His country put in a claim for Legs at the Foreign Office, unfortunately, and he should not come with us; but we felt, when we observed the urbanity of the French customs-house officials, who obligingly shut their eyes to the presence of large quantities of tobacco, and the politeness of the railway officials, that Legs had probably made himself felt in our foreign relations already, and that he was responsible for all this very civil behaviour. At Bale, however, where we had to change at the awful hour in the morning which is neither night nor day, we found that Legs’ diplomacy4 had not yet had time to make itself felt, for we were subjected to a searching scrutiny5. Luckily I had had experience of the manners and customs-house officials of Bale before, and had trans{217}ferred my tobacco into my coat pockets, thus frustrating6 the baffled Teuton. But I am afraid it gave certain secret glee to observe that my travelling companion of the night before—a stout7 white man, with a name on his labels so long that I could not read it, who had snored all the time—was caught, and his rich stores of cigarettes taken from him, to be sent, I suppose, to Berne, for the delectation of the President of the Republic.
Switzerland is a land that always arouses curiosity as to how it came about that a country in which the people are so small, so ‘toy,’ should in itself be on so gigantic and marvellous a scale. Is it that the living among these stupendous surroundings has somehow dwarfed8 the people, or has Nature, by one of her inimitable contrasts, made the human part of Switzerland so insignificant9 in order to set off the vastness of peak and snowfield? Certainly the glib10 commonplace that national character is influenced and formed by national surroundings is here gloriously contradicted, since, as far as I am aware, no Swiss has ever attained11 to eminence12 in anything. They are a little toy people, who{218} live in little toy towns, and make excellent chocolate, and run innumerable hotels on the most economical principles. But even then they do not (as one would expect) get very rich. They are never ‘very’ anything. ‘But the chocolate is excellent,’ said Helen to these speculations13.
It requires faith this morning to believe that in a few hours we shall be crunching14 the dry, powdery snow beneath our feet, and before sunset be skating or gliding15 down the white frozen road, with puffs16 of snow coming from the bows of the toboggan, for here all down the shore of the Lake of Thun the country is brown and grey, with scarce a streak17 of white to show that it is winter. Low overhead are fat masses of dirty-looking cloud, but between them (and this is the door where faith enters) are glimpses of the perfect azure18 which we expect up above. Now and then the sun strikes some distant hillside, or, like a flashlight, is turned on to the waters of the lake, making of them a sudden aquamarine of luminous19 green. But the weather is undoubtedly20 mild; the eaves of the wooden toy-stations drip with discouraging{219} moisture, and Interlaken, when we reach it, wears a dreadful spring-like aspect, and people are sitting out of doors at the cafés, and appear to find it relaxing.
Then the first of these wonderful winter miracles happened. There was the flat alluvial22 land at the end of the lake, across which ran the fussy23 little light railway which should take us above (so we hoped) the region of cloudland. Grey and puddle-strewn was it, with here and there a patch of dirty snow stained through with the earthy moistness beneath. A low-lying mist was spread over the nearer distance, which melted into the thicker clouds of the sky itself. It was just such a view as you shall see anywhere in the English fen-land during February.
We were looking at this with, I am bound to say, a certain despondency. It seemed almost certain that we should find dull weather (which means thaw) up above, when a sudden draught24 from some funnel25 of the hills came down, making agitation26 and disturbance27 both among the low-lying mist and the higher clouds. The former was vanquished28 first, and, torn to ribbons by the wind, and scorched29 up by a sudden divine{220} gleam of sun that smote30 downwards31, disclosed in its vanishing the long, piney sides of an upward-leading gorge32. The higher clouds, being thicker, took longer to disperse33, I suppose, for at its farther end the gorge was still full of scudding34 vapours. Then suddenly they cleared, and high, high above, a vignette of fairyland—the Jungfrau herself, queen of the snows—stood out in glacier35, and snowfield, and peak, against a sky of incredible blue. There she stood in full blaze of sunshine, the silver-crystal maiden36, donned in blue, enough to open the eyes of the blind and make the dumb mouth sing.
