The enterprise of Messrs. T. Nelson & Sons and the friendly accommodation of Messrs. Macmillan render possible this collection in one cover of all the short stories by me that I care for any one to read again. Except for the two series of linked incidents that make up the bulk of the book called Tales of Space and Time, no short story of mine of the slightest merit is excluded from this volume. Many of very questionable1 merit find a place; it is an inclusive and not an exclusive gathering2. And the task of selection and revision brings home to me with something of the effect of discovery that I was once an industrious3 writer of short stories, and that I am no longer anything of the kind. I have not written one now for quite a long time, and in the past five or six years I have made scarcely one a year. The bulk of the fifty or sixty tales from which this present three-and-thirty have been chosen dates from the last century. This edition is more definitive4 than I supposed when first I arranged for it. In the presence of so conclusive5 an ebb6 and cessation an almost obituary7 manner seems justifiable8.
I find it a little difficult to disentangle the causes that have restricted the flow of these inventions. It has happened, I remark, to others as well as to myself, and in spite of the kindliest encouragement to continue from editors and readers. There was a time when life bubbled with short stories; they were always coming to the surface of my mind, and it is no deliberate change of will that has thus restricted my production. It is rather, I think, a diversion of attention to more sustained and more exacting9 forms. It was my friend Mr. C.L. Hind10 who set that spring going. He urged me to write short stories for the Pall11 Mall Budget, and persuaded me by his simple and buoyant conviction that I could do what he desired. There existed at the time only the little sketch12, “The Jilting of Jane,” included in this volume — at least, that is the only tolerable fragment of fiction I find surviving from my preLewis–Hind period. But I set myself, so encouraged, to the experiment of inventing moving and interesting things that could be given vividly13 in the little space of eight or ten such pages as this, and for a time I found it a very entertaining pursuit indeed. Mr. Hind’s indicating finger had shown me an amusing possibility of the mind. I found that, taking almost anything as a starting-point and letting my thoughts play about it, there would presently come out of the darkness, in a manner quite inexplicable14, some absurd or vivid little incident more or less relevant to that initial nucleus15. Little men in canoes upon sunlit oceans would come floating out of nothingness, incubating the eggs of prehistoric16 monsters unawares; violent conflicts would break out amidst the flower-beds of suburban17 gardens; I would discover I was peering into remote and mysterious worlds ruled by an order logical indeed but other than our common sanity18.
The ‘nineties was a good and stimulating19 period for a short-story writer. Mr. Kipling had made his astonishing advent20 with a series of little blue-grey books, whose covers opened like window-shutters to reveal the dusty sun-glare and blazing colours of the East; Mr. Barrie had demonstrated what could be done in a little space through the panes21 of his Window in Thrums. The National Observer was at the climax22 of its career of heroic insistence23 upon lyrical brevity and a vivid finish, and Mr. Frank Harris was not only printing good short stories by other people, but writing still better ones himself in the dignified24 pages of the Fortnightly Review. Longman’s Magazine, too, represented a clientèle of appreciative25 short-story readers that is now scattered26. Then came the generous opportunities of the Yellow Book, and the National Observer died only to give birth to the New Review. No short story of the slightest distinction went for long unrecognised. The sixpenny popular magazines had still to deaden down the conception of what a short story might be to the imaginative limitation of the common reader — and a maximum length of six thousand words. Short stories broke out everywhere. Kipling was writing short stories; Barrie, Stevenson, Frank–Harris; Max Beerbohm wrote at least one perfect one, “The Happy Hypocrite”; Henry James pursued his wonderful and inimitable bent28; and among other names that occur to me, like a mixed handful of jewels drawn29 from a bag, are George Street, Morley Roberts, George Gissing, Ella d’Arcy, Murray Gilchrist, E. Nesbit, Stephen Crane, Joseph Conrad, Edwin Pugh, Jerome K. Jerome, Kenneth Graham, Arthur Morrison, Marriott Watson, George Moore, Grant Allen, George Egerton, Henry Harland, Pett Ridge30, W. W. Jacobs (who alone seems inexhaustible). I dare say I could recall as many more names with a little effort. I may be succumbing31 to the infirmities of middle age, but I do not think the present decade can produce any parallel to this list, or what is more remarkable32, that the later achievements in this field of any of the survivors33 from that time, with the sole exception of Joseph Conrad, can compare with the work they did before 1900. It seems to me this outburst of short stories came not only as a phase in literary development, but also as a phase in the development of the individual writers concerned.
It is now quite unusual to see any adequate criticism of short stories in English. I do not know how far the decline in short-story writing may not be due to that. Every sort of artist demands human responses, and few men can contrive34 to write merely for a publisher’s cheque and silence, however reassuring36 that cheque may be. A mad millionaire who commissioned masterpieces to burn would find it impossible to buy them. Scarcely any artist will hesitate in the choice between money and attention; and it was primarily for that last and better sort of pay that the short stories of the ‘nineties were written. People talked about them tremendously, compared them, and ranked them. That was the thing that mattered.
