“Their sometime selves the same throughout the year,”
must have stood in the first company with the six names of my continual literary intimates. To these six, incongruous as they seem, I have long been faithful, and hope to be faithful to the day of death. I have never read the whole of Montaigne, but I do not like to be long without reading some of him, and my delight in what I do read never lessens2. Of Shakespeare I have read all but Richard III, Henry VI., Titus Andronicas, and All’s Well that Ends Well; and these, having already made all suitable endeavour, I now know that I shall never read — to make up for which unfaithfulness I could read much of the rest for ever. Of Moliere — surely the next greatest name of Christendom — I could tell a very similar story; but in a little corner of a little essay these princes are too much out of place, and I prefer to pay my fealty3 and pass on. How often I have read Guy Mannering, Rob Roy, or Redgauntlet, I have no means of guessing, having begun young. But it is either four or five times that I have read The Egoist, and either five or six that I have read the Vicomte de Bragelonne.
Some, who would accept the others, may wonder that I should have spent so much of this brief life of ours over a work so little famous as the last. And, indeed, I am surprised myself; not at my own devotion, but the coldness of the world. My acquaintance with the Vicomte began, somewhat indirectly4, in the year of grace 1863, when I had the advantage of studying certain illustrated5 dessert plates in a hotel at Nice. The name of d’Artagnan in the legends I already saluted6 like an old friend, for I had met it the year before in a work of Miss Yonge’s. My first perusal7 was in one of those pirated editions that swarmed8 at that time out of Brussels, and ran to such a troop of neat and dwarfish9 volumes. I understood but little of the merits of the book; my strongest memory is of the execution of d’Eymeric and Lyodot — a strange testimony10 to the dulness of a boy, who could enjoy the rough-and-tumble in the Place de Greve, and forget d’Artagnan’s visits to the two financiers. My next reading was in winter-time, when I lived alone upon the Pentlands. I would return in the early night from one of my patrols with the shepherd; a friendly face would meet me in the door, a friendly retriever scurry11 upstairs to fetch my slippers12; and I would sit down with the Vicomte for a long, silent, solitary13 lamp-light evening by the fire. And yet I know not why I call it silent, when it was enlivened with such a clatter14 of horse-shoes, and such a rattle15 of musketry, and such a stir of talk; or why I call those evenings solitary in which I gained so many friends. I would rise from my book and pull the blind aside, and see the snow and the glittering hollies16 chequer a Scotch17 garden, and the winter moonlight brighten the white hills. Thence I would turn again to that crowded and sunny field of life in which it was so easy to forget myself, my cares, and my surroundings: a place busy as a city, bright as a theatre, thronged18 with memorable19 faces, and sounding with delightful20 speech. I carried the thread of that epic21 into my slumbers22, I woke with it unbroken, I rejoiced to plunge23 into the book again at breakfast, it was with a pang24 that I must lay it down and turn to my own labours; for no part of the world has ever seemed to me so charming as these pages, and not even my friends are quite so real, perhaps quite so dear, as d’Artagnan.
Since then I have been going to and fro at very brief intervals25 in my favourite book; and I have now just risen from my last (let me call it my fifth) perusal, having liked it better and admired it more seriously than ever. Perhaps I have a sense of ownership, being so well known in these six volumes. Perhaps I think that d’Artagnan delights to have me read of him, and Louis Quatorze is gratified, and Fouquet throws me a look, and Aramis, although he knows I do not love him, yet plays to me with his best graces, as to an old patron of the show. Perhaps, if I am not careful, something may befall me like what befell George IV. about the battle of Waterloo, and I may come to fancy the Vicomte one of the first, and Heaven knows the best, of my own works. At least, I avow26 myself a partisan27; and when I compare the popularity of the Vicomte with that of Montro Cristo, or its own elder brother, the Trois Mousquetaires, I confess I am both pained and puzzled.
