Are not both branches of literature needful? By all means let us dream, on midsummer nights, of fond lovers led through devious4 paths to happiness by Puck; of virtuous5 dukes—one finds such in fairyland; of fate subdued6 by faith and gentleness. But may we not also, in our more serious humours, find satisfaction in thinking with Hamlet or Coriolanus? May not both Dickens and Zola have their booths in Vanity Fair? If literature is to be a help to us, as well as a pastime, it must deal with the ugly as well as with the beautiful; it must show us ourselves, not as we wish to appear, but as we know ourselves to be. Man has been described as a animal with aspirations7 reaching up to Heaven and instincts rooted—elsewhere. Is literature to flatter him, or reveal him to himself?
Of living writers it is not safe, I suppose, to speak except, perhaps, of those who have been with us so long that we have come to forget they are not of the past. Has justice ever been done to Ouida’s undoubted genius by our shallow school of criticism, always very clever in discovering faults as obvious as pimples8 on a fine face? Her guardsmen “toy” with their food. Her horses win the Derby three years running. Her wicked women throw guinea peaches from the windows of the Star and Garter into the Thames at Richmond. The distance being about three hundred and fifty yards, it is a good throw. Well, well, books are not made worth reading by the absence of absurdities9. Ouida possesses strength, tenderness, truth, passion; and these be qualities in a writer capable of carrying many more faults than Ouida is burdened with. But that is the method of our little criticism. It views an artist as Gulliver saw the Brobdingnag ladies. It is too small to see them in their entirety: a mole10 or a wart11 absorbs all its vision.
Why was not George Gissing more widely read? If faithfulness to life were the key to literary success, Gissing’s sales would have been counted by the million instead of by the hundred.
Have Mark Twain’s literary qualities, apart altogether from his humour, been recognised in literary circles as they ought to have been? “Huck Finn” would be a great work were there not a laugh in it from cover to cover. Among the Indians and some other savage12 tribes the fact that a member of the community has lost one of his senses makes greatly to his advantage; he is then regarded as a superior person. So among a school of Anglo-Saxon readers, it is necessary to a man, if he would gain literary credit, that he should lack the sense of humour. One or two curious modern examples occur to me of literary success secured chiefly by this failing.
All these authors are my favourites; but such catholic taste is held nowadays to be no taste. One is told that if one loves Shakespeare, one must of necessity hate Ibsen; that one cannot appreciate Wagner and tolerate Beethoven; that if we admit any merit in Dore, we are incapable13 of understanding Whistler. How can I say which is my favourite novel? I can only ask myself which lives clearest in my memory, which is the book I run to more often than to another in that pleasant half hour before the dinner-bell, when, with all apologies to good Mr. Smiles, it is useless to think of work.
I find, on examination, that my “David Copperfield” is more dilapidated than any other novel upon my shelves. As I turn its dog-eared pages, reading the familiar headlines “Mr. Micawber in difficulties,” “Mr. Micawber in prison,” “I fall in love with Dora,” “Mr. Barkis goes out with the tide,” “My child wife,” “Traddles in a nest of roses”—pages of my own life recur14 to me; so many of my sorrows, so many of my joys are woven in my mind with this chapter or the other. That day—how well I remember it when I read of “David’s” wooing, but Dora’s death I was careful to skip. Poor, pretty little Mrs. Copperfield at the gate, holding up her baby in her arms, is always associated in my memory with a child’s cry, long listened for. I found the book, face downwards15 on a chair, weeks afterwards, not moved from where I had hastily laid it.
Old friends, all of you, how many times have I not slipped away from my worries into your pleasant company! Peggotty, you dear soul, the sight of your kind eyes is so good to me. Our mutual16 friend, Mr. Charles Dickens, is prone17, we know, just ever so slightly to gush18. Good fellow that he is, he can see no flaw in those he loves, but you, dear lady, if you will permit me to call you by a name much abused, he has drawn19 in true colours. I know you well, with your big heart, your quick temper, your homely20, human ways of thought. You yourself will never guess your worth—how much the world is better for such as you! You think of yourself as of a commonplace person, useful only for the making of pastry21, the darning of stockings, and if a man—not a young man, with only dim half-opened eyes, but a man whom life had made keen to see the beauty that lies hidden beneath plain faces—were to kneel and kiss your red, coarse hand, you would be much astonished. But he would be a wise man, Peggotty, knowing what things a man should take carelessly, and for what things he should thank God, who has fashioned fairness in many forms.
Mr. Wilkins Micawber, and you, most excellent of faithful wives, Mrs. Emma Micawber, to you I also raise my hat. How often has the example of your philosophy saved me, when I, likewise, have suffered under the temporary pressure of pecuniary22 liabilities; when the sun of my prosperity, too, has sunk beneath the dark horizon of the world—in short, when I, also, have found myself in a tight corner. I have asked myself what would the Micawbers have done in my place. And I have answered myself. They would have sat down to a dish of lamb’s fry, cooked and breaded by the deft23 hands of Emma, followed by a brew24 of punch, concocted25 by the beaming Wilkins, and have forgotten all their troubles, for the time being. Whereupon, seeing first that sufficient small change was in my pocket, I have entered the nearest restaurant, and have treated myself to a repast of such sumptuousness26 as the aforesaid small change would command, emerging from that restaurant stronger and more fit for battle. And lo! the sun of my prosperity has peeped at me from over the clouds with a sly wink27, as if to say “Cheer up; I am only round the corner.”
Cheery, elastic28 Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, how would half the world face their fate but by the help of a kindly29, shallow nature such as yours? I love to think that your sorrows can be drowned in nothing more harmful than a bowl of punch. Here’s to you, Emma, and to you, Wilkins, and to the twins!
