One of the first of these is the fact, generally lost sight of by those who censure6 the Anglo-Saxon novel for its prudishness, that it is really not such a prude after all; and that if it is sometimes apparently7 anxious to avoid those experiences of life not spoken of before young people, this may be an appearance only. Sometimes a novel which has this shuffling8 air, this effect of truckling to propriety9, might defend itself, if it could speak for itself, by saying that such experiences happened not to come within its scheme, and that, so far from maiming or mutilating itself in ignoring them, it was all the more faithfully representative of the tone of modern life in dealing11 with love that was chaste12, and with passion so honest that it could be openly spoken of before the tenderest society bud at dinner. It might say that the guilty intrigue13, the betrayal, the extreme flirtation14 even, was the exceptional thing in life, and unless the scheme of the story necessarily involved it, that it would be bad art to lug15 it in, and as bad taste as to introduce such topics in a mixed company. It could say very justly that the novel in our civilization now always addresses a mixed company, and that the vast majority of the company are ladies, and that very many, if not most, of these ladies are young girls. If the novel were written for men and for married women alone, as in continental16 Europe, it might be altogether different. But the simple fact is that it is not written for them alone among us, and it is a question of writing, under cover of our universal acceptance, things for young girls to read which you would be put out-of-doors for saying to them, or of frankly17 giving notice of your intention, and so cutting yourself off from the pleasure—and it is a very high and sweet one of appealing to these vivid, responsive intelligences, which are none the less brilliant and admirable because they are innocent.
One day a novelist who liked, after the manner of other men, to repine at his hard fate, complained to his friend, a critic, that he was tired of the restriction18 he had put upon himself in this regard; for it is a mistake, as can be readily shown, to suppose that others impose it. "See how free those French fellows are!" he rebelled. "Shall we always be shut up to our tradition of decency19?"
"Do you think it's much worse than being shut up to their tradition of indecency?" said his friend.
Then that novelist began to reflect, and he remembered how sick the invariable motive20 of the French novel made him. He perceived finally that, convention for convention, ours was not only more tolerable, but on the whole was truer to life, not only to its complexion21, but also to its texture22. No one will pretend that there is not vicious love beneath the surface of our society; if he did, the fetid explosions of the divorce trials would refute him; but if he pretended that it was in any just sense characteristic of our society, he could be still more easily refuted. Yet it exists, and it is unquestionably the material of tragedy, the stuff from which intense effects are wrought23. The question, after owning this fact, is whether these intense effects are not rather cheap effects. I incline to think they are, and I will try to say why I think so, if I may do so without offence. The material itself, the mere24 mention of it, has an instant fascination25; it arrests, it detains, till the last word is said, and while there is anything to be hinted. This is what makes a love intrigue of some sort all but essential to the popularity of any fiction. Without such an intrigue the intellectual equipment of the author must be of the highest, and then he will succeed only with the highest class of readers. But any author who will deal with a guilty love intrigue holds all readers in his hand, the highest with the lowest, as long as he hints the slightest hope of the smallest potential naughtiness. He need not at all be a great author; he may be a very shabby wretch26, if he has but the courage or the trick of that sort of thing. The critics will call him "virile27" and "passionate"; decent people will be ashamed to have been limed by him; but the low average will only ask another chance of flocking into his net. If he happens to be an able writer, his really fine and costly28 work will be unheeded, and the lure29 to the appetite will be chiefly remembered. There may be other qualities which make reputations for other men, but in his case they will count for nothing. He pays this penalty for his success in that kind; and every one pays some such penalty who deals with some such material.
But I do not mean to imply that his case covers the whole ground. So far as it goes, though, it ought to stop the mouths of those who complain that fiction is enslaved to propriety among us. It appears that of a certain kind of impropriety it is free to give us all it will, and more. But this is not what serious men and women writing fiction mean when they rebel against the limitations of their art in our civilization. They have no desire to deal with nakedness, as painters and sculptors30 freely do in the worship of beauty; or with certain facts of life, as the stage does, in the service of sensation. But they ask why, when the conventions of the plastic and histrionic arts liberate31 their followers32 to the portrayal33 of almost any phase of the physical or of the emotional nature, an American novelist may not write a story on the lines of 'Anna Karenina' or 'Madame Bovary.' They wish to touch one of the most serious and sorrowful problems of life in the spirit of Tolstoy and Flaubert, and they ask why they may not. At one time, they remind us, the Anglo-Saxon novelist did deal with such problems—De Foe34 in his spirit, Richardson in his, Goldsmith in his. At what moment did our fiction lose this privilege? In what fatal hour did the Young Girl arise and seal the lips of Fiction, with a touch of her finger, to some of the most vital interests of life?