To those who have already made acquaintance with the titular28 hero in the pages of Vingt ans apres, perhaps the name may act as a deterrent29. A man might, well stand back if he supposed he were to follow, for six volumes, so well-conducted, so fine-spoken, and withal so dreary31 a cavalier as Bragelonne. But the fear is idle. I may be said to have passed the best years of my life in these six volumes, and my acquaintance with Raoul has never gone beyond a bow; and when he, who has so long pretended to be alive, is at last suffered to pretend to be dead, I am sometimes reminded of a saying in an earlier volume: “enfin, dit Miss Stewart,” — and it was of Bragelonne she spoke30 — “enfin il a fait quelquechose: c’est, ma foi! Bien Heureux.” I am reminded of it, as I say; and the next moment, when Athos dies of his death, and my dear d’Artagnan bursts into his storm of sobbing32, I can but deplore33 my flippancy34.
Or perhaps it is La Valliere that the reader of Vingt ans apres is inclined to flee. Well, he is right there too, though not so right. Louise is no success. Her creator has spared no pains; she is well-meant, not ill-designed, sometimes has a word that rings out true; sometimes, if only for a breath, she may even engage our sympathies. But I have never envied the King his triumph. And so far from pitying Bragelonne for his defeat, I could wish him no worse (not for lack of malice35, but imagination) than to be wedded36 to that lady. Madame enchants37 me; I can forgive that royal minx her most serious offences; I can thrill and soften39 with the King on that memorable occasion when he goes to upbraid40 and remains41 to flirt42; and when it comes to the “allons, aimez-moi donc,” it is my heart that melts in the bosom43 of de Guiche. Not so with Louise. Readers cannot fail to have remarked that what an author tells us of the beauty or the charm of his creatures goes for nought44; that we know instantly better; that the heroine cannot open her mouth but what, all in a moment, the fine phrases of preparation fall from round her like the robes from Cinderella, and she stands before us, self-betrayed, as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps a strapping45 market-woman. Authors, at least, know it well; a heroine will too often start the trick of “getting ugly;” and no disease is more difficult to cure. I said authors; but indeed I had a side eye to one author in particular, with whose works I am very well acquainted, though I cannot read them, and who has spent many vigils in this cause, sitting beside his ailing46 puppets and (like a magician) wearying his art to restore them to youth and beauty. There are others who ride too high for these misfortunes. Who doubts the loveliness of Rosalind? Arden itself was not more lovely. Who ever questioned the perennial47 charm of Rose Jocelyn, Lucy Desborough, or Clara Middleton? fair women with fair names, the daughters of George Meredith. Elizabeth Bennet has but to speak, and I am at her knees. Ah! these are the creators of desirable women. They would never have fallen in the mud with Dumas and poor La Valliere. It is my only consolation48 that not one of all of them, except the first, could have plucked at the moustache of d’Artagnan.
Or perhaps, again, a proportion of readers stumble at the threshold. In so vast a mansion49 there were sure to be back stairs and kitchen offices where no one would delight to linger; but it was at least unhappy that the vestibule should be so badly lighted; and until, in the seventeenth chapter, d’Artagnan sets off to seek his friends, I must confess, the book goes heavily enough. But, from thenceforward, what a feast is spread! Monk50 kidnapped; d’Artagnan enriched; Mazarin’s death; the ever delectable51 adventure of Belle52 Isle53, wherein Aramis outwits d’Artagnan, with its epilogue (vol. v. chap. xxviii.), where d’Artagnan regains54 the moral superiority; the love adventures at Fontainebleau, with St. Aignan’s story of the dryad and the business of de Guiche, de Wardes, and Manicamp; Aramis made general of the Jesuits; Aramis at the bastille; the night talk in the forest of Senart; Belle Isle again, with the death of Porthos; and last, but not least, the taming of d’Artagnan the untamable, under the lash55 of the young King. What other novel has such epic variety and nobility of incident? often, if you will, impossible; often of the order of an Arabian story; and yet all based in human nature. For if you come to that, what novel has more human nature? not studied with the microscope, but seen largely, in plain daylight, with the natural eye? What novel has more good sense, and gaiety, and wit, and unflagging, admirable literary skill? Good souls, I suppose, must sometimes read it in the blackguard travesty56 of a translation. But there is no style so untranslatable; light as a whipped trifle, strong as silk; wordy like a village tale; pat like a general’s despatch57; with every fault, yet never tedious; with no merit, yet inimitably right. And, once more, to make an end of commendations, what novel is inspired with a more unstained or a more wholesome58 morality?
