh and 

stirring an impression of adventure。  It was the scene of Crusoe at 

the wreck; if I remember rightly; that so bewitched my blacksmith。  

Nor is the fact surprising。  Every single article the castaway 

recovers from the hulk is 〃a joy for ever〃 to the man who reads of 

them。  They are the things that should be found; and the bare 

enumeration stirs the blood。  I found a glimmer of the same 

interest the other day in a new book; THE SAILOR'S SWEETHEART; by 

Mr。 Clark Russell。  The whole business of the brig MORNING STAR is 

very rightly felt and spiritedly written; but the clothes; the 

books and the money satisfy the reader's mind like things to eat。  

We are dealing here with the old cut…and…dry; legitimate interest 

of treasure trove。  But even treasure trove can be made dull。  

There are few people who have not groaned under the plethora of 

goods that fell to the lot of the SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON; that 

dreary family。  They found article after article; creature after 

creature; from milk kine to pieces of ordnance; a whole 

consignment; but no informing taste had presided over the 

selection; there was no smack or relish in the invoice; and these 

riches left the fancy cold。  The box of goods in Verne's MYSTERIOUS 

ISLAND is another case in point: there was no gusto and no glamour 

about that; it might have come from a shop。  But the two hundred 

and seventy…eight Australian sovereigns on board the MORNING STAR 

fell upon me like a surprise that I had expected; whole vistas of 

secondary stories; besides the one in hand; radiated forth from 

that discovery; as they radiate from a striking particular in life; 

and I was made for the moment as happy as a reader has the right to 

be。



To come at all at the nature of this quality of romance; we must 

bear in mind the peculiarity of our attitude to any art。  No art 

produces illusion; in the theatre we never forget that we are in 

the theatre; and while we read a story; we sit wavering between two 

minds; now merely clapping our hands at the merit of the 

performance; now condescending to take an active part in fancy with 

the characters。  This last is the triumph of romantic story…

telling: when the reader consciously plays at being the hero; the 

scene is a good scene。  Now in character…studies the pleasure that 

we take is critical; we watch; we approve; we smile at 

incongruities; we are moved to sudden heats of sympathy with 

courage; suffering or virtue。  But the characters are still 

themselves; they are not us; the more clearly they are depicted; 

the more widely do they stand away from us; the more imperiously do 

they thrust us back into our place as a spectator。  I cannot 

identify myself with Rawdon Crawley or with Eugene de Rastignac; 

for I have scarce a hope or fear in common with them。  It is no

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