耳边名著 | 中英字幕

On readingover what I have written of the Stricklands, I am conscious that they must seemshadowy. I have been able to invest them with none of those characteristicswhich make the persons of a book exist with a real life of their own; and,wondering if the fault is mine, I rack my brains to remember idiosyncrasieswhich might lend them vividness. I feel that by dwelling on some trick ofspeech or some queer habit I should be able to give them a significancepeculiar to themselves. As they stand they are like the figures in an oldtapestry; they do not separate themselves from the background, and at adistance seem to lose their pattern, so that you have little but a pleasingpiece of colour. My only excuse is that the impression they made on me was noother. There was just that shadowiness about them which you may find in peoplewhose lives are part of the social organism, so that they exist in it and by itonly. They are like cells in the body, essential, but, so long as they remainhealthy, engulfed in the momentous whole. The Stricklands were an average familyin the middle class. A pleasant, hospitable woman, with a harmless craze forthe small lions of literary society; a rather dull man, doing his duty in thatstate of life in which a merciful Providence had placed him; two nice-looking,healthy children. Nothing could be more ordinary. I do not know that there wasanything about them to excite the attention of the curious.

Miss Waterford certainlyfelt that she could not do her subject justice on the curb of Jermyn Street,and so, like an artist, flung the bare fact at me and declared that she knew nodetails. I could not do her the injustice of supposing that so trifling acircumstance would have prevented her from giving them, but she was obstinate.

"I tell you I knownothing, " she said, in reply to my agitated questions, and then, with anairy shrug of the shoulders: "I believe that a young person in a citytea-shop has left her situation. "

She flashed a smile at me,and, protesting an engagement with her dentist, jauntily walked on. I was moreinterested than distressed. In those days my experience of life at first handwas small, and it excited me to come upon an incident among people I knew ofthe same sort as /ai/ had read in books. I confess that time has now accustomed meto incidents of this character among my acquaintance. But I was a littleshocked. Strickland was certainly forty, and I thought it disgusting that a manof his age should concern himself with affairs of the heart. With thesuperciliousness of extreme youth, I put thirty-five as the utmost limit atwhich a man might fall in love without making a fool of himself.

And this news was slightlydisconcerting to me personally, because I had written from the country to Mrs.Strickland, announcing my return, and had added that unless I heard from her tothe contrary, I would come on a certain day to drink a dish of tea with her.This was the very day, and I had received no word from Mrs. Strickland. Did shewant to see me or did she not? It was likely enough that in the agitation ofthe moment my note had escaped her memory. Perhaps I should be wiser not to go.On the other hand, she might wish to keep the affair quiet, and it might behighly indiscreet on my part to give any sign that this strange news hadreached me. I was torn between the fear of hurting a nice woman's feelings andthe fear of being in the way. I felt she must be suffering, and I did not wantto see a pain which I could not help; but in my heart was a desire, that I felta little ashamed of, to see how she was taking it. I did not know what to do.

Finally it occurred to methat I would call as though nothing had happened, and send a message in by themaid asking Mrs. Strickland if it was convenient for her to see me. This wouldgive her the opportunity to send me away. But I was overwhelmed withembarrassment when I said to the maid the phrase I had prepared, and while Iwaited for the answer in a dark passage I had to call up all my strength ofmind not to bolt. The maid came back. Her manner suggested to my excited fancya complete knowledge of the domestic calamity.

"Will you come thisway, sir?" she said.

I followed her into thedrawing-room. The blinds were partly drawn to darken the room, and Mrs.Strickland was sitting with her back to the light. Her brother-in-law, ColonelMacAndrew, stood in front of the fireplace, warming his back at an unlit fire.To myself my entrance seemed excessively awkward. I imagined that my arrivalhad taken them by surprise, and Mrs. Strickland had let me come in only becauseshe had forgotten to put me off. I fancied that the Colonel resented theinterruption.

"I wasn't quite sure ifyou expected me, " I said, trying to seem unconcerned.

"Of course I did. Annewill bring the tea in a minute. "

Even in the darkened room, Icould not help seeing that Mrs. Strickland's face was all swollen with tears.Her skin, never very good, was earthy.

"You remember mybrother-in-law, don't you? You met at dinner, just before the holidays. "

We shook hands. I felt soshy that I could think of nothing to say, but Mrs. Strickland came to myrescue. She asked me what I had been doing with myself during the summer, andwith this help I managed to make some conversation till tea was brought in. TheColonel asked for a whisky-and-soda.

"You'd better have onetoo, Amy, " he said.

"No; I prefer tea."

回过头来读了读我写的思特里克兰德夫妇的故事，我感到这两个人被我写得太没有血肉了。要使书中人物真实动人，需要把他们的性格特征写出来，而我却没有赋予他们任何特色。我想知道这是不是我的过错，我苦思苦想，希望回忆起一些能使他们性格鲜明的特征。我觉得如果我能够详细写出他们说话的某些习惯或者他们的一些离奇的举止，或许就能够突出他们的特点了。象我现在这样写，这两个人好象是一幅古旧挂毯上的两个人形，同背景很难分辨出来；如果从远处看，那就连轮廓也辨别不出，只剩下一团花花绿绿的颜色了。我只有一种辩解：他们给我的就是这样一个印象。有些人的生活只是社会有机体的一部分，他们只能生活在这个有机体内，也只能依靠它而生活，这种人总是给人以虚幻的感觉；思特里克兰德夫妇正是这样的人。他们有如体内的细胞，是身体所决不能缺少的，但是只要他们健康存在一天，就被吞没在一个重大的整体里。思特里克兰德这家人是普普通通的一个中产阶级家庭。一个和蔼可亲、殷勤好客的妻子，有着喜欢结交文学界小名人的无害的癖好；一个并不很聪明的丈夫，在慈悲的上帝安排给他的那种生活中兢兢业业、恪尽职责：两个漂亮、健康的孩子。没有什么比这一家人更为平凡的了。我不知道这一家人有什么能够引起好奇的人注意的。

当我想到后来发生的种种事情时，不禁自问：是不是当初我过于迟钝，没有看出查理斯·思特里克兰德身上与常人不同的地方啊？也许是这样的。从那个时候起到现在已经过了这么多年，在此期间我对人情世故知道了不少东西，但是即使当初我认识他们夫妇时就已经有了今天的阅历，我也不认为我对他们的判断就有所不同。只不过有一点会和当年不一样：在我了解到人是多么玄妙莫测之后，我今天决不会象那年初秋我刚刚回到伦敦时那样，在听到那个消息以后会那样大吃一惊了。

回到伦敦还不到二十四小时，我就在杰尔敏大街上遇见了柔斯·瓦特尔芙德。

“看你今天这么喜气洋洋的样子，”我说，“有什么开心的事啊？”

她笑了起来，眼睛流露出一道我早已熟悉的幸灾乐祸的闪光。这意味着她又听到她的某个朋友的一件丑闻，这位女作家的直觉已经处于极度警觉状态。

“你看见过查理斯·思特里克兰德，是不是？”

不仅她的面孔，就连她的全身都变得非常紧张。我点了点头。我怀疑这个倒霉鬼是不是在证券交易所蚀了老本儿，要不就是让公共汽车轧伤了。

“你说，是不是太可怕了？他把他老婆扔了，跑掉了。”

瓦特尔芙德小姐肯定觉得，在杰尔敏大街马路边上讲这个故事太辱没这样一个好题目，所以她只是象个艺术家似地把主题抛出来，宣称她并不知道细节。而我却不能埋没她的口才，认为根本无需介意的环境竟会妨碍她给我讲述故事。但是她还是执拗地不肯讲。

“我告诉你我什么也不知道，”她回答我激动的问题说，接着，很俏皮地耸了耸肩膀，又加了一句：“我相信伦敦哪家茶点店准有一位年轻姑娘把活儿辞了。”

她朝我笑了一下，道歉说同牙医生约定了时间，便神气十足地扬长而去。这个消息与其说叫我难过，不如说使我很感兴趣。在那些日子里我的见闻还很少是亲身经历的第一手材料，因此在我碰到这样一件我在书本里阅读到的故事时，觉得非常兴奋。我承认，现在时间和阅历已经使我习惯于在我相识的人中遇到这类事情了。但是我当时还有一种惊骇的感觉。思特里克兰德那一年一定已经有四十岁了，我认为象他这样年纪的人再牵扯到这种爱情瓜葛中未免令人作呕。在我当时年幼无知，睥睨一切的目光中，一个人陷入爱情而又不使自己成为笑柄，三十五岁是最大的年限。

除此以外，这个新闻也给我个人添了点儿小麻烦。原来我在乡下就给思特里克兰德太太写了信，通知她我回伦敦的日期，并且在信中说好如果她不回信另作安排的话，我将在某月某日到她家去吃茶。我遇见瓦特尔芙德小姐正是在这一天，可是思特里克兰德太太并没有给我捎什么信来。她到底想不想见我呢？非常可能，她在心绪烦乱中把我信里订的约会忘到脑后了。也许我应该有自知之明，不去打扰她。可是另一方面，她也可能想把这件事瞒着我，如果我叫她猜出来自己已经听到这件奇怪的消息，那就太不慎重了。我既怕伤害这位夫人的感情，又怕去她家作客惹她心烦，心里非常矛盾。我知道她这时一定痛苦不堪，我不愿意看到别人受苦，自己无力替她分忧；但另一方面我又很想看一看思特里克兰德太太对这件事有何反应，尽管我对这个想法自己也觉得不好意思。我真不知道该怎么办好了。

最后我想了个主意：我应该象什么事也没发生那样到她家去，先叫使女进去问一声，思特里克兰德太太方便不方便会客。如果她不想见我，就可以把我打发走了。尽管如此，在我对使女讲起我事前准备的一套话时，我还是窘得要命。当我在幽暗的过道里等着回话的当儿，我不得不鼓起全部勇气才没有中途溜掉。使女从里面走出来。也可能是我过于激动，胡乱猜想，我觉得从那使女的神情看，好象她已经完全知道这家人遭遇的不幸了。

“请您跟我来，先生，”她说。

我跟在她后面走进客厅。为了使室内光线暗淡，窗帘没有完全拉开。思特里克兰德太太的姐夫麦克安德鲁上校正站在壁炉前面，在没有燃旺的火炉前边烤自己的脊背。我觉得我闯进来是一件极其尴尬的事。我猜想我到这里来一定很出他们意料之外，思特里克兰德太太只是忘记同我另外约会日子才不得不让我进来。我还想，上校一定为我打扰了他们非常生气。

“我不太清楚，你是不是等着我来，”我说，故意装作一副若无其事的样子。

“当然我在等着你。安妮马上就把茶拿来。”

尽管屋子里光线很暗，我也看出来思特里克兰德太太的眼睛已经哭肿了。她的面色本来就不太好，现在更是变成土灰色了。

“你还记得我的姐夫吧？度假以前，你在这里吃饭的那天和他见过面。”

我们握了握手。我感到忐忑不安，想不出一句好说的话来。但是思特里克兰德太太解救了我；她问起我怎样消夏的事。有她提了这个头，我多少也找到些话说，直捱到使女端上茶点来。上校要了一杯苏打威士忌。

“你最好也喝一杯，阿美，”他说。

“不，我还是喝茶吧。”

The seasonwas drawing to its dusty end, and everyone I knew was arranging to go away.Mrs. Strickland was taking her family to the coast of Norfolk, so that thechildren might have the sea and her husband golf. We said good-bye to oneanother, and arranged to meet in the autumn. But on my last day in town, comingout of the Stores, I met her with her son and daughter; like myself, she hadbeen making her final purchases before leaving London, and we were both hot andtired. I proposed that we should all go and eat ices in the park.

