In the autumn of 1903 I used to dine frequently in a restaurant in the Rue1 de Clichy, Paris. Here were, among others, two waitresses that attracted my attention. One was a beautiful, pale young girl, to whom I never spoke2, for she was employed far away from the table which I affected3. The other, a stout4, aged6" target="_blank">middle-aged5 managing Breton woman, had sole command over my table and me, and gradually she began to assume such a maternal7 tone towards me that I saw I should be compelled to leave that restaurant. If I was absent for a couple of nights running she would reproach me sharply: "What! you are unfaithful to me?" Once, when I complained about some French beans, she informed me roundly that French beans were a subject which I did not understand. I then decided8 to be eternally unfaithful to her, and I abandoned the restaurant. A few nights before the final parting an old woman came into the restaurant to dine. She was fat, shapeless, ugly, and grotesque9. She had a ridiculous voice, and ridiculous gestures. It was easy to see that she lived alone, and that in the long lapse10 of years she had developed the kind of peculiarity11 which induces guffaws12 among the thoughtless. She was burdened with a lot of small parcels, which she kept dropping. She chose one seat; and then, not liking13 it, chose another; and then another. In a few moments she had the whole restaurant laughing at her. That my middle-aged Breton should laugh was indifferent to me, but I was pained to see a coarse grimace14 of giggling15 on the pale face of the beautiful young waitress to whom I had never spoken.
I reflected, concerning the grotesque diner: "This woman was once young, slim, perhaps beautiful; certainly free from these ridiculous mannerisms. Very probably she is unconscious of her singularities. Her case is a tragedy. One ought to be able to make a heartrending novel out of the history of a woman such as she." Every stout, ageing woman is not grotesque--far from it!--but there is an extreme pathos16 in the mere17 fact that every stout ageing woman was once a young girl with the unique charm of youth in her form and movements and in her mind. And the fact that the change from the young girl to the stout ageing woman is made up of an infinite number of infinitesimal changes, each unperceived by her, only intensifies18 the pathos.
It was at this instant that I was visited by the idea of writing the book which ultimately became "The Old Wives' Tale." Of course I felt that the woman who caused the ignoble19 mirth in the restaurant would not serve me as a type of heroine. For she was much too old and obviously unsympathetic. It is an absolute rule that the principal character of a novel must not be unsympathetic, and the whole modern tendency of realistic fiction is against oddness in a prominent figure. I knew that I must choose the sort of woman who would pass unnoticed in a crowd.
I put the idea aside for a long time, but it was never very distant from me. For several reasons it made a special appeal to me. I had always been a convinced admirer of Mrs. W. K. Clifford's most precious novel, "Aunt Anne," but I wanted to see in the story of an old woman many things that Mrs. W. K. Clifford had omitted from "Aunt Anne." Moreover, I had always revolted against the absurd youthfulness, the unfading youthfulness of the average heroine. And as a protest against this fashion, I was already, in 1903, planning a novel ("Leonora") of which the heroine was aged forty, and had daughters old enough to be in love. The reviewers, by the way, were staggered by my hardihood in offering a woman of forty as a subject of serious interest to the public. But I meant to go much farther than forty! Finally as a supreme20 reason, I had the example and the challenge of Guy de Maupassant's "Une Vie." In the nineties we used to regard "Une Vie" with mute awe21, as being the summit of achievement in fiction. And I remember being very cross with Mr. Bernard Shaw because, having read "Une Vie" at the suggestion (I think) of Mr. William Archer22, he failed to see in it anything very remarkable23. Here I must confess that, in 1908, I read "Une Vie" again, and in spite of a natural anxiety to differ from Mr. Bernard Shaw, I was gravely disappointed with it. It is a fine novel, but decidedly inferior to "Pierre et Jean" or even "Fort Comme la Mort." To return to the year 1903. "Une Vie" relates the entire life history of a woman. I settled in the privacy of my own head that my book about the development of a young girl into a stout old lady must be the English "Une Vie." I have been accused of every fault except a lack of self-confidence, and in a few weeks I settled a further point, namely, that my book must "go one better" than "Une Vie," and that to this end it must be the life-history of two women instead of only one. Hence, "The Old Wives' Tale" has two heroines. Constance was the original; Sophia was created out of bravado24, just to indicate that I declined to consider Guy de Maupassant as the last forerunner25 of the deluge26. I was intimidated27 by the audacity28 of my project, but I had sworn to carry it out. For several years I looked it squarely in the face at intervals29, and then walked away to write novels of smaller scope, of which I produced five or six. But I could not dally30 forever, and in the autumn of 1907 I actually began to write it, in a village near Fontainebleau, where I rented half a house from a retired31 railway servant. I calculated that it would be 200,000 words long (which it exactly proved to be), and I had a vague notion that no novel of such dimensions (except Richardson's) had ever been written before. So I counted the words in several famous Victorian novels, and discovered to my relief that the famous Victorian novels average 400,000 words apiece. I wrote the first part of the novel in six weeks. It was fairly easy to me, because, in the seventies, in the first decade of my life, I had lived in the actual draper's shop of the Baines's, and knew it as only a child could know it. Then I went to London on a visit. I tried to continue the book in a London hotel, but London was too distracting, and I put the thing away, and during January and February of 1908, I wrote "Buried Alive," which was published immediately, and was received with majestic32 indifference33 by the English public, an indifference which has persisted to this day.
