[Footnote 7: The Bishop3; and Other Stories. By Anton Tchehov.
Translated by Constance Garnett. (Chatto & Windus.)]
Such a distinction is, indeed, irrelevant4. As Tchehov presents them to our minds, the life of the country and the life of the town produce the same final impression, arouse in us an awareness5 of an identical quality; and thus, the distinction, by its very irrelevance6, points us the more quickly to what is essential in Tchehov. It is that his attitude, to which he persuades us, is complete, not partial. His comprehension radiates from a steady centre, and is not capriciously kindled7 by a thousand accidental contacts. In other words, Tchehov is not what he is so often assumed to be, an impressionist. Consciously or unconsciously he had taken the step—the veritable salto mortale—by which the great literary artist moves out of the ranks of the minor8 writers. He had slowly shifted his angle of vision until he could discern a unity9 in multiplicity. Unity of this rare kind cannot be imposed as, for instance, Zola attempted to impose it. It is an emanation from life which can be distinguished10 only by the most sensitive contemplation.
The problem is to define this unity in the case of each great writer in whom it appears. To apprehend11 it is not so difficult. The mere12 sense of unity is so singular and compelling that it leaves room for few hesitations13. The majority of writers, however excellent in their peculiar14 virtues15, are not concerned with it: at one moment they represent, at another they may philosophise, but the two activities have no organic connection, and their work, if it displays any evolution at all, displays it only in the minor accidents of the craft, such as style in the narrower and technical sense, or the obvious economy of construction. There is no danger of mistaking these for great writers. Nor, in the more peculiar case of writers who attempt to impose the illusion of unity, is the danger serious. The apparatus16 is always visible; they cannot afford to do without the paraphernalia17 of argument which supplies the place of what is lacking in their presentation. The obvious instance of this legerdemain18 is Zola; a less obvious, and therefore more interesting example is Balzac.
To attempt the more difficult problem. What is most peculiar to Tchehov's unity is that it is far more nakedly ?sthetic than that of most of the great writers before him. Other writers of a rank equal to his—and there are not so very many—have felt the need to shift their angle of vision until they could perceive an all-embracing unity; but they were not satisfied with this. They felt, and obeyed, the further need of taking an attitude towards the unity they saw They approved or disapproved19, accepted or rejected it. It would be perhaps more accurate to say that they gave or refused their endorsement20. They appealed to some other element than their own sense of beauty for the final verdict on their discovery; they asked whether it was just or good.
The distinguishing mark of Tchehov is that he is satisfied with the unity he discovers. Its uniqueness is sufficient for him. It does not occur to him to demand that it should be otherwise or better. The act of comprehension is accompanied by an instantaneous act of acceptance. He is like a man who contemplates21 a perfect work of art; but the work of creation has been his, and has consisted in the gradual adjustment of his vision until he could see the frustration22 of human destinies and the arbitrary infliction23 of pain as processes no less inevitable24, natural, and beautiful than the flowering of a plant. Not that Tchehov is a greater artist than any of his great predecessors25; he is merely more wholly an artist, which is a very different thing. There is in him less admixture of preoccupations that are not purely26 ?sthetic, and probably for this reason he has less creative vigour27 than any other artist of equal rank. It seems as though artists, like cattle and fruit trees, need a good deal of crossing with substantial foreign elements, in order to be very vigorous and very fruitful. Tchehov has the virtues and the shortcomings of the pure case.
I do not wish to be understood as saying that Tchehov is a manifestation28 of l'art pour l'art, because in any commonly accepted sense of that phrase, he is not. Still, he might be considered as an exemplification of what the phrase might be made to mean. But instead of being diverted into a barren dispute over terminologies29, one may endeavour to bring into prominence30 an aspect of Tchehov which has an immediate31 interest—his modernity. Again, the word is awkward. It suggests that he is fashionable, or up to date. Tchehov is, in fact, a good many phases in advance of all that is habitually32 described as modern in the art of literature. The artistic33 problem which he faced and solved is one that is, at most, partially34 present to the consciousness of the modern writer—to reconcile the greatest possible diversity of content with the greatest possible unity of ?sthetic impression. Diversity of content we are beginning to find in profusion—Miss May Sinclair's latest experiment shows how this need is beginning to trouble a writer with a settled manner and a fixed35 reputation—but how rarely do we see even a glimmering36 recognition of the necessity of a unified37 ?sthetic impression! The modern method is to assume that all that is, or has been, present to consciousness is ipso facto unified ?sthetically. The result of such an assumption is an obvious disintegration38 both of language and artistic effort, a mere retrogression from the classical method.
