The art of biography, we say —-but at once go on to ask, is biography an art? The question is foolish perhaps, and ungenerous certainly, considering the keen pleasure that biographers have given us. But the question asks itself so often that there must be something behind it. There it is, whenever a new biography is opened, casting its shadow on the page; and there would seem to be something deadly in that shadow, for after all, of the multitude of lives that are written, how few survive!
But the reason for this high death rate, the biographer might argue, is that biography, compared with the arts of poetry and fiction, is a young art. Interest in our selves and in other people’s selves is a late development of the human mind. Not until the eighteenth century in England did that curiosity express itself in writing the lives of private people. Only in the nineteenth century was biography fully1 grown and hugely prolific2. If it is true that there have been only three great biographers — Johnson, Boswell, and Lockhart — the reason, he argues, is that the time was short; and his plea, that the art of biography has had but little time to establish itself and develop itself, is certainly borne out by the textbooks. Tempting3 as it is to explore the reason — why, that is, the self that writes a book of prose came into being so many centuries after the self that writes a poem, why Chaucer preceded Henry James — it is better to leave that insoluble question unasked, and so pass to his next reason for the lack of masterpieces. It is that the art of biography is the most restricted of all the arts. He has his proof ready to hand. Here it is in the preface in which Smith, who has written the life of Jones, takes this opportunity of thanking old friends who have lent letters, and “last but not least” Mrs. Jones, the widow, for that help “without which,” as he puts it, “this biography could not have been written.” Now the novelist, he points out, simply says in his foreword, “Every character in this book is fictitious5.” The novelist is free; the biographer is tied.
There, perhaps, we come within hailing distance of that very difficult, again perhaps insoluble, question: What do we mean by calling a book a work of art? At any rate, here is a distinction between biography and fiction — a proof that they differ in the very stuff of which they are made. One is made with the help of friends, of facts; the other is created without any restrictions6 save those that the artist, for reasons that seem good to him, chooses to obey. That is a distinction; and there is good reason to think that in the past biographers have found it not. only a distinction but a very cruel distinction.
The widow and the friends were hard taskmasters. Suppose, for example, that the man of genius was immoral7, ill-tempered, and threw the boots at the maid’s head. The widow would say, “Still I loved him — he was the father of my children; and the public, who love his books, must on no account be disillusioned8. Cover up; omit.” The biographer obeyed. And thus the majority of Victorian biographies are like the wax figures now preserved in Westminster Abbey, that were carried in funeral processions through the street — effigies9 that have only a smooth superficial likeness10 to the body in the coffin11.
Then, towards the end of the nineteenth century, there was a change. Again for reasons not easy to discover, widows became broader-minded, the public keener-sighted; the effigy12 no longer carried conviction or satisfied curiosity. The biographer certainly won a measure of freedom. At least he could hint that there were scars and furrows13 on the dead man’s face. Froude’s Carlyle is by no means a wax mask painted rosy14 red. And following Froude there was Sir Edmund Gosse, who dared to say that his own father was a fallible human being. And following Edmund Gosse in the early years of the present century came Lytton Strachey.
II
The figure of Lytton Strachey is so important a figure in the history of biography, that it compels a pause. For his three famous books, EMINENT15 VICTORIANS, QUEEN VICTORIA, and ELIZABETH AND ESSEX, are of a stature16 to show both what biography can do and what biography cannot do. Thus they suggest many possible answers to the question whether biography is an art, and if not why it fails. Lytton Strachey came to birth as an author at a lucky moment. In 1918, when he made his first attempt, biography, with its new liberties, was a form that offered great attractions. To a writer like himself, who had wished to write poetry or plays but was doubtful of his creative power, biography seemed to offer a promising17 alternative. For at last it was possible to tell the truth about the dead; and the Victorian age was rich in remarkable18 figures many of whom had been grossly deformed19 by the effigies that had been plastered over them. To recreate them, to show them as they really were, was a task that called for gifts analogous20 to the poet’s or the novelist’s, yet did not ask that inventive power in which he found himself lacking.
It was well worth trying. And the anger and the interest that his short studies of Eminent Victorians aroused showed that he was able to make Manning, Florence Nightingale, Gordon, and the rest live as they had not lived since they were actually in the flesh. Once more they were the centre of a buzz of discussion. Did Gordon really drink, or was that an invention? Had Florence Nightingale received the Order of Merit in her bedroom or in her sitting room? He stirred the public, even though a European war was raging, to an astonishing interest in such minute matters. Anger and laughter mixed; and editions multiplied.
