I suppose about the name there is no doubt. For sixty years we have followed that gifted gadabout and gossip, Heine, and called it Philistia. And yet, when one thinks of it, there may have been a mistake after all. Artemus Ward3 used to say that he had been able, with effort, to comprehend how it was possible to measure the distance between the stars, and even the dimensions and candle-power, so to speak, of those heavenly bodies; what beat him was how astronomers4 had ever found out their names. So I find myself wondering whether Philistia really is the right name for the land where She must be obeyed.
If so, it is only a little more the region of mysterious paradox and tricksy metamorphosis. We think of it always and from all time as given over to Her rule. We feel in our bones that there was a troglodyte5 Mrs Grundy; we imagine to ourselves a British matron contemporary with the cave bear and the woolly elephant But her very antiquity6 only makes it more puzzling.
There is an old gentleman who always tries to prove to me that the French are really Germans, that the Germans are all Slavs, and that the Russians are strictly7 Tartars: that is to say, that in keeping-count of the early races as they swarmed8 Westward9 we somehow skipped one, and have been wrong ever since. There must be some such explanation of how the domain10 which She sways came to be called Philistia.
I say this, because the old Philistia was tremendously masculine. It was the Jews who struck the feminine note. They used to swagger no end when they won a victory, and utilise it to the utmost limit of merciless savagery11; but when it came their turn to be thrashed they filled the very heavens with complaining clamour. We got no hint that the Philistines12 ever failed to take their medicine like men.
Consider those splendid later Philistines, the Norsemen. In all their martial13 literature there is no suggestion of a whine14. They loved fighting for its own sake; next to braining their foes15, they admired being themselves hewn into sections. They never blamed their gods when they had the worst of it. They never insisted that they were always right and their enemies invariably wrong. They cared nothing about all that. They demanded only fun. It was their victims, the Frankish and Irish monks16, who shed women’s tears and besought17 Providence18 to play favourites.
And here is the paradox. The children of these Berserker loins are become the minions19 of Mrs Grundy. By some magic she has enshrined Respectability in their temples. In one division of her empire she makes Mr Helmer drink tea; in another she sets everybody reading the Buchholz Family; in her chosen island home her husband on the sunniest Sundays carries an umbrella instead of a walking-stick. Fancy the wild delirium20 of delight with which the old Philistines would have raided her homestead, chopping down her Robert Elsmeres, impaling22 her Horsleys, and making the skies lurid23 with the flames of her semi-detached villa24! Yet we call her place Philistia!
I know the villa very well. It is quite near to the South Kensington Museum. The title “Fernbank” is painted on the gate-posts. How well-ordered and comfortable does life beyond those posts remain! Here are no headaches in the morning. Here white-capped domestics move with neat alertness along the avenues of gentle routine, looking neither to the policeman on the right nor fiery-jacketed Thomas Atkins on the left. Here my friend Mr Albert Grundy invariably comes home by the Underground to dinner. Here his three daughters—girls of a type with a diminishing upper lip, with sharper chins and greater length of limb than of old—lead deeply washed existences, playing at tennis, smiling in flushed silence at visitors, feeding contentedly25 upon Mudie’s stores, the while their mamma spreads the matrimonial net about the piano or makes tours of inspection26 among her outlying mantraps on the lawn. Here simpers the innocuous curate; here Uncle Dudley, who has seen life in Australia and the Far West, watches the bulbs and prunes27 the roses, and, I should think, yawns often to himself; here Lady Willoughby Wallaby’s card diffuses28 refinement29 from the summit of the card-basket in the hall.
To this happy home there came but last week—or was it the week before—a parcel of books. There were four complete novels in twelve volumes—fruits of that thoughtful arrangement by which the fair reader in Philistia is given three distinct opportunities to decide whether she will read the story through or not. Mrs Albert is a busy woman, burdened with manifold responsibilities to Church and State, to organised charities, to popularised music, to art-work guilds30 and the Amalgamated31 Association of Clear Starchers, not to mention a weather-eye kept at all times upon all unmarried males: but she still finds time to open all these packets of new books herself. On this occasion she gave to her eldest32, Ermyntrude, the first volume of a novel by Mrs ————. It doesn’t matter what fell to the share of the younger Amy and Floribel. For herself she reserved the three volumes of the latest work of Mr ————.
