My ardor1 for Shakespeare must have been at its height when I was between sixteen and seventeen years old, for I fancy when I began to formulate2 my admiration3, and to try to measure his greatness in phrases, I was less simply impassioned than at some earlier time. At any rate, I am sure that I did not proclaim his planetary importance in creation until I was at least nineteen. But even at an earlier age I no longer worshipped at a single shrine4; there were many gods in the temple of my idolatry, and I bowed the knee to them all in a devotion which, if it was not of one quality, was certainly impartial5. While I was reading, and thinking, and living Shakespeare with such an intensity6 that I do not see how there could have been room in my consciousness for anything else, there seem to have been half a dozen other divinities there, great and small, whom I have some present difficulty in distinguishing. I kept Irving, and Goldsmith, and Cervantes on their old altars, but I added new ones, and these I translated from the contemporary: literary world quite as often as from the past. I am rather glad that among them was the gentle and kindly7 Ik Marvel8, whose 'Reveries of a Bachelor' and whose 'Dream Life' the young people of that day were reading with a tender rapture9 which would not be altogether surprising, I dare say, to the young people of this. The books have survived the span of immortality10 fixed11 by our amusing copyright laws, and seem now, when any pirate publisher may plunder12 their author, to have a new life before them. Perhaps this is ordered by Providence13, that those who have no right to them may profit by them, in that divine contempt of such profit which Providence so often shows.
I cannot understand just how I came to know of the books, but I suppose it was through the contemporary criticism which I was then beginning to read, wherever I could find it, in the magazines and newspapers; and I could not say why I thought it would be very 'comme il faut' to like them. Probably the literary fine world, which is always rubbing shoulders with the other fine world, and bringing off a little of its powder and perfume, was then dawning upon me, and I was wishing to be of it, and to like the things that it liked; I am not so anxious to do it now. But if this is true, I found the books better than their friends, and had many a heartache from their pathos14, many a genuine glow of purpose from their high import, many a tender suffusion15 from their sentiment. I dare say I should find their pose now a little old-fashioned. I believe it was rather full of sighs, and shrugs16 and starts, expressed in dashes, and asterisks17, and exclamations18, but I am sure that the feeling was the genuine and manly19 sort which is of all times and always the latest wear. Whatever it was, it sufficed to win my heart, and to identify me with whatever was most romantic and most pathetic in it. I read 'Dream Life' first—though the 'Reveries of a Bachelor' was written first, and I believe is esteemed20 the better book —and 'Dream Life' remains21 first in my affections. I have now little notion what it was about, but I love its memory. The book is associated especially in my mind with one golden day of Indian summer, when I carried it into the woods with me, and abandoned myself to a welter of emotion over its page. I lay, under a crimson22 maple23, and I remember how the light struck through it and flushed the print with the gules of the foliage24. My friend was away by this time on one of his several absences in the Northwest, and I was quite alone in the absurd and irrelevant25 melancholy26 with which I read myself and my circumstances into the book. I began to read them out again in due time, clothed with the literary airs and graces that I admired in it, and for a long time I imitated Ik Marvel in the voluminous letters I wrote my friend in compliance27 with his Shakespearean prayer:
"To Milan let me hear from thee by letters,
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
And I likewise will visit thee with mine."
Milan was then presently Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and Verona was our little village; but they both served the soul of youth as well as the real places would have done, and were as really Italian as anything else in the situation was really this or that. Heaven knows what gaudy28 sentimental29 parade we made in our borrowed plumes30, but if the travesty31 had kept itself to the written word it would have been all well enough. My misfortune was to carry it into print when I began to write a story, in the Ik Marvel manner, or rather to compose it in type at the case, for that was what I did; and it was not altogether imitated from Ik Marvel either, for I drew upon the easier art of Dickens at times, and helped myself out with bald parodies32 of Bleak33 House in many places. It was all very well at the beginning, but I had not reckoned with the future sufficiently34 to have started with any clear ending in my mind, and as I went on I began to find myself more and more in doubt about it. My material gave out; incidents failed me; the characters wavered and threatened to perish on my hands. To crown my misery35 there grew up an impatience36 with the story among its readers, and this found its way to me one day when I overheard an old farmer who came in for his paper say that he did not think that story amounted to much. I did not think so either, but it was deadly to have it put into words, and how I escaped the mortal effect of the stroke I do not know. Somehow I managed to bring the wretched thing to a close, and to live it slowly into the past. Slowly it seemed then, but I dare say it was fast enough; and there is always this consolation37 to be whispered in the ear of wounded vanity, that the world's memory is equally bad for failure and success; that if it will not keep your triumphs in mind as you think it ought, neither will it long dwell upon your defeats. But that experience was really terrible. It was like some dreadful dream one has of finding one's self in battle without the courage needed to carry one creditably through the action, or on the stage unprepared by study of the part which one is to appear in. I have hover38 looked at that story since, so great was the shame and anguish39 that I suffered from it, and yet I do not think it was badly conceived, or attempted upon lines that were mistaken. If it were not for what happened in the past I might like some time to write a story on the same lines in the future.
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1
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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2
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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3
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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8
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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10
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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12
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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13
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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14
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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16
shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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asterisks
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| n.星号，星状物( asterisk的名词复数 )v.加星号于( asterisk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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19
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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21
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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22
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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23
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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24
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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25
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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30
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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31
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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32
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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33
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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34
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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35
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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36
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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37
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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38
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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39
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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