IT has long been one of my pleasantest anticipations2 to look forward to the time when I might offer to you, my old and dear friend, some such acknowledgment of the value I place on your affection for me, and of my grateful sense of the many acts of kindness by which that affection has been proved, as I now gladly offer in this place. In dedicating the present work to you, I fulfil therefore a purpose which, for some time past, I have sincerely desired to achieve; and, more than that, I gain for myself the satisfaction of knowing that there is one page, at least, of my book, on which I shall always look with unalloyed pleasure — the page that bears your name.
I have founded the main event out of which this story springs, on a fact within my own knowledge. In afterwards shaping the course of the narrative3 thus suggested, I have guided it, as often as I could, where I knew by my own experience, or by experience related to me by others, that it would touch on something real and true in its progress. My idea was, that the more of the Actual I could garner4 up as a text to speak from, the more certain I might feel of the genuineness and value of the Ideal which was sure to spring out of it. Fancy and Imagination, Grace and Beauty, all those qualities which are to the work of Art what scent5 and colour are to the flower, can only grow towards heaven by taking root in earth. Is not the noblest poetry of prose fiction the poetry of every-day truth?
Directing my characters and my story, then, towards the light of Reality wherever I could find it, I have not hesitated to violate some of the conventionalities of sentimental6 fiction. For instance, the first love-meeting of two of the personages in this book, occurs (where the real love-meeting from which it is drawn7, occurred) in the very last place and under the very last circumstances which the artifices8 of sentimental writing would sanction. Will my lovers excite ridicule9 instead of interest, because I have truly represented them as seeing each other where hundreds of other lovers have first seen each other, as hundreds of people will readily admit when they read the passage to which I refer? I am sanguine10 enough to think not.
So again, in certain parts of this book where I have attempted to excite the suspense11 or pity of the reader, I have admitted as perfectly12 fit accessories to the scene the most ordinary street-sounds that could be heard, and the most ordinary street-events that could occur, at the time and in the place represented — believing that by adding to truth, they were adding to tragedy — adding by all the force of fair contrast — adding as no artifices of mere13 writing possibly could add, let them be ever so cunningly introduced by ever so crafty14 a hand.
Allow me to dwell a moment longer on the story which these pages contain.
Believing that the Novel and the Play are twin-sisters in the family of Fiction; that the one is a drama narrated15, as the other is a drama acted; and that all the strong and deep emotions which the Play-writer is privileged to excite, the Novel-writer is privileged to excite also, I have not thought it either politic17 or necessary, while adhering to realities, to adhere to every-day realities only. In other words, I have not stooped so low as to assure myself of the reader’s belief in the probability of my story, by never once calling on him for the exercise of his faith. Those extraordinary accidents and events which happen to few men, seemed to me to be as legitimate18 materials for fiction to work with — when there was a good object in using them — as the ordinary accidents and events which may, and do, happen to us all. By appealing to genuine sources of interest within the reader’s own experience, I could certainly gain his attention to begin with; but it would be only by appealing to other sources (as genuine in their way) beyond his own experience, that I could hope to fix his interest and excite his suspense, to occupy his deeper feelings, or to stir his nobler thoughts.
In writing thus — briefly19 and very generally —(for I must not delay you too long from the story), I can but repeat, though I hope almost unnecessarily, that I am now only speaking of what I have tried to do. Between the purpose hinted at here, and the execution of that purpose contained in the succeeding pages, lies the broad line of separation which distinguishes between the will and the deed. How far I may fall short of another man’s standard, remains20 to be discovered. How far I have fallen short of my own, I know painfully well.
One word more on the manner in which the purpose of the following pages is worked out — and I have done.