Yes; in spite of Miss Yonge, who introduced me to the name of d’Artagnan only to dissuade59 me from a nearer knowledge of the man, I have to add morality. There is no quite good book without a good morality; but the world is wide, and so are morals. Out of two people who have dipped into Sir Richard Burton’s Thousand and One Nights, one shall have been offended by the animal details; another to whom these were harmless, perhaps even pleasing, shall yet have been shocked in his turn by the rascality60 and cruelty of all the characters. Of two readers, again, one shall have been pained by the morality of a religious memoir61, one by that of the Vicomte de Bragelonne. And the point is that neither need be wrong. We shall always shock each other both in life and art; we cannot get the sun into our pictures, nor the abstract right (if there be such a thing) into our books; enough if, in the one, there glimmer62 some hint of the great light that blinds us from heaven; enough if, in the other, there shine, even upon foul63 details, a spirit of magnanimity. I would scarce send to the Vicomte a reader who was in quest of what we may call puritan morality. The ventripotent mulatto, the great cater64, worker, earner and waster, the man of much and witty65 laughter, the man of the great heart and alas66! of the doubtful honesty, is a figure not yet clearly set before the world; he still awaits a sober and yet genial67 portrait; but with whatever art that may be touched, and whatever indulgence, it will not be the portrait of a precision. Dumas was certainly not thinking of himself, but of Planchet, when he put into the mouth of d’Artagnan’s old servant this excellent profession: “Monsieur, j’etais une de ces bonnes pates68 d’hommes que Dieu a fait pour s’animer pendant un certain temps et pour trouver bonnes toutes choses qui accompagnent leur sejour sur la terre.” He was thinking, as I say, of Planchet, to whom the words are aptly fitted; but they were fitted also to Planchet’s creator; and perhaps this struck him as he wrote, for observe what follows: “D’Artagnan s’assit alors pres de la fenetre, et, cette philosophie de planchet lui ayant paru solide, il y reva.” In a man who finds all things good, you will scarce expect much zeal69 for negative virtues70: the active alone will have a charm for him; abstinence, however wise, however kind, will always seem to such a judge entirely72 mean and partly impious. So with Dumas. Chastity is not near his heart; nor yet, to his own sore cost, that virtue71 of frugality73 which is the armour74 of the artist. Now, in the Vicomte, he had much to do with the contest of Fouquet and Colbert. Historic justice should be all upon the side of Colbert, of official honesty, and fiscal75 competence76.
And Dumas knew it well: three times at least he shows his knowledge; once it is but flashed upon us and received with the laughter of Fouquet himself, in the jesting controversy77 in the gardens of Saint Mande; once it is touched on by Aramis in the forest of Senart; in the end, it is set before us clearly in one dignified78 speech of the triumphant79 Colbert. But in Fouquet, the waster, the lover of good cheer and wit and art, the swift transactor80 of much business, “L’homme de Bruit81, L’homme de Plaisir, l’homme qui n’est que parceque les autres sont,” Dumas saw something of himself and drew the figure the more tenderly. It is to me even touching82 to see how he insists on Fouquet’s honour; not seeing, you might think, that unflawed honour is impossible to spendthrifts; but rather, perhaps, in the light of his own life, seeing it too well, and clinging the more to what was left. Honour can survive a wound; it can live and thrive without a member. The man rebounds83 from his disgrace; he begins fresh foundations on the ruins of the old; and when his sword is broken, he will do valiantly84 with his dagger85. So it is with Fouquet in the book; so it was with Dumas on the battlefield of life.