I think Mrs.Strickland was glad to show me her children, and she accepted my invitationwith alacrity. They were even more attractive than their photographs hadsuggested, and she was right to be proud of them. I was young enough for themnot to feel shy, and they chattered merrily about one thing and another. Theywere extraordinarily nice, healthy young children. It was very agreeable underthe trees.

That must bethe story of innumerable couples, and the pattern of life it offers has ahomely grace. It reminds you of a placid rivulet, meandering smoothly throughgreen pastures and shaded by pleasant trees, till at last it falls into thevasty sea; but the sea is so calm, so silent, so indifferent, that you aretroubled suddenly by a vague uneasiness. Perhaps it is only by a kink in mynature, strong in me even in those days, that I felt in such an existence, theshare of the great majority, something amiss. I recognised its social values, Isaw its ordered happiness, but a fever in my blood asked for a wilder course.There seemed to me something alarming in such easy delights. In my heart was adesire to live more dangerously. I was not unprepared for jagged rocks andtreacherous shoals if I could only have change -- change and the excitement ofthe unforeseen.

我猜想思特里克兰德太太很高兴让我看到她的两个孩子，她一点儿也没有犹豫就接受了我的邀请。孩子们比照片上看到的更招人喜爱，她为他们感到骄傲是很有道理的。我的年纪也很轻，所以他们在我面前一点也不拘束，只顾高高兴兴地谈他们自己的事。这两个孩子都十分漂亮，健康活泼。歇息在树荫下，大家都感到非常愉快。

一个钟头以后，这一家挤上一辆马车回家去了，我也一个人懒散地往俱乐部踱去。我也许感到有一点寂寞，回想我刚才瞥见的这种幸福家庭生活，心里不无艳羡之感。这一家人感情似乎非常融洽。他们说一些外人无从理解的小笑话，笑得要命。如果纯粹从善于辞令这一角度衡量一个人的智慧，也许查理斯·思特里克兰德算不得聪明，但是在他自己的那个环境里，他的智慧还是绰绰有余的，这不仅是事业成功的敲门砖，而且是生活幸福的保障。思特里克兰德太太是一个招人喜爱的女人，她很爱她的丈夫。我想象着这一对夫妻的生活，不受任何灾殃祸变的干扰，诚实、体面，两个孩子更是规矩可爱，肯定会继承和发扬这一家人的地位和传统。在不知不觉间，他们俩的年纪越来越老，儿女却逐渐长大成人，到了一定的年龄，就会结婚成家——一个已经出息成美丽的姑娘，将来还会生育活泼健康的孩子；另一个则是仪表堂堂的男子汉，显然会成为一名军人。最后这一对夫妻告老引退，受到子孙敬爱，过着富足、体面的晚年。他们幸福的一生并未虚度，直到年寿已经很高，才告别了人世。

这一定是世间无数对夫妻的故事。这种生活模式给人以安详亲切之感。它使人想到一条平静的小河，蜿蜒流过绿茸茸的牧场，与郁郁的树荫交相掩映，直到最后泻入烟波浩渺的大海中。但是大海却总是那么平静，总是沉默无言、声色不动，你会突然感到一种莫名的不安。也许这只是我自己的一种怪想法（就是在那些日子这种想法也常在我心头作祟），我总觉得大多数人这样度过一生好象欠缺一点什么。我承认这种生活的社会价值，我也看到了它的井然有序的幸福，但是我的血液里却有一种强烈的愿望，渴望一种更狂放不羁的旅途。这种安详宁静的快乐好象有一种叫我惊惧不安的东西。我的心渴望一种更加惊险的生活。只要在我的生活中能有变迁 ——变迁和无法预见的刺激，我是准备踏上怪石嶙峋的山崖，奔赴暗礁满布的海滩的。

But when at last I met Charles Strickland, it was under circumstances which allowed me to do no more than just make his acquaintance. One morning Mrs. Strickland sent me round a note to say that she was giving a dinner-party that evening, and one of her guests had failed her. She asked me to stop the gap. She wrote:
"It's only decent to warn you that you will be bored to extinction. It was a thoroughly dull party from the beginning, but if you will come I shall be uncommonly grateful. And you and I can have a little chat by ourselves. "
It was only neighbourly to accept.
When Mrs. Strickland introduced me to her husband, he gave me a rather indifferent hand to shake. Turning to him gaily, she attempted a small jest.
"I asked him to show him that I really had a husband. I think he was beginning to doubt it. "

Strickland gave the polite little laugh with which people acknowledge a facetiousness in which they see nothing funny, but did not speak. New arrivals claimed my host's attention, and I was left to myself. When at last we were all assembled, waiting for dinner to be announced, I reflected, while I chatted with the woman I had been asked to "take in, " that civilised man practises a strange ingenuity in wasting on tedious exercises the brief span of his life. It was the kind of party which makes you wonder why the hostess has troubled to bid her guests, and why the guests have troubled to come. There were ten people. They met with indifference, and would part with relief. It was, of course, a purely social function. The Stricklands "owed" dinners to a number of persons, whom they took no interest in, and so had asked them; these persons had accepted. Why? To avoid the tedium of dining tete-a-tete, to give their servants a rest, because there was no reason to refuse, because they were "owed" a dinner.

The dining-room was inconveniently crowded. There was a K. C. and his wife, a Government official and his wife, Mrs. Strickland's sister and her husband, Colonel MacAndrew, and the wife of a Member of Parliament. It was because the Member of Parliament found that he could not leave the House that I had been invited. The respectability of the party was portentous. The women were too nice to be well dressed, and too sure of their position to be amusing. The men were solid. There was about all of them an air of well-satisfied prosperity.
Everyone talked a little louder than natural in an instinctive desire to make the party go, and there was a great deal of noise in the room. But there was no general conversation. Each one talked to his neighbour; to his neighbour on the right during the soup, fish, and entree; to his neighbour on the left during the roast, sweet, and savoury. They talked of the political situation and of golf, of their children and the latest play, of the pictures at the Royal Academy, of the weather and their plans for the holidays. 

There was never a pause, and the noise grew louder. Mrs. Strickland might congratulate herself that her party was a success. Her husband played his part with decorum. Perhaps he did not talk very much, and I fancied there was towards the end a look of fatigue in the faces of the women on either side of him. They were finding him heavy. Once or twice Mrs. Strickland's eyes rested on him somewhat anxiously.
At last she rose and shepherded the ladies out of one room. Strickland shut the door behind her, and, moving to the other end of the table, took his place between the K. C. and the Government official. He passed round the port again and handed us cigars. The K. C. remarked on the excellence of the wine, and Strickland told us where he got it. We began to chat about vintages and tobacco. The K. C. told us of a case he was engaged in, and the Colonel talked about polo. I had nothing to say and so sat silent, trying politely to show interest in the conversation; and because I thought no one was in the least concerned with me, examined Strickland at my ease. He was bigger than I expected: I do not know why I had imagined him slender and of insignificant appearance; in point of fact he was broad and heavy, with large hands and feet, and he wore his evening clothes clumsily. He gave you somewhat the idea of a coachman dressed up for the occasion.

He was a man of forty, not good-looking, and yet not ugly, for his features were rather good; but they were all a little larger than life-size, and the effect was ungainly. He was clean shaven, and his large face looked uncomfortably naked. His hair was reddish, cut very short, and his eyes were small, blue or grey. He looked commonplace. I no longer wondered that Mrs. Strickland felt a certain embarrassment about him; he was scarcely a credit to a woman who wanted to make herself a position in the world of art and letters. It was obvious that he had no social gifts, but these a man can do without; he had no eccentricity even, to take him out of the common run; he was just a good, dull, honest, plain man. One would admire his excellent qualities, but avoid his company. He was null. He was probably a worthy member of society, a good husband and father, an honest broker; but there was no reason to waste one's time over him.
但是最后我同查理斯·思特里克兰德见面，并不是在思特里克兰德太太说的那种情况下。她请我吃饭的那天晚上，除了她丈夫以外，我还结识了另外几个人。这天早上，思特里克兰德太太派人给我送来一张条子，告诉我她当天晚上要请客，有一个客人临时有事不能出席。她请我填补这个空缺。条子是这么写的：
我要预先声明，你将会厌烦得要命。从一开始我就知道这是一次枯燥乏味的宴客。但是如果你能来的话，我是非常感激的。咱们两个人总还可以谈一谈。
我不能不帮她这个忙；我接受了她的邀请。
当思特里克兰德太太把我介绍给她丈夫的时候，他不冷不热地同我握了握手。思特里克兰德太太的情绪很高，转身对他说了一句开玩笑的话。
“我请他来是要叫他看看我真的是有丈夫的。我想他已经开始怀疑了。”

思特里克兰德很有礼貌地笑了笑，就象那些承认你说了一个笑话而又不觉得有什么可笑的人一样，他并没有说什么。又来了别的客人，需要主人去周旋，我被丢在一边。当最后客人都已到齐，只等着宣布开饭的时候，我一边和一位叫我“陪同”的女客随便闲谈，一边思忖：文明社会这样消磨自己的心智，把短促的生命浪费在无聊的应酬上实在令人莫解。拿这一天的宴会来说，你不能不感到奇怪为什么女主人要请这些客人来，而为什么这些客人也会不嫌麻烦，接受邀请。当天一共有十位宾客。这些人见面时冷冷淡淡，分手时更有一种如释重负的感觉。当然了，这只是完成一次社交义务。思特里克兰德夫妇在人家吃过饭，“欠下”许多人情，对这些人他们本来是丝毫不感兴趣的。但是他们还是不得不回请这些人，而这些人也都应邀而来了。为什么这样做？是为了避免吃饭时总是夫妻对坐的厌烦，为了让仆人休息半天，还是因为没有理由谢绝，因为该着吃别人一顿饭？谁也说不清。

