Not that you doubted I was somewhat connected with Clio’s household. The lady after whom I have named this book is alive, and well known to some of you personally, to all of you by repute. Nor had you finished my first page before you guessed my theme to be that episode in her life which caused so great a sensation among the newspaper-reading public a few years ago. (It all seems but yesterday, does it not? They are still vivid to us, those head-lines. We have hardly yet ceased to be edified2 by the morals pointed3 in those leading articles.) And yet very soon you found me behaving just like any novelist—reporting the exact words that passed between the protagonists4 at private interviews—aye, and the exact thoughts and emotions that were in their breasts. Little wonder that you wondered! Let me make things clear to you.
I have my mistress’ leave to do this. At first (for reasons which you will presently understand) she demurred5. But I pointed out to her that I had been placed in a false position, and that until this were rectified6 neither she nor I could reap the credit due to us.
Know, then, that for a long time Clio had been thoroughly7 discontented. She was happy enough, she says, when first she left the home of Pierus, her father, to become a Muse8. On those humble9 beginnings she looks back with affection. She kept only one servant, Herodotus. The romantic element in him appealed to her. He died, and she had about her a large staff of able and faithful servants, whose way of doing their work irritated and depressed10 her. To them, apparently11, life consisted of nothing but politics and military operations—things to which she, being a woman, was somewhat indifferent. She was jealous of Melpomene. It seemed to her that her own servants worked from without at a mass of dry details which might as well be forgotten. Melpomene’s worked on material that was eternally interesting—the souls of men and women; and not from without, either; but rather casting themselves into those souls and showing to us the essence of them. She was particularly struck by a remark of Aristotle’s, that tragedy was “more philosophic” than history, inasmuch as it concerned itself with what might be, while history was concerned with merely what had been. This summed up for her what she had often felt, but could not have exactly formulated12. She saw that the department over which she presided was at best an inferior one. She saw that just what she had liked—and rightly liked—in poor dear Herodotus was just what prevented him from being a good historian. It was wrong to mix up facts and fancies. But why should her present servants deal with only one little special set of the variegated13 facts of life? It was not in her power to interfere14. The Nine, by the terms of the charter that Zeus had granted to them, were bound to leave their servants an absolutely free hand. But Clio could at least refrain from reading the works which, by a legal fiction, she was supposed to inspire. Once or twice in the course of a century, she would glance into this or that new history book, only to lay it down with a shrug15 of her shoulders. Some of the mediaeval chronicles she rather liked. But when, one day, Pallas asked her what she thought of “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” her only answer was “ostis toia echei en edone echei en edone toia” (For people who like that kind of thing, that is the kind of thing they like). This she did let slip. Generally, throughout all the centuries, she kept up a pretence16 of thinking history the greatest of all the arts. She always held her head high among her Sisters. It was only on the sly that she was an omnivorous17 reader of dramatic and lyric18 poetry. She watched with keen interest the earliest developments of the prose romance in southern Europe; and after the publication of “Clarissa Harlowe” she spent practically all her time in reading novels. It was not until the Spring of the year 1863 that an entirely19 new element forced itself into her peaceful life. Zeus fell in love with her.
To us, for whom so quickly “time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,” there is something strange, even a trifle ludicrous, in the thought that Zeus, after all these years, is still at the beck and call of his passions. And it seems anyhow lamentable20 that he has not yet gained self-confidence enough to appear in his own person to the lady of his choice, and is still at pains to transform himself into whatever object he deems likeliest to please her. To Clio, suddenly from Olympus, he flashed down in the semblance21 of Kinglake’s “Invasion of the Crimea” (four vols., large 8vo, half-calf). She saw through his disguise immediately, and, with great courage and independence, bade him begone. Rebuffed, he was not deflected23. Indeed it would seem that Clio’s high spirit did but sharpen his desire. Hardly a day passed but he appeared in what he hoped would be the irresistible24 form—a recently discovered fragment of Polybius, an advance copy of the forthcoming issue of “The Historical Review,” the note-book of Professor Carl Voertschlaffen... One day, all-prying Hermes told him of Clio’s secret addiction26 to novel-reading. Thenceforth, year in, year out, it was in the form of fiction that Zeus wooed her. The sole result was that she grew sick of the sight of novels, and found a perverse27 pleasure in reading history. These dry details of what had actually happened were a relief, she told herself, from all that make-believe.
One Sunday afternoon—the day before that very Monday on which this narrative28 opens—it occurred to her how fine a thing history might be if the historian had the novelist’s privileges. Suppose he could be present at every scene which he was going to describe, a presence invisible and inevitable29, and equipped with power to see into the breasts of all the persons whose actions he set himself to watch...