She tells me now that words simply can not express her thankfulness for having done so. It seems the selection was not entirely33 accidental. She was attracted, she admits, by the charmingly dainty binding34 of the volumes, but she was also moved by an instinct, half maternal35 prescience, half literary recollection. She thought she remembered having seen the name of this man-writer before. Where? It came to her like a flash, she says. Only a while ago he had a hook called A Bunch of Patrician36 Ladies or something of that sort, which she almost made up her mind not to let the girls read at all, but at last, with some misgivings37, permitted them to skim hastily, because though the morals were rocky—perhaps that wasn’t her word—the society was very good. But this new book of his had not even that saving feature. Respectable people were only incidentally mentioned in it. Really it was quite too low. The chief figure was a farm-girl who for the most part skimmed milk or cut swedes in a field, and at other times behaved in a manner positively38 unmentionable. Mrs Albert told me she had locked the volumes up, after only partially39 perusing40 them. I might be sure her daughters never laid eyes on them. They had gone back to the library, with a note expressing surprise that such immoral41 books should be sent into any Christian42 family. What made the matter worse, she went on, was that Ermyntrude read in some paper, at a friend’s house, that this man, whoever he may be, was the greatest of English novelists, and that this particular book of his was a tragic43 work of the noblest and loftiest order, which dignified44 the language. She was sure she didn’t know what England was coming to, when reporters were allowed to put things like that in the papers. Fortunately she only took in The Daily Tarradiddle, which one could always rely upon for sound views, and which gave this unspeakable book precisely45 the contemptuous little notice it deserved.
It was a relief, however—and here the good matron visibly brightened up—to think that really wholesome46 and improving novels were still produced. There was that novel by Mrs ————. Had I read it? Oh,
I must lose no time! Perhaps it was not altogether so enchanting47 as that first immortal48 work of hers, which had almost, one might say, founded a new religion. True, one of the girls in it worked altar-cloths for a church, and occasionally the other characters broke out into religious conversation; but there were no clergymen to speak of, and the charm of the other’s ecclesiastical mysticism was lacking. “To be frank, the first and last volumes were just a bit slow. But oh! the lovely second volume! A young Englishman and his sister go to Paris. They stumble right at the start into the most delightful49, picturesque50, artistic51 set. Think of it: Henri Régnault is personally introduced, and delivers himself of extended remarks——”
“I met an old friend of Regnault’s at the Club the other day,” I interposed, “who complained bitterly of that. He said it was insufferable impudence52 to bring him in at all, and still worse to make him talk such blather as is put into his mouth.”
Mrs Albert sniffed53 at this Club friend and went on. That Paris part of the book seemed to her to just palpitate with life. It was Paris to the very letter—gay, intellectual, sparkling, and oh! so free! The young Englishman at once set up a romantic establishment in the heart of Fontainebleau Forest with a French painter-girl. His sister was almost as promptly54 debauched by an elderly French sculptor55. But you never lost sight of the fact that the author was teaching a valuable moral lesson by all this. Indeed, that whole part of the book was called “Storm and Stress.” And all the while you saw, too, how innately56 superior the national character of the young Englishman was to that of the French people about him. One knew that in good time he would have a moral awakening57, and return to England, marry, settle down, and make money in his business. Side by side with this you saw the entire hopelessness of any spiritual regeneration in the French painter-girl or any of her artistic set. And this was shown with such delicate art—it was so perfect a picture of the moral contrast between the two nations—that the girls saw it at once.
“Then the girls,” I put in—“that is to say, you didn’t lock this book up?”
Mrs Albert lifted her eyebrows58 at me.
“How do you mean?” she asked. “Do you know who the author is? The idea! Why, the papers print whole columns about anything she writes. Every day you may see paragraphs about the mere21 prospect59 of books she hasn’t even begun yet. I suppose such blatant60 publicity61 must be very distressing62 to her, but the public simply insist upon it. The Daily Tarradiddle devoted63 an entire leader to this particular book. I assure you, all my friends are talking of nothing else—many of them people, too, whom you would not suspect of any literary tastes whatever, and who never read novels as a rule. But they don’t regard this as a novel. They think of it—I quote Lady Willoughby Wallaby’s exact words—as an exposition of those Christian principles which make our England what it is.”
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1
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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astronomers
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| n.天文学者，天文学家( astronomer的名词复数 ) | |
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troglodyte
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| n.古代穴居者；井底之蛙 | |
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6
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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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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9
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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10
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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13
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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14
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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15
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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17
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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19
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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20
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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21
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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impaling
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的现在分词 ) | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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27
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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28
diffuses
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的第三人称单数 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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29
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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31
amalgamated
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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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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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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37
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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40
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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41
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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42
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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43
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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44
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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45
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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46
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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47
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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48
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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49
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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50
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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51
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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52
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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53
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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innately
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| adv.天赋地；内在地，固有地 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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