But, according to his latest biographer, Horace Walpole’s letters were inspired not by the love of friends but by the love of posterity4. He had meant to write the history of his own times. After twenty years he gave it up, and decided5 to write another kind of history — a history ostensibly inspired by friends but in fact written for posterity. Thus Mann stood for politics; Gray for literature; Montagu and Lady Ossory for society. They were pegs7, not friends, each chosen because he was “particularly connected . . . with one of the subjects about which he wished to enlighten and inform posterity.” But if we believe that Horace Walpole was a historian in disguise, we are denying his peculiar8 genius as a letter writer. The letter writer is no surreptitious historian. He is a man of short range sensibility; he speaks not to the public at large but to the individual in private. All good letter writers feel the drag of the face on the other side of the age and obey it — they take as much as they give. And Horace Walpole was no exception. There is the correspondence with Cole to prove it. We can see, in Mr. Lewis’s edition, how the Tory parson develops the radical10 and the free-thinker in Walpole, how the middle-class professional man brings to the surface the aristocrat11 and the amateur. If Cole had been nothing but a peg6 there would have been none of this echo, none of this mingling12 of voices. It is true that Walpole had an attitude and a style, and that his letters have a fine hard glaze13 upon them that preserves them, like the teeth of which he was so proud, from the little dents14 and rubs of familiarity. And of course — did he not insist that his letters must be kept?— he sometimes looked over his page at the distant horizon, as Madame de Sévigné, whom he worshipped, did too, and imagined other people in times to come reading him. But that he allowed the featureless face of posterity to stand between him and the very voice and dress of his friends, how they looked and how they thought, the letters themselves with their perpetual variety deny. Open them at random. He is writing about politics — about Wilkes and Chatham and the signs of coming revolution in France; but also about a snuffbox; and a red riband; and about two very small black dogs. Voices upon the stairs interrupt him; more sightseers have come to see Caligula with his silver eyes; a spark from the fire has burnt the page he was writing; he cannot keep the pompous15, style any longer, nor mend a careless phrase, and so, flexible as an eel9, he winds from high politics to living faces and the past and its memories ——“I tell you we should get together, and comfort ourselves with the brave days that we have known. . . . I wished for you; the same scenes strike us both, and the same kind of visions has amused us both ever since we were born.” It is not thus that a man writes when his correspondent is a peg and he is thinking of posterity.
Nor again was he thinking of the great public, which, in a very few years, would have paid him handsomely for the brilliant pages that he lavished16 upon his friends. Was it, then, the growth of writing as a paid profession, and the change which that change of focus brought with it that led, in the nineteenth century, to the decline of this humane art? Friendship flourished, nor was there any lack of gift. Who could have described a party more brilliantly than Macaulay or a landscape more exquisitely17 than Tennyson? But there, looking them full in the face was the present moment — the great gluttonous18 public; and how can a writer turn at will from that impersonal19 stare to the little circle in the fire-lit room? Macaulay, writing to his sister, can no more drop his public manner than an actress can scrub her cheeks clean of paint and take her place naturally at the tea table. And Tennyson with his fear of publicity20 —“While I live the owls21, when I die the ghouls”— left nothing more succulent for the ghoul to feed upon than a handful of dry little notes that anybody could read, or print or put under glass in a museum. News and gossip, the sticks and straws out of which the old letter writer made his nest, have been snatched away. The wireless22 and the telephone have intervened. The letter writer has nothing now to build with except what is most private; and how monotonous23 after a page or two the intensity24 of the very private becomes! We long that Keats even should cease to talk about Fanny, and that Elizabeth and Robert Browning should slam the door of the sick room and take a breath of fresh air in an omnibus. Instead of letters posterity will have confessions25, diaries, notebooks, like M. Gide’s — hybrid26 books in which the writer talks in the dark to himself about himself for a generation yet to be born.