While the Muse was thus musing30, Zeus (disguised as Miss Annie S. Swan’s latest work) paid his usual visit. She let her eyes rest on him. Hither and thither31 she divided her swift mind, and addressed him in winged words. “Zeus, father of gods and men, cloud-compeller, what wouldst thou of me? But first will I say what I would of thee”; and she besought32 him to extend to the writers of history such privileges as are granted to novelists. His whole manner had changed. He listened to her with the massive gravity of a ruler who never yet has allowed private influence to obscure his judgment33. He was silent for some time after her appeal. Then, in a voice of thunder, which made quake the slopes of Parnassus, he gave his answer. He admitted the disabilities under which historians laboured. But the novelists—were they not equally handicapped? They had to treat of persons who never existed, events which never were. Only by the privilege of being in the thick of those events, and in the very bowels34 of those persons, could they hope to hold the reader’s attention. If similar privileges were granted to the historian, the demand for novels would cease forthwith, and many thousand of hard-working, deserving men and women would be thrown out of employment. In fact, Clio had asked him an impossible favour. But he might—he said he conceivably might—be induced to let her have her way just once. In that event, all she would have to do was to keep her eye on the world’s surface, and then, so soon as she had reason to think that somewhere was impending35 something of great import, to choose an historian. On him, straightway, Zeus would confer invisibility, inevitability36, and psychic37 penetration38, with a flawless memory thrown in.
On the following afternoon, Clio’s roving eye saw Zuleika stepping from the Paddington platform into the Oxford39 train. A few moments later I found myself suddenly on Parnassus. In hurried words Clio told me how I came there, and what I had to do. She said she had selected me because she knew me to be honest, sober, and capable, and no stranger to Oxford. Another moment, and I was at the throne of Zeus. With a majesty40 of gesture which I shall never forget, he stretched his hand over me, and I was indued with the promised gifts. And then, lo! I was on the platform of Oxford station. The train was not due for another hour. But the time passed pleasantly enough.
It was fun to float all unseen, to float all unhampered by any corporeal41 nonsense, up and down the platform. It was fun to watch the inmost thoughts of the station-master, of the porters, of the young person at the buffet42. But of course I did not let the holiday-mood master me. I realised the seriousness of my mission. I must concentrate myself on the matter in hand: Miss Dobson’s visit. What was going to happen? Prescience was no part of my outfit43. From what I knew about Miss Dobson, I deduced that she would be a great success. That was all. Had I had the instinct that was given to those Emperors in stone, and even to the dog Corker, I should have begged Clio to send in my stead some man of stronger nerve. She had charged me to be calmly vigilant44, scrupulously45 fair. I could have been neither, had I from the outset foreseen all. Only because the immediate22 future was broken to me by degrees, first as a set of possibilities, then as a set of probabilities that yet might not come off, was I able to fulfil the trust imposed in me. Even so, it was hard. I had always accepted the doctrine46 that to understand all is to forgive all. Thanks to Zeus, I understood all about Miss Dobson, and yet there were moments when she repelled47 me—moments when I wished to see her neither from without nor from within. So soon as the Duke of Dorset met her on the Monday night, I felt I was in duty bound to keep him under constant surveillance. Yet there were moments when I was so sorry for him that I deemed myself a brute48 for shadowing him.
Ever since I can remember, I have been beset49 by a recurring50 doubt as to whether I be or be not quite a gentleman. I have never attempted to define that term: I have but feverishly51 wondered whether in its usual acceptation (whatever that is) it be strictly52 applicable to myself. Many people hold that the qualities connoted by it are primarily moral—a kind heart, honourable53 conduct, and so forth25. On Clio’s mission, I found honour and kindness tugging54 me in precisely55 opposite directions. In so far as honour tugged56 the harder, was I the more or the less gentlemanly? But the test is not a fair one. Curiosity tugged on the side of honour. This goes to prove me a cad? Oh, set against it the fact that I did at one point betray Clio’s trust. When Miss Dobson had done the deed recorded at the close of the foregoing chapter, I gave the Duke of Dorset an hour’s grace.
I could have done no less. In the lives of most of us is some one thing that we would not after the lapse57 of how many years soever confess to our most understanding friend; the thing that does not bear thinking of; the one thing to be forgotten; the unforgettable thing. Not the commission of some great crime: this can be atoned58 for by great penances59; and the very enormity of it has a dark grandeur60. Maybe, some little deadly act of meanness, some hole-and-corner treachery? But what a man has once willed to do, his will helps him to forget. The unforgettable thing in his life is usually not a thing he has done or left undone61, but a thing done to him—some insolence62 or cruelty for which he could not, or did not, avenge63 himself. This it is that often comes back to him, years after, in his dreams, and thrusts itself suddenly into his waking thoughts, so that he clenches64 his hands, and shakes his head, and hums a tune65 loudly—anything to beat it off. In the very hour when first befell him that odious66 humiliation67, would you have spied on him? I gave the Duke of Dorset an hour’s grace.
What were his thoughts in that interval68, what words, if any, he uttered to the night, never will be known. For this, Clio has abused me in language less befitting a Muse than a fishwife. I do not care. I would rather be chidden by Clio than by my own sense of delicacy69, any day.
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1
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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protagonists
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| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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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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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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addiction
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| n.上瘾入迷，嗜好 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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53
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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54
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lapse
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| 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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58
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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59
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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60
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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clenches
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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67
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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