Then afterwards, as the little Turkish bath of a train went heavenwards, how magical and divine a change happened! Inside the steamy carriages, smelling of railway-bags, and rugs, and forgotten sandwiches, it was not possible to see through the condensation37 on the window-panes, but the blood that trots38 through the body knew the change, and took a more staccato note. Then—I suppose that travelling stupidity had seized us both—it suddenly occurred to Helen that we might, without fear of prosecution39, put the windows down, though by a{221} printed notice of by-laws of the railway it was still defended that we should not agitate40 ourselves out of it. Once a ticket-puncher, exactly like a figure out of Noah’s ark, put them scowlingly up again; but with the boldness that this whiff of mountain-air supplied, we again lowered them, after a further consultation41 of the by-laws.
The ineffable42 change had begun. Soon for the moistness of the lowland there was exchanged a hint of frost—something that made outlines a little more determinate, a little crisper. Then, as we mounted higher, there was further change. For dripping twigs43 of the trees there were trees that showed a hard, white outline of frost; for the sullen44 muddy stream there was clearer water, that went on its way beneath half-formed lids of ice; and thinner and thinner above our heads grew the grey blanket of cloud.
Then that, too, was folded away, and above is was the sun and the sparkling of the unending firmament45. Below it had been like a London fog, when you cannot see the tops of the shrouded46 houses; now we saw the roofs of the{222} world, the Queen Anne’s mansion47 of Europe, all clean, all clear, just as they were when I saw this land three years ago. No tile had slipped, no chimney-pot required repairs. The top of the world was good. Oh, how good!
The clear dry air, the sunset lights on the peaks, the liquid twilight48 (keen as snuff to the nostril), from which the sun had gone! There was the rose-tinted Wetterhorn, black Eiger, flaming finger of Finster-Aarhorn; or, on more human plane, the hiss49 of skates over the perfect ice, the passage of a toboggan, with a little Swiss girl holding in front of her a baby sister, and steering50 with her heels, and shrilly51 shouting ‘Achtung!’ There was ‘Madame’ who keeps a restaurant (I do not know her name), standing3 to see the train-passengers come in, and shaking hands, and saying, ‘You shall have wings to-morrow, no legs’ (alluding to an amiable52 altercation53 of three years ago, when I drew a kind but firm sort of line about eating chickens’ legs for lunch on four consecutive54 days); and there was the beerman, whose admirable beverage55 I always drank at 11.30 a.m., being thirsty with skating; and there was a skater I knew, who{223} attempted a rather swift back-bracket for the admiration56 of the new arrivals by the train to see, and fell down in a particularly complicated manner in the middle of it; and there was the barrack of an hotel which always smells of roasting leather, because people put their skates and boots on the hot-water pipes, and right above it was the Mettelhorn; and to the left was the Lady Wetterhorn; and to the right the smooth, steely-looking toboggan-run down into the valley. ‘Oh, world——’ I beg your pardon.
I have omitted to mention the magic word on our luggage-labels, ‘Grindelwald.’
Three years ago, I must tell you, among other foolish and futile57 deeds, I made a cache underneath58 a particular tree on the path leading to the Scheidegg, consisting, as far as I remember, of chocolate, coins, and matches. These insignificant facts I published in another place, and since then I have received every winter mysterious letters from Grindelwald, showing that other people are as absurd as myself. My cache, in fact, has been found (I gave directions which I hoped would be sufficient), and it has{224} been, so these letters tell me, enriched by other secret and beautiful things. There has been placed there, on separate occasions, by separate passionate59 pilgrims, all manner of store, and the very next morning, instead of going to skate, Helen and I skulked61 off with a toboggan to see what we should find. A poem on the Wetterhorn, so I had been informed, was there, to form the nucleus62 of a library; there were a tin of potted meat and some caramels for the larder63; and furniture had been added by a third person in the shape of a lead soldier and an ink-bottle; while the exchequer64, I knew, also had been enriched by at least half a franc in nickel pieces. We had debated earnestly last night as to what to add to the establishment, if we found it, and eventually decided65 on a handkerchief, which is to be regarded by passionate pilgrims as a tablecloth66, a reel of cotton, and a copy of ‘Shirley’ in the sixpenny edition, to swell67 the library shelves. This latter was in a small linen68 bag, to keep it from the wet.
