some reminiscences-第25章
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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 amongst 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
imaged phraseseven he has his place amongst kings; demagogues;
priests; charlatans; dukes; giraffes; Cabinet Ministers; Fabians;
bricklayers; apostles; ants; scientists; Kaffirs; soldiers;
sailors; elephants; lawyers; dandies; microbes and constellations
of a universe whose amazing spectacle is a moral end in itself。
Here I perceive (speaking without offence) 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 amongst 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; every
one 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 recognise 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 amongst 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 without 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 hair's…breadth 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