It seemed, in fine, to be settled that in literature I was to be a hanger3 on of the past ages; and I don't quite know how I managed to get away from them. I had finished translating "Casanova"—more modern, but not thoroughly4 up to date—and I had nothing[viii] particular on hand, and, somehow or other, it struck me that I might try a little writing for the papers. I began with a "turnover5" as it was called, for the old vanished Globe, a harmless little article on old English proverbs; and I shall never forget my pride and delight when one day, being at Dover, with a fresh autumn wind blowing from the sea, I bought a chance copy of the paper and saw my essay on the front page. Naturally, I was encouraged to persevere6, and I wrote more turnovers7 for the Globe and then tried the St. James's Gazette and found that they paid two pounds instead of the guinea of the Globe, and again, naturally enough, devoted8 most of my attention to the St. James's Gazette. From the essay or literary paper, I somehow got into the habit of the short story, and did a good many of these, still for the St. James's, till in the autumn of 1890, I wrote a tale called "The Double Return." Well, Oscar Wilde asked: "Are you the author of that story that fluttered the dovecotes? I thought it was very good." But: it did flutter the dovecotes, and the St. James's Gazette and I parted.
But I still wrote short stories, now chiefly for what were called "society" papers, which have become extinct. And one of these appeared in a paper, the name of which I have long forgotten. I had called the tale "Resurrectio Mortuorum," and the editor had very sensibly rendered the title into "The Resurrection of the Dead."
I do not clearly remember how the story began. I am inclined to think something in this way:
"Old Mr. Llewellyn, the Welsh antiquary, threw his copy of the morning paper on the floor and banged the breakfast-table, exclaiming: 'Good God! Here's[ix] the last of the Caradocs of the Garth, has been married in a Baptist Chapel9 by a dissenting10 preacher; somewhere in Peckham.'" Or, did I take up the tale a few years after this happy event and shew the perfectly11 cheerful contented12 young commercial clerk running somewhat too fast to catch the bus one morning, and feeling dazed all day long over the office work, and going home in a sort of dimness, and then at his very doorstep, recovering as it were, his ancestral consciousness. I think it was the sight of his wife and the tones of her voice that suddenly announced to him with the sound of a trumpet13 that he had nothing to do with this woman with the Cockney accent, or the pastor14 who was coming to supper, or the red brick villa15, or Peckham or the City of London. Though the old place on the banks of the Usk had been sold fifty years before, still, he was Caradoc of the Garth. I forget how I ended the story: but here was one of the sources of "A Fragment of Life."
And somehow, though the tale was written and printed and paid for; it stayed with me as a tale half told in the years from 1890 to 1899. I was in love with the notion: this contrast between the raw London suburb and its mean limited life and its daily journeys to the City; its utter banality16 and lack of significance; between all this and the old, grey mullioned house under the forest near the river, the armorial bearings on the Jacobean porch, and noble old traditions: all this captivated me and I thought of my mistold tale at intervals17, while I was writing "The Great God Pan," "The Red Hand," "The Three Impostors," "The Hill of Dreams," "The White People," and "Hieroglyphics18." It was at the back of my head, I suppose,[x] all the time, and at last in '99 I began to write it all over again from a somewhat different standpoint.
The fact was that one grey Sunday afternoon in the March of that year, I went for a long walk with a friend. I was living in Gray's Inn in those days, and we stravaged up Gray's Inn Road on one of those queer, unscientific explorations of the odd corners of London in which I have always delighted. I don't think that there was any definite scheme laid down; but we resisted manifold temptations. For on the right of Gray's Inn Road is one of the oddest quarters of London—to those, that is, with the unsealed eyes. Here are streets of 1800-1820 that go down into a valley—Flora in "Little Dorrit" lived in one of them—and then crossing King's Cross Road climb very steeply up to heights which always suggest to me that I am in the hinder and poorer quarter of some big seaside place, and that there is a fine view of the sea from the attic19 windows. This place was once called Spa Fields, and has very properly an old meeting house of the Countess of Huntingdon's Connection as one of its attractions. It is one of the parts of London which would attract me if I wished to hide; not to escape arrest, perhaps, but rather to escape the possibility of ever meeting anybody who had ever seen me before.