餐厅非常拥挤，让人感到很不舒服。这些人中有一位皇家法律顾问和夫人，一位政府官员和夫人，思特里克兰德太太的姐姐和姐夫麦克安德鲁上校，还有一位议员的妻子。正是因为议员发现自己不能离开议院我才临时被请来补缺。这些客人的身份都非常高贵。女太太们因为知道自己的气派，所以并不太讲究衣着，而且因为知道自己的地位，也不想去讨人高兴。男人们个个雍容华贵。总之，所有这里的人都带着一种殷实富足、踌躇满志的神色。
每个人都想叫宴会热闹一些，所以谈话的嗓门都比平常高了许多，屋子里一片喧哗。但是从来没有大家共同谈一件事的时候，每个人都在同他的邻座谈话，吃汤、鱼和小菜的当儿同右边的人谈，吃烤肉、甜食和开胃小吃的当儿同左边的人谈。他们谈政治形势，谈高尔夫球，谈孩子和新上演的戏，谈皇家艺术学院展出的绘画，谈天气，谈度假的计划。

谈话一刻也没有中断过，声音也越来越响。思特里克兰德太太的宴会非常成功，她可以感到庆幸。她的丈夫举止非常得体。也许他没有谈很多话，我觉得饭快吃完的时候，坐在他两边的女客脸容都有些疲惫。她们肯定认为很难同他谈什么。有一两次思特里克兰德太太的目光带着些焦虑地落在他身上。
最后，她站起来，带着一群女客离开屋子。在她们走出去以后，思特里克兰德把门关上，走到桌子的另一头，在皇家法律顾问和那位政府官员中间坐下来。他又一次把红葡萄酒传过来，给客人递雪茄。皇家法律顾问称赞酒很好，思特里克兰德告诉我们他是从什么地方买来的。我们开始谈论起酿酒同烟草来。皇家法律顾问给大家说了他正在审理的一个案件，上校谈起打马球的事。我没有什么事好说，所以只是坐在那里，装作很有礼貌地津津有味地听着别人谈话的样子。因为我知道这些人谁都和我无关，所以就从从容容地仔细打量起思特里克兰德来。他比我想象中的要高大一些；我不知道为什么我以前会认为他比较纤弱，貌不出众。实际上他生得魁梧壮实，大手大脚，晚礼服穿在身上有些笨拙，给人的印象多少同一个装扮起来参加宴会的马车夫差不多。

他年纪约四十岁，相貌谈不上漂亮，但也不难看，因为他的五官都很端正，只不过都比一般人大了一号，所以显得有些粗笨。他的胡须刮得很干净，一张大脸光秃秃的让人看着很不舒服。他的头发颜色发红，剪得很短，眼睛比较小，是蓝色或者灰色的。他的相貌很平凡。我不再奇怪为什么思特里克兰德太太谈起他来总是有些不好意思了；对于一个想在文学艺术界取得一个位置的女人来说，他是很难给她增加光彩的。很清楚，他一点儿也没有社交的本领，但这也不一定人人都要有的。他甚至没有什么奇行怪癖，使他免于平凡庸俗之嫌。他只不过是一个忠厚老实、索然无味的普通人。一个人可以钦佩他的为人，却不愿意同他待在一起。他是一个毫不引人注意的人。他可能是一个令人起敬的社会成员，一个诚实的经纪人，一个恪尽职责的丈夫和父亲，但是在他身上你没有任何必要浪费时间。

During thesummer I met Mrs. Strickland not infrequently. I went now and then to pleasantlittle luncheons at her flat, and to rather more formidable tea-parties. Wetook a fancy to one another. I was very young, and perhaps she liked the ideaof guiding my virgin steps on the hard road of letters; while for me it waspleasant to have someone I could go to with my small troubles, certain of anattentive ear and reasonable counsel. Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy.It is a charming faculty, but one often abused by those who are conscious ofits possession: for there is something ghoulish in the avidity with which theywill pounce upon the misfortune of their friends so that they may exercisetheir dexterity. It gushes forth like an oil-well, and the sympathetic pour outtheir sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes embarrassing to their victims.There are bosoms on which so many tears have been shed that I cannot bedew themwith mine. Mrs. Strickland used her advantage with tact. You felt that youobliged her by accepting her sympathy. When, in the enthusiasm of my youth, Iremarked on this to Rose Waterford, she said:

"Milk isvery nice, especially with a drop of brandy in it, but the domestic cow is onlytoo glad to be rid of it. A swollen udder is very uncomfortable. "

Rose Waterfordhad a blistering tongue. No one could say such bitter things; on the otherhand, no one could do more charming ones.

There wasanother thing I liked in Mrs. Strickland. She managed her surroundings withelegance. Her flat was always neat and cheerful, gay with flowers, and thechintzes in the drawing-room, notwithstanding their severe design, were brightand pretty. The meals in the artistic little dining-room were pleasant; thetable looked nice, the two maids were trim and comely; the food was wellcooked. It was impossible not to see that Mrs. Strickland was an excellenthousekeeper. And you felt sure that she was an admirable mother. There werephotographs in the drawing-room of her son and daughter. The son -- his namewas Robert -- was a boy of sixteen at Rugby; and you saw him in flannels and acricket cap, and again in a tail-coat and a stand-up collar. He had hismother's candid brow and fine, reflective eyes. He looked clean, healthy, andnormal.

"I don'tknow that he's very clever, " she said one day, when I was looking at thephotograph, "but I know he's good. He has a charming character. "

The daughterwas fourteen. Her hair, thick and dark like her mother's, fell over hershoulders in fine profusion, and she had the same kindly expression and sedate,untroubled eyes.

"They'reboth of them the image of you, " I said.

"Yes; Ithink they are more like me than their father. "

"Why haveyou never let me meet him?" I asked.

"Would youlike to?"

She smiled, hersmile was really very sweet, and she blushed a little; it was singular that awoman of that age should flush so readily. Perhaps her naivete was her greatestcharm.

"You know,he's not at all literary, " she said. "He's a perfect philistine."

She said thisnot disparagingly, but affectionately rather, as though, by acknowledging theworst about him, she wished to protect him from the aspersions of her friends.

"He's onthe Stock Exchange, and he's a typical broker. I think he'd bore you to death."

"Does hebore you?" I asked.

"You see,I happen to be his wife. I'm very fond of him. "

She smiled tocover her shyness, and I fancied she hæd a fear that I would make the sort ofgibe that such a confession could hardly have failed to elicit from RoseWaterford. She hesitated a little. Her eyes grew tender.

"Hedoesn't pretend to be a genius. He doesn't even make much money on the StockExchange. But he's awfully good and kind. "

"I think Ishould like him very much. "

"I'll askyou to dine with us quietly some time, but mind, you come at your own risk;don't blame me if you have a very dull evening. "

夏天我同思特里克兰德太太见面的次数不算少。我时不时地到她家里去吃午饭，或是去参加茶会；午饭总是吃得很好，茶点更是非常丰盛。我同思特里克兰德太太很相投。我当时年纪很轻，或许她喜欢的是指引着我幼稚的脚步走上文坛的艰辛道路，而在我这一方面，遇到一些不如意的琐事也乐于找到一个人倾诉一番。我准知道她会专神倾听，也一定能给我一些合乎情理的劝告。思特里克兰德太太是很会同情人的。同情体贴本是一种很难得的本领，但是却常常被那些知道自己有这种本领的人滥用了。他们一看到自己的朋友有什么不幸就恶狠狠地扑到人们身上，把自己的全部才能施展出来，这就未免太可怕了。同情心应该象一口油井一样喷薄自出；惯爱表同情的人让它纵情奔放，反而使那些受难者非常困窘。有的人胸膛上已经沾了那么多泪水，我不忍再把我的洒上了。思特里克兰德太太对自己的长处运用很得体，她让你觉得你接受她的同情是对她作了一件好事。我年轻的时候在一阵热情冲动中，曾同柔斯·瓦特尔芙德谈论这件事，她说：

“牛奶很好吃，特别是加上几滴白兰地。但是母牛却巴不得赶快让它淌出去。肿胀的乳头是很不舒服的

柔斯·瓦特尔芙德的嘴非常刻薄。这种辛辣的话谁也说不出口，但是另一方面，哪个人做事也没有她漂亮。

还有一件事叫我喜欢思特里克兰德太太。她的住所布置得非常优雅。房间总是干干净净，摆着花，叫人感到非常舒服。客厅里的印花布窗帘虽然图案比较古板，可是色彩光艳，淡雅宜人。在雅致的小餐厅里吃饭是一种享受；餐桌式样大方，两个侍女干净利落，菜肴烹调得非常精致。谁都看得出，思特里克兰德太太是一位能干的主妇，另外，毫无疑问她也是一位贤妻良母。客厅里摆着她儿女的照片。儿子——他名叫罗伯特——十六岁，正在罗格贝学校读书；你在照片上看到他穿着一套法兰绒衣服，戴着板球帽，另外一张照片穿的是燕尾服，系着直立的硬领。他同母亲一样，生着宽净的前额和沉思的漂亮的眼睛。他的样子干净整齐，看去又健康，又端正。

“我想他不算太聪明，”有一天我正在看照片的时候，思特里克兰德太太说，“但是我知道他是个好孩子。性格很可爱。”

女儿十四岁。头发同母亲一样，又粗又黑，浓密地披在肩膀上。温顺的脸相，端庄、明净的眼睛也同母亲活脱儿一样。

“他们两个人长得都非常象你，”我说。

“可不是，他们都更随我，不随他们的父亲。”

“你为什么一直不让我同他见面？”

“你愿意见他吗？”

她笑了，她的笑容很甜，脸上微微泛起一层红晕；象她这样年纪的女人竟这么容易脸红，是很少有的。也许她最迷人之处就在于她的纯真。

“你知道，他一点儿也没有文学修养，”她说，“他是个十足的小市民。”

她用这个词一点儿也没有贬抑的意思，相反地，倒是怀着一股深情，好象由她自己说出他最大的缺点就可以保护他不受她朋友们的挖苦以的。

“他在证券交易所干事儿，是一个典型的经纪人。我猜想，他一定会叫你觉得很厌烦的。”

“你对他感到厌烦吗？”

“你知道，我刚好是他的妻子。我很喜欢他。”

她笑了一下，掩盖住自己的羞涩。我想她可能担心我会说一句什么打趣的话，换了柔斯·瓦特尔芙德，听见她这样坦白，肯定会挖苦讽刺几句的。她踌躇了一会儿，眼神变得更加温柔了。

“他不想假充自己有什么才华。就是在证券交易所里他赚的钱也不多。但是他心地非常善良。”

“我想我会非常喜欢他的。”

“等哪天没有外人的时候，我请你来吃晚饭。但是我把话说在前头，你可是自愿冒这个风险；如果这天晚上你过得非常无聊，可千万不要怨我。”

No one waskinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford. She combined a masculineintelligence with a feminine perversity, and the novels she wrote were originaland disconcerting. It was at her house one day that I met Charles Strickland's wife.Miss Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was more than usuallyfull. Everyone seemed to be talking, and I, sitting in silence, felt awkward;but I was too shy to break into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in theirown affairs. Miss Waterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassmentcame up to me.

