* THE MIDDLE YEARS. By Henry James.
All great writers have, of course, an atmosphere in which they seem most at their ease and at their best; a mood of the great general mind which they interpret and indeed almost discover, so that we come to read them rather for that than for any story or character or scene of separate excellence7. For ourselves Henry James seems most entirely8 in his element, doing that is to say what everything favours his doing, when it is a question of recollection. The mellow9 light which swims over the past, the beauty which suffuses10 even the commonest little figures of that time, the shadow in which the detail of so many things can be discerned which the glare of day flattens11 out, the depth, the richness, the calm, the humour of the whole pageant12 — all this seems to have been his natural atmosphere and his most abiding13 mood. It is the atmosphere of all those stories in which aged14 Europe is the background for young America. It is the half light in which he sees most, and sees farthest. To Americans, indeed, to Henry James and to Hawthorne, we owe the best relish15 of the past in our literature — not the past of romance and chivalry16, but the immediate17 past of vanished dignity and faded fashions. The novels teem18 with it; but wonderful as they are, we are tempted19 to say that the memories are yet more wonderful, in that they are more exactly Henry James, and give more precisely20 his tone and his gesture. In them his benignity21 is warmer, his humour richer, his solicitude22 more exquisite23, his recognition of beauty, fineness, humanity more instant and direct. He comes to his task with an indescribable air of one so charged and laden24 with precious stuff that he hardly knows how to divest25 himself of it all — where to find space to set down this and that, how to resist altogether the claims of some other gleaming object in the background; appearing so busy, so unwieldy with ponderous26 treasure that his dexterity27 in disposing of it, his consummate28 knowledge of how best to place each fragment, afford us the greatest delight that literature has had to offer for many a year. The mere29 sight is enough to make anyone who has ever held a pen in his hand consider his art afresh in the light of this extraordinary example of it. And our pleasure at the mere sight soon merges30 in the thrill with which we recognize, if not directly then by hearsay31, the old world of London-life which he brings out of the shades and sets tenderly and solidly before us as if his last gift were the most perfect and precious of the treasures hoarded32 in “the scented33 chest of our savings35.”
After the absence from Europe of about nine years which is recorded in NOTES OF A SON AND BROTHER, he arrived in Liverpool on March 1st, 1869, and found himself “in the face of an opportunity that affected36 me then and there as the happiest, the most interesting, the most alluring37 and beguiling38 that could ever have opened before a somewhat disabled young man who was about to complete his twenty-sixth year.” He proceeded to London, and took up his lodging39 with a “kind slim celibate,” a Mr. Lazarus Fox — every detail is dear to him — who let out slices of his house in Half Moon Street to gentlemen lodgers40. The London of that day, as Henry James at once proceeded to ascertain41 with those amazingly delicate and tenacious42 tentacles43 of his, was an extremely characteristic and uncompromising organism. “The big broom of change” had swept it hardly at all since the days of Byron at least. She was still the “unaccommodating and unaccommodated city . . . the city too indifferent, too proud, too unaware44, too stupid even if one will, to enter any lists that involved her moving from her base and that thereby45 . . . enjoyed the enormous ‘pull,’ for making her impression, of ignoring everything but her own perversities and then of driving these home with an emphasis not to be gainsaid46.” The young American (“brooding monster that I was, born to discriminate47 à TOUT48 PROPOS”) was soon breakfasting with the gentleman upstairs (Mr. Albert Rutson), eating his fried sole and marmalade with other gentlemen from the Home Office, the Foreign Office, the House of Commons, whose freedom to lounge over that meal impressed him greatly, and whose close questioning as to the composition of Grant’s first Cabinet embarrassed him not a little. The whole scene, which it would be an impiety49 to dismember further, has the very breath of the age in it. The whiskers, the leisure, the intentness of those gentlemen upon politics, their conviction that the composition of Cabinets was the natural topic for the breakfast-table, and that a stranger unable, as Henry James found himself, to throw light upon it was “only not perfectly51 ridiculous because perfectly insignificant”— all this provides a picture that many of us will be able to see again as we saw it once perhaps from the perch52 of an obliging pair of shoulders.