Of course, we did not expect to find all the objects that I had been informed had been{225} placed there from time to time, for the rule of the cache is that you may use what you find there, provided only you replace it with something else. The potted meat, for instance, one could not expect to go undiscussed, and I cannot personally conceive leaving caramels uneaten. But in place of those, if only passionate pilgrims had played the game, we should find other objects. Thus the cache becomes a sort of exchange and mart—a reciprocal table laid in the wilderness69, where you take one dish and replace it with another.
How it all savours of romance to the childish mind! With agitated70 fingers you scoop71 away the earth and moss72 which form the entrance to the cache, under a pine tree on the empty, frozen hillside, and you know you will find treasure of some kind, but what it is you cannot possibly tell. And inviolable secrecy73 must surround and embellish74 your man?uvres; the cache should not be mentioned at all except discreetly75 to the elect, for it partakes of Freemasonry, the masons of which are those who delight in idiotic76 proceedings77. But just as three years ago I gave the inventory78 of the{226} cache as it was then, so in the minds of the idiotic there may be felt some interest as to its inventory when the founder79 again revisited it. Caches, of course, are socialistic in spirit, and anybody may appropriate whatever he chooses; but I should be glad if the copy of ‘Shirley’ is left there. It is such a pleasant book to read after lunch, if you are tobogganing alone. A book, at any rate, is rather a good thing to have in a cache, and the wishes of the founder will be satisfied if another book is put there instead. But let us have a book. I should prefer that it should not be the ‘Encyclop?dia Britannica.’
The morning, I think, must have been ordered on purpose, for I can imagine nothing so exquisite80 being served up in the ordinary way, à la carte; such weather must have been specially81 chosen. Not a single ripple82 of air stirred; an unflecked sky was overhead, and the sun, as we set off, just topped the hills to the south-east, and sat like a huge golden bandbox on the rim60 of them. The frost had been severe in the night, but in this windlessness and entire absence of moisture no feeling of cold reached one.{227} There was in the air a briskness83 of quality more than magical; it was as if made of ice and fire and wine, and in a sort of intoxication84 we slid down into the valley. Then, crossing the stream, since there was water about, it suddenly seemed desperately85 chill; but no sooner had we mounted a dozen yards of ascent86 again than the same dry kindling87 of the blood reasserted itself. Toboggans will not run of their own accord uphill, so I put ours under my arm, and for a hundred yards we danced a pas de quatre up the trodden snow. We both sang all the time, different tunes88, when suddenly we saw a clergyman observing us from a few yards ahead. He had a wildish and severe eye, and we stopped. David before the Ark would have stopped if he had unexpectedly come on that man. He was sitting in the snow, and wore a black hat, black coat, and black trousers, but he had yellow boots. He kept his eye on us all the time that we were within sight, and seemed to have no other occupation. We neither of us dared to look round till we had left him some way behind, neither did we dare to dance again. Eventually I turned my head to look at him{228} from behind a tree. He was still sitting in the snow, not on a rug, you understand, nor on a toboggan, nor on any of the things upon which you usually sit in the snow. He was not breakfasting or lunching or looking at the view. He was sitting in the snow, and that was all. I have no explanation of any kind to offer about this unusual incident. Helen thinks he was mad. That very likely is the case, but it is an interesting form of mania90. Perhaps by-and-by we shall have an asylum91 for snow-sitters. Or is it a new kind of rest-cure?
It is astonishing how you can argue about things of which you know nothing. Indeed, I think that all proper arguments are based on ignorance. If you know anything whatever on the subject of which you are talking, you produce a fact of some kind, which knocks argument flat. It is only possible to reason rightly on those subjects concerning which no fact, except the phenomenon itself, is ascertainable92. Had we asked the clergyman why he sat in the snow, he would probably have told us, and the subject would have ceased to interest us conversationally94. As it was, we held heated debate{229} upon him, just as if he was the Education Bill, for a long time. But the unusualness of it merited attention and conjecture95. And think how divine an opening for conversation at dinner-parties, if you know nothing of your neighbour, and have not caught her name.
‘Did you ever see a clergyman sitting in the snow?’