But: my friend and I resisted it all. We strolled along to the parting of many ways at King's Cross Station, and struck boldly up Pentonville. Again: on our left was Barnsbury, which is like Africa. In Barnsbury semper aliquid novi, but our course was laid for us by some occult influence, and we came to Islington and chose the right hand side of the way. So far, we were tolerably in the region of the known,[xi] since every year there is the great Cattle Show at Islington, and many men go there. But, trending to the right, we got into Canonbury, of which there are only Travellers' Tales. Now and then, perhaps, as one sits about the winter fire, while the storm howls without and the snow falls fast, the silent man in the corner has told how he had a great aunt who lived in Canonbury in 1860; so in the fourteenth century you might meet men who had talked with those who had been in Cathay and had seen the splendours of the Grand Cham. Such is Canonbury; I hardly dare speak of its dim squares, of the deep, leafy back-gardens behind the houses, running down into obscure alleyways with discreet20, mysterious postern doors: as I say, "Travellers' Tales"; things not much credited.
But, he who adventures in London has a foretaste of infinity21. There is a region beyond Ultima Thule. I know not how it was, but on this famous Sunday afternoon, my friend and I, passing through Canonbury came into something called the Balls Pond Road—Mr. Perch22, the messenger of Dombey & Son, lived somewhere in this region—and so I think by Dalston down into Hackney where caravans23, or trams, or, as I think you say in America, trolley24 cars set out at stated intervals to the limits of the western world.
But in the course of that walk which had become an exploration of the unknown, I had seen two common things which had made a profound impression upon me. One of these things was a street, the other a small family party. The street was somewhere in that vague, uncharted, Balls Pond-Dalston region. It was a long street and a grey street. Each house was exactly like every other house. Each house had a basement,[xii] the sort of story which house-agents have grown to call of late a "lower ground floor." The front windows of these basements were half above the patch of black, soot-smeared soil and coarse grass that named itself a garden, and so, passing along at the hour of four o'clock or four-thirty, I could see that in everyone of these "breakfast rooms"—their technical name—the tea tray and the tea cups were set out in readiness. I received from this trivial and natural circumstance an impression of a dull life, laid out in dreadful lines of patterned uniformity, of a life without adventure of body or soul.
Then, the family party. It got into the tram down Hackney way. There were father, mother and baby; and I should think that they came from a small shop, probably from a small draper's shop. The parents were young people of twenty-five to thirty-five. He wore a black shiny frock coat—an "Albert" in America?—a high hat, little side whiskers and dark moustache and a look of amiable26 vacuity27. His wife was oddly bedizened in black satin, with a wide spreading hat, not ill-looking, simply unmeaning. I fancy that she had at times, not too often, "a temper of her own." And the very small baby sat upon her knee. The party was probably going forth28 to spend the Sunday evening with relations or friends.
And yet, I said to myself, these two have partaken together of the great mystery, of the great sacrament of nature, of the source of all that is magical in the wide world. But have they discerned the mysteries? Do they know that they have been in that place which is called Syon and Jerusalem?—I am quoting from an old book and a strange book.[xiii]
It was thus that, remembering the old story of the "Resurrection of the Dead," I was furnished with the source of "A Fragment of Life." I was writing "Hieroglyphics" at the time, having just finished "The White People"; or rather, having just decided29 that what now appears in print under that heading was all that would ever be written, that the Great Romance that should have been written—in manifestation30 of the idea—would never be written at all. And so, when Hieroglyphics was finished, somewhere about May 1899, I set about "A Fragment of Life" and wrote the first chapter with the greatest relish31 and the utmost ease. And then my own life was dashed into fragments. I ceased to write. I travelled. I saw Syon and Bagdad and other strange places—see "Things Near and Far" for an explanation of this obscure passage—and found myself in the lighted world of floats and battens, entering L. U. E., crossing R and exiting R 3; and doing all sorts of queer things.
But still, in spite of all these shocks and changes, the "notion" would not leave me. I went at it again, I suppose in 1904; consumed with a bitter determination to finish what I had begun. Everything now had become difficult. I tried this way and that way and the other way. They all failed and I broke down on every one of them; and I tried and tried again. At last I cobbled up some sort of an end, an utterly32 bad one, as I realized as I wrote every single line and word of it, and the story appeared, in 1904 or 1905, in Horlick's Magazine under the editorship of my old and dear friend, A. E. Waite.
Still; I was not satisfied. That end was intolerable[xiv] and I knew it. Again, I sat down to the work, night after night I wrestled33 with it. And I remember an odd circumstance which may or may not be of some physiological34 interest. I was then living in a circumscribed35 "upper part" of a house in Cosway Street, Marylebone Road. That I might struggle by myself, I wrote in the little kitchen; and night after night as I fought grimly, savagely36, all but hopelessly for some fit close for "A Fragment of Life," I was astonished and almost alarmed to find that my feet developed a sensation of most deadly cold. The room was not cold; I had lit the oven burners of the little gas cooking stove. I was not cold; but my feet were chilled in a quite extraordinary manner, as if they had been packed in ice. At last I took off my slippers37 with a view of poking38 my toes into the oven of the stove, and feeling my feet with my hand, I perceived that, in fact, they were not cold at all! But the sensation remained; there, I suppose, you have an odd case of a transference of something that was happening in the brain to the extremities39. My feet were quite warm to the palm of my hand, but to my sense they were frozen. But what a testimony40 to the fitness of the American idiom, "cold feet," as signifying a depressed41 and desponding mood! But, somehow or other, the tale was finished and the "notion" was at last out of my head. I have gone into all this detail about "A Fragment of Life" because I have been assured in many quarters that it is the best thing that I have ever done, and students of the crooked42 ways of literature may be interested to hear of the abominable43 labours of doing it.