Whether I wished to oppose them in their aspiration35 for greater freedom, or whether I wished to encourage them, I should begin to answer them by saying that the Young Girl has never done anything of the kind. The manners of the novel have been improving with those of its readers; that is all. Gentlemen no longer swear or fall drunk under the table, or abduct36 young ladies and shut them up in lonely country-houses, or so habitually37 set about the ruin of their neighbors' wives, as they once did. Generally, people now call a spade an agricultural implement38; they have not grown decent without having also grown a little squeamish, but they have grown comparatively decent; there is no doubt about that. They require of a novelist whom they respect unquestionable proof of his seriousness, if he proposes to deal with certain phases of life; they require a sort of scientific decorum. He can no longer expect to be received on the ground of entertainment only; he assumes a higher function, something like that of a physician or a priest, and they expect him to be bound by laws as sacred as those of such professions; they hold him solemnly pledged not to betray them or abuse their confidence. If he will accept the conditions, they give him their confidence, and he may then treat to his greater honor, and not at all to his disadvantage, of such experiences, such relations of men and women as George Eliot treats in 'Adam Bede,' in 'Daniel Deronda,' in 'Romola,' in almost all her books; such as Hawthorne treats in 'The Scarlet39 Letter;' such as Dickens treats in 'David Copperfield;' such as Thackeray treats in 'Pendennis,' and glances at in every one of his fictions; such as most of the masters of English fiction have at same time treated more or less openly. It is quite false or quite mistaken to suppose that our novels have left untouched these most important realities of life. They have only not made them their stock in trade; they have kept a true perspective in regard to them; they have relegated40 them in their pictures of life to the space and place they occupy in life itself, as we know it in England and America. They have kept a correct proportion, knowing perfectly41 well that unless the novel is to be a map, with everything scrupulously42 laid down in it, a faithful record of life in far the greater extent could be made to the exclusion43 of guilty love and all its circumstances and consequences.
I justify44 them in this view not only because I hate what is cheap and meretricious45, and hold in peculiar46 loathing47 the cant48 of the critics who require "passion" as something in itself admirable and desirable in a novel, but because I prize fidelity49 in the historian of feeling and character. Most of these critics who demand "passion" would seem to have no conception of any passion but one. Yet there are several other passions: the passion of grief, the passion of avarice50, the passion of pity, the passion of ambition, the passion of hate, the passion of envy, the passion of devotion, the passion of friendship; and all these have a greater part in the drama of life than the passion of love, and infinitely51 greater than the passion of guilty love. Wittingly or unwittingly, English fiction and American fiction have recognized this truth, not fully10, not in the measure it merits, but in greater degree than most other fiction.
点击收听单词发音
1 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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2 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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3 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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4 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
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5 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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6 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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7 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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8 shuffling | |
adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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9 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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10 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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11 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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12 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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13 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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14 flirtation | |
n.调情,调戏,挑逗 | |
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15 lug | |
n.柄,突出部,螺帽;(英)耳朵;(俚)笨蛋;vt.拖,拉,用力拖动 | |
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16 continental | |
adj.大陆的,大陆性的,欧洲大陆的 | |
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17 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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18 restriction | |
n.限制,约束 | |
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19 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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20 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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21 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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22 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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23 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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24 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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25 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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26 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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27 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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28 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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29 lure | |
n.吸引人的东西,诱惑物;vt.引诱,吸引 | |
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30 sculptors | |
雕刻家,雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 ); [天]玉夫座 | |
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31 liberate | |
v.解放,使获得自由,释出,放出;vt.解放,使获自由 | |
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32 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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33 portrayal | |
n.饰演;描画 | |
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34 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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35 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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36 abduct | |
vt.诱拐,拐带,绑架 | |
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37 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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38 implement | |
n.(pl.)工具,器具;vt.实行,实施,执行 | |
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39 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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40 relegated | |
v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 );使降职;转移;把…归类 | |
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41 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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42 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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43 exclusion | |
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
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44 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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45 meretricious | |
adj.华而不实的,俗艳的 | |
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46 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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47 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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48 cant | |
n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
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49 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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50 avarice | |
n.贪婪;贪心 | |
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51 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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