That, in fact, was the outcome of our argument. No theory about him would really hold water. He was probably a conversational93 gambit, which might lead to much. For instance, in answer to your question, your interlocutor might reply in five obvious ways:
1. ‘I once saw a clergyman, but he was not sitting in the snow.’
2. ‘I have seen snow, but I never saw a clergyman sitting in it.’
3. ‘I once saw a clergyman being snowballed.’
4. ‘Yes. What are your views about the best treatment for the insane?’
5. ‘Such strange things happen at Grindelwald. Did you know——’
Yes; he was probably a conversational opening made manifest to mortal eyes. Anyhow,{230} when we returned he was not sitting there. If he had been real, he probably would have been—at least, if you once sit in the snow there is no reason why you should ever get up. Obviously it is your métier.
Now, everybody who lives in fogs and rainy places will fail to understand anything of these last deplorable pages. But if they go to the thin clear air of Alps in winter, they will know that this sort of thing (given you have the luck to see a clergyman sitting in the snow) is invested with supreme96 importance. When the hot sun shines on ice, it produces some kindly97 confusion of the brain; there is no longer any point in trying to be clever or well-informed, or witty98, or any of those things that are supposed to convey distinction down below to their fortunate possessors: you go back to mere99 existence and joy of life. It is a trouble to be consecutive or conduct a reasonable argument; instead, you open your mouth and say anything that happens to come out of it. Most frequently what issues is laughter, but apart from that, the only conversation you can indulge in is preposterous100 and the only behaviour possible is childish. That is{231} why I love these roofs of the world. The intoxication of interstellar space is in the air. Everything is so light—you, your body, your mind, your tongue, your aims and objects. The only things that you take seriously are the things that do not matter: the snow-sitter was one, the cache was another. But as we got nearer the cache, we became even more solemn than on the question of the snow-sitter. There was no telling what we should find there, even if we found the place at all. The tree might have been cut down since last year; the whole cache might have been rifled by some imperceptive hand. There was no end to the list of untoward101 circumstances that might have despoiled102 us.
And so we went through the wood: we came to the end of it, and there was a tree—‘of many one,’ as Mr. Wordsworth prophetically remarked. On its roots were cut my humble103 initials: it was certainly The Tree.
‘Oh, quick, quick!’ said Helen; ‘let us know the worst!’
The root had arched a little since I saw it last. Moss and snow were plastered on it in a{232} manner scarcely natural. I plucked the bandage away with hands that trembled. We found:
1. A pencil.
2. Something sticky, which I believe to have been the caramels.
3. An empty potted-meat tin, with a wisp of paper inside it, on which was written: ‘I ate it. Quite excellent.’
4. A candle-end.
5. The famous poem on the Wetterhorn done up in canvas. (How laudable!)
6. A Jock-Scot, salmon-trout size.
7. A paper on which was written: ‘What’s the point?’
8. A cigarette, very sloppy104.
9. A five-franc piece, wrapped up in paper, on which was written: ‘I took 4.50 away.’
10. A little wooden pill-box containing a very small moonstone.
I think we were very moderate in our exchanges, which is right, since you must always leave the cache richer for your presence, and we merely took away the pencil and the poem on the Wetterhorn, leaving our handkerchief, the reel of cotton, and the copy of ‘Shirley.’ Below{233} the question ‘What’s the point?’ we wrote, ‘None, if you can’t see it,’ and added, ‘The founder and his wife visited the cache on January 12, 1907. They saw a clergyman sitting in the snow. Selah.’
Then an awful thing happened. Even while these treasures were openly and sumptuously105 spread round us, down the path there came a merry Swiss peasant about a hundred years old. He looked at us and the treasures with curiosity and contempt, and then burst into a perfect flood of speech, of which neither of us understood one single word. When he stopped, I said politely, ‘Ich weiss nicht,’ just like Parsifal, and he began it, or something like it, all over again, with gesticulations added, and in a rather louder tone, as if he was talking to a deaf man. Until this torrent106 of gibberish was let loose on me, I had no idea how much there was in the world that I did not know; so with the desire to reduce his opinion of himself also, I addressed him in English. I said ‘God save the King’ right through, as much as I could remember of ‘To be or not to be’ from the play called ‘Hamlet,’ and had just begun on ‘When the{234} hounds of spring are on winter’s traces,’ when he suddenly turned pale, crossed himself (though it was a Protestant canton), and fairly fled down the path. I make no doubt that he thought he had met the devil. Anyhow, he had met his match at unintelligible107 conversation.