Nobody who admits that the business of fiction is to exhibit human life, can deny that scenes of misery21 and crime must of necessity, while human nature remains what it is, form part of that exhibition. Nobody can assert that such scenes are unproductive of useful results, when they are turned to a plainly and purely22 moral purpose. If I am asked why I have written certain scenes in this book, my answer is to be found in the universally-accepted truth which the preceding words express. I have a right to appeal to that truth; for I guided myself by it throughout. In deriving23 the lesson which the following pages contain, from those examples of error and crime which would most strikingly and naturally teach it, I determined24 to do justice to the honesty of my object by speaking out. In drawing the two characters, whose actions bring about the darker scenes of my story, I did not forget that it was my duty, while striving to portray25 them naturally, to put them to a good moral use; and at some sacrifice, in certain places, of dramatic effect (though I trust with no sacrifice of truth to Nature), I have shown the conduct of the vile16, as always, in a greater or less degree, associated with something that is selfish, contemptible26, or cruel in motive27. Whether any of my better characters may succeed in endearing themselves to the reader, I know not: but this I do certainly know:— that I shall in no instance cheat him out of his sympathies in favour of the bad.
To those persons who dissent28 from the broad principles here adverted29 to; who deny that it is the novelist’s vocation30 to do more than merely amuse them; who shrink from all honest and serious reference, in books, to subjects which they think of in private and talk of in public everywhere; who see covert31 implications where nothing is implied, and improper32 allusions33 where nothing improper is alluded34 to; whose innocence35 is in the word, and not in the thought; whose morality stops at the tongue, and never gets on to the heart — to those persons, I should consider it loss of time, and worse, to offer any further explanation of my motives36, than the sufficient explanation which I have given already. I do not address myself to them in this book, and shall never think of addressing myself to them in any other.
Those words formed part of the original introduction to this novel. I wrote them nearly ten years since; and what I said then, I say now.
“Basil” was the second work of fiction which I produced. On its appearance, it was condemned37 off-hand, by a certain class of readers, as an outrage38 on their sense of propriety39. Conscious of having designed and written, my story with the strictest regard to true delicacy40, as distinguished41 from false — I allowed the prurient42 misinterpretation of certain perfectly innocent passages in this book to assert itself as offensively as it pleased, without troubling myself to protest against an expression of opinion which aroused in me no other feeling than a feeling of contempt. I knew that “Basil” had nothing to fear from pure-minded readers; and I left these pages to stand or fall on such merits as they possessed43. Slowly and surely, my story forced its way through all adverse44 criticism, to a place in the public favour which it has never lost since. Some of the most valued friends I now possess, were made for me by “Basil.” Some of the most gratifying recognitions of my labours which I have received, from readers personally strangers to me, have been recognitions of the purity of this story, from the first page to the last. All the indulgence I need now ask for “Basil,” is indulgence for literary defects, which are the result of inexperience; which no correction can wholly remove; and which no one sees more plainly, after a lapse45 of ten years, than the writer himself.
I have only to add, that the present edition of this book is the first which has had the benefit of my careful revision. While the incidents of the story remain exactly what they were, the language in which they are told has been, I hope, in many cases greatly altered for the better.
WILKIE COLLINS.
Harley Street, London, July, 1862.
1 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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2 anticipations | |
预期( anticipation的名词复数 ); 预测; (信托财产收益的)预支; 预期的事物 | |
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3 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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4 garner | |
v.收藏;取得 | |
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5 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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6 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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7 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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8 artifices | |
n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 );诡计;巧妙办法;虚伪行为 | |
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9 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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10 sanguine | |
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
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11 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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12 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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13 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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14 crafty | |
adj.狡猾的,诡诈的 | |
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15 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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17 politic | |
adj.有智虑的;精明的;v.从政 | |
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18 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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19 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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20 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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21 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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22 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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23 deriving | |
v.得到( derive的现在分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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24 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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25 portray | |
v.描写,描述;画(人物、景象等) | |
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26 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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27 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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28 dissent | |
n./v.不同意,持异议 | |
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29 adverted | |
引起注意(advert的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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30 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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31 covert | |
adj.隐藏的;暗地里的 | |
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32 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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33 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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34 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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36 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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37 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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38 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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39 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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40 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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41 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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42 prurient | |
adj.好色的,淫乱的 | |
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43 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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44 adverse | |
adj.不利的;有害的;敌对的,不友好的 | |
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45 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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