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Over and above the attraction of his pervading1 personality, I think the most obvious charm of Stevenson’s books lies in the clear, vivid, accurate
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and strong English in which they are written. Reading them is like watching a good golfer drive or putt the ball with clean strokes in which energy is never wanting and never wasted. He does not foozle, or lose his temper in a hazard, or brandish2 his brassy like a war-club. There is a grace of freedom in his play which comes from practice and self-control.
Stevenson describes (as far as such a thing is possible) the way in which he got his style. “All through my boyhood and youth,” says he, “I was known and pointed3 out for the pattern of an idler, and yet I was always busy on my own private end, which was to learn to write.” He traces with gusto, and doubtless with as much accuracy as can be expected in a map drawn4 from memory, the trails of early admiration5 which he followed towards this goal. His list of “authors whom I have imitated” is most entertaining: Hazlitt, Lamb, Wordsworth, Sir Thomas Browne, Defoe, Hawthorne, Montaigne, Baudelaire, Obermann. In another essay, on “Books Which Have Influenced Me,” he names The Bible, Hamlet, As You Like It, King Lear, Le Vicomte de Bragelonne, The Pilgrim’s Progress, Leaves
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of Grass, Herbert Spencer’s books, Lewes’s Life of Goethe, the Meditations6 of Marcus Aurelius, the poems of Wordsworth, George Meredith’s The Egoist, the essays of Thoreau and Hazlitt, Mitford’s Tales of Old Japan,—a strange catalogue, but not incoherent if you remember that he is speaking now more of their effect upon his way of thinking than of their guidance in his manner of writing,—though in this also I reckon he learned something from them, especially from the English Bible.
Besides the books which he read, he carried about with him little blank-books in which he jotted7 down the noteworthy in what he saw, heard, or imagined. He learned also from penless authors, composers without a manuscript, masters of the viva-voce style, like Robert, the Scotch8 gardener, and John Todd, the shepherd. When he saw a beggar on horseback, he cared not where the horse came from, he watched the rascal9 ride. If an expression struck him “for some conspicuous10 force, some happy distinction,” he promptly11 annexed12 it;—because he understood it, it was his.
In two separate essays, each of which he calls
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“A Gossip,” he pays tribute to “the bracing13 influence of old Dumas,” and to the sweeping14 power and broad charm of Walter Scott, “a great romantic—an idle child,” the type of easy writers. But Stevenson is of a totally different type, though of a kindred spirit. He is the best example in modern English of a careful writer. He modelled and remodelled15, touched and retouched his work, toiled16 tremendously. The chapter on Honolulu in The Wrecker, was rewritten ten times. His essays for Scribner’s Magazine passed through half a dozen revisions.
His end in view was to bring his language closer to life, not to use the common language of life. That, he maintained, was too diffuse17, too indiscriminate. He wished to condense, to distil18, to bring out the real vitality19 of language. He was like Sentimental20 Tommy in Barrie’s book, willing to cogitate21 three hours to find the solitary22 word which would make the thing he had in mind stand out distinct and unmistakable. What matter if his delay to finish his paper lost him the prize in the competition? Tommy’s prize was the word; when he had that his work was crowned.
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A willingness to be content with the wrong colour, to put up with the word which does not fit, is the mark of inferior work. For example, the author of Trilby, wishing to describe a certain quick, retentive23 look, speaks of the painter’s “prehensile24 eye.” The adjective startles, but does not illuminate25. The prehensile quality belongs to tails rather than to eyes.
There is a modern school of writers fondly given to the cross-breeding of adjectives and nouns. Their idea of a vivid style is satisfied by taking a subject which belongs to one region of life and describing it in terms drawn from another. Thus if they write of music, they use the language of painting; if of painting, they employ the terminology26 of music. They give us pink songs of love, purple roars of anger, and gray dirges27 of despair. Or they describe the andante passages of a landscape, and the minor28 key of a heroine’s face.
