roundabout papers-第50部分

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march　to　the　Club；　proposing　to　improve　my　mind　and　keep　myself　〃posted　up；〃　as　the　Americans　phrase　it；　with　the　literature　of　the　day。　　And　what　happens？　　Given；　a　walk　after　luncheon；　a　pleasing　book；　and　a　most　comfortable　armchair　by　the　fire；　and　you　know　the　rest。　　A　doze　ensues。　　Pleasing　book　drops　suddenly；　is　picked　up　once　with　an　air　of　some　confusion；　is　laid　presently　softly　in　lap：　head　falls　on　comfortable　arm…chair　cushion：　eyes　close：　soft　nasal　music　is　heard。　　Am　I　telling　Club　secrets？　　Of　afternoons；　after　lunch；　I　say；　scores　of　sensible　fogies　have　a　doze。　　Perhaps　I　have　fallen　asleep　over　that　very　book　to　which　〃Finis〃　has　just　been　written。　　〃And　if　the　writer　sleeps；　what　happens　to　the　readers？〃　says　Jones；　coming　down　upon　me　with　his　lightning　wit。　　What？　　You　DID　sleep　over　it？　　And　a　very　good　thing　too。　　These　eyes　have　more　than　once　seen　a　friend　dozing　over　pages　which　this　hand　has　written。　　There　is　a　vignette　somewhere　in　one　of　my　books　of　a　friend　so　caught　napping　with　〃Pendennis；〃　or　the　〃Newcomes；〃　in　his　lap　and　if　a　writer　can　give　you　a　sweet　soothing；　harmless　sleep；　has　he　not　done　you　a　kindness？　　So　is　the　author　who　excites　and　interests　you　worthy　of　your　thanks　and　benedictions。　　I　am　troubled　with　fever　and　ague；　that　seizes　me　at　odd　intervals　and　prostrates　me　for　a　day。　　There　is　cold　fit；　for　which；　I　am　thankful　to　say；　hot　brandy…and…water　is　prescribed；　and　this　induces　hot　fit；　and　so　on。　　In　one　or　two　of　these　fits　I　have　read　novels　with　the　most　fearful　contentment　of　mind。　　Once；　on　the　Mississippi；　it　was　my　dearly　beloved　〃Jacob　Faithful：〃　once　at　Frankfort　O。　M。；　the　delightful　〃Vingt　Ans　Apres〃　of　Monsieur　Dumas：　once　at　Tunbridge　wells；　the　thrilling　〃Woman　in　White：〃　and　these　books　gave　me　amusement　from　morning　till　sunset。　　I　remember　those　ague　fits　with　a　great　deal　of　pleasure　and　gratitude。　　Think　of　a　whole　day　in　bed；　and　a　good　novel　for　a　companion！　　No　cares：　no　remorse　about　idleness：　no　visitors：　and　the　Woman　in　White　or　the　Chevalier　d'Artagnan　to　tell　me　stories　from　dawn　to　night！〃　Please；　ma'am；　my　master's　compliments；　and　can　he　have　the　third　volume？〃　　（This　message　was　sent　to　an　astonished　friend　and　neighbor　who　lent　me；　volume　by　volume；　the　W。　in　W。）　　How　do　you　like　your　novels？　　I　like　mine　strong；　〃hot　with；〃　and　no　mistake：　no　love…making：　no　observations　about　society：　little　dialogue；　except　where　the　characters　are　bullying　each　other：　plenty　of　fighting：　and　a　villain　in　the　cupboard；　who　is　to　suffer　tortures　just　before　Finis。　　I　don't　like　your　melancholy　Finis。　　I　never　read　the　history　of　a　consumptive　heroine　twice。　　If　I　might　give　a　short　hint　to　an　impartial　writer　（as　the　Examiner　used　to　say　in　old　days）；　it　would　be　to　act；　NOT　a　la　mode　le　pays　de　Pole　（I　think　that　was　the　phraseology）；　but　ALWAYS　to　give　quarter。　　In　the　story　of　Philip；　just　come　to　an　end；　I　have　the　permission　of　the　author　to　state；　that　he　was　going　to　drown　the　two　villains　of　the　piecea　certain　Doctor　F　and　a　certain　Mr。　T。　H　on　board　the　〃President；〃　or　some　other　tragic　shipbut　you　see　I　relented。　I　pictured　to　myself　Firmin's　ghastly　face　amid　the　crowd　of　shuddering　people　on　that　reeling　deck　in　the　lonely　ocean；　and　thought；　〃Thou　ghastly　lying　wretch；　thou　shalt　not　be　drowned：　thou　shalt　have　a　fever　only；　a　knowledge　of　thy　danger；　and　a　chance　ever　so　small　a　chanceof　repentance。