In a world such as ours, so painful with all sorts of wonders, one would not exhaust oneself in barren marvelling4 over mere5 bindings, had not the fact, or rather the absence of the material fact, prominent in the case of other men whose writing counts, (for good or evil)— had it not been, I say, expressive6 of a direct truth spiritual and intellectual; an accident of — I suppose — the publishing business acquiring a symbolic7 meaning from its negative nature. Because, emphatically, in the body of Mr. Henry James’s work there is no suggestion of finality, nowhere a hint of surrender, or even of probability of surrender, to his own victorious8 achievement in that field where he is a master. Happily, he will never be able to claim completeness; and, were he to confess to it in a moment of self-ignorance, he would not be believed by the very minds for whom such a confession9 naturally would be meant. It is impossible to think of Mr. Henry James becoming “complete” otherwise than by the brutality10 of our common fate whose finality is meaningless — in the sense of its logic11 being of a material order, the logic of a falling stone.
I do not know into what brand of ink Mr. Henry James dips his pen; indeed, I heard that of late he had been dictating12; but I know that his mind is steeped in the waters flowing from the fountain of intellectual youth. The thing — a privilege — a miracle — what you will — is not quite hidden from the meanest of us who run as we read. To those who have the grace to stay their feet it is manifest. After some twenty years of attentive13 acquaintance with Mr. Henry James’s work, it grows into absolute conviction which, all personal feeling apart, brings a sense of happiness into one’s artistic14 existence. If gratitude15, as someone defined it, is a lively sense of favours to come, it becomes very easy to be grateful to the author of The Ambassadors — to name the latest of his works. The favours are sure to come; the spring of that benevolence16 will never run dry. The stream of inspiration flows brimful in a predetermined direction, unaffected by the periods of drought, untroubled in its clearness by the storms of the land of letters, without languor17 or violence in its force, never running back upon itself, opening new visions at every turn of its course through that richly inhabited country its fertility has created for our delectation, for our judgment18, for our exploring. It is, in fact, a magic spring.
With this phrase the metaphor19 of the perennial20 spring, of the inextinguishable youth, of running waters, as applied21 to Mr. Henry James’s inspiration, may be dropped. In its volume and force the body of his work may be compared rather to a majestic22 river. All creative art is magic, is evocation23 of the unseen in forms persuasive24, enlightening, familiar and surprising, for the edification of mankind, pinned down by the conditions of its existence to the earnest consideration of the most insignificant25 tides of reality.
Action in its essence, the creative art of a writer of fiction may be compared to rescue work carried out in darkness against cross gusts26 of wind swaying the action of a great multitude. It is rescue work, this snatching of vanishing phases of turbulence27, disguised in fair words, out of the native obscurity into a light where the struggling forms may be seen, seized upon, endowed with the only possible form of permanence in this world of relative values — the permanence of memory. And the multitude feels it obscurely too; since the demand of the individual to the artist is, in effect, the cry, “Take me out of myself!” meaning really, out of my perishable28 activity into the light of imperishable consciousness. But everything is relative, and the light of consciousness is only enduring, merely the most enduring of the things of this earth, imperishable only as against the short-lived work of our industrious29 hands.
When the last aqueduct shall have crumbled30 to pieces, the last airship fallen to the ground, the last blade of grass have died upon a dying earth, man, indomitable by his training in resistance to misery31 and pain, shall set this undiminished light of his eyes against the feeble glow of the sun. The artistic faculty, of which each of us has a minute grain, may find its voice in some individual of that last group, gifted with a power of expression and courageous32 enough to interpret the ultimate experience of mankind in terms of his temperament33, in terms of art. I do not mean to say that he would attempt to beguile34 the last moments of humanity by an ingenious tale. It would be too much to expect — from humanity. I doubt the heroism35 of the hearers. As to the heroism of the artist, no doubt is necessary. There would be on his part no heroism. The artist in his calling of interpreter creates (the clearest form of demonstration) because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death; and the postulate36 was, that there is a group alive, clustered on his threshold to watch the last flicker37 of light on a black sky, to hear the last word uttered in the stilled workshop of the earth. It is safe to affirm that, if anybody, it will be the imaginative man who would be moved to speak on the eve of that day without to-morrow — whether in austere38 exhortation39 or in a phrase of sardonic40 comment, who can guess?