This is the extravagance of a would-be pointed style which mistakes the incongruous for the brilliant. Stevenson may have had something to do with the effort to escape from the polished commonplace of an English which admitted no master earlier
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than Addison or later than Macaulay. He may have been a leader in the hunting of the unexpected, striking, pungent29 word. But for the excesses and absurdities30 of this school of writing in its decadence31, he had no liking32. He knew that if you are going to use striking words you must be all the more careful to make them hit the mark.
He sets forth33 his theory of style in the essay called A Humble34 Remonstrance35. It amounts to this: First, you shall have an idea, a controlling thought; then you shall set your words and sentences marching after it as soldiers follow their captain; and if any turns back, looks the other way, fails to keep step, you shall put him out of the ranks as a malingerer36, a deserter at heart. “The proper method of literature,” says he, “is by selection, which is a kind of negative exaggeration.” But the positive exaggeration,—the forced epithet37, the violent phrase, the hysterical38 paragraph,—he does not allow. Hence we feel at once a restraint and an intensity39, a poignancy40 and a delicacy41 in his style, which make it vivid without ever becoming insane even when he describes insanity42, as he does in The Merry Men,
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Olalla, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. His words are focussed on the object as with a burning-glass. They light it up; they kindle43 it; but they do not distort it.
Now a style like this may have its occasional fatigues44: it may convey a sense of over-carefulness, of a choice somewhat too meticulous,—to use a word which in itself illustrates45 my meaning. But after all it has a certain charm, especially in these days of slipshod, straddling English. You like to see a man put his foot down in the right place, neither stumbling nor swaggering. The assurance with which he treads may be the result of forethought and concentration, but to you, reading, it gives a feeling of ease and confidence. You follow him with pleasure because he knows where he is going and has taken pains to study the best way of getting there.
Take a couple of illustrations from the early sketches46 which Stevenson wrote to accompany a book of etchings of Edinburgh,—hack47 work, you may call them; but even hack work can be done with a nice conscience.
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Here is the Edinburgh climate: “The weather is raw and boisterous48 in winter, shifty and ungenial in summer, and a downright meteorological purgatory49 in spring. The delicate die early, and I, as a survivor50 among bleak51 winds and plumping rains, have been sometimes tempted52 to envy them their fate.”
Here is the Scottish love of home: (One of the tall “lands,” inhabited by a hundred families, has crumbled53 and gone down.) “How many people all over the world, in London, Canada, New Zealand, could say with truth, ‘The house I was born in fell last night’!”
Now turn to a volume of short stories. Here is a Hebridean night, in The Merry Men: “Outside was a wonderful clear night of stars, with here and there a cloud still hanging, last stragglers of the tempest. It was near the top of the flood, and the Merry Men were roaring in the windless quiet.”
Here is a sirocco in Spain: “It came out of malarious54 lowlands, and over several snowy sierras. The nerves of those on whom it blew were strung and jangled; their eyes smarted with the dust;
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their legs ached under the burden of their body; and the touch of one hand upon another grew to be odious55.”
Now take an illustration from one of his very early essays, Notes on the Movements of Young Children, printed in 1874. Here are two very little girls learning to dance: “In these two, particularly, the rhythm was sometimes broken by an excess of energy, as though the pleasure of the music in their light bodies could endure no longer the restraint of the regulated dance.”
These examples are purposely chosen from tranquil56 pages; there is nothing far-fetched or extraordinary about them; yet I shall be sorry for you, reader, if you do not feel something rare and precious in a style like this, in which the object, however simple, is made alive with a touch, and stands before you as if you saw it for the first time.
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1
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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brandish
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| v.挥舞，挥动；n.挥动，挥舞 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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8
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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cogitate
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| v.慎重思考，思索 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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prehensile
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| adj.（足等）适于抓握的 | |
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illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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terminology
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| n.术语；专有名词 | |
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dirges
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| n.挽歌( dirge的名词复数 )；忧伤的歌，哀歌 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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malingerer
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| n.装病以逃避职责的人 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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42
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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45
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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46
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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47
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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48
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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49
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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51
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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52
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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53
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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malarious
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| （患）疟疾的，（有）瘴气的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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