But these were short studies with something of the over-emphasis and the foreshortening of caricatures. In the lives of the two great Queens, Elizabeth and Victoria, he attempted a far more ambitious task. Biography had never had a fairer chance of showing what it could do. For it was now being put to the test by a writer who was capable of making use of all the liberties that biography had won: he was fearless; he had proved his brilliance21; and he had learned his job. The result throws great light upon the nature of biography. For who can doubt after reading the two books again, one after the other, that the Victoria is a triumphant22 success, and that the ELIZABETH by comparison is a failure? But it seems too, as we compare them, that it was not Lytton Strachey who failed; it was the art of biography. In the VICTORIA he treated biography as a craft; he submitted to its limitations. In the ELIZABETH he treated biography as an art; he flouted23 its limitations.
But we must go on to ask how we have come to this conclusion and what reasons support it. In the first place it is clear that the two Queens present very different problems to their biographer. About Queen Victoria everything was known. Everything she did, almost everything she thought, was a matter of common knowledge. No one has ever been more closely verified and exactly authenticated25 than Queen Victoria. The biographer could not invent her, because at every moment some document was at hand to check his invention. And, in writing of Victoria, Lytton Strachey submitted to the conditions. He used to the full the biographer’s power of selection and relation, but he kept strictly26 within the world of fact. Every statement was verified; every fact was authenticated. And the result is a life which, very possibly, will do for the old Queen what Boswell did for the old dictionary maker27. In time to come Lytton Strachey’s Queen Victoria will be Queen Victoria, just as Boswell’s Johnson is now Dr. Johnson. The other versions will fade and disappear. It was a prodigious28 feat29, and no doubt, having accomplished30 it, the author was anxious to press further. There was Queen Victoria, solid, real, palpable. But undoubtedly31 she was limited. Could not biography produce something of the intensity32 of poetry, something of the excitement of drama, and yet keep also the peculiar33 virtue34 that belongs to fact — its suggestive reality, its own proper creativeness?
Queen Elizabeth seemed to lend herself perfectly35 to the experiment. Very little was known about her. The society in which she lived was so remote that the habits, the motives36, and even the actions of the people — of that age were full of strangeness and obscurity. “By what art are we to worm our way into those strange spirits? those even stranger bodies? The more clearly we perceive it, the more remote that singular universe becomes,” Lytton Strachey remarked on one of the first pages. Yet there was evidently a “tragic history” lying dormant37, half revealed, half concealed38, in the story of the Queen and Essex. Everything seemed to lend itself to the making of a book that combined the advantages of both worlds, that gave the artist freedom to invent, but helped his invention with the support of facts — a book that was not only a biography but also a work of art.
Nevertheless, the combination proved unworkable; fact and fiction refused to mix. Elizabeth never became real in the sense that Queen Victoria had been real, yet she never became fictitious in the sense that Cleopatra or Falstaff is fictitious. The reason would seem to be that very little was known — he was urged to invent; yet something was known — his invention was checked. The Queen thus moves in an ambiguous world, between fact and fiction, neither embodied39 nor disembodied. There is a sense of vacancy40 and effort, of a tragedy that has no crisis, of characters that meet but do not clash.
If this diagnosis41 is true we are forced to say that the trouble lies with biography itself. It imposes conditions, and those conditions are that it must be based upon fact. And by fact in biography we mean facts that can be verified by other people besides the artist. If he invents facts as an artist invents them — facts that no one else can verify — and tries to combine them with facts of the other sort, they destroy each other.
Lytton Strachey himself seems in the QUEEN VICTORIA to have realized the necessity of this condition, and to have yielded to it instinctively42. “The first forty-two years of the Queen’s life,” he wrote, “are illuminated43 by a great and varied44 quantity of authentic24 information. With Albert’s death a veil descends45.” And when with Albert’s death the veil descended46 and authentic information failed, he knew that the biographer must follow suit. “We must be content with a brief and summary relation,” he wrote; and the last years are briefly47 disposed of. But the whole of Elizabeth’s life was lived behind a far thicker veil than the last years of Victoria. And yet, ignoring his own admission, he went on to write, not a brief and summary relation, but a whole book about those strange spirits and even stranger bodies of whom authentic information was lacking. On his own showing, the attempt was doomed48 to failure.
III
It seems, then, that when the biographer complained that he was tied by friends, letters, and documents he was laying his finger upon a necessary element in biography; and that it is also a necessary limitation. For the invented character lives in a free world where the facts are verified by one person only — the artist himself. Their authenticity49 lies in the truth of his own vision. The world created by that vision is rarer, intenser, and more wholly of a piece than the world that is largely made of authentic information supplied by other people. And because of this difference the two kinds of fact will not mix; if they touch they destroy each other. No one, the conclusion seems to be, can make the best of both worlds; you must choose, and you must abide50 by your choice.