The main facts about that London, as all witnesses agree in testifying, were its smallness compared with our city, the limited number of distractions53 and amusements available, and the consequent tendency of all people worth knowing to know each other and to form a very accessible and, at the same time, highly enviable society. Whatever the quality that gained you admittance, whether it was that you had done something or showed yourself capable of doing something worthy54 of respect, the compliment was not an empty one. A young man coming up to London might in a few months claim to have met Tennyson, Browning, Matthew Arnold, Carlyle, Froude, George Eliot, Herbert Spencer, Huxley, and Mill. He had met them; he had not merely brushed against them in a crowd. He had heard them talk; he had even offered something of his own. The conditions of those days allowed a kind of conversation which, so the survivors55 always maintain, is an art unknown in what they are pleased to call our chaos56. What with recurring57 dinner parties and Sunday calls, and country visits lasting58 far beyond the week-ends of our generation, the fabric59 of friendship was solidly built up and carefully preserved. The tendency perhaps was rather to a good fellowship in which the talk was wide-sweeping, extremely well informed, and impersonal60 than to the less formal, perhaps more intense and indiscriminate, intimacies61 of to-day. We read of little societies of the sixties, the Cosmopolitan62 and the Century, meeting on Wednesday and on Sunday evenings to discuss the serious questions of the times, and we have the feeling that they could claim a more representative character than anything of the sort we can show now. We are left with the impression that whatever went forward in those days, either among the statesmen or among the men of letters — and there was a closer connection than there is now — was promoted or inspired by the members of this group. Undoubtedly63 the resources of the day — and how magnificent they were!— were better organized; and it must occur to every reader of their memoirs64 that a reason is to be found in the simplicity65 which accepted the greatness of certain names and imposed something like order on their immediate neighbourhood. Having crowned their kin2 they worshipped him with the most whole-hearted loyalty66. Groups of people would come together at Freshwater, in that old garden where the houses of Melbury Road now stand, or in various London centres, and live as it seems to us for months at a time, some of them indeed for the duration of their lives, in the mood of the presiding genius. Watts67 and Burne–Jones in one quarter of the town, Carlyle in another, George Eliot in a third, almost as much as Tennyson in his island, imposed their laws upon a circle which had spirit and beauty to recommend it as well as an uncritical devotion.
Henry James, of course, was not a person to accept laws or to make one of any circle in a sense which implies the blunting of the critical powers. Happily for us, he came over not only with the hoarded curiosity of years, but also with the detachment of the stranger and the critical sense of the artist. He was immensely appreciative68, but he was also immensely observant. Thus it comes about that his fragment revives, indeed stamps afresh, the great figures of the epoch69, and, what is no less important, illumines the lesser70 figures by whom they were surrounded. Nothing could be happier than his portrait of Mrs. Greville, “with her exquisite good nature and her innocent fatuity,” who was, of course, very much an individual, but also a type of the enthusiastic sisterhood which, with all its extravagances and generosities71 and what we might unkindly, but not without the authority of Henry James, call absurdity72, now seems extinct. We shall not spoil the reader’s impression of the superb passage describing a visit arranged by Mrs. Greville to George Eliot by revealing what happened on that almost tragic73 occasion. It is more excusable to dwell for a moment upon the drawing-room at Milford Cottage,the most embowered retreat for social innocence74 that it was possible to conceive. . . . The red candles in the red shades have remained with me, inexplicably75, as a vivid note of this pitch, shedding their rosy76 light, with the autumn gale77, the averted78 reality, all shut out, upon such felicities of feminine helplessness as I couldn’t have prefigured in advance, and as exemplified, for further gathering79 in, the possibilities of the old tone.
The drawn80 curtains, the “copious service,” the second volume of the new novel “half-uncut” laid ready to hand, “the exquisite head and incomparable brush of the domesticated81 collie”— that is the familiar setting. He recalls the high-handed manner in which these ladies took their way through life, baffling the very stroke of age and disaster with their unquenchable optimism, ladling out with both hands every sort of gift upon their passage, and bringing to port in their tow the most incongruous and battered82 of derelicts. No doubt “a number of the sharp truths that one might privately83 apprehend84 beat themselves beautifully in vain” against such defences. Truth, so it seems to us, was not so much disregarded as flattered out of countenance85 by the energy with which they pursued the beautiful, the noble, the poetic86, and ignored the possibility of another side of things. The extravagant87 steps which they would take to snare88 whatever grace or atmosphere they desired at the moment lend their lives in retrospect89 a glamour90 of adventure, aspiration91, and triumph such as seems for good or for evil banished92 from our conscious and much more critical day. Was a friend ill? A wall would be knocked down to admit the morning sun. Did the doctor prescribe fresh milk? The only perfectly healthy cow in England was at your service. All this personal exuberance93 Henry James brings back in the figure of Mrs. Greville, “friend of the super-eminent” and priestess at the different altars. Cannot we almost hear the “pleasant growling94 note of Tennyson” answering her “mild extravagance of homage” with “Oh, yes, you may do what you like —-so long as you don’t kiss me before the cabman!”
