按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
preserve a rigid immobility for fear of overturning the little
two…legged creature。 She has never seen your resigned smile when
the little two…legged creature； interrogated； sternly； 〃What are
you doing to the good dog？〃 answers； with a wide； innocent stare：
〃Nothing。 Only loving him； mamma dear！〃
The general's daughter does not know the secret terms of
self…imposed tasks； good dog； the pain that may lurk in the very
rewards of rigid self…command。 But we have lived together many
years。 We have grown older； too； and though our work is not
quite done yet we may indulge now and then in a little
introspection before the firemeditate on the art of bringing up
babies and on the perfect delight of writing tales where so many
lives come and go at the cost of one which slips imperceptibly
away。
VI
In the retrospect of a life which had； besides its preliminary
stage of childhood and early youth； two distinct developments；
and even two distinct elements； such as earth and water； for its
successive scenes； a certain amount of naiveness is unavoidable。
I am conscious of it in these pages。 This remark is put forward
in no apologetic spirit。 As years go by and the number of pages
grows steadily； the feeling grows upon one； too； that one can
write only for friends。 Then why should one put them to the
necessity of protesting （as a friend would do） that no apology is
necessary； or put； perchance； into their heads the doubt of one's
discretion？ So much as to the care due to those friends whom a
word here； a line there； a fortunate page of just feeling in the
right place； some happy simplicity； or even some lucky subtlety；
has drawn from the great multitude of fellow beings even as a
fish is drawn from the depths of the sea。 Fishing is notoriously
（I am talking now of the deep sea） a matter of luck。 As to one's
enemies； they will take care of themselves。
There is a gentleman； for instance； who； metaphorically speaking；
jumps upon me with both feet。 This image has no grace； but it is
exceedingly apt to the occasionto the several occasions。 I
don't know precisely how long he has been indulging in that
intermittent exercise； whose seasons are ruled by the custom of
the publishing trade。 Somebody pointed him out （in printed
shape； of course） to my attention some time ago； and straightway
I experienced a sort of reluctant affection for that robust man。
He leaves not a shred of my substance untrodden： for the writer's
substance is his writing； the rest of him is but a vain shadow；
cherished or hated on uncritical grounds。 Not a shred！ Yet the
sentiment owned to is not a freak of affectation or perversity。
It has a deeper； and； I venture to think； a more estimable origin
than the caprice of emotional lawlessness。 It is； indeed；
lawful； in so much that it is given （reluctantly） for a
consideration； for several considerations。 There is that
robustness； for instance； so often the sign of good moral
balance。 That's a consideration。 It is not； indeed； pleasant to
be stamped upon； but the very thoroughness of the operation；
implying not only a careful reading； but some real insight into
work whose qualities and defects； whatever they may be； are not
so much on the surface； is something to be thankful for in view
of the fact that it may happen to one's work to be condemned
without being read at all。 This is the most fatuous adventure
that can well happen to a writer venturing his soul among
criticisms。 It can do one no harm； of course； but it is
disagreeable。 It is disagreeable in the same way as discovering
a three…card…trick man among a decent lot of folk in a
third…class compartment。 The open impudence of the whole
transaction； appealing insidiously to the folly and credulity of
man kind； the brazen； shameless patter； proclaiming the fraud
openly while insisting on the fairness of the game； give one a
feeling of sickening disgust。 The honest violence of a plain man
playing a fair game fairlyeven if he means to knock you
overmay appear shocking； but it remains within the pale of
decency。 Damaging as it may be； it is in no sense offensive。
One may well feel some regard for honesty； even if practised upon
one's own vile body。 But it is very obvious that an enemy of
that sort will not be stayed by explanations or placated by
apologies。 Were I to advance the plea of youth in excuse of the
naiveness to be found in these pages； he would be likely to say
〃Bosh！〃 in a column and a half of fierce print。 Yet a writer is
no older than his first published book； and； not withstanding the
vain appearances of decay which attend us in this transitory
life； I stand here with the wreath of only fifteen short summers
on my brow。
With the remark； then； that at such tender age some naiveness of
feeling and expression is excusable； I proceed to admit that；
upon the whole； my previous state of existence was not a good
equipment for a literary life。 Perhaps I should not have used the
word literary。 That word presupposes an intimacy of acquaintance
with letters； a turn of mind； and a manner of feeling to which I
dare lay no claim。 I only love letters； but the love of letters
does not make a literary man； any more than the love of the sea
makes a seaman。 And it is very possible； too； that I love the
letters in the same way a literary man may love the sea he looks
at from the shorea scene of great endeavour and of great
achievements changing the face of the world； the great open way
to all sorts of undiscovered countries。 No； perhaps I had better
say that the life at seaand I don't mean a mere taste of it；
but a good broad span of years； something that really counts as
real serviceis not； upon the whole； a good equipment for a
writing life。 God forbid； though； that I should be thought of as
denying my masters of the quarter…deck。 I am not capable of that
sort of apostasy。 I have confessed my attitude