But though the failure of ELIZABETH AND ESSEX leads to this conclusion, that failure, because it was the result of a daring experiment carried out with magnificent skill, leads the way to further discoveries. Had he lived, Lytton Strachey would no doubt himself have explored the vein51 that he had opened. As it is, he has shown us the way in which others may advance. The biographer is bound by facts — that is so; but, if it is so, he has the right to all the facts that are available. If Jones threw boots at the maid’s head, had a mistress at Islington, or was found drunk in a ditch after a night’s debauch52, he must be free to say so — so far at least as the law of libel and human sentiment allow.
But these facts are not like the facts of science — once they are discovered, always the same. They are subject to changes of opinion; opinions change as the times change. What was thought a sin is now known, by the light of facts won for us by the psychologists, to be perhaps a misfortune; perhaps a curiosity; perhaps neither one nor the other, but a trifling53 foible of no great importance one way or the other. The accent on sex has changed within living memory. This leads to the destruction of a great deal of dead matter still obscuring the true features of the human face. Many of the old chapter headings — life at college, marriage, career — are shown to be very arbitrary and artificial distinctions. The real current of the hero’s existence took, very likely, a different course.
Thus the biographer must go ahead of the rest of us, like the miner’s canary, testing the atmosphere, detecting falsity, unreality, and the presence of obsolete54 conventions. His sense of truth must he alive and on tiptoe. Then again, since we live in an age when a thousand cameras are pointed55, by newspapers, letters, and diaries, at every character from every angle, he must be prepared to admit contradictory56 versions of the same face. Biography will enlarge its scope by hanging up looking glasses at odd corners. And yet from all this diversity it will bring out, not a riot of confusion, but a richer unity4. And again, since so much is known that used to be unknown, the question now inevitably57 asks itself, whether the lives of great men only should be recorded. Is not anyone who has lived a life, and left a record of that life, worthy58 of biography — the failures as well as the successes, the humble59 as well as the illustrious? And what is greatness? And what smallness? We must revise our standards of merit and set up new heroes for our admiration60.
IV
Biography thus is only at the beginning of its career; it has a long and active life before it, we may be sure — a life full of difficulty, danger, and hard work. Nevertheless, we can also be sure that it is a different life from the life of poetry and fiction — a life lived at a lower degree of tension. And for that reason its creations are not destined61 for the immortality62 which the artist now and then achieves for his creations.
There would seem to be certain proof of that already. Even Dr. Johnson as created by Boswell will not live as long as Falstaff as created by Shakespeare. Micawber and Miss Bates we may be certain will survive Lockhart’s Sir Walter Scott and Lytton Strachey’s Queen Victoria. For they are made of more enduring matter. The artist’s imagination at its most intense fires out what is perishable63 in fact; he builds with what is durable64; but the biographer must accept the perishable, build with it, imbed it in the very fabric65 of his work. Much will perish; little will live. And thus we come to the conclusion, that he is a craftsman66, not an artist; and his work is not a work of art, but something betwixt and between.
Yet on that lower level the work of the blographer is invaluable67; we cannot thank him sufficiently68 for what he for us. For we are incapable69 of living wholly in the intense world of the imagination. The imagination is a faculty70 that soon tires and needs rest and refreshment71. But for a tired imagination the proper food is not inferior poetry or minor72 fiction — indeed they blunt and debauch it — but sober fact, that “authentic information” from which, as Lytton Strachey has shown us, good biography is made. When and where did the real man live; how did he look; did he wear laced boots or elastic-sided; who were his aunts, and his friends; how did he blow his nose whom did he love, and how; and when he came to die did he die in his bed like a Christian73, or . . .
By telling us the true facts, by sifting74 the little from the big, and shaping the whole so that we perceive the outline, the biographer does more to stimulate75 the imagination than any poet or novelist save the very greatest. For few poets and novelists are capable of that high degree of tension which gives us reality. But almost any biographer, if he respects facts, can give us much more than another fact to add to our collection. He can give us the creative fact; the fertile fact; the fact that suggests and engenders76. Of this, too, there is certain proof. For how often, when a biography is read and tossed aside, some scene remains77 bright, some figure lives on in the depths of the mind, and causes us, when we read a poem or a novel, to feel a start of recognition, as if we remembered something that we had known before.
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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effigy
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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authenticated
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| v.证明是真实的、可靠的或有效的( authenticate的过去式和过去分词 )；鉴定，使生效 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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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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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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72
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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73
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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74
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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75
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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76
engenders
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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