"I wantyou to talk to Mrs. Strickland, " she said. "She's raving about yourbook. "

"What doesshe do?" I asked.

I was consciousof my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a well-known writer I thought it aswell to ascertain the fact before I spoke to her.

Rose Waterfordcast down her eyes demurely to give greater effect to her reply.

"She givesluncheon-parties. You've only got to roar a little, and she'll ask you. "

Mrs. Jay, awarethat impropriety is the soul of wit, made observations in tones hardly above awhisper that might well have tinged the snowy tablecloth with a rosy hue.Richard Twining bubbled over with quaint absurdities, and George Road,conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy which was almost a by-word,opened his mouth only to put food into it. Mrs. Strickland did not talk much,but she had a pleasant gift for keeping the conversation general; and whenthere was a pause she threw in just the right remark to set it going once more.She was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump, without being fat; shewas not pretty, but her face was pleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account of herkind brown eyes. Her skin was rather sallow. Her dark hair was elaboratelydressed. She was the only woman of the three whose face was free of make-up,and by contrast with the others she seemed simple and unaffected.

The dining-roomwas in the good taste of the period. It was very severe. There was a high dadoof white wood and a green paper on which were etchings by Whistler in neatblack frames. The green curtains with their peacock design, hung in straightlines, and the green carpet, in the pattern of which pale rabbits frolickedamong leafy trees, suggested the influence of William Morris. There was bluedelft on the chimneypiece. At that time there must have been five hundreddining-rooms in London decorated in exactly the same manner. It was chaste,artistic, and dull.

When we left Iwalked away with Miss Waterford, and the fine day and her new hat persuaded usto saunter through the Park.

"That wasa very nice party, " I said.

"Did youthink the food was good? I told her that if she wanted writers she must feedthem well. "

"Admirableadvice, " I answered. "But why does she want them?"

Miss Waterfordshrugged her shoulders.

"She findsthem amusing. She wants to be in the movement. I fancy she's rather simple,poor dear, and she thinks we're all wonderful. After all, it pleases her to askus to luncheon, and it doesn't hurt us. I like her for it. "

Looking back, Ithink that Mrs. Strickland was the most harmless of all the lion-hunters thatpursue their quarry from the rarefied heights of Hampstead to the nethermoststudios of Cheyne Walk. She hæd led a very quiet youth in the ˈkʌntri, and thebooks that came down from Mudie's Library brought with them not only their ownromance, but the romance of London. She hæd a real passion for reading (rare inher kind, who for the most part are more interested in the author than in hisbook, in the painter than in his pictures), and she invented a world of theimagination in which she lived with a freedom she never acquired in the worldof every day. 

When she cameto know writers it was like adventuring upon a stage which till then she hadknown only from the other side of the footlights. She saw them dramatically,and really seemed herself to live a larger life because she entertained themand visited them in their fastnesses. She accepted the rules with which theyplayed the game of life as valid for them, but never for a moment thought ofregulating her own conduct in accordance with them. Their moral eccentricities,like their oddities of dress, their wild theories and paradoxes, were anentertainment which amused her, but had not the slightest influence on herconvictions.

"Is therea Mr. Strickland?" I asked

"Oh yes;he's something in the city. I believe he's a stockbroker. He's very dull."

"Are theygood friends?"

"Theyadore one another. You'll meet him if you dine there. But she doesn't oftenhave people to dinner. He's very quiet. He's not in the least interested inliterature or the arts. "

"Why donice women marry dull men?"

"Becauseintelligent men won't marry nice women. "

I could notthink of any retort to this, so I asked if Mrs. Strickland had children.

"Yes; shehas a boy and a girl. They're both at school. "

The subject wasexhausted, and we began to talk of other things.

在那些日子里，再没有谁象柔斯·瓦特尔芙德那样关心照拂我了。她既有男性的才智又有女人的怪脾气。她写的小说很有特色，读起来叫你心绪不能平静。正是在她家里，有一天我见到了查理斯·思特里克兰德太太。那一天瓦特尔芙德小姐举行了一次茶话会，在她的一间小屋子里，客人比往常来得还多。每个人好象都在和别人交谈，只有我一个人静静地坐在那里，感到很窘；既然客人们都在三三两两地谈他们自己的事，我就很不好意思挤进哪个人堆里去了。瓦特尔芙德小姐是个很体贴的女主人，她注意到我有些尴尬，便走到我身边来。

“我想让你去同思特里克兰德太太谈一谈，”她说，“她对你的书崇拜得了不得。”

“她是干什么的？”我问。

我知道自己孤陋寡闻，如果思特里克兰德是一位名作家，我在同她谈话以前最好还是把情况弄清楚。

为了使自己的答话给我更深的印象，瓦特尔芙德故意把眼皮一低，做出一副一本正经的样子。

“她专门招待人吃午餐。你只要别那么腼腆，多吹嘘自己几句，她准会请你吃饭的。”

柔斯·瓦特尔芙德处世采取的是一种玩世不恭的态度。她把生活看作是给她写小说的一个机会，把世人当作她作品的素材。如果读者中有谁对她的才能非常赏识而且慷慨地宴请过她，她有时也会请他们到自己家招待一番。这些人对作家的崇拜热让她感到又好笑又鄙夷，但是她却同他们周旋应酬，十足表现出一个有名望的女文学家的风度。

我被带到思特里克兰德太太面前，同她谈了十来分钟的话。除了她的声音很悦耳外，我没有发现她有什么特别的地方。她在威斯敏斯特区有一套房子，正对着没有完工的大教堂。因为我也住在那一带，我们两人就觉得亲近了一层。对于所有那些住在泰晤士河同圣杰姆斯公园之间的人来说，陆海军商店好象是一个把他们联结起来的纽带。思特里克兰德太太要了我的住址，又过了几天我收到她一张请吃午饭的请柬。

我的约会并不多，我欣然接受了这个邀请。我到她家的时候稍微晚了一些，因为我害怕去得过早，围着大教堂先兜了三个圈子。进门以后我才发现客人都已经到齐了。瓦特尔芙德是其中之一，另外还有杰伊太太、理查·特维宁和乔治·娄德。在座的人都是作家。这是早春的一天，天气很好，大家兴致都非常高。我们谈东谈西，什么都谈到了。瓦特尔芙德小姐拿不定主意，是照她更年轻时的淡雅装扮，身着灰绿，手拿一支水仙花去赴宴呢，还是表现出一点年事稍高时的丰姿；如果是后者，那就要穿上高跟鞋、披着巴黎式的上衣了。犹豫了半天，结果她只戴了一顶帽子。这顶帽子使她的情绪很高，我还从来没有听过她用这么刻薄的语言议论我们都熟识的朋友呢。

杰伊太太知道得很清楚，逾越礼规的言词是机智的灵魂，因此时不时地用不高于耳语的音调说一些足能使雪白的台布泛上红晕的话语。理查·特维宁则滔滔不绝地发表荒唐离奇的谬论。乔治·娄德知道他的妙语惊人已经尽人皆知，用不着再施展才华，因此每次张口只不过是往嘴里添送菜肴。思特里克兰德太太说话不多，但是她也有一种可爱的本领，能够引导大家的谈话总是环绕着一个共同的话题；一出现冷场，她总能说一句合适的话使谈话继续下去。思特里克兰德太太这一年三十七岁，身材略高，体态丰腴，但又不显得太胖。她生得并不美，但面庞很讨人喜欢，这可能主要归功于她那双棕色的、非常和蔼的眼睛。她的皮肤血色不太好，一头黑发梳理得非常精巧。在三个女性里面，她是唯一没有施用化妆品的，但是同别人比较起来，这样她反而显得更朴素、更自然。

餐室是按照当时的艺术风尚布置的，非常朴素。白色护墙板很高，绿色的糊墙纸上挂着嵌在精致的黑镜框里的惠斯勒①的蚀刻画。印着孔雀图案的绿色窗帘线条笔直地高悬着。地毯也是绿颜色的，地毯上白色小兔在浓郁树荫中嬉戏的图画使人想到是受了威廉·莫利斯②的影响。壁炉架上摆着白釉蓝彩陶器。当时的伦敦一定有五百间餐厅的装演同这里一模一样，淡雅，别致，却有些沉闷。

①杰姆斯·艾波特·麦克奈尔·惠斯勒（1834—1903），美国画家和蚀刻画家，长期定居英国。

②威廉·莫利斯（1834—1896），英国诗人和艺术家。

离开思特里克兰德太太家的时候，我是同瓦特尔芙德小姐一同走的。因为天气很好，又加上她这顶新帽子提了兴致，我们决定散一会步，从圣杰姆斯公园穿出去。

“刚才的聚会很不错。”我说。

“你觉得菜做得不坏，是不是？我告诉过她，如果她想同作家来往，就得请他们吃好的。”

“你给她出的主意太妙了，”我回答。“可是她为什么要同作家来往呢？”

瓦特尔芙德小姐耸了耸肩膀。

“她觉得作家有意思。她想迎合潮流。我看她头脑有些简单，可怜的人，她认为我们这些作家都是了不起的人。不管怎么说，她喜欢请我们吃饭，我们对吃饭也没有反感。我喜欢她就是喜欢这一点。”