It was not, of course, all good talk, and we suffered then, as now, from the à priori critic. Just as nowadays he goes about declaring that the work of such-and-such a dramatist is all very amusing and delightful37, but “it isn’t a Play,” so we’ had a great deal of talk about the short story, and found ourselves measured by all kinds of arbitrary standards. There was a tendency to treat the short story as though it was as definable a form as the sonnet38, instead of being just exactly what any one of courage and imagination can get told in twenty minutes’ reading or so. It was either Mr. Edward Garnett or Mr. George Moore in a violently anti-Kipling mood who invented the distinction between the short story and the anecdote39. The short story was Maupassant; the anecdote was damnable. It was a quite infernal comment in its way, because it permitted no defence. Fools caught it up and used it freely. Nothing is so destructive in a field of artistic40 effort as a stock term of abuse. Anyone could say of any short story, “A mere35 anecdote,” just as anyone can say “Incoherent!” of any novel or of any sonata41 that isn’t studiously monotonous42. The recession of enthusiasm for this compact, amusing form is closely associated in my mind with that discouraging imputation43. One felt hopelessly open to a paralysing and unanswerable charge, and one’s ease and happiness in the garden of one’s fancies was more and more marred44 by the dread45 of it. It crept into one’s mind, a distress46 as vague and inexpugnable as a sea fog on a spring morning, and presently one shivered and wanted to go indoors . . . It is the absurd fate of the imaginative writer that he should be thus sensitive to atmospheric47 conditions.
But after one has died as a maker48 one may still live as a critic, and I will confess I am all for laxness and variety in this as in every field of art. Insistence upon rigid49 forms and austere50 unities27 seems to me the instinctive51 reaction of the sterile52 against the fecund53. It is the tired man with a headache who values a work of art for what it does not contain. I suppose it is the lot of every critic nowadays to suffer from indigestion and a fatigued54 appreciation55, and to develop a self-protective tendency towards rules that will reject, as it were, automatically the more abundant and irregular forms. But this world is not for the weary, and in the long-run it is the new and variant56 that matter. I refuse altogether to recognise any hard and fast type for the Short Story, any more than I admit any limitation upon the liberties of the Small Picture. The short story is a fiction that may be read in something under an hour, and so that it is moving and delightful, it does not matter whether it is as “trivial” as a Japanese print of insects seen closely between grass stems, or as spacious57 as the prospect58 of the plain of Italy from Monte Mottarone. It does not matter whether it is human or inhuman59, or whether it leaves you thinking deeply or radiantly but superficially pleased. Some things are more easily done as short stories than others and more abundantly done, but one of the many pleasures of short-story writing is to achieve the impossible.
At any rate, that is the present writer’s conception of the art of the short story, as the jolly art of making something very bright and moving; it may be horrible or pathetic or funny or beautiful or profoundly illuminating60, having only this essential, that it should take from fifteen to fifty minutes to read aloud. All the rest is just whatever invention and imagination and the mood can give — a vision of buttered slides on a busy day or of unprecedented61 worlds. In that spirit of miscellaneous expectation these stories should be received. Each is intended to be a thing by itself; and if it is not too ungrateful to kindly62 and enterprising publishers, I would confess I would much prefer to see each printed expensively alone, and left in a little brown-paper cover to lie about a room against the needs of a quite casual curiosity. And I would rather this volume were found in the bedrooms of convalescents and in dentists’ parlours and railway trains than in gentlemen’s studies. I would rather have it dipped in and dipped in again than read severely63 through. Essentially64 it is a miscellany of inventions, many of which were very pleasant to write; and its end is more than attained65 if some of them are refreshing66 and agreeable to read. I have now re-read them all, and I am glad to think I wrote them. I like them, but I cannot tell how much the associations of old happinesses gives them a flavour for me. I make no claims for them and no apology; they will be read as long as people read them. Things written either live or die; unless it be for a place of judgment67 upon Academic impostors, there is no apologetic intermediate state.
I may add that I have tried to set a date to most of these stories, but that they are not arranged in strictly68 chronological69 order.
H. G. WELLS.
1 questionable | |
adj.可疑的,有问题的 | |
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2 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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3 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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4 definitive | |
adj.确切的,权威性的;最后的,决定性的 | |
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5 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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6 ebb | |
vi.衰退,减退;n.处于低潮,处于衰退状态 | |
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7 obituary | |
n.讣告,死亡公告;adj.死亡的 | |
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8 justifiable | |
adj.有理由的,无可非议的 | |
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9 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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10 hind | |
adj.后面的,后部的 | |
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11 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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12 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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13 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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14 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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15 nucleus | |
n.核,核心,原子核 | |
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16 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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17 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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18 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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19 stimulating | |
adj.有启发性的,能激发人思考的 | |
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20 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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21 panes | |
窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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22 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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23 insistence | |
n.坚持;强调;坚决主张 | |
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24 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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25 appreciative | |
adj.有鉴赏力的,有眼力的;感激的 | |
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26 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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27 unities | |
n.统一体( unity的名词复数 );(艺术等) 完整;(文学、戏剧) (情节、时间和地点的)统一性;团结一致 | |
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28 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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29 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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30 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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31 succumbing | |
不再抵抗(诱惑、疾病、攻击等)( succumb的现在分词 ); 屈从; 被压垮; 死 | |
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32 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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33 survivors | |
幸存者,残存者,生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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34 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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35 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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36 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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37 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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38 sonnet | |
n.十四行诗 | |
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39 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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40 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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41 sonata | |
n.奏鸣曲 | |
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42 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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43 imputation | |
n.归罪,责难 | |
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44 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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45 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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46 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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47 atmospheric | |
adj.大气的,空气的;大气层的;大气所引起的 | |
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48 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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49 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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50 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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51 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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52 sterile | |
adj.不毛的,不孕的,无菌的,枯燥的,贫瘠的 | |
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53 fecund | |
adj.多产的,丰饶的,肥沃的 | |
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54 fatigued | |
adj. 疲乏的 | |
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55 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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56 variant | |
adj.不同的,变异的;n.变体,异体 | |
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57 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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58 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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59 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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60 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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61 unprecedented | |
adj.无前例的,新奇的 | |
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62 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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63 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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64 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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65 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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66 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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67 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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68 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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69 chronological | |
adj.按年月顺序排列的,年代学的 | |
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