But it was clearly no use running risks, for more of the merry Swiss might come down the path, who, it was conceivable, might not be so much impressed by unintelligible sounds, and we hurriedly reburied the treasure, ate our lunch, and turned the bow of the toboggan homewards, since we proposed to skate all afternoon. It was a year since I had been shod with steel. I burned for the frozen surface. But it was right to see to the cache first. There are some things you cannot wait for.
We spent three weeks in these divine futilities, if anything so utterly108 enjoyable can be considered futile. For my part, I do not believe it can, since, as I have already said, to enjoy a thing very much, supposing always that it does not injure anybody else, is a gilt-edged investment of your time; for enjoyment109 is not (as is falsely supposed) finished with when the thing{235} itself is done and over, for it is just then that the high interest of it (though gilt-edged) begins to be paid. Until one forgets about it (and by a merciful dispensation one remembers what is pleasant far longer and far more keenly than what is painful), subsequent days and hours are all enriched, and therefore made more productive, by these pleasurable memories. It is here, I think, that a wonderfully fresh and vivid student of the human mind—namely, R. L. Stevenson—goes all wrong when he says that the past is all of one texture110. It seems to me—one is only responsible for one’s own experience—to be of two textures111, one strong and the other weak; and the strong one is the memory of things you have enjoyed, of happy days; the other of times when, for some reason or other—pain, or anxiety, or fear—the lights have been low, and the sound of the grinding not low, but loud. The human mind, in fact, is more retentive112 of its pleasures than of its pain. In the moment of the happening either may seem the top note of acuteness, but the echoes of the one indisputably live longer than the echoes of the other; and though our consciousness, if you care to{236} look at it that way, is largely a haunted house of the dead hours, yet happy ghosts are in preponderance, and seem solider than the shadows of its dark places; also (and this, I think, too, is indubitable) the anticipation113 of happiness is more acute than the anticipation of a corresponding pain. In the future there are two textures also, as in the past.
Since our return this contrast has been rather markedly brought before me. There are many things I much look forward to; at the same time, there is something ahead which I am dreading114. What it is I do not know. I think I should dread21 it less if I did. But it is, though quite certain, quite vague. I connect it, however, with that evening in September when I heard my name called, and when Legs saw something which has since been expunged115 from his memory. And here is the contrast: the happiness that lies stored for me in the hive of the future is more potent116 than the bitterness that is there. Both are coming—of that I am sure—and among the many very happy things which I know and expect, I feel there is something I do not yet know which is happier than{237} any. It is futile to guess at it. One might make a hundred guesses, and each would seem feasible of accomplishment117. But there, at the back of my mind, are these two transparencies, so to speak—one sunlit, the other stormy—and it is through them that the events of the day are seen by me. They colour—both of them—all I do; but the happy one is the predominant one. They do not neutralize118 each other; they are both there to their full. But I despair at giving coherently so elusive119 a picture as they make in my own mind. But, though elusive, it is intensely real, and for the first time I neither can, nor do I desire to, speak to Helen about this thing which is so often in my mind. It is incommunicable.
But after these Swiss weeks there was not much time for me to think about this, as it was imperatively120 demanded, by reasons over which I have no control, that I should exercise my mind on the extremely difficult art of the composition of English prose, which incidentally implies doing two things at once; for not only have you to invent your lively and inspiring tale, but you have to tell it in a certain way. You may{238} choose at the beginning any way of the hundreds that there are of telling it; but in the key in which it is originally pitched, in that key it has to remain all the time. As a matter of fact, it probably does not, and goes wandering about in other modes and scales; but every book ought to be in the one key in which it opens, just as a picture ought to be in one key. It is within the writer’s liberties, of course, to write other books in other keys, and I think he is perfectly121 justified122 in largely contradicting in one work what he has unhesitatingly affirmed in another, but in each his point of view has to be consistent throughout.