I then returned to the Fontainebleau region and gave "The Old Wives' Tale" no rest till I finished it at the end of July, 1908. It was published in the autumn of the same year, and for six weeks afterward34 the English public steadily35 confirmed an opinion expressed by a certain person in whose judgment36 I had confidence, to the effect that the work was honest but dull, and that when it was not dull it had a regrettable tendency to facetiousness37. My publishers, though brave fellows, were somewhat disheartened; however, the reception of the book gradually became less and less frigid38.
With regard to the French portion of the story, it was not until I had written the first part that I saw from a study of my chronological39 basis that the Siege of Paris might be brought into the tale. The idea was seductive; but I hated, and still hate, the awful business of research; and I only knew the Paris of the Twentieth Century. Now I was aware that my railway servant and his wife had been living in Paris at the time of the war. I said to the old man, "By the way, you went through the Siege of Paris, didn't you?" He turned to his old wife and said, uncertainly, "The Siege of Paris? Yes, we did, didn't we?" The Siege of Paris had been only one incident among many in their lives. Of course, they remembered it well, though not vividly40, and I gained much information from them. But the most useful thing which I gained from them was the perception, startling at first, that ordinary people went on living very ordinary lives in Paris during the siege, and that to the vast mass of the population the siege was not the dramatic, spectacular, thrilling, ecstatic affair that is described in history. Encouraged by this perception, I decided to include the siege in my scheme. I read Sarcey's diary of the siege aloud to my wife, and I looked at the pictures in Jules Claretie's popular work on the siege and the commune, and I glanced at the printed collection of official documents, and there my research ended.
It has been asserted that unless I had actually been present at a public execution, I could not have written the chapter in which Sophia was at the Auxerre solemnity. I have not been present at a public execution, as the whole of my information about public executions was derived41 from a series of articles on them which I read in the Paris Matin. Mr. Frank Harris, discussing my book in "Vanity Fair," said it was clear that I had not seen an execution, (or words to that effect), and he proceeded to give his own description of an execution. It was a brief but terribly convincing bit of writing, quite characteristic and quite worthy42 of the author of "Montes the Matador43" and of a man who has been almost everywhere and seen almost everything. I comprehended how far short I had fallen of the truth! I wrote to Mr. Frank Harris, regretting that his description had not been printed before I wrote mine, as I should assuredly have utilized44 it, and, of course, I admitted that I had never witnessed an execution. He simply replied: "Neither have I." This detail is worth preserving, for it is a reproof45 to that large body of readers, who, when a novelist has really carried conviction to them, assert off hand: "O, that must be autobiography46!"
ARNOLD BENNETT.
1 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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2 spoke | |
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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3 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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5 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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6 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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7 maternal | |
adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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8 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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9 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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10 lapse | |
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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11 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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12 guffaws | |
n.大笑,狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑,狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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14 grimace | |
v.做鬼脸,面部歪扭 | |
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15 giggling | |
v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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16 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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17 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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18 intensifies | |
n.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的名词复数 )v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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19 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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20 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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21 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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22 archer | |
n.射手,弓箭手 | |
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23 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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24 bravado | |
n.虚张声势,故作勇敢,逞能 | |
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25 forerunner | |
n.前身,先驱(者),预兆,祖先 | |
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26 deluge | |
n./vt.洪水,暴雨,使泛滥 | |
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27 intimidated | |
v.恐吓;威胁adj.害怕的;受到威胁的 | |
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28 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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29 intervals | |
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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30 dally | |
v.荒废(时日),调情 | |
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31 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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32 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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33 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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34 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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35 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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36 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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37 facetiousness | |
n.滑稽 | |
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38 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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39 chronological | |
adj.按年月顺序排列的,年代学的 | |
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40 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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41 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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42 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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43 matador | |
n.斗牛士 | |
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44 utilized | |
v.利用,使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
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46 autobiography | |
n.自传 | |
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