Madmen, you know, see visions, hold conversations with, even draw the likeness19 of, people invisible to you and me. Is this making of people out of fancy madness? and are novel-writers at all entitled to strait-waistcoats? I often forget people’s names in life; and in my own stories contritely20 own that I make dreadful blunders regarding them; but I declare, my dear sir, with respect to the personages introduced into your humble21 servant’s fables22, I know the people utterly — I know the sound of their voices. A gentleman came in to see me the other day, who was so like the picture of Philip Firmin in Mr. Walker’s charming drawings in the cornhill Magazine, that he was quite a curiosity to me. The same eyes, beard, shoulders, just as you have seen them from month to month. Well, he is not like the Philip Firmin in my mind. Asleep, asleep in the grave, lies the bold, the generous, the reckless, the tender-hearted creature whom I have made to pass through those adventures which have just been brought to an end. It is years since I heard the laughter ringing, or saw the bright blue eyes. When I knew him both were young. I become young as I think of him. And this morning he was alive again in this room, ready to laugh, to fight, to weep. As I write, do you know, it is the gray of evening; the house is quiet; everybody is out; the room is getting a little dark, and I look rather wistfully up from the paper with perhaps ever so little fancy that HE MAY COME IN. — No? No movement. No gray shade, growing more palpable, out of which at last look the well-known eyes. No, the printer came and took him away with the last page of the proofs. And with the printer’s boy did the whole cortege of ghosts flit away, invisible? Ha! stay! what is this? Angels and ministers of grace! The door opens, and a dark form — enters, bearing a black — a black suit of clothes. It is John. He says it is time to dress for dinner.
***
Every man who has had his German tutor, and has been coached through the famous “Faust” of Goethe (thou wert my instructor23, good old Weissenborn, and these eyes beheld24 the great master himself in dear little Weimar town!) has read those charming verses which are prefixed to the drama, in which the poet reverts25 to the time when his work was first composed, and recalls the friends now departed, who once listened to his song. The dear shadows rise up around him, he says; he lives in the past again. It is today which appears vague and visionary. We humbler writers cannot create Fausts, or raise up monumental works that shall endure for all ages; but our books are diaries, in which our own feelings must of necessity be set down. As we look to the page written last month, or ten years ago, we remember the day and its events; the child ill, mayhap, in the adjoining room, and the doubts and fears which racked the brain as it still pursued its work; the dear old friend who read the commencement of the tale, and whose gentle hand shall be laid in ours no more. I own for my part that, in reading pages which this hand penned formerly26, I often lose sight of the text under my eyes. It is not the words I see; but that past day; that bygone page of life’s history; that tragedy, comedy it may be, which our little home company was enacting27; that merry-making which we shared; that funeral which we followed; that bitter, bitter grief which we buried.
And, such being the state of my mind, I pray gentle readers to deal kindly28 with their humble servant’s manifold shortcomings, blunders, and slips of memory. As sure as I read a page of my own composition, I find a fault or two, half a dozen. Jones is called Brown. Brown, who is dead, is brought to life. Aghast, and months after the number was printed, I saw that I had called Philip Firmin, Clive Newcome. Now Clive Newcome is the hero of another story by the reader’s most obedient writer. The two men are as different, in my mind’s eye, as — as Lord Palmerston and Mr. Disraeli let us say. But there is that blunder at page 990, line 76, volume 84 of the Cornhill Magazine, and it is past mending; and I wish in my life I had made no worse blunders or errors than that which is hereby acknowledged.
Another Finis written. Another mile-stone passed on this journey from birth to the next world! Sure it is a subject for solemn cogitation29. Shall we continue this story-telling business and be voluble to the end of our age? Will it not be presently time, O prattler30, to hold your tongue, and let younger people speak? I have a friend, a painter, who, like other persons who shall be nameless, is growing old. He has never painted with such laborious31 finish as his works now show. This master is still the most humble and diligent32 of scholars. Of Art, his mistress, he is always an eager, reverent33 pupil. In his calling, in yours, in mine, industry and humility34 will help and comfort us. A word with you. In a pretty large experience I have not found the men who write books superior in wit or learning to those who don’t write at all. In regard of mere35 information, non-writers must often be superior to writers. You don’t expect a lawyer in full practice to be conversant36 with all kinds of literature; he is too busy with his law; and so a writer is commonly too busy with his own books to be able to bestow37 attention on the works of other people. After a day’s work (in which I have been depicting38, let us say, the agonies of Louisa on parting with the Captain, or the atrocious behavior of the wicked Marquis to Lady Emily) I march to the Club, proposing to improve my mind and keep myself “posted up,” as the Americans phrase it, with the literature of the day. And what happens? Given, a walk after luncheon39, a pleasing book, and a most comfortable armchair by the fire, and you know the rest. A doze8 ensues. Pleasing book