The classical method consisted, essentially39, in achieving ?sthetic unity by a process of rigorous exclusion40 of all that was not germane41 to an arbitrary (because non-?sthetic) argument. This argument was let down like a string into the saturated42 solution of the consciousness until a unified crystalline structure congregated43 about it. Of all great artists of the past Shakespeare is the richest in his departures from this method. How much deliberate artistic purpose there was in his employment of songs and madmen and fools (an employment fundamentally different from that made by his contemporaries) is a subject far too big for a parenthesis44. But he, too, is at bottom a classic artist. The modern problem—it has not yet been sufficiently45 solved for us to speak of a modern method—arises from a sense that the classical method produces over-simplification. It does not permit of a sufficient sense of multiplicity. One can think of a dozen semi-treatments of the problem from Balzac to Dostoevsky, but they were all on the old lines. They might be called Shakespearean modifications46 of the classical method.
Tchehov, we believe, attempted a treatment radically47 new. To make use again of our former image in his maturer writing, he chose a different string to let down into the saturated solution of consciousness. In a sense he began at the other end. He had decided48 on the quality of ?sthetic impression he wished to produce, not by an arbitrary decision, but by one which followed naturally from the contemplative unity of life which he had achieved. The essential quality he discerned and desired to represent was his argument, his string. Everything that heightened and completed this quality accumulated about it, quite independently of whether it would have been repelled49 by the old criterion of plot and argument. There is a magnificent example of his method in the longest story in this volume, 'The Steppe.' The quality is dominant50 throughout, and by some strange compulsion it makes heterogeneous51 things one; it is reinforced by the incident. Tiny events—the peasant who eats minnows alive, the Jewish inn-keeper's brother who burned his six thousand roubles—take on a character of portent52, except that the word is too harsh for so delicate a distortion of normal vision; rather it is a sense of incalculability that haunts us. The emphases have all been slightly shifted, but shifted according to a valid53 scheme. It is not while we are reading, but afterwards that we wonder how so much significance could attach to a little boy's questions in a remote village shop:—
'"How much are these cakes?'
'"Two for a farthing.'
'Yegorushka took out of his pocket the cake given him the day before by the Jewess and asked him:—
'"And how much do you charge for cakes like this?'
'The shopman took the cake in his hands, looked at it from all sides, and raised one eyebrow54.
'"Like that?' he asked.
'Then he raised the other eyebrow, thought a minute, and answered:—
'"Two for three farthings…."'
It is foolish to quote it. It is like a golden pebble55 from the bed of a stream. The stream that flows over Tchehov's innumerable pebbles56, infinitely57 diverse and heterogeneous, is the stream of a deliberately58 sublimated59 quality. The figure is inexact, as figures are. Not every pebble could be thus transmuted60. But how they are chosen, what is the real nature of the relation which unites them, as we feel it does, is a secret which modern English writers need to explore. Till they have explored and mastered it Tchehov will remain a master in advance of them.
[AUGUST, 1919.
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1 juxtaposition | |
n.毗邻,并置,并列 | |
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2 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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3 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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4 irrelevant | |
adj.不恰当的,无关系的,不相干的 | |
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5 awareness | |
n.意识,觉悟,懂事,明智 | |
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6 irrelevance | |
n.无关紧要;不相关;不相关的事物 | |
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7 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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8 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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9 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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10 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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11 apprehend | |
vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
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12 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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13 hesitations | |
n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 );踌躇;犹豫(之事或行为);口吃 | |
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14 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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15 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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16 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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17 paraphernalia | |
n.装备;随身用品 | |
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18 legerdemain | |
n.戏法,诈术 | |
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19 disapproved | |
v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20 endorsement | |
n.背书;赞成,认可,担保;签(注),批注 | |
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21 contemplates | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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22 frustration | |
n.挫折,失败,失效,落空 | |
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23 infliction | |
n.(强加于人身的)痛苦,刑罚 | |
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24 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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25 predecessors | |
n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 );前辈;(被取代的)原有事物;前身 | |
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26 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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27 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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28 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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29 terminologies | |
专门用语( terminology的名词复数 ); 术语; 术语学; 术语的正确使用 | |
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30 prominence | |
n.突出;显著;杰出;重要 | |
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31 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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32 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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33 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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34 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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35 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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36 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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37 unified | |
(unify 的过去式和过去分词); 统一的; 统一标准的; 一元化的 | |
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38 disintegration | |
n.分散,解体 | |
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39 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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40 exclusion | |
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
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41 germane | |
adj.关系密切的,恰当的 | |
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42 saturated | |
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
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43 congregated | |
(使)集合,聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44 parenthesis | |
n.圆括号,插入语,插曲,间歇,停歇 | |
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45 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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46 modifications | |
n.缓和( modification的名词复数 );限制;更改;改变 | |
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47 radically | |
ad.根本地,本质地 | |
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48 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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49 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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50 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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51 heterogeneous | |
adj.庞杂的;异类的 | |
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52 portent | |
n.预兆;恶兆;怪事 | |
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53 valid | |
adj.有确实根据的;有效的;正当的,合法的 | |
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54 eyebrow | |
n.眉毛,眉 | |
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55 pebble | |
n.卵石,小圆石 | |
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56 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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57 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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58 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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59 sublimated | |
v.(使某物质)升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 );使净化;纯化 | |
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60 transmuted | |
v.使变形,使变质,把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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