May you and such childlike folk trip lightly over the stones upon your path! May something ever turn up for you, my dears! May the rain of life ever fall as April showers upon your simple bald head, Micawber!
And you, sweet Dora, let me confess I love you, though sensible friends deem you foolish. Ah, silly Dora, fashioned by wise Mother Nature who knows that weakness and helplessness are as a talisman30 calling forth31 strength and tenderness in man, trouble yourself not unduly32 about the oysters33 and the underdone mutton, little woman. Good plain cooks at twenty pounds a year will see to these things for us. Your work is to teach us gentleness and kindness. Lay your foolish curls just here, child. It is from such as you we learn wisdom. Foolish wise folk sneer34 at you. Foolish wise folk would pull up the laughing lilies, the needless roses from the garden, would plant in their places only useful, wholesome35 cabbage. But the gardener, knowing better, plants the silly, short-lived flowers, foolish wise folk asking for what purpose.
Gallant36 Traddles, of the strong heart and the unruly hair; Sophy, dearest of girls; Betsy Trotwood, with your gentlemanly manners and your woman’s heart, you have come to me in shabby rooms, making the dismal37 place seem bright. In dark hours your kindly faces have looked out at me from the shadows, your kindly voices have cheered me.
Little Em’ly and Agnes, it may be my bad taste, but I cannot share my friend Dickens’ enthusiasm for them. Dickens’ good women are all too good for human nature’s daily food. Esther Summerson, Florence Dombey, Little Nell—you have no faults to love you by.
Scott’s women were likewise mere38 illuminated39 texts. Scott only drew one live heroine—Catherine Seton. His other women were merely the prizes the hero had to win in the end, like the sucking pig or the leg of mutton for which the yokel40 climbs the greasy41 pole. That Dickens could draw a woman to some likeness42 he proved by Bella Wilfer, and Estella in “Great Expectations.” But real women have never been popular in fiction. Men readers prefer the false, and women readers object to the truth.
From an artistic43 point of view, “David Copperfield” is undoubtedly44 Dickens’ best work. Its humour is less boisterous45; its pathos46 less highly coloured.
“Oh, poor dear, he’s ill,” says a tender-hearted lady in the crowd. “Ill!” retorts a male bystander indignantly, “Ill! ’E’s ’ad too much of what I ain’t ’ad enough of.”
Dickens suffered from too little of what some of us have too much of—criticism. His work met with too little resistance to call forth his powers. Too often his pathos sinks to bathos, and this not from want of skill, but from want of care. It is difficult to believe that the popular writer who allowed his sentimentality—or rather the public’s sentimentality—to run away with him in such scenes as the death of Paul Dombey and Little Nell was the artist who painted the death of Sidney Carton and of Barkis, the willing. The death of Barkis, next to the passing of Colonel Newcome, is, to my thinking, one of the most perfect pieces of pathos in English literature. No very deep emotion is concerned. He is a commonplace old man, clinging foolishly to a commonplace box. His simple wife and the old boatmen stand by, waiting calmly for the end. There is no straining after effect. One feels death enter, dignifying48 all things; and touched by that hand, foolish old Barkis grows great.
In Uriah Heap and Mrs. Gummidge, Dickens draws types rather than characters. Pecksniff, Podsnap, Dolly Varden, Mr. Bumble, Mrs. Gamp, Mark Tapley, Turveydrop, Mrs. Jellyby—these are not characters; they are human characteristics personified.
We have to go back to Shakespeare to find a writer who, through fiction, has so enriched the thought of the people. Admit all Dickens’ faults twice over, we still have one of the greatest writers of modern times. Such people as these creations of Dickens never lived, says your little critic. Nor was Prometheus, type of the spirit of man, nor was Niobe, mother of all mothers, a truthful49 picture of the citizen one was likely to meet often during a morning’s stroll through Athens. Nor grew there ever a wood like to the Forest of Arden, though every Rosalind and Orlando knows the path to glades50 having much resemblance thereto.
Steerforth, upon whom Dickens evidently prided himself, I must confess, never laid hold of me. He is a melodramatic young man. The worst I could have wished him would have been that he should marry Rose Dartle and live with his mother. It would have served him right for being so attractive. Old Peggotty and Ham are, of course, impossible. One must accept them also as types. These Brothers Cheeryble, these Kits51, Joe Gargeries, Boffins, Garlands, John Peerybingles, we will accept as types of the goodness that is in men—though in real life the amount of virtue52 that Dickens often wastes upon a single individual would by more economically minded nature, be made to serve for fifty.
To sum up, “David Copperfield” is a plain tale, simply told; and such are all books that live. Eccentricities53 of style, artistic trickery, may please the critic of a day, but literature is a story that interests us, boys and girls, men and women. It is a sad book; and that, again, gives it an added charm in these sad later days. Humanity is nearing its old age, and we have come to love sadness, as the friend who has been longest with us. In the young days of our vigour54 we were merry. With Ulysses’ boatmen, we took alike the sunshine and the thunder with frolic welcome. The red blood flowed in our veins55, and we laughed, and our tales were of strength and hope. Now we sit like old men, watching faces in the fire; and the stories that we love are sad stories—like the stories we ourselves have lived.
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1
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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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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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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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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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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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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yokel
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| n.乡下人；农夫 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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43
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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46
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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48
dignifying
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| 使显得威严( dignify的现在分词 )； 使高贵； 使显赫； 夸大 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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50
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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51
kits
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| 衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 )； 成套用品； 配套元件 | |
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52
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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53
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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54
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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