To cling to what is left of any damaged quality is virtue in the man; but perhaps to sing its praises is scarcely to be called morality in the writer. And it is elsewhere, it is in the character of d’Artagnan, that we must look for that spirit of morality, which is one of the chief merits of the book, makes one of the main joys of its perusal, and sets it high above more popular rivals. Athos, with the coming of years, has declined too much into the preacher, and the preacher of a sapless creed86; but d’Artagnan has mellowed87 into a man so witty, rough, kind and upright, that he takes the heart by storm. There is nothing of the copy-book about his virtues, nothing of the drawing-room in his fine, natural civility; he will sail near the wind; he is no district visitor — no Wesley or Robespierre; his conscience is void of all refinement88 whether for good or evil; but the whole man rings true like a good sovereign. Readers who have approached the Vicomte, not across country, but by the legitimate89, five-volumed avenue of the Mousquetaires and Vingt ans apres, will not have forgotten d’Artagnan’s ungentlemanly and perfectly90 improbable trick upon Milady. What a pleasure it is, then, what a reward, and how agreeable a lesson, to see the old captain humble91 himself to the son of the man whom he had personated! Here, and throughout, if I am to choose virtues for myself or my friends, let me choose the virtues of d’Artagnan. I do not say there is no character as well drawn92 in Shakespeare; I do say there is none that I love so wholly. There are many spiritual eyes that seem to spy upon our actions — eyes of the dead and the absent, whom we imagine to behold93 us in our most private hours, and whom we fear and scruple94 to offend: our witnesses and judges. And among these, even if you should think me childish, I must count my d’Artagnan — not d’Artagnan of the memoirs95 whom Thackeray pretended to prefer — a preference, I take the freedom of saying, in which he stands alone; not the d’Artagnan of flesh and blood, but him of the ink and paper; not Nature’s, but Dumas’s. And this is the particular crown and triumph of the artist — not to be true merely, but to be lovable; not simply to convince, but to enchant38.
There is yet another point in the Vicomte which I find incomparable. I can recall no other work of the imagination in which the end of life is represented with so nice a tact96. I was asked the other day if Dumas made me laugh or cry. Well in this my late fifth reading of the Vicomte, I did laugh once at the small Coquelin de Voliere business, and was perhaps a thought surprised at having done so: to make up for it, I smiled continually. But for tears, I do not know. If you put a pistol to my throat, I must own the tale trips upon a very airy foot — within a measurable distance of unreality; and for those who like the big guns to be discharged and the great passions to appear authentically97, it may even seem inadequate98 from first to last. Not so to me; I cannot count that a poor dinner, or a poor book, where I meet with those I love; and, above all, in this last volume, I find a singular charm of spirit. It breathes a pleasant and a tonic99 sadness, always brave, never hysterical100. Upon the crowded, noisy life of this long tale, evening gradually falls; and the lights are extinguished, and the heroes pass away one by one. One by one they go, and not a regret embitters101 their departure; the young succeed them in their places, Louis Quatorze is swelling102 larger and shining broader, another generation and another France dawn on the horizon; but for us and these old men whom we have loved so long, the inevitable103 end draws near and is welcome. To read this well is to anticipate experience. Ah, if only when these hours of the long shadows fall for us in reality and not in figure, we may hope to face them with a mind as quiet!
But my paper is running out; the siege guns are firing on the Dutch frontier; and I must say adieu for the fifth time to my old comrade fallen on the field of glory. adieu — rather au revoir! Yet a sixth time, dearest d’Artagnan, we shall kidnap Monk and take horse together for Belle Isle.
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1
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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lessens
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| 变少( lessen的第三人称单数 )； 减少（某事物） | |
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fealty
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| n.忠贞，忠节 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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slippers
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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hollies
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| n.冬青（常绿灌木，叶尖而硬，有光泽，冬季结红色浆果）( holly的名词复数 )；（用作圣诞节饰物的）冬青树枝 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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thronged
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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delightful
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epic
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slumbers
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plunge
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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partisan
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titular
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deterrent
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dreary
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sobbing
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enchants
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| 使欣喜，使心醉( enchant的第三人称单数 )； 用魔法迷惑 | |
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enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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regains
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| 复得( regain的第三人称单数 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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pates
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| n.头顶，（尤指）秃顶，光顶( pate的名词复数 ) | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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transactor
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| n.处理者，办理人 | |
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bruit
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| v.散布；n.（听诊时所听到的）杂音；吵闹 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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rebounds
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| 反弹球( rebound的名词复数 )； 回弹球； 抢断篮板球； 复兴 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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authentically
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| ad.sincerely真诚地 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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101
embitters
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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103
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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