现在回想起来，在那些惯爱结交文人名士的人中，思特里克兰德太太要算心地最单纯的了，这些人为了把猎物捕捉到手，从汉普斯台德的远离尘嚣的象牙塔一直搜寻到柴纳街的寒酸破旧的画室。思特里克兰德太太年轻的时候住在寂静的乡间，从穆迪图书馆借来的书籍不只使她阅读到不少浪漫故事，而且也给她的脑子里装上了伦敦这个大城市的罗曼史。她从心眼里喜欢看书（这在她们这类人中是少见的，这些人大多数对作家比对作家写的书、对画家比对画家画的画兴趣更大），她为自己创造了一个幻想的小天地，生活于其中，感到日常生活所无从享受到的自由。

当她同作家结识以后，她有一种感觉，仿佛过去只能隔着脚灯了望的舞台，这回却亲身登上去了。她看着这些人粉墨登场，好象自己的生活也扩大了，因为她不仅设宴招待他们，而且居然闯进这些人的重门深锁的幽居里去。对于这些人游戏人生的信条她认为无可厚非，但是她自己却一分钟也不想按照他们的方式调整自己的生活。这些人道德伦理上的奇行怪癖，正如他们奇特的衣着、荒唐背理的言论一样，使她觉得非常有趣，但是对她自己立身处世的原则却丝毫也没有影响。

“有没有一位思特里克兰德先生啊？”我问。

“怎么没有啊。他在伦敦做事。我想是个证券经纪人吧。没有什么风趣。”

“他们俩感情好吗？”

“两个人互敬互爱。如果你在他们家吃晚饭，你会见到他的。但是她很少请人吃晚饭。他不太爱说话，对文学艺术一点儿也不感兴趣。”

“为什么讨人喜欢的女人总是嫁给蠢物啊？”

“因为有脑子的男人是不娶讨人喜欢的女人的。”

我想不出什么反驳的话来，于是我就把话头转开，打听思特里克兰德太太有没有孩子。

“有，一个男孩和一个女孩。两个人都在上学。”

这个题目已经没有好说的了。我们又扯起别的事来。

有声英语少儿读物 月亮月六便士 Volume 3 Chapter 1-4

But all this isby the way.

I was veryyoung when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chance it excited attention, andvarious persons sought my acquaintance.

It is notwithout melancholy that I wander among my recollections of the world of lettersin London when first, bashful but eager, I was introduced to it. It is longsince I frequented it, and if the novels that describe its presentsingularities are accurate much in it is now changed. The venue is different.Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate,and High Street, Kensington. Then it was a distinction to be under forty, butnow to be more than twenty-five is absurd. I think in those days we were alittle shy of our emotions, and the fear of ridicule tempered the more obviousforms of pretentiousness. I do not believe that there was in that genteelBohemia an intensive culture of chastity, but I do not remember so crude apromiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day. We did not think ithypocritical to draw over our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence. Thespade was not invariably called a bloody shovel. Woman had not yet altogethercome into her own.

I lived nearVictoria Station, and I recall long excursions by bus to the hospitable housesof the literary. In my timidity I wandered up and down the street while Iscrewed up my courage to ring the bell; and then, sick with apprehension, wasushered into an airless room full of people. I was introduced to thiscelebrated person after that one, and the kind words they said about my bookmade me excessively uncomfortable. I felt they expected me to say cleverthings, and I never could think of any till after the party was over. I triedto conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups of tea and rather ill-cutbread-and-butter. I wanted no one to take notice of me, so that I could observethese famous creatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said.

I have arecollection of large, unbending women with great noses and rapacious eyes, whowore their clothes as though they were armour; and of little, mouse-likespinsters, with soft voices and a shrewd glance. I never ceased to befascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with their gloves on,and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which they wiped theirfingers on their chair when they thought no one was looking. It must have beenbad for the furniture, but I suppose the hostess took her revenge on thefurniture of her friends when, in turn, she visited them.

Some of them weredressed fashionably, and they said they couldn't for the life of them see whyyou should be dowdy just because you had written a novel; if you had a neatfigure you might as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe on a small foothad never prevented an editor from taking your "stuff. " But othersthought this frivolous, and they wore "art fabrics" and barbaricjewelry. The men were seldom eccentric in appearance. They tried to look aslittle like authors as possible. They wished to be taken for men of the world,and could have passed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm. Theyalways seemed a little tired. I had never known writers before, and I foundthem very strange, but I do not think they ever seemed to me quite real.

I remember thatI thought their conversation brilliant, and I used to listen with astonishmentto the stinging humour with which they would tear a brother-author to piecesthe moment that his back was turned. The artist has this advantage over therest of the world, that his friends offer not only their appearance and theircharacter to his satire, but also their work. I despaired of ever expressingmyself with such aptness or with such fluency. In those days conversation wasstill cultivated as an art; a neat repartee was more highly valued than thecrackling of thorns under a pot; and the epigram, not yet a mechanicalappliance by which the dull may achieve a semblance of wit, gave sprightlinessto the small talk of the urbane.

 It issad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation. But I think theconversation never settled down so comfortably as when it turned to the detailsof the trade which was the other side of the art we practised. When we had donediscussing the merits of the latest book, it was natural to wonder how manycopies had been sold, what advance the author had received, and how much he waslikely to make out of it. Then we would speak of this publisher and of that,comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another; we would arguewhether it was better to go to one who gave handsome royalties or to anotherwho "pushed" a book for all it was worth. Some advertised badly andsome well. Some were modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk ofagents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and the sort ofcontributions they welcomed, how much they paid a thousand, and whether theypaid promptly or otherwise. To me it was all very romantic. It gave me anintimate sense of being a member of some mystic brotherhood.

但是这一切都是题外之言。

我写第一本书的时候非常年轻，但由于偶然的因缘这本书引起了人们的注意，不少人想要同我结识。

我刚刚被引进伦敦文学界的时候，心情又是热切又是羞涩；现在回忆起当时的种种情况，不无凄凉之感。很久我没有到伦敦去了，如果现在出版的小说里面的描写是真，伦敦一定发生了很大变化了。文人聚会的地点已经改变了。柴尔西和布鲁姆斯伯里取代了汉普斯台德、诺廷山门、高街和肯星顿的地位。当时年纪不到四十岁就被看作了不起的人物，如今过了二十五岁就会让人觉得滑稽可笑了。我想在过去的日子里我们都羞于使自己的感情外露，因为怕人嘲笑，所以都约束着自己不给人以傲慢自大的印象。我并不认为当时风雅放浪的诗人作家执身如何端肃，但我却不记得那时候文艺界有今天这么多风流韵事。我们对自己的一些荒诞不经的行为遮上一层保持体面的缄默，并不认为这是虚伪。我们讲话讲究含蓄，并不总是口无遮拦，说什么都直言不讳。女性们那时也还没有完全取得绝对自主的地位。

我住在维多利亚车站附近；我还记得我到一些殷勤好客的文艺家庭中去作客总要乘车在市区兜很大的圈子，因为羞怯的心理作祟，我往往在街上来来回回走好几遍才鼓起勇气去按门铃。然后，我心里捏着一把汗，被让进一间高朋满座、闷得透不过气的屋子。我被介绍给这位名士、那位巨擘，这些人对我的著作所说的恭维话让我感到坐立不安。我知道他们都等着我说几句隽词妙语，可是直到茶会开完了，我仍然想不出什么有风趣的话来。为了遮盖自己窘态，我就张罗着给客人倒茶送水，把切得不成形的涂着黄油的面包递到人们手里。我希望的是谁都别注意我，让我心神宁静地观察一下这些知名人士，好好听一听他们妙趣横生的言语。

我记得我遇见不少身材壮硕、腰板挺得笔直的女人。这些女人生着大鼻头，目光炯炯，衣服穿在她们身上好象披着一挂甲胄；我也看到许多象小老鼠似的瘦小枯干的老处女，说话柔声细气，眼睛滴溜溜乱转。我对她们那种总是戴着手套吃黄油吐司的怪毛病常常感到十分好笑；她们认为没有人看见的时候就偷偷在椅子上揩手指头，这让我看着也十分佩服。这对主人的家具肯定不是件好事，但是我想在轮到主人到这些人家里作客的时候，肯定也会在她朋友的家具上进行报复的。

这些女人有的衣着入时，她们说她们无论如何也看不出一个人为什么只因为写了一本小说就要穿得邋里邋遢。如果你的身段苗条为什么不能尽量把它显示出来呢？俊俏的小脚穿上时髦的鞋子绝不会妨碍编辑采用你的稿件。但是也有一些人认为这样不够庄重，这些人穿的是艺术性的纺织品，戴着具有蛮荒色调的珠宝装饰。男士们的衣着一般却很少有怪里怪气的。他们尽量不让人看出自己是作家，总希望别人把他们当作是老于世故的人。不论到什么地方，人们都会以为他们是一家大公司的高级办事员。这些人总显出有些劳累的样子。我过去同作家从来没有接触，我发现他们挺奇怪，但是我总觉得这些人不象真实的人物。

我还记得，我总觉得他们的谈话富于机智。他们中的一个同行刚一转身，他们就会把他批评得体无完肤；我总是惊讶不置地听着他们那辛辣刻毒的幽默话。艺术家较之其他行业的人有一个有利的地方，他们不仅可以讥笑朋友们的性格和仪表，而且可以嘲弄他们的著作。他们的评论恰到好处，话语滔滔不绝，我实在望尘莫及。在那个时代谈话仍然被看作是一种需要下功夫陶冶的艺术，一句巧妙的对答比锅子底下噼啪爆响的荆棘①更受人赏识，格言警句当时还不是痴笨的人利用来冒充聪敏的工具，风雅人物的闲谈中随便使用几句会使得谈话妙趣横生。遗憾的是，这些妙言隽语我现在都回忆不起来了。

我只记得最舒适顺畅的谈话莫过于这些人谈论起他们从事的行业的另一方面——谈起进行交易的一些细节来。在我们品评完毕一本新书的优劣后，自然要猜测一下这本书销售掉多少本，作者得到多少预支稿费，他一共能得到多少钱。以后我们就要谈到这个、那个出版商，比较一下这个人的慷慨和那个人的吝啬。我们还要争辩一下是把槁件交给这一个稿酬优厚的人还是哪一个会做宣传、善于推销的人。有的出版商不善于作广告，有的在这方面非常内行。有些出版商古板，有些能够适应潮流。再以后我们还要谈论一些出版代理人和他们为我们作家搞到的门路。我们还要谈论编辑和他们欢迎哪类作品，一千字付多少稿费，是很快付清呢，还是拖泥带水。这些对我说来都非常富于浪漫气味。它给我一种身为这一神秘的兄弟会的成员的亲密感。

①   见《圣经》旧约传道书第七章：“愚昧人的笑声，好象锅下烧荆棘的爆声。”

有声英语少儿读物 月亮月六便士 Volume 2 Chapter 1-5

When so muchhas been written about Charles Strickland, it may seem unnecessary that Ishould write more. A painter's monument is his work. It is true I knew him moreintimately than most: I met him first before ever he became a painter, and Isaw him not infrequently during the difficult years he spent in Paris; but I donot suppose I should ever have set down my recollections if the hazards of thewar had not taken me to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last yearsof his life; and there I came across persons who were familiar with him. I findmyself in a position to throw light on just that part of his tragic careerwhich has remained most obscure. If they who believe in Strickland's greatnessare right, the personal narratives of such as knew him in the flesh can hardlybe superfluous. What would we not give for the reminiscences of someone who hadbeen as intimately acquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?