〃　　I　wonder　whether　he　DID　repent　when　he　found　himself　in　the　yellow…fever；　in　Virginia？　　The　probability　is；　he　fancied　that　his　son　had　injured　him　very　much；　and　forgave　him　on　his　death…bed。　　Do　you　imagine　there　is　a　great　deal　of　genuine　right…down　remorse　in　the　world？　　Don't　people　rather　find　excuses　which　make　their　minds　easy；　endeavor　to　prove　to　themselves　that　they　have　been　lamentably　belied　and　misunderstood；　and　try　and　forgive　the　persecutors　who　WILL　present　that　bill　when　it　is　due；　and　not　bear　malice　against　the　cruel　ruffian　who　takes　them　to　the　police…office　for　stealing　the　spoons？　Years　ago　I　had　a　quarrel　with　a　certain　well…known　person　（I　believed　a　statement　regarding　him　which　his　friends　imparted　to　me；　and　which　turned　out　to　be　quite　incorrect）。　　To　his　dying　day　that　quarrel　was　never　quite　made　up。　　I　said　to　his　brother；　〃Why　is　your　brother's　soul　still　dark　against　me？　　It　is　I　who　ought　to　be　angry　and　unforgiving：　for　I　was　in　the　wrong。〃　　In　the　region　which　they　now　inhabit　（for　Finis　has　been　set　to　the　volumes　of　the　lives　of　both　here　below）；　if　they　take　any　cognizance　of　our　squabbles；　and　tittle…tattles；　and　gossips　on　earth　here；　I　hope　they　admit　that　my　little　error　was　not　of　a　nature　unpardonable。　　If　you　have　never　committed　a　worse；　my　good　sir；　surely　the　score　against　you　will　not　be　heavy。　　Ha；　dilectissimi　fratres！　　It　is　in　regard　of　sins　NOT　found　out　that　we　may　say　or　sing　（in　an　undertone；　in　a　most　penitent　and　lugubrious　minor　key）；　Miserere　nobis　miseris　peccatoribus。　Among　the　sins　of　commission　which　novel…writers　not　seldom　perpetrate；　is　the　sin　of　grandiloquence；　or　tall…talking；　against　which；　for　my　part；　I　will　offer　up　a　special　libera　me。　　This　is　the　sin　of　schoolmasters；　governesses；　critics；　sermoners；　and　instructors　of　young　or　old　people。　　Nay　（for　I　am　making　a　clean　breast；　and　liberating　my　soul）；　perhaps　of　all　the　novel…spinners　now　extant；　the　present　speaker　is　the　most　addicted　to　preaching。　Does　he　not　stop　perpetually　in　his　story　and　begin　to　preach　to　you？　　When　he　ought　to　be　engaged　with　business；　is　he　not　for　ever　taking　the　Muse　by　the　sleeve；　and　plaguing　her　with　some　of　his　cynical　sermons？　　I　cry　peccavi　loudly　and　heartily。　　I　tell　you　I　would　like　to　be　able　to　write　a　story　which　should　show　no　egotism　whateverin　which　there　should　be　no　reflections；　no　cynicism；　no　vulgarity　（and　so　forth）；　but　an　incident　in　every　other　page；　a　villain；　a　battle；　a　mystery　in　every　chapter。　　I　should　like　to　be　able　to　feed　a　reader　so　spicily　as　to　leave　him　hungering　and　thirsting　for　more　at　the　end　of　every　monthly　meal。　Alexandre　Dumas　describes　himself；　when　inventing　the　plan　of　a　work；　as　lying　silent　on　his　back　for　two　whole　days　on　the　deck　of　a　yacht　in　a　Mediterranean　port。　　At　the　end　of　the　two　days　he　arose　and　called　for　dinner。　　In　those　two　days　he　had　built　his　plot。　　He　had　moulded　a　mighty　clay；　to　be　cast　presently　in　perennial　brass。　　The　chapters；　the　characters；　the　incidents；　the　combinations　were　all　arranged　in　the　artist's　brain　ere　he　set　a　pen　to　paper。　　My　Pegasus　won't　fly；　so　as　to　let　me　survey　the　field　below　me。　　He　has　no　wings；　he　is　blind　of　one　eye　certainly；　he　is　restive；　stubborn；　slow；　crops　a　hedge　when　he　ought　to　be　galloping；　or　gallops　when　he　ought　to　be　quiet。　　He　never　will　show　off　when　I　want　him。　　