"The White People" belongs to the same year as[xv] the first chapter of "A Fragment of Life," 1899, which was also the year of "Hieroglyphics." The fact was I was in high literary spirits, just then. I had been harassed44 and worried for a whole year in the office of Literature, a weekly paper published by The Times, and getting free again, I felt like a prisoner released from chains; ready to dance in letters to any extent. Forthwith I thought of "A Great Romance," a highly elaborate and elaborated piece of work, full of the strangest and rarest things. I have forgotten how it was that this design broke down; but I found by experiment that the great romance was to go on that brave shelf of the unwritten books, the shelf where all the splendid books are to be found in their golden bindings. "The White People" is a small piece of salvage45 from the wreck46. Oddly enough, as is insinuated47 in the Prologue48, the mainspring of the story is to be sought in a medical textbook. In the Prologue reference is made to a review article by Dr. Coryn. But I have since found out that Dr. Coryn was merely quoting from a scientific treatise49 that case of the lady whose fingers became violently inflamed50 because she saw a heavy window sash descend51 on the fingers of her child. With this instance, of course, are to be considered all cases of stigmata, both ancient and modern: and then the question is obvious enough: what limits can we place to the powers of the imagination? Has not the imagination the potentiality at least of performing any miracle, however marvelous, however incredible, according to our ordinary standards? As to the decoration of the story, that is a mingling52 which I venture to think somewhat ingenious of odds53 and ends of folk lore54 and witch lore with pure inventions[xvi] of my own. Some years later I was amused to receive a letter from a gentleman who was, if I remember, a schoolmaster somewhere in Malaya. This gentleman, an earnest student of folklore55, was writing an article on some singular things he had observed amongst the Malayans, and chiefly a kind of were-wolf state into which some of them were able to conjure56 themselves. He had found, as he said, startling resemblances between the magic ritual of Malaya and some of the ceremonies and practices hinted at in "The White People." He presumed that all this was not fancy but fact; that is that I was describing practices actually in use among superstitious57 people on the Welsh border; he was going to quote from me in the article for the Journal of the Folk Lore Society, or whatever it was called, and he just wanted to let me know. I wrote in a hurry to the folklore journal to bid them beware: for the instances selected by the student were all fictions of my own brain!
"The Great God Pan" and "The Inmost Light" are tales of an earlier date, going back to 1890, '91, '92. I have written a good deal about them in "Far Off Things," and in a preface to an edition of "The Great God Pan," published by Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall in 1916, I have described at length the origins of the book. But I must quote anew some extracts from the reviews which welcomed "The Great God Pan" to my extraordinary entertainment, hilarity58 and refreshment59. Here are a few of the best:
"It is not Mr. Machen's fault but his misfortune, that one shakes with laughter rather than with dread25 over the contemplation of his psychological bogey60."—Observer.[xvii]
"His horror, we regret to say, leaves us quite cold ... and our flesh obstinately61 refuses to creep."—Chronicle.
"His bogies don't scare."—Sketch.
"Incoherent nightmare of sex ... which would soon lead to insanity64 if unrestrained ... innocuous from its absurdity65."—Westminster Gazette.
And so on, and so on. Several papers, I remember, declared that "The Great God Pan" was simply a stupid and incompetent66 rehash of Huysmans' "Là-Bas" and "à Rebours." I had not read these books so I got them both. Thereon, I perceived that my critics had not read them either.
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1
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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2
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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3
hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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4
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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5
turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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6
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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turnovers
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| n.营业额( turnover的名词复数 )；失误（篮球术语）；职工流动率；（商店的）货物周转率 | |
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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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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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10
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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12
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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13
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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14
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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15
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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16
banality
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| n.陈腐；平庸；陈词滥调 | |
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17
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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18
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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21
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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poking
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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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39
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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40
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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41
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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42
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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43
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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46
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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47
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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48
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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49
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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50
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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52
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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53
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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54
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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55
folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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56
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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57
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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58
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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59
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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60
bogey
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| n.令人谈之变色之物；妖怪，幽灵 | |
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61
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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62
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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63
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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64
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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65
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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66
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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