drops suddenly, is picked up once with an air of some confusion, is laid presently softly in lap: head falls on comfortable arm-chair cushion: eyes close: soft nasal music is heard. Am I telling Club secrets? Of afternoons, after lunch, I say, scores of sensible fogies have a doze. Perhaps I have fallen asleep over that very book to which “Finis” has just been written. “And if the writer sleeps, what happens to the readers?” says Jones, coming down upon me with his lightning wit. What? You DID sleep over it? And a very good thing too. These eyes have more than once seen a friend dozing40 over pages which this hand has written. There is a vignette somewhere in one of my books of a friend so caught napping with “Pendennis,” or the “Newcomes,” in his lap and if a writer can give you a sweet soothing41, harmless sleep, has he not done you a kindness? So is the author who excites and interests you worthy42 of your thanks and benedictions43. I am troubled with fever and ague, that seizes me at odd intervals44 and prostrates45 me for a day. There is cold fit, for which, I am thankful to say, hot brandy-and-water is prescribed, and this induces hot fit, and so on. In one or two of these fits I have read novels with the most fearful contentment of mind. Once, on the Mississippi, it was my dearly beloved “Jacob Faithful:” once at Frankfort O. M., the delightful46 “Vingt Ans Apres” of Monsieur Dumas: once at Tunbridge wells, the thrilling “Woman in White:” and these books gave me amusement from morning till sunset. I remember those ague fits with a great deal of pleasure and gratitude48. Think of a whole day in bed, and a good novel for a companion! No cares: no remorse49 about idleness: no visitors: and the Woman in White or the Chevalier d’Artagnan to tell me stories from dawn to night! “Please, ma’am, my master’s compliments, and can he have the third volume?” (This message was sent to an astonished friend and neighbor who lent me, volume by volume, the W. in W.) How do you like your novels? I like mine strong, “hot with,” and no mistake: no love-making: no observations about society: little dialogue, except where the characters are bullying50 each other: plenty of fighting: and a villain51 in the cupboard, who is to suffer tortures just before Finis. I don’t like your melancholy Finis. I never read the history of a consumptive heroine twice. If I might give a short hint to an impartial52 writer (as the Examiner used to say in old days), it would be to act, NOT a la mode le pays de Pole (I think that was the phraseology), but ALWAYS to give quarter. In the story of Philip, just come to an end, I have the permission of the author to state, that he was going to drown the two villains53 of the piece — a certain Doctor F—— and a certain Mr. T. H—— on board the “President,” or some other tragic54 ship — but you see I relented. I pictured to myself Firmin’s ghastly face amid the crowd of shuddering55 people on that reeling deck in the lonely ocean, and thought, “Thou ghastly lying wretch56, thou shalt not be drowned: thou shalt have a fever only; a knowledge of thy danger; and a chance — ever so small a chance — of repentance57.” I wonder whether he DID repent58 when he found himself in the yellow-fever, in Virginia? The probability is, he fancied that his son had injured him very much, and forgave him on his death-bed. Do you imagine there is a great deal of genuine right-down remorse in the world? Don’t people rather find excuses which make their minds easy; endeavor to prove to themselves that they have been lamentably59 belied60 and misunderstood; and try and forgive the persecutors who WILL present that bill when it is due; and not bear malice61 against the cruel ruffian who takes them to the police-office for stealing the spoons? Years ago I had a quarrel with a certain well-known person (I believed a statement regarding him which his friends imparted to me, and which turned out to be quite incorrect). To his dying day that quarrel was never quite made up. I said to his brother, “Why is your brother’s soul still dark against me? It is I who ought to be angry and unforgiving: for I was in the wrong.” In the region which they now inhabit (for Finis has been set to the volumes of the lives of both here below), if they take any cognizance of our squabbles, and tittle-tattles, and gossips on earth here, I hope they admit that my little error was not of a nature unpardonable. If you have never committed a worse, my good sir, surely the score against you will not be heavy. Ha, dilectissimi fratres! It is in regard of sins NOT found out that we may say or sing (in an undertone, in a most penitent62 and lugubrious63 minor64 key), Miserere nobis miseris peccatoribus.
Among the sins of commission which novel-writers not seldom perpetrate, is the sin of grandiloquence65, or tall-talking, against which, for my part, I will offer up a special libera me. This is the sin of schoolmasters, governesses, critics, sermoners, and instructors66 of young or old people. Nay67 (for I am making a clean breast, and liberating68 my soul), perhaps of all the novel-spinners now extant, the present speaker is the most addicted69 to preaching. Does he not stop perpetually in his story and begin to preach to you? When he ought to be engaged with business, is he not for ever taking the Muse47 by the sleeve, and plaguing her with some of his cynical70 sermons? I cry peccavi loudly and heartily71. I tell you I would like to be able to write a story which should show no egotism whatever — in which there should be no reflections, no cynicism, no vulgarity (and so forth), but an incident in every other page, a villain, a battle, a mystery in every chapter. I should like to be able to feed a reader so spicily72 as to leave him hungering and thirsting for more at the end of every monthly meal.