But I seekrefuge in no such excuses. I forget who it was that recommended men for theirsoul's good to do each day two things they disliked: it was a wise man, and itis a precept that I have followed scrupulously; for every day I have got up andI have gone to bed. But there is in my nature a strain of asceticism, and Ihave subjected my flesh each week to a more severe mortification. I have neverfailed to read the Literary Supplement of The Times. It is a salutarydiscipline to consider the vast number of books that are written, the fairhopes with which their authors see them published, and the fate which awaitsthem. What chance is there that any book will make its way among thatmultitude? And the successful books are but the successes of a season. Heavenknows what pains the author has been at, what bitter experiences he has enduredand what heartache suffered, to give some chance reader a few hours' relaxationor to while away the tedium of a journey. And if I may judge from the reviews,many of these books are well and carefully written; much thought has gone totheir composition; to some even has been given the anxious labour of alifetime. The moral I draw is that the writer should seek his reward in thepleasure of his work and in release from the burden of his thought; and,indifferent to aught else, care nothing for praise or censure, failure orsuccess.

Now the warhas come, bringing with it a new attitude. Youth has turned to gods we of anearlier day knew not, and it is possible to see already the direction in whichthose who come after us will move. The younger generation, conscious ofstrength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door; they have burstin and seated themselves in our seats. The air is noisy with their shouts. Oftheir elders some, by imitating the antics of youth, strive to persuadethemselves that their day is not yet over; they shout with the lustiest, butthe war cry sounds hollow in their mouth; they are like poor wantons attemptingwith pencil, paint and powder, with shrill gaiety, to recover the illusion oftheir spring. The wiser go their way with a decent grace. In their chastenedsmile is an indulgent mockery. They remember that they too trod down a satedgeneration, with just such clamor and with just such scorn, and they foreseethat these brave torch-bearers will presently yield their place also. There isno last word. The new evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatness to thesky. These gallant words which seem so novel to those that speak them were saidin accents scarcely changed a hundred times before. The pendulum swingsbackwards and forwards. The circle is ever travelled anew.

Sometimes aman survives a considerable time from an era in which he had his place into onewhich is strange to him, and then the curious are offered one of the mostsingular spectacles in the human comedy. Who now, for example, thinks of GeorgeCrabbe? He was a famous poet in his day, and the world recognised his geniuswith a unanimity which the greater complexity of modern life has renderedinfrequent. He had learnt his craft at the school of Alexander Pope, and hewrote moral stories in rhymed couplets. Then came the French Revolution and theNapoleonic Wars, and the poets sang new songs. Mr. Crabbe continued to writemoral stories in rhymed couplets. I think he must have read the verse of theseyoung men who were making so great a stir in the world, and I fancy he found itpoor stuff. Of course, much of it was. But the odes of Keats and of Wordsworth,a poem or two by Coleridge, a few more by Shelley, discovered vast realms ofthe spirit that none had explored before.

 Mr.Crabbe was as dead as mutton, but Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral storiesin rhymed couplets. I have read de sul to rily the writings of the youngergeneration. It may be that among them a more fervid Keats, a more etherealShelley, has already published numbers the world will willingly remember. Icannot tell. I admire their polish -- their youth is already so accomplishedthat it seems absurd to speak of promise -- I marvel at the felicity of theirstyle; but with all their copiousness (their vocabulary suggests that theyfingered Roget's Thesaurus in their cradles) they say nothing to me: to my mindthey know too much and feel too obviously; I cannot stomach the heartiness withwhich they slap me on the back or the emotion with which they hurl themselveson my bosom; their passion seems to me a little anaemic and their dreams atrifle dull. I do not like them. I am on the shelf. I will continue to writemoral stories in rhymed couplets. But I should be thrice a fool if I did it foraught but my own entertainment.

关于查理斯·思特里克兰德的文章既已写了这么多，看来我似乎没有必要再多费笔墨了。为画家树碑立传归根结底还是他的作品。当然喏，我比大多数人对他更为熟悉；我第一次和他会面远在他改行学画以前。在他落魄巴黎的一段坎坷困顿的日子里，我经常和他见面。但如果不是战争的动乱使我有机会踏上塔希提岛的话，我是不会把我的一些回忆写在纸上的。众所周知，他正是在塔希提度过生命中最后几年；我在那里遇见不少熟悉他的人。我发现对他悲剧的一生中人们最不清晰的一段日子，我恰好可以投掷一道亮光。如果那些相信思特里克兰德伟大的人看法正确的话，与他有过亲身接触的人对他的追述便很难说是多余的了。如果有人同埃尔·格列柯象我同思特里克兰德那样熟稔，为了读到他写的格列柯回忆录，有什么代价我们不肯付呢？

但是我并不想以这些事为自己辩解。我不记得是谁曾经建议过，为了使灵魂宁静，一个人每天要做两件他不喜欢的事。说这句话的人是个聪明人，我也一直在一丝不苟地按照这条格言行事：因为我每天早上都起床，每天也都上床睡觉。但是我这个人生来还有苦行主义的性格，我还一直叫我的肉体每个星期经受一次更大的磨难。《Times》的文学增刊我一期也没有漏掉。想到有那么多书被辛勤地写出来，作者看著书籍出版，抱着那么殷切的希望，等待着这些书又是什么样的命运，这真是一种有益身心的修养。一本书要能从这汪洋大海中挣扎出来希望是多么渺茫啊！即使获得成功，那成功又是多么瞬息即逝的事啊！天晓得，作者为他一本书花费了多少心血，经受多少磨折，尝尽了多少辛酸，只为了给偶然读到这本书的人几小时的休憩，帮助他驱除一下旅途中的疲劳。如果我能根据书评下断语的话，很多书是作者呕心沥血的结晶，作者为它绞尽了脑汁，有的甚至是孜孜终生的成果。我从这件事取得的教训是，作者应该从写作的乐趣中，从郁积在他心头的思想的发泄中取得写书的酬报；对于其他一切都不应该介意，作品成功或失败，受到称誉或是诋毁，他都应该淡然处之。

战争来了，战争也带来了新的生活态度。年轻人求助于我们老一代人过去不了解的一些神祇，已经看得出继我们之后而来的人要向哪个方向活动了。年轻的一代意识到自己的力量，吵吵嚷嚷，早已经不再叩击门扉了。他们已经闯进房子里来，坐到我们的宝座上，空中早已充满了他们喧闹的喊叫声。老一代的人有的也模仿年轻人的滑稽动作，努力叫自己相信他们的日子还没有过去；这些人同那些最活跃的年轻人比赛喉咙，但是他们发出的呐喊听起来却那么空洞，他们有如一些可怜的浪荡女人，虽然年华已过，却仍然希望靠涂脂抹粉，靠轻狂浮荡来恢复青春的幻影。聪明一点儿的则摆出一副端庄文雅的姿态。他们的莞尔微笑中流露着一种宽容的讥诮。他们记起了自己当初也曾经把一代高踞宝座的人践踏在脚下，也正是这样大喊大叫、傲慢不逊；他们预见到这些高举火把的勇士们有朝一日同样也要让位于他人。谁说的话也不能算最后拍板。当尼尼微城昌盛一时、名震遐迩的时候，新福音书已经老旧了。说这些豪言壮语的人可能还觉得他们在说一些前人未曾道过的真理，但是实际上连他们说话的腔调前人也已经用过一百次，而且丝毫也没有变化。钟摆摆过来又荡过去，这一旅程永远反复循环。

有时候一个人早已活过了他享有一定地位的时期，进入了一个他感到陌生的新世纪，这时候人们便会看到人间喜剧中一幅最奇特的景象。譬如说，今天还有谁想得到乔治·克莱布①呢？在他生活的那一时代，他是享有盛名的，当时所有的人一致承认他是个伟大的天才，这在今天更趋复杂的现代生活中是很罕见的事了。他写诗的技巧是从亚历山大·蒲柏②派那里学习来的，他用押韵的对句写了很多说教的故事。后来爆发了法国大革命和拿破仑战争，诗人们唱起新的诗歌来。克莱布先生继续写他的押韵对句的道德诗，我想他一定读过那些年轻人写的风靡一时的新诗，而且我还想象他一定认为这些诗不堪卒读。当然，大多数新诗确实是这样子的。但是象济慈同华兹华斯写的颂歌，柯勒律治的一两首诗，雪莱的更多的几首，确实发现了前人未曾探索过的广阔精神领域。

克莱布先生已经陈腐过时了，但是克莱布先生还是孜孜不倦地继续写他的押韵对句诗。我也断断续续读了一些我们这一时代的年轻人的诗作，他们当中可能有一位更炽情的济慈或者更一尘不染的雪莱，而且已经发表了世界将长久记忆的诗章，这我说不定。我赞赏他们的优美词句——尽管他们还年轻，却已才华横溢，因此如果仅仅说他们很有希望，就显得荒唐可笑了——，我惊叹他们精巧的文体；但是虽然他们用词丰富（从他们的语汇看，倒仿佛这些人躺在摇篮里就已经翻读过罗杰特的《词汇宝库》了），却没有告诉我们什么新鲜东西。在我看来，他们知道的太多，感觉过于肤浅；对于他们拍我肩膀的那股亲热劲儿同闯进我怀抱时的那种感情，我实在受不了。我觉得他们的热情似乎没有血色，他们的梦想也有些平淡。我不喜欢他们。我已经是过时的老古董了。我仍然要写押韵对句的道德故事。但是如果我对自己写作除了自娱以外还抱有其它目的，我就是个双料的傻瓜了。

有声英语少儿读物 月亮月六便士 Volume1 Chapter 6-10

CharlesStrickland lived obscurely. He made enemies rather than friends. It is notstrange, then, that those who wrote of him should have eked out their scantyrecollections with a lively fancy, and it is evident that there was enough inthe little that was known of him to give opportunity to the romantic scribe;there was much in his life which was strange and terrible, in his charactersomething outrageous, and in his fate not a little that was pathetic. In duecourse a legend arose of such circumstantiality that the wise historian wouldhesitate to attack it.