For my own part, from a short and cursory41 acquaintance with my kind, I am inclined to think that the last utterance42 will formulate43, strange as it may appear, some hope now to us utterly44 inconceivable. For mankind is delightful45 in its pride, its assurance, and its indomitable tenacity46. It will sleep on the battlefield among its own dead, in the manner of an army having won a barren victory. It will not know when it is beaten. And perhaps it is right in that quality. The victories are not, perhaps, so barren as it may appear from a purely47 strategical, utilitarian48 point of view. Mr. Henry James seems to hold that belief. Nobody has rendered better, perhaps, the tenacity of temper, or known how to drape the robe of spiritual honour about the drooping49 form of a victor in a barren strife50. And the honour is always well won; for the struggles Mr. Henry James chronicles with such subtle and direct insight are, though only personal contests, desperate in their silence, none the less heroic (in the modern sense) for the absence of shouted watchwords, clash of arms and sound of trumpets51. Those are adventures in which only choice souls are ever involved. And Mr. Henry James records them with a fearless and insistent52 fidelity53 to the peripeties of the contest, and the feelings of the combatants.
The fiercest excitements of a romance de cape54 et d’epee, the romance of yard-arm and boarding pike so dear to youth, whose knowledge of action (as of other things) is imperfect and limited, are matched, for the quickening of our maturer years, by the tasks set, by the difficulties presented, to the sense of truth, of necessity — before all, of conduct — of Mr. Henry James’s men and women. His mankind is delightful. It is delightful in its tenacity; it refuses to own itself beaten; it will sleep on the battlefield. These warlike images come by themselves under the pen; since from the duality of man’s nature and the competition of individuals, the life-history of the earth must in the last instance be a history of a really very relentless55 warfare56. Neither his fellows, nor his gods, nor his passions will leave a man alone. In virtue57 of these allies and enemies, he holds his precarious58 dominion59, he possesses his fleeting60 significance; and it is this relation in all its manifestations61, great and little, superficial or profound, and this relation alone, that is commented upon, interpreted, demonstrated by the art of the novelist in the only possible way in which the task can be performed: by the independent creation of circumstance and character, achieved against all the difficulties of expression, in an imaginative effort finding its inspiration from the reality of forms and sensations. That a sacrifice must be made, that something has to be given up, is the truth engraved62 in the innermost recesses63 of the fair temple built for our edification by the masters of fiction. There is no other secret behind the curtain. All adventure, all love, every success is resumed in the supreme64 energy of an act of renunciation. It is the uttermost limit of our power; it is the most potent65 and effective force at our disposal on which rest the labours of a solitary66 man in his study, the rock on which have been built commonwealths67 whose might casts a dwarfing68 shadow upon two oceans. Like a natural force which is obscured as much as illuminated69 by the multiplicity of phenomena70, the power of renunciation is obscured by the mass of weaknesses, vacillations, secondary motives71 and false steps and compromises which make up the sum of our activity. But no man or woman worthy72 of the name can pretend to anything more, to anything greater. And Mr. Henry James’s men and women are worthy of the name, within the limits his art, so clear, so sure of itself, has drawn73 round their activities. He would be the last to claim for them Titanic74 proportions. The earth itself has grown smaller in the course of ages. But in every sphere of human perplexities and emotions, there are more greatnesses than one — not counting here the greatness of the artist himself. Wherever he stands, at the beginning or the end of things, a man has to sacrifice his gods to his passions, or his passions to his gods. That is the problem, great enough, in all truth, if approached in the spirit of sincerity75 and knowledge.