The thing is not quite so easy as it sounds, and it is further complicated by a very real difficulty. Every story that is worth reading at all is bound to record change in the characters and general attitude of the people with whom it deals. The jaded123 author has to keep his eye on each, and see that he behaves after some atrocious battering124 with which fate has visited him in a different manner than before this visitation took place. If he is living in any sense of the word, the event will have altered{239} him. He will view things differently, and therefore behave differently. Yet all the time he is the same personality. It were better for him that he should be as adamant125 to the blows of circumstance than that the inner essence which is individuality should be uncertainly rendered; and, like the dexterous126 Mr. Maskelyne with his spinning-plates, the scribe has to keep his eye on all his puppets to see that none lapse127 into stagnation128, and to poke129 them up with his industrious130 pen.
It is here that the complicated question of consistency131 comes in which just now is worrying me to bewilderment. Dreadful and stinging events are happening to a most favourite puppet of mine. Providence132 is dealing133 with her in a cruelly ironical134 manner, in a way that makes the poor distracted lady take quite fresh views of a world she thought so warm and kindly. Yet it must be the same personality which has to be shown sitting behind these changed feelings and directing them all. That is the consistency that has to be observed. Otherwise it ceases to be one story, but becomes a series of really unconnected short stories, with the tech{240}nical absurdity135 that the heroine in each has the same name.
Yet there is this also: it takes all sorts to make a world (at least, a world otherwise constructed would be an extremely dull one), but It, It itself, Life, lies somewhere in the middle of us all, and is the centre to which we approach. We, the all sorts which make the world, view it very differently, though we are all looking at the same object. And here a simile136, a thing usually unconvincing, may assist. What if in the centre there is something like a great diamond, blazing in the rays of the sun? I, from the south, see soft blue lights in it; you, from the west, see a great ruby137 ray coming out of the heart of it; another on the north says, ‘This diamond is emerald green’; while from the east it seems of transcendent orange. So far, it is quite certain that we are all right, for the world, so to speak, refracts God, making Him many-hued, even as white light is refracted by the triangle of a prism. And then let us suppose circumstances enter and shift me, who have been on the south, where I saw blue, to the west, where I see red. The whole colour of the world{241} is changed to me, and yet there is no inconsistency. The same Ego138 honestly sees a changed colour. There would, on the other hand, when my place was shifted by circumstance, be grave inconsistency if I continued to declare that I still saw blue. I do not. My eyes tell me it is red. Just now my eyes told me it was blue. But I have not changed, nor has the great diamond changed; it is merely that the refracted light has taken another colour.
It is just that which one must perceive in the telling of a story. A person who sees blue all his life probably sees nothing at all, nothing, anyhow, in the least worth recording139. He is bound as the wheel of circumstances goes round to see things in other lights. But that is not inconsistency; it is the truly consistent. Who wants, after all, for ever to draw the same conclusion from the same premises140? Only fossils, and possibly molluscs.
But pity the sorrows of the story-teller! The quality of the red has to be of the same quality as the blue. The same fire which strikes to the south will indubitably strike to all other points of the compass, and when X is wheeled north,{242} he will not see the same green as Y sees there. He saw it through the alchemy of his own mind; it will be green, but nobody else’s green. Or if it is, he has no individuality to speak of. At least he belongs to a type that sees everything through the eyes of others. That is generally labelled conventional, and there seems no reason to change the name.
How I laboured during those last ten days of January, and how little result there seems to be! Only—I console myself with this—the real labour of writing does not chiefly consist in the effort of putting things down, but in the moral effort of rejecting them. There is nothing easier than to fill pages and pages with improving reflections or inspiring events. But having done that, it is necessary to sound the tuning-fork and see if, as I said at first, the story is in tune89, if the key is kept. Usually it is not. On which the fire ought to make to itself a momentary141 beacon142, or the waste-paper basket be replete143. But the pile of numbered pages should in any case be starving. That, as a matter of fact, is my sole argument that I have justified my existence during these ten days. I have really{243} worked a great deal, and the waste-paper basket could say how generous has been its diet. I have really left out a very great deal, and I hasten to forestall144 the critic who will say that I should, in order to act up to this excellent standard, have left out the rest. I do not agree with him.