Alexandre Dumas describes himself, when inventing the plan of a work, as lying silent on his back for two whole days on the deck of a yacht in a Mediterranean73 port. At the end of the two days he arose and called for dinner. In those two days he had built his plot. He had moulded a mighty74 clay, to be cast presently in perennial75 brass76. The chapters, the characters, the incidents, the combinations were all arranged in the artist’s brain ere he set a pen to paper. My Pegasus won’t fly, so as to let me survey the field below me. He has no wings, he is blind of one eye certainly, he is restive77, stubborn, slow; crops a hedge when he ought to be galloping78, or gallops79 when he ought to be quiet. He never will show off when I want him. Sometimes he goes at a pace which surprises me. Sometimes, when I most wish him to make the running, the brute80 turns restive, and I am obliged to let him take his own time. I wonder do other novel-writers experience this fatalism? They MUST go a certain way, in spite of themselves. I have been surprised at the observations made by some of my characters. It seems as if an occult Power was moving the pen. The personage does or says something, and I ask, how the dickens did he come to think of that? Every man has remarked in dreams, the vast dramatic power which is sometimes evinced; I won’t say the surprising power, for nothing does surprise you in dreams. But those strange characters you meet make instant observations of which you never can have thought previously81. In like manner, the imagination foretells82 things. We spake anon of the inflated83 style of some writers. What also if there is an AFFLATED style — when a writer is like a Pythoness on her oracle84 tripod, and mighty words, words which he cannot help, come blowing, and bellowing85, and whistling, and moaning through the speaking pipes of his bodily organ? I have told you it was a very queer shock to me the other day when, with a letter of introduction in his hand, the artist’s (not my) Philip Firmin walked into this room, and sat down in the chair opposite. In the novel of “Pendennis,” written ten years ago, there is an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented (as I suppose authors invent their personages out of scraps86, heel-taps, odds87 and ends of characters). I was smoking in a tavern88 parlor89 one night — and this Costigan came into the room alive — the very man:— the most remarkable90 resemblance of the printed sketches91 of the man, of the rude drawings in which I had depicted92 him. He had the same little coat, the same battered93 hat, cocked on one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. “Sir,” said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in unknown regions, “sir,” I said, “may I offer you a glass of brandy-and-water?” “Bedad, ye may,” says he, “and I’ll sing ye a song tu.” Of course he spoke94 with an Irish brogue. Of course he had been in the army. In ten minutes he pulled out an Army Agent’s account, whereon his name was written. A few months after we read of him in a police court. How had I come to know him, to divine him? Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits. In the world of spirits and water I know I did: but that is a mere quibble of words. I was not surprised when he spoke in an Irish brogue. I had had cognizance of him before somehow. Who has not felt that little shock which arises when a person, a place, some words in a book (there is always a collocation) present themselves to you, and you know that you have before met the same person, words, scene, and so forth?
They used to call the good Sir Walter the “Wizard of the North.” What if some writer should appear who can write so ENCHANTINGLY that he shall be able to call into actual life the people whom he invents? What if Mignon, and Margaret, and Goetz von Berlichingen are alive now (though I don’t say they are visible), and Dugald Dalgetty and Ivanhoe were to step in at that open window by the little garden yonder? Suppose Uncas and our noble old Leather Stocking were to glide95 silent in? Suppose Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should enter with a noiseless swagger, curling their moustaches? And dearest Amelia Booth, on Uncle Toby’s arm; and Tittlebat Titmouse, with his hair dyed green; and all the Crummles company of comedians96, with the Gil Blas troop; and Sir Roger de Coverley; and the greatest of all crazy gentlemen, the Knight97 of La Mancha, with his blessed squire98? I say to you, I look rather wistfully towards the window, musing99 upon these people. Were any of them to enter, I think I should not be very much frightened. Dear old friends, what pleasant hours I have had with them! We do not see each other very often, but when we do, we are ever happy to meet. I had a capital half-hour with Jacob Faithful last night; when the last sheet was corrected, when “Finis” had been written, and the printer’s boy, with the copy, was safe in Green Arbor Court.
So you are gone, little printer’s boy, with the last scratches and corrections on the proof, and a fine flourish by way of Finis at the story’s end. The last corrections? I say those last corrections seem never to be finished. A plague upon the weeds! Every day, when I walk in my own little literary garden-plot, I spy some, and should like to have a spud, and root them out. Those idle words, neighbor, are past remedy. That turning back to the old pages produces anything but elation100 of mind. Would you not pay a pretty fine to be able to cancel some of them? Oh, the sad old pages, the dull old pages! Oh, the cares, the ennui101, the squabbles, the repetitions, the old conversations over and over again! But now and again a kind thought is recalled, and now and again a dear memory. Yet a few chapters more, and then the last: after which, behold102 Finis itself come to an end, and the Infinite begun.
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1
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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contritely
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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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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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reverts
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| 恢复( revert的第三人称单数 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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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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cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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prattler
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| n.空谈者 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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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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prostrates
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的第三人称单数 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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51
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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52
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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56
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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61
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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62
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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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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grandiloquence
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| n.夸张之言，豪言壮语，豪语 | |
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instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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67
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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68
liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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spicily
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| adv.香地；讽刺地；痛快地；下流地 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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gallops
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| （马等）奔驰，骑马奔驰( gallop的名词复数 ) | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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foretells
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的第三人称单数 ) | |
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inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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85
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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86
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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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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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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101
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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102
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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