But a wisehistorian is precisely what the Rev. Robert Strickland is not. He wrote hisbiography(3) avowedly to "remove certain misconceptions which had gainedcurrency" in regard to the later part of his father's life, and which had"caused considerable pain to persons still living. " It is obviousthat there was much in the commonly received account of Strickland's life toembarrass a respectable family. I have read this work with a good deal ofamusement, and upon this I congratulate myself, since it is colourless anddull.

Mr.Strickland has drawn the portrait of an excellent husband and father, a man ofkindly temper, industrious habits, and moral disposition. The modern clergymanhas acquired in his study of the science which I believe is called exegesis anastonishing facility for explaining things away, but the subtlety with whichthe Rev. Robert Strickland has "interpreted" all the facts in hisfather's life which a dutiful son might find it inconvenient to remember mustsurely lead him in the fullness of time to the highest dignities of the Church. 

I see alreadyhis muscular calves encased in the gaiters episcopal. It was a hazardous,though maybe a gallant thing to do, since it is probable that the legendcommonly received has had no small share in the growth of Strickland'sreputation; for there are many who have been attracted to his art by thedetestation in which they held his character or the compassion with which theyregarded his death; and the son's well-meaning efforts threw a singular chillupon the father's admirers.

It is due tono accident that when one of his most important works, The Woman of Samaria,(4) was sold at Christie's shortly after the discussion which followed thepublication of Mr. Strickland's biography, it fetched POUNDS 235 less than ithad done nine months before when it was bought by the distinguished collectorwhose sudden death had brought it once more under the hammer. Perhaps CharlesStrickland's power and originality would scarcely have sufficed to turn thescale if the remarkable mythopoeic faculty of mankind had not brushed asidewith impatience a story which disappointed all its craving for theextraordinary. And presently Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz produced the work whichfinally set at rest the misgivings of all lovers of art.

Dr.Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that school of historians which believes thathuman nature is not only about as bad as it can be, but a great deal worse; andcertainly the reader is safer of entertainment in their hands than in those ofthe writers who take a malicious pleasure in representing the great figures ofromance as patterns of the domestic virtues. For my part, I should be sorry tothink that there was nothing between Anthony and Cleopatra but an economicsituation; and it will require a great deal more evidence than is ever likelyto be available, thank God, to persuade me that Tiberius was as blameless amonarch as King George V. Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz has dealt in such terms withthe Rev.

RobertStrickland's innocent biography that it is difficult to avoid feeling a certainsympathy for the unlucky parson. His decent reticence is branded as hypocrisy,his circumlocutions are roundly called lies, and his silence is vilified astreachery. And on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in an author, butexcusable in a son, the Anglo-Saxon race is accused of prudishness, humbug,pretentiousness, deceit, cunning, and bad cooking.

Personally Ithink it was rash of Mr. Strickland, in refuting the account which had gainedbelief of a certain "unpleasantness" between his father and mother,to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written from Paris had describedher as "an excellent woman, " since Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was ableto print the letter in facsimile, and it appears that the passage referred toran in fact as follows: God damn my wife. She is an excellent woman. I wish shewas in hell. It is not thus that the Church in its great days dealt withevidence that was unwelcome.

Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholzwas an enthusiastic admirer of Charles Strickland, and there was no danger thathe would whitewash him. He had an unerring eye for the despicable motive inactions that had all the appearance of innocence. He was a psycho-pathologist,as well as a student of art, and the subconscious had few secrets from him. Nomystic ever saw deeper meaning in common things. The mystic sees the ineffable,and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable. There is a singular fascination inwatching the eagerness with which the learned author ferrets out everycircumstance which may throw discredit on his hero. His heart warms to him whenhe can bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he exults like aninquisitor at the auto da fe of an heretic when with some forgotten story hecan confound the filial piety of the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry hasbeen amazing. Nothing has been too small to escape him, and you may be surethat if Charles Strickland left a laundry bill unpaid it will be given you in extenso,and if he forebore to return a borrowed half-crown no detail of the transactionwill be omitted.

讲到查理斯·思特里克兰德，生前知道他的人并不多。他树了不少敌人，但没有交下什么朋友。因此，那些给他写文章的人必须借助于活跃的想象以弥补贫乏的事实，看来也就不足为奇了。非常清楚，尽管人们对思特里克兰德生平的事迹知道得并不多，也尽够浪漫主义的文人从中找到大量铺陈敷衍的材料，他的生活中有不少离奇可怕的行径，他的性格里有不少荒谬绝伦的怪僻，他的命运中又不乏悲壮凄怆的遭遇。经过一段时间，从这一系列事情的演绎附会中便产生了一个神话，明智的历史学家对这种神话是不会贸然反对的。

罗伯特·思特里克兰德牧师偏偏不是这样一位明智的历史学家。他认为有关他父亲的后半生人们误解颇多，他公开申明自己写这部传记③就是为了“排除某些成为流传的误解”，这些谬种流传“给生者带来很大的痛苦”。谁都清楚，在外界传播的思特里克兰德生平轶事里有许多使一个体面的家庭感到难堪的事。我读这本传记的时候忍不住哑然失笑，但也暗自庆幸，幸好这本书写得实在枯燥乏味。

特里克兰德的最重要的一幅作品《萨玛利亚的女人》④九个月以前曾经卖给一位有名的收藏家。由于这位收藏家后来突然逝世，这幅画再度拍卖，又被克利斯蒂购去。这次拍卖正值思特里克兰德牧师的传记出版、人们议论纷纷之际，这幅名画的价格竟比九个月以前降低了二百三十五镑；这显然不是一件偶合。如果不是人们对神话的喜爱，叫他们对这个使他们的猎奇心大失所望的故事嗤之以鼻的话，只靠思特里克兰德个人的权威和独特也许无力挽回大局的。说也凑巧，没有过多久魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹博士的文章就问世了，艺术爱好者们的疑虑不安终于消除了。

③《思特里克兰德，生平与作品》，画家的儿子罗伯特·思特里克兰德撰写，1913年海因曼出版。（作者注）

④根据克利斯蒂藏画目录的描述，这幅画的内容是：一个裸体女人，社会岛的土人，躺在一条小溪边的草地上，背景是棕榈树、芭蕉等热带风景。60英寸×48英寸。（作者注）

魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹博士隶属的这一历史学派不只相信“人之初，性本恶”，而且认为其恶劣程度是远远超过人们的想象的；用不着说，比起那些把富有浪漫色彩的人物写成道貌岸然的君子的使人败兴的作家来，这一派历史学者的著作肯定能够给予读者更大的乐趣。对于我这样的读者，如果把安东尼和克莉奥佩特拉的关系只写作经济上的联盟，我是会觉得非常遗憾的；要想劝说我让我把泰伯利欧斯⑤看作是同英王乔治五世同样的一位毫无瑕疵的君主，也需要远比手头掌握的多得多的证据（谢天谢地，这种证据看来很难找到）。

魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹博士在评论罗伯特·思特里克兰德牧师那部天真的传记时所用的词句，读起来很难叫人对这位不幸的牧师不感到同情。凡是这位牧师为了维护体面不便畅言的地方都被攻击为虚伪，凡是他铺陈赘述的章节则率直地被叫作谎言，作者对某些事情保持缄默则干脆被魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹斥之为背叛。作品中的这些缺陷，从一个传记作家的角度来看，固然应该受到指摘，但作为传记主人公的儿子倒也情有可原；倒霉的是，竟连盎格鲁-萨克逊民族也连带遭了殃，被魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹博士批评为假装正经、作势吓人、自命不凡、狡猾欺心，只会烹调倒人胃口的菜饭。讲到我个人的意见，我认为思特里克兰德牧师在驳斥外间深入人心的一种传述——关于他父母之间某些“不愉快”的事件时，实在不够慎重。他在传记里引证查理斯· 思特里克兰德从巴黎写的一封家信，说他父亲称呼自己的妻子为“了不起的女人”，而魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹却把原信复制出来；原来思特里克兰德牧师引证的这段原文是这样的：“叫上帝惩罚我的妻子吧！这个女人太了不起了，我真希望叫她下地狱。”在教会势力鼎盛的日子，它们并不是用这种方法对待不受欢迎的事实的。

⑤泰伯利欧斯·克劳迪乌斯·尼禄（公元前42—公元37），罗马皇帝。

魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹博士是查理斯·思特里克兰德的一位热心的崇拜者，如果他想为思特里克兰德涂脂抹粉本来是不会有什么危险的。但他的目光敏锐，一眼就望穿了隐含在一些天真无邪的行为下的可鄙的动机。他既是一个艺术研究者，又是一个心理——病理学家。他对一个人的潜意识了如指掌。没有哪个探索心灵秘密的人能够象他那样透过普通事物看到更深邃的意义。探索心灵秘密的人能够看到不好用语言表达出来的东西，心理病理学家却看到了根本不能表达的事物。我们看到这位学识渊深的作家如何热衷于搜寻出每一件使这位英雄人物丢脸的细节琐事，真是令人拍案叫绝。每当他列举出主人公一件冷酷无情或者卑鄙自私的例证，他的心就对他更增加一分同情。在他寻找到主人公某件为人遗忘的轶事用来嘲弄罗伯特·思特里克兰德牧帅的一片孝心时，他就象宗教法庭的法官审判异教徒那样乐得心花怒放。他写这篇文章的那种认真勤奋劲儿也着实令人吃惊。没有哪件细小的事情被他漏掉，如果查理斯·思特里克兰德有一笔洗衣账没有付清，这件事一定会被详细记录下来；如果他欠人家一笔借款没有偿还，这笔债务的每一个细节也绝对不会遗漏；这一点读者是完全可以放心的。

思特里克兰德牧师在传记里刻划的是一个体贴的丈夫和慈祥的父亲，一个性格善良、作风勤奋、品行端正的君子。当代的教士在研究人们称之为《圣经》诠释这门学问中都学会了遮掩粉饰的惊人本领，但罗伯特·思特里克兰德牧师用以“解释”他父亲行状（这些开行动都是一个孝顺的儿子认为值得记住的）的那种精思敏辩，在时机成熟时肯定会导致他在教会中荣获显职的。我好象已经看到他那筋骨强健的小腿套上了主教的皮裹腿了。他做的是一件危险的，但或许是很勇敢的事，因为思特里克兰德之所以名传遐迩，在很大程度上要归功于人们普遍接受了的传说。他的艺术对很多人有那么大的魅力，或者是由于人们对他性格的嫌恶，或者是对他惨死的同情；而儿子的这部旨在为父亲遮羞掩丑的传记对于父亲的崇拜者却不啻当头浇了一盆冷水。

有声英语少儿读物 月亮月六便士 Volume1 Chapter1-5

I confess that whenfirst I made acquaintance with Charles Strickland I never for a momentdiscerned that there was in him anything out of the ordinary. Yet now few willbe found to deny his greatness. I do not speak of that greatness which isachieved by the fortunate politician or the successful soldier; that is a qualitywhich belongs to the place he occupies rather than to the man; and a change ofcircumstances reduces it to very discreet proportions. The Prime Minister outof office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompous rhetorician, and theGeneral without an army is but the tame hero of a market town. The greatness ofCharles Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, butat all events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. Hedisturbs and arrests. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule,and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extolhim. His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits. It isstill possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirersis perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors; but onething can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius.