Sometimes　he　goes　at　a　pace　which　surprises　me。　　Sometimes；　when　I　most　wish　him　to　make　the　running；　the　brute　turns　restive；　and　I　am　obliged　to　let　him　take　his　own　time。　　I　wonder　do　other　novel…writers　experience　this　fatalism？　　They　MUST　go　a　certain　way；　in　spite　of　themselves。　　I　have　been　surprised　at　the　observations　made　by　some　of　my　characters。　　It　seems　as　if　an　occult　Power　was　moving　the　pen。　　The　personage　does　or　says　something；　and　I　ask；　how　the　dickens　did　he　come　to　think　of　that？　Every　man　has　remarked　in　dreams；　the　vast　dramatic　power　which　is　sometimes　evinced；　I　won't　say　the　surprising　power；　for　nothing　does　surprise　you　in　dreams。　　But　those　strange　characters　you　meet　make　instant　observations　of　which　you　never　can　have　thought　previously。　　In　like　manner；　the　imagination　foretells　things。　　We　spake　anon　of　the　inflated　style　of　some　writers。　　What　also　if　there　is　an　AFFLATED　style；when　a　writer　is　like　a　Pythoness　on　her　oracle　tripod；　and　mighty　words；　words　which　he　cannot　help；　come　blowing；　and　bellowing；　and　whistling；　and　moaning　through　the　speaking　pipes　of　his　bodily　organ？　　I　have　told　you　it　was　a　very　queer　shock　to　me　the　other　day　when；　with　a　letter　of　introduction　in　his　hand；　the　artist's　（not　my）　Philip　Firmin　walked　into　this　room；　and　sat　down　in　the　chair　opposite。　　In　the　novel　of　〃Pendennis；〃　written　ten　years　ago；　there　is　an　account　of　a　certain　Costigan；　whom　I　had　invented　（as　I　suppose　authors　invent　their　personages　out　of　scraps；　heel…taps；　odds　and　ends　of　characters）。　I　was　smoking　in　a　tavern　parlor　one　nightand　this　Costigan　came　into　the　room　alivethe　very　man：the　most　remarkable　resemblance　of　the　printed　sketches　of　the　man；　of　the　rude　drawings　in　which　I　had　depicted　him。　　He　had　the　same　little　coat；　the　same　battered　hat；　cocked　on　one　eye；　the　same　twinkle　in　that　eye。　　〃Sir；〃　said　I；　knowing　him　to　be　an　old　friend　whom　I　had　met　in　unknown　regions；　〃sir；〃　I　said；　〃may　I　offer　you　a　glass　of　brandy…and…　water？〃　　〃Bedad；　ye　may；〃　says　he；　〃and　I'll　sing　ye　a　song　tu。〃　　Of　course　he　spoke　with　an　Irish　brogue。　　Of　course　he　had　been　in　the　army。　　In　ten　minutes　he　pulled　out　an　Army　Agent's　account；　whereon　his　name　was　written。　　A　few　months　after　we　read　of　him　in　a　police　court。　　How　had　I　come　to　know　him；　to　divine　him？　　Nothing　shall　convince　me　that　I　have　not　seen　that　man　in　the　world　of　spirits。　In　the　world　of　spirits　and　water　I　know　I　did：　but　that　is　a　mere　quibble　of　words。　　I　was　not　surprised　when　he　spoke　in　an　Irish　brogue。　　I　had　had　cognizance　of　him　before　somehow。　　Who　has　not　felt　that　little　shock　which　arises　when　a　person；　a　place；　some　words　in　a　book　（there　is　always　a　collocation）　present　themselves　to　you；　and　you　know　that　you　have　before　met　the　same　person；　words；　scene；　and　so　forth？　They　used　to　call　the　good　Sir　Walter　the　〃Wizard　of　the　North。〃　What　if　some　writer　should　appear　who　can　write　so　ENCHANTINGLY　that　he　shall　be　able　to　call　into　actual　life　the　people　whom　he　invents？　　What　if　Mignon；　and　Margaret；　and　Goetz　von　Berlichingen　are　alive　now　（though　I　don't　say　they　are　visible）；　and　Dugald　Dalgetty　and　Ivanhoe　were　to　step　in　at　that　open　window　by　the　little　garden　yonder？　　Suppose　Uncas　and　our　noble　old　Leather　Stocking　were　to　glide　silent　in？　　Suppose　Athos；　Porthos；　and　Aramis　should　enter　with　a　noiseless　swagger；　curling　their　moustaches？　　And　dearest　Amelia　Booth；　on　Uncle　Toby's　arm；　an