In one of his critical studies, published some fifteen years ago, Mr. Henry James claims for the novelist the standing76 of the historian as the only adequate one, as for himself and before his audience. I think that the claim cannot be contested, and that the position is unassailable. Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing. But it is also more than that; it stands on firmer ground, being based on the reality of forms and the observation of social phenomena, whereas history is based on documents, and the reading of print and handwriting — on second-hand77 impression. Thus fiction is nearer truth. But let that pass. A historian may be an artist too, and a novelist is a historian, the preserver, the keeper, the expounder78, of human experience. As is meet for a man of his descent and tradition, Mr. Henry James is the historian of fine consciences.
Of course, this is a general statement; but I don’t think its truth will be, or can be questioned. Its fault is that it leaves so much out; and, besides, Mr. Henry James is much too considerable to be put into the nutshell of a phrase. The fact remains79 that he has made his choice, and that his choice is justified80 up to the hilt by the success of his art. He has taken for himself the greater part. The range of a fine conscience covers more good and evil than the range of conscience which may be called, roughly, not fine; a conscience, less troubled by the nice discrimination of shades of conduct. A fine conscience is more concerned with essentials; its triumphs are more perfect, if less profitable, in a worldly sense. There is, in short, more truth in its working for a historian to detect and to show. It is a thing of infinite complication and suggestion. None of these escapes the art of Mr. Henry James. He has mastered the country, his domain81, not wild indeed, but full of romantic glimpses, of deep shadows and sunny places. There are no secrets left within his range. He has disclosed them as they should be disclosed — that is, beautifully. And, indeed, ugliness has but little place in this world of his creation. Yet, it is always felt in the truthfulness82 of his art; it is there, it surrounds the scene, it presses close upon it. It is made visible, tangible83, in the struggles, in the contacts of the fine consciences, in their perplexities, in the sophism84 of their mistakes. For a fine conscience is naturally a virtuous85 one. What is natural about it is just its fineness, an abiding86 sense of the intangible, ever-present, right. It is most visible in their ultimate triumph, in their emergence87 from miracle, through an energetic act of renunciation. Energetic, not violent: the distinction is wide, enormous, like that between substance and shadow.
Through it all Mr. Henry James keeps a firm hold of the substance, of what is worth having, of what is worth holding. The contrary opinion has been, if not absolutely affirmed, then at least implied, with some frequency. To most of us, living willingly in a sort of intellectual moonlight, in the faintly reflected light of truth, the shadows so firmly renounced88 by Mr. Henry James’s men and women, stand out endowed with extraordinary value, with a value so extraordinary that their rejection89 offends, by its uncalled-for scrupulousness90, those business-like instincts which a careful Providence91 has implanted in our breasts. And, apart from that just cause of discontent, it is obvious that a solution by rejection must always present a certain lack of finality, especially startling when contrasted with the usual methods of solution by rewards and punishments, by crowned love, by fortune, by a broken leg or a sudden death. Why the reading public which, as a body, has never laid upon a story-teller the command to be an artist, should demand from him this sham92 of Divine Omnipotence93, is utterly incomprehensible. But so it is; and these solutions are legitimate94 inasmuch as they satisfy the desire for finality, for which our hearts yearn95 with a longing96 greater than the longing for the loaves and fishes of this earth. Perhaps the only true desire of mankind, coming thus to light in its hours of leisure, is to be set at rest. One is never set at rest by Mr. Henry James’s novels. His books end as an episode in life ends. You remain with the sense of the life still going on; and even the subtle presence of the dead is felt in that silence that comes upon the artist-creation when the last word has been read. It is eminently97 satisfying, but it is not final. Mr. Henry James, great artist and faithful historian, never attempts the impossible.
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1
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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7
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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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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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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postulate
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| n.假定，基本条件；vt.要求，假定 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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51
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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52
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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54
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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56
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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63
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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64
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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commonwealths
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| n.共和国( commonwealth的名词复数 )；联邦；团体；协会 | |
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dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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72
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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73
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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75
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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expounder
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| 陈述者，说明者 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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82
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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83
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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84
sophism
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| n.诡辩 | |
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85
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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86
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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87
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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88
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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89
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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90
scrupulousness
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| n.一丝不苟；小心翼翼 | |
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91
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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92
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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93
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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94
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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95
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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96
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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97
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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