To my mind the mostinteresting thing in art is the personality of the artist; and if that issingular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velasquez was abetter painter than El Greco, but custom stales one's admiration for him: the Cretan,/ˈsenʃuəl/ and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice.The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful,satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct, andshares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of himself. Topursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. It isa riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer. The mostinsignificant of Strickland's works suggests a personality which is strange,tormented, and complex; and it is this surely which prevent seven those who donot like his pictures from being indifferent to them; it is this which hasexcited so curious an interest in his life and character.

It was not tillfour years after Strickland's death that Maurice Huret wrote that articlein theMercure de France which rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazedthe trail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility, have followed.For a long time no critic has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority,and it was impossible not to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemedextravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate, and thereputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lines whichhe laid down. The rise of this reputation is one of the most romantic incidentsin the history of art. But I do not propose to deal with Charles Strickland'swork except in so far as it touches upon his character. I cannot agree with thepainters who claim superciliously that the layman can understand nothing ofpainting, and that he can best show his appreciation of their works by silenceand a cheque-book.

It is a grotesquemisapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft comprehensible perfectlyonly to the craftsman: art is a manifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks alanguage that all may understand. But I will allow that the critic who has nota practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to say anything on thesubject of real value, and my ignorance of painting is extreme. Fortunately,there is no need for me to risk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. EdwardLeggatt, an able writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustivelydiscussed Charles Strickland's work in a little book(1) which is a charmingexample of a style, for the most part, less happily cultivated in England thanin France.

Maurice Huret inhis famous article gave an outline of Charles Strickland's life which was wellcalculated to whet the appetites of the inquiring. With his disinterested passionfor art, he had a real desire to call the attention of the wise to a talentwhich was in the highest degree original; but he was too good a journalist tobe unaware that the "human interest" would enable him more easily toeffect his purpose.

And when such ashad come in contact with Strickland in the past, writers who had known himinLondon, painters who had met him in the cafes of Montmartre, discovered to theiramazement that where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist, like another,authentic genius had rubbed shoulders with them there began to appear in themagazines of France and America a succession of articles, the reminiscences ofone, the appreciation of another, which added to Strickland's notoriety, andfed without satisfying the curiosity of the public. The subject was grateful,and the industrious Weitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph(2) has beenable to give a remarkable list of authorities.

The faculty formyth is innate in the human race. It seizes with avidity upon any incidents,surprising or mysterious, in the career of those who have at all distinguishedthemselves from their fellows, and invents a legend to which it then attaches afanatical belief. It is the protest of romance against the commonplace of life.The incidents of the legend become the hero's surest passport to immortality.The ironic philosopher reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh is moresafely in shrined in the memory of mankind because he se this cloak for theVirgin Queen to walk on than because he carried the English name toundiscovered countries.

老实说，我刚刚认识查理斯·思特里克兰德的时候，从来没注意到这个人有什么与众不同的地方，但是今天却很少有人不承认他的伟大了。我所谓的伟大不是走红运的政治家或是立战功的军人的伟大；这种人显赫一时，与其说是他们本身的特质倒不如说沾了他们地位的光，一旦事过境迁，他们的伟大也就黯然失色了。人们常常发现一位离了职的首相当年只不过是个大言不惭的演说家；一个解甲归田的将军无非是个平淡乏味的市井英雄。但是查理斯·思特里克兰德的伟大却是真正的伟大。你可能不喜欢他的艺术，但无论如何你不能不对它感到兴趣。他的作品使你不能平静，扣紧你的心弦。思特里克兰德受人挪揄讥嘲的时代已经过去了，为他辩护或甚至对他赞誉也不再被看作是某些人的奇行怪癖了。他的瑕疵在世人的眼中已经成为他的优点的必不可少的派生物。他在艺术史上的地位尽可以继续争论。崇拜者对他的赞颂同贬抑者对他的诋毁固然都可能出于偏颇和任性，但是有一点是不容置疑的，那就是他具有天才。

在我看来，艺术中最令人感兴趣的就是艺术家的个性；如果艺术家赋有独特的性格，尽管他有一千个缺点，我也可以原谅。我料想，委拉斯凯兹①是个比埃尔·格列柯②更高超的画家，可是由于所见过多，却使我们感到他的绘画有些乏味。而那位克里特岛画家的作品却有一种肉欲和悲剧性的美，仿佛作为永恒的牺牲似地把自己灵魂的秘密呈献出来。一个艺术家——画家也好，诗人也好，音乐家也好，用他的崇高的或者美丽的作品把世界装点起来，满足了人们的审美意识，但这也同人类的性本能不无相似的地方，都有其粗野狂暴的一面。在把作品奉献给世人的同时，艺术家也把他个人的伟大才能呈现到你眼前。探索一个艺术家的秘密颇有些阅读侦探小说的迷人劲儿。这个奥秘同大自然极相似，其妙处就在于无法找到答案。思特里克兰德的最不足道的作品也使你模糊看到他的奇特、复杂、受着折磨的性格；那些不喜欢他的绘画的人之所以不能对他漠不关心，肯定是因为这个原因。也正是这一点，使得那么多人对他的生活和性格充满了好奇心和浓厚的兴趣。

②   迪埃戈·罗德里盖斯·德·西尔瓦·委拉斯凯兹（1599—1660），西班牙画家。

②埃尔·格列柯（1541—1614？），西班牙画家，生于克里特岛。

直到思特里克兰德去世四年以后，莫利斯·胥瑞才写了那篇发表在《法兰西信使》上的文章，使这位不为人所知的画家不致湮没无闻。他的这篇文章打响了第一炮，很多怯于标新的作家这才踏着他的足迹走了下去。在很长一段时间内法国艺术评论界更没有哪个人享有比胥瑞更无可争辩的权威。胥瑞提出的论点不可能不给人以深刻的印象，看起来他对思特里克兰德的称许似乎有些过分，但后来舆论的裁决却证实了他评价的公正；而查理斯·思特里克兰德的声名便也在他所定的调子上不可动摇地建立起来了。思特里克兰德声名噪起，这在艺术史上实在是最富于浪漫主义味道的一个事例。但是我在这里并不想对查理斯·思特里克兰德的艺术作品有所评论，除非在这些作品涉及到画家性格的时候。我对某些画家的意见不敢苟同，他们傲慢地认为外行根本不懂得绘画，门外汉要表示对艺术的鉴赏，最好的方法就是免开尊口，大大方方地掏出支票簿。

老实讲，把艺术看作只有名工巧匠才能完全理解的艺术技巧，其实是一种荒谬的误解。艺术是什么？艺术是感情的表露，艺术使用的是一种人人都能理解的语言。但是我也承认，艺术评论家如果对技巧没有实际知识，是很少能作出真正有价值的评论的；而我自己对绘画恰好是非常无知的。幸而在这方面我无庸冒任何风险，因为我的朋友爱德华·雷加特先生既是一位写文章的高手，又是一位深有造诣的画家，他在一本小书里①对查理斯·思特里克兰德的作品已经作了详尽的探索；这本书的优美文风也为我们树立了一个典范。很可惜，这种文风今天在英国远不如在法国那么时兴了。

①《一位当代画家，对查理斯·思特里克兰德绘画的评论》，爱尔兰皇家学院会员爱德华·雷加特着，1917年马丁·塞克尔出版。（作者注）

莫利斯·胥瑞在他那篇驰名的文章里简单地勾画了查理斯·思特里克兰德的生平；作者有意这样吊一下读者的胃口。他对艺术的热情毫不搀杂个人的好恶，他这篇文章的真正目的是唤起那些有头脑的人对一个极为独特的天才画家的注意力。但是胥瑞是一个善于写文章的老手，他不会不知道，只有引起读者“兴味”的文章才更容易达到目的。

后来那些在思特里克兰德生前曾和他有过接触的人——有些人是在伦敦就认识他的作家，有些是在蒙特玛特尔咖啡座上和他会过面的画家——极其吃惊地发现，他们当初看作是个失败的画家，一个同无数落魄艺术家没有什么不同的画家，原来是个真正的天才，他们却交臂失之。从这时起，在法国和美国的一些杂志上就连篇累牍地出现了各式各类的文章：这个写对思特里克兰德的回忆，那个写对他作品的评述。结果是，这些文章更增加了思特里克兰德的声誉，挑起了、但却无法满足读者的好奇心。这个题目大受读者欢迎，魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹下了不少工夫，在他写的一篇洋洋洒洒的专题论文①里开列了一张篇目，列举出富有权威性的一些文章。

①《查理斯·思特里克兰德，生平与作品》，哲学博士雨果·魏特布瑞希特-罗特霍尔兹着，莱比锡1914年施威英格尔与汉尼施出版，原书德文。（作者注）

制造神话是人类的天性。对那些出类拔萃的人物，如果他们生活中有什么令人感到诧异或者迷惑不解的事件，人们就会如饥似渴地抓住不放，编造出种种神话，而且深信不疑，近乎狂热。这可以说是浪漫主义对平凡暗淡的生活的一种抗议。传奇中的一些小故事成为英雄通向不朽境界的最可靠的护照。瓦尔特·饶利爵士②之所以永远珍留在人们记忆里是因为他把披风铺在地上，让伊丽莎白女皇踏着走过去，而不是因为他把英国名字带给了许多过去人们从来没有发现的国土；一个玩世不恭的哲学家在想到这件事时肯定会哑然失笑的。

②瓦尔特·饶利爵士（1552？—1618），英国历史学家及航海家。

更了将近一年的整书《绿野仙踪》(The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz) 已合并到本人主页的独立专辑啦！