Horace Walpole suffered none of these drawbacks. If he was the greatest of English letter writers it was not only thanks to his gifts but to his immense good fortune. He had his places to begin with — an income of £2,500 dropped yearly into his mouth from Collectorships and Usherships and was swallowed without a pang27. “. . . nor can I think myself,” he wrote serenely28, “as a placeman a more useless or a less legal engrosser of part of the wealth of the nation than deans and prebendaries”— indeed the money was well invested. But besides those places, there was the other — his place in the very centre of the audience, facing the stage. There he could sit and see without being seen; contemplate30 without being called upon to act. Above all he was blessed in his little public — a circle that surrounded him with that warm climate in which he could live the life of incessant31 changes which is the breath of a letter writer’s existence. Besides the wit and the anecdote32 and the brilliant descriptions of masquerades and midnight revelries his friends drew from him something superficial yet profound, something changing yet entire — himself shall we call it in default of one word for that which friends elicit33 but the great public kills? From that sprang his immortality34. For a self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living. As an historian he would have stagnated36 among historians. But as a letter writer he buffets37 his way among the crowd, holding out a hand to each generation in turn — laughed at, criticized, despised, admired, but always in touch with the living. When Macaulay met him in October 1833, he struck that hand away in a burst of righteous indignation. “His mind was a bundle of inconstant whims38 and affectations. His features were covered by mask within mask.” His letters, like PATé DE FOIE GRAS, owed their excellence39 “to the diseases of the wretched animal which furnishes it”— such was Macaulay’s greeting. And what greater boon40 can any writer ask than to be trounced by Lord Macaulay? We take the reputation he has gored41, repair it and give it another spin and another direction — another lease of life. Opinion, as Mr. Ketton–Cremer says, is always changing about Walpole. “The present age looks upon him with a more friendly eye” than the last. Is it that the present age is deafened42 with boom and blatancy43? Does it hear in Walpole’s low tones things that are more interesting, more penetrating44, more true than can be said by the loud speakers? Certainly there is something wonderful to the present age in the sight of a whole human being — of a man so blessed that he could unfold every gift, every foible, whose long life spreads like a great lake reflecting houses and friends and wars and snuff boxes and revolutions and lap dogs, the great and the little, all intermingled, and behind them a stretch of the serene29 blue sky. “Nor will [death] I think see me very unwilling45 to go with him, though I have no disappointments, but I came into the world so early, and have seen so much that I am satisfied.” Satisfied with his life in the flesh, he could be still more satisfied with his life in the spirit. Even now he is being collected and pieced together, letter and answer, himself and the reflections of himself, so that whoever else may die, Horace Walpole is immortal35. Whatever ruin may befall the map of Europe in years to come, there will still be people, it is consoling to reflect, to hang absorbed over the map of one human face.
点击收听单词发音
1 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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2 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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3 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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4 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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5 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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6 peg | |
n.木栓,木钉;vt.用木钉钉,用短桩固定 | |
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7 pegs | |
n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 );挂钉;系帐篷的桩;弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 );使固定在某水平 | |
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8 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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9 eel | |
n.鳗鲡 | |
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10 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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11 aristocrat | |
n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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12 mingling | |
adj.混合的 | |
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13 glaze | |
v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞,毫无表情 | |
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14 dents | |
n.花边边饰;凹痕( dent的名词复数 );凹部;减少;削弱v.使产生凹痕( dent的第三人称单数 );损害;伤害;挫伤(信心、名誉等) | |
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15 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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16 lavished | |
v.过分给予,滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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18 gluttonous | |
adj.贪吃的,贪婪的 | |
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19 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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20 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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21 owls | |
n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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22 wireless | |
adj.无线的;n.无线电 | |
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23 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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24 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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25 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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26 hybrid | |
n.(动,植)杂种,混合物 | |
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27 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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28 serenely | |
adv.安详地,宁静地,平静地 | |
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29 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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30 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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31 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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32 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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33 elicit | |
v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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34 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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35 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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36 stagnated | |
v.停滞,不流动,不发展( stagnate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37 buffets | |
(火车站的)饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 ); (火车的)餐车; 自助餐 | |
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38 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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39 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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40 boon | |
n.恩赐,恩物,恩惠 | |
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41 gored | |
v.(动物)用角撞伤,用牙刺破( gore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42 deafened | |
使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 ); 使隔音 | |
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43 blatancy | |
喧哗 | |
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44 penetrating | |
adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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45 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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