There is a certain demand in primitive3 natures for the kind of fiction that does this, and the author of it is usually very proud of it. The kind of novels he likes, and likes to write, are intended to take his reader's mind, or what that reader would probably call his mind, off himself; they make one forget life and all its cares and duties; they are not in the least like the novels which make you think of these, and shame you into at least wishing to be a helpfuller and wholesomer creature than you are. No sordid4 details of verity5 here, if you please; no wretched being humbly6 and weakly struggling to do right and to be true, suffering for his follies7 and his sins, tasting joy only through the mortification8 of self, and in the help of others; nothing of all this, but a great, whirling splendor9 of peril10 and achievement, a wild scene of heroic adventure and of emotional ground and lofty tumbling, with a stage "picture" at the fall of the curtain, and all the good characters in a row, their left hands pressed upon their hearts, and kissing their right hands to the audience, in the old way that has always charmed and always will charm, Heaven bless it!
In a world which loves the spectacular drama and the practically bloodless sports of the modern amphitheatre the author of this sort of fiction has his place, and we must not seek to destroy him because he fancies it the first place. In fact, it is a condition of his doing well the kind of work he does that he should think it important, that he should believe in himself; and I would not take away this faith of his, even if I could. As I say, he has his place. The world often likes to forget itself, and he brings on his heroes, his goblins, his feats11, his hair-breadth escapes, his imminent12 deadly breaches13, and the poor, foolish, childish old world renews the excitements of its nonage. Perhaps this is a work of beneficence; and perhaps our brave conjurer in his cabalistic robe is a philanthropist in disguise.
Within the last four or five years there has been throughout the whole English-speaking world what Mr. Grant Allen happily calls the "recrudescence" of taste in fiction. The effect is less noticeable in America than in England, where effete14 Philistinism, conscious of the dry-rot of its conventionality, is casting about for cure in anything that is wild and strange and unlike itself. But the recrudescence has been evident enough here, too; and a writer in one of our periodicals has put into convenient shape some common errors concerning popularity as a test of merit in a book. He seems to think, for instance, that the love of the marvellous and impossible in fiction, which is shown not only by "the unthinking multitude clamoring about the book counters" for fiction of that sort, but by the "literary elect" also, is proof of some principle in human nature which ought to be respected as well as tolerated. He seems to believe that the ebullition of this passion forms a sufficient answer to those who say that art should represent life, and that the art which misrepresents life is feeble art and false art. But it appears to me that a little carefuller reasoning from a little closer inspection15 of the facts would not have brought him to these conclusions. In the first place, I doubt very much whether the "literary elect" have been fascinated in great numbers by the fiction in question; but if I supposed them to have really fallen under that spell, I should still be able to account for their fondness and that of the "unthinking multitude" upon the same grounds, without honoring either very much. It is the habit of hasty casuists to regard civilization as inclusive of all the members of a civilized16 community; but this is a palpable error. Many persons in every civilized community live in a state of more or less evident savagery17 with respect to their habits, their morals, and their propensities19; and they are held in check only by the law. Many more yet are savage18 in their tastes, as they show by the decoration of their houses and persons, and by their choice of books and pictures; and these are left to the restraints of public opinion. In fact, no man can be said to be thoroughly20 civilized or always civilized; the most refined, the most enlightened person has his moods, his moments of barbarism, in which the best, or even the second best, shall not please him. At these times the lettered and the unlettered are alike primitive and their gratifications are of the same simple sort; the highly cultivated person may then like melodrama21, impossible fiction, and the trapeze as sincerely and thoroughly as a boy of thirteen or a barbarian22 of any age.
I do not blame him for these moods; I find something instructive and interesting in them; but if they lastingly23 established themselves in him, I could not help deploring24 the state of that person. No one can really think that the "literary elect," who are said to have joined the "unthinking multitude" in clamoring about the book counters for the romances of no-man's land, take the same kind of pleasure in them as they do in a novel of Tolstoy, Tourguenief, George Eliot, Thackeray, Balzac, Manzoni, Hawthorne, Mr. Henry James, Mr. Thomas Hardy25, Senor Palacio Valdes, or even Walter Scott. They have joined the "unthinking multitude," perhaps because they are tired of thinking, and expect to find relaxation26 in feeling—feeling crudely, grossly, merely. For once in a way there is no great harm in this; perhaps no harm at all. It is perfectly27 natural; let them have their innocent debauch28. But let us distinguish, for our own sake and guidance, between the different kinds of things that please the same kind of people; between the things that please them habitually29 and those that please them occasionally; between the pleasures that edify30 them and those that amuse them. Otherwise we shall be in danger of becoming permanently31 part of the "unthinking multitude," and of remaining puerile32, primitive, savage. We shall be so in moods and at moments; but let us not fancy that those are high moods or fortunate moments. If they are harmless, that is the most that can be said for them. They are lapses34 from which we can perhaps go forward more vigorously; but even this is not certain.
My own philosophy of the matter, however, would not bring me to prohibition35 of such literary amusements as the writer quoted seems to find significant of a growing indifference36 to truth and sanity37 in fiction. Once more, I say, these amusements have their place, as the circus has, and the burlesque38 and negro minstrelsy, and the ballet, and prestidigitation. No one of these is to be despised in its place; but we had better understand that it is not the highest place, and that it is hardly an intellectual delight. The lapse33 of all the "literary elect" in the world could not dignify39 unreality; and their present mood, if it exists, is of no more weight against that beauty in literature which comes from truth alone, and never can come from anything else, than the permanent state of the "unthinking multitude."
Yet even as regards the "unthinking multitude," I believe I am not able to take the attitude of the writer I have quoted. I am afraid that I respect them more than he would like to have me, though I cannot always respect their taste, any more than that of the "literary elect." I respect them for their good sense in most practical matters; for their laborious40, honest lives; for their kindness, their good-will; for that aspiration41 towards something better than themselves which seems to stir, however dumbly, in every human breast not abandoned to literary pride or other forms of self-righteousness. I find every man interesting, whether he thinks or unthinks, whether he is savage or civilized; for this reason I cannot thank the novelist who teaches us not to know but to unknow our kind. Yet I should by no means hold him to such strict account as Emerson, who felt the absence of the best motive42, even in the greatest of the masters, when he said of Shakespeare that, after all, he was only master of the revels43. The judgment44 is so severe, even with the praise which precedes it, that one winces45 under it; and if one is still young, with the world gay before him, and life full of joyous46 promise, one is apt to ask, defiantly47, Well, what is better than being such a master of the revels as Shakespeare was? Let each judge for himself. To the heart again of serious youth, uncontaminate and exigent of ideal good, it must always be a grief that the great masters seem so often to have been willing to amuse the leisure and vacancy48 of meaner men, and leave their mission to the soul but partially49 fulfilled. This, perhaps, was what Emerson had in mind; and if he had it in mind of Shakespeare, who gave us, with his histories and comedies and problems, such a searching homily as "Macbeth," one feels that he scarcely recognized the limitations of the dramatist's art. Few consciences, at times, seem so enlightened as that of this personally unknown person, so withdrawn50 into his work, and so lost to the intensest curiosity of after-time; at other times he seems merely Elizabethan in his coarseness, his courtliness, his imperfect sympathy.
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1
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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3
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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5
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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8
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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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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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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33
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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34
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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35
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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39
dignify
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| vt.使有尊严；使崇高；给增光 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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41
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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42
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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43
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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44
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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45
winces
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| 避开，畏缩( wince的名词复数 ) | |
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46
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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47
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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48
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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49
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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50
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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