And then with the entrance of Lady Waterford, Henry James ponders lovingly the quality which seems to hang about those days and people as the very scent34 of the flower —“the quality of personal beauty, to say nothing of personal accomplishment95 as our fathers were appointed to enjoy it. . . . Scarce to be sated that form of wonder, to my own imagination I confess.” Were they as beautiful as we like to remember them, or was it that the whole atmosphere made a beautiful presence, any sort of distinction or eminence96 indeed, felt in a way no longer so carefully arranged for, or so unquestionably accepted? Was it not all a part of the empty London streets, of the four-wheelers even, lined with straw, of the stuffy97 little boxes of the public dining rooms, of the protectedness, of the leisure? But if they had merely to stand and be looked at, how splendidly they did it! A certain width of space seems to be a necessary condition for the blooming of such splendid plants as Lady Waterford, who, when she had dazzled sufficiently98 with her beauty and presence, had only to take up her brush to be acclaimed99 the equal of Titian or of Watts.
Personality, whatever one may mean by it, seems to have been accorded a licence for the expression of itself for which we can find no parallel in the present day. The gift if you had it was encouraged and sheltered beyond the bounds of what now seems possible. Tennyson, of course, is the supreme100 example of what we mean, and happily for us Henry James was duly taken to that shrine101 and gives with extraordinary skill a new version of the mystery which in our case will supersede102 the old. “The fond prefigurements of youthful piety50 are predestined, more often than not, I think, experience interfering103, to strange and violent shocks. . . . Fine, fine, fine, could he only be. . . .” So he begins, and so continuing for some time leads us up to the pronouncement that “Tennyson was not Tennysonian.” The air one breathed at Aldworth was one in which nothing but “the blest obvious, or at least the blest outright104, could so much as attempt to live . . . . It was a large and simple and almost empty occasion . . . . He struck me in truth as neither knowing nor communicating knowledge.” He recited LOCKSLEY HALL and “Oh dear, oh dear. . . . I heard him in cool surprise take even more out of his verse than he had put in.” And so by a series of qualifications which are all beautifully adapted to sharpen the image without in the least destroying it, we are led to the satisfactory and convincing conclusion, “My critical reaction hadn’t in the least invalidated our great man’s being a Bard105 — it had in fact made him and left him more a Bard than ever.” We see, really for the first time, how obvious and simple and almost empty it was, how “the glory was without history,” the poetic character “more worn than paid for, or at least more saved than spent,” and yet somehow the great man revives and flourishes in the new conditions and dawns upon us more of a Bard than we had got into the habit of thinking him. The same service of defining, limiting, and restoring to life he performs as beautifully for the ghost of George Eliot, and proclaims himself, as the faithful will be glad to hear, “even a very Derondist of Derondists.”
And thus looking back into the past which is all changed and gone (he could mark, he said, the very hour or the change) Henry James performs a last act of piety which is supremely106 characteristic of him. The English world of that day was very clear to him; it had a fineness and a distinction which he professed107 half humorously not to find in our “vast monotonous108 mob.” It had given him friendship and opportunity and much else, no doubt, that it had no consciousness of giving. Such a gift he of all people could never forget; and this book of memories sounds to us like a superb act of thanksgiving. What could he do to make up for it all, he seems to have asked himself. And then with all the creative power at his command he summons back the past and makes us a present of that. If we could have had the choice, that is what we should have chosen, not entirely for what it gives us of the dead, but also for what it gives us of him. Many will hear his voice again in these pages; they will perceive once more that solicitude for others, that immense desire to help which had its origin, one might guess, in the aloofness109 and loneliness of the artist’s life. It seemed as if he were grateful for the chance of taking part in the ordinary affairs of the world, of assuring himself that, in spite of his absorption with the fine and remote things of the imagination, he had not lost touch with human interests. To acknowledge any claim that was in the least connected with the friends or memories of the past gave him, for this reason, a peculiar110 joy; and we can believe that if he could have chosen, his last words would have been like these, words of recollection and of love.
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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suffuses
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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flattens
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| 变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的第三人称单数 )； 彻底打败某人，使丢脸； 停止增长（或上升）； （把身体或身体部位）紧贴… | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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merges
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| （使）混合( merge的第三人称单数 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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42
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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48
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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53
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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59
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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60
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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generosities
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| n.慷慨( generosity的名词复数 )；大方；宽容；慷慨或宽容的行为 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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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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