The key of which I have spoken has to be preserved, not only in matters of consistency in character-drawing, but in style as well. If you lead off with verbiage145 from the Orient, the East must continue, I submit, to dye your paragraphs till the last page is turned. Though you may have also at your command pure wells of the most limpid146 simplicity147, you will have to reserve them for some other immortal148 work; they will not mix with the incense149 and heady draughts150 from the East. Or should you fancy a mysterious Delphic mode of diction, Delphic you must be to the end. But—as if all this was not so difficult, that, like Dr. Johnson, we almost wish it was frankly151 impossible—interwoven in your Delphic or Oriental narrative152 there must be a totally different woof—namely, the thread of the spoken word, the speeches that you put into{244} the mouths of your various characters. And the written word, be it remembered, is never like the spoken word: the two vocabularies, to begin with, are totally distinct, and though I would not go so far as to affirm that the spoken word ought to be ungrammatical, it should, if it is to recall human speech, be colloquial153, conversational. In interchange of ideas by means of the mouth real people do not use fine language, especially when their emotions are strongly aroused. Then, instead of becoming high-flown and ornate in their speech, real people go to the opposite extreme, and instinctively154 use only the very simplest words. When this is stated, it seems natural enough, but you will find it very seldom practised. Novelists have a tendency to let their puppets employ magnificent high-sounding words to express the intensity155 and splendour of great emotion; in fact, you may gauge156 the strength of their emotions, as a rule, by the sonorous157 quality of their adjectives. I believe the very opposite to be the truth of the matter: people in the grip of passion do not use beautiful or highly-coloured words; above all, they do not, like Mr. Wegg, ‘drop into poetry.’ Yet{245} nothing is commoner than to find prose degenerating158 into blank verse in the spoken records of emotional crises, as if blank verse was a sublime159 form of prose. Little Nell is continually half-way between prose and poetry, so also is Nicholas Nickleby when his indignation is roused. In fact, in some of his scenes with Ralph they both forget themselves so much in their passion that torrents160 of decasyllabic lines flow from their lips. But, on the other hand, the language of narrative should undoubtedly grow more coloured, more vivid in such descriptions as are the setting of some very emotional scene. Yet it should not depart from its original key.... Well, as Mr. Tulliver said, ‘It’s puzzling work talking.’
But though the days have been so full, I have seen everything, everything through the two transparencies that seem drawn161 between external happenings and me.
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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3
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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5
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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6
frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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8
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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9
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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10
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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11
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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12
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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13
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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14
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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15
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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16
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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17
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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18
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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19
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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20
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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21
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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22
alluvial
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| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
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23
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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24
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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25
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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26
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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27
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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28
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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29
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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30
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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31
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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32
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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33
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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34
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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35
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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36
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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37
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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38
trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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39
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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40
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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41
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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42
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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43
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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44
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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45
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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46
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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47
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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48
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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49
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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50
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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51
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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52
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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53
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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54
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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55
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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56
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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57
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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58
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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59
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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60
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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61
skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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63
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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64
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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65
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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66
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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67
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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68
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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69
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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70
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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71
scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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72
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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73
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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74
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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75
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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76
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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77
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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78
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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79
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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80
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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81
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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82
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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83
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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84
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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85
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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86
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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87
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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88
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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89
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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90
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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91
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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92
ascertainable
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| adj.可确定（探知），可发现的 | |
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93
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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94
conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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95
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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96
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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97
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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98
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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99
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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100
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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101
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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102
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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104
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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105
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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106
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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107
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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108
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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109
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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110
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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111
textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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112
retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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113
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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114
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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115
expunged
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| v.擦掉( expunge的过去式和过去分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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116
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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117
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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118
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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119
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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120
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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121
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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122
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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123
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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124
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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125
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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126
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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127
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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128
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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129
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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130
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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131
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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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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133
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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135
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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137
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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138
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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139
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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140
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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141
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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142
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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143
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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144
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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145
verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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146
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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147
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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148
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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149
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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150
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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151
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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152
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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153
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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154
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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155
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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156
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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157
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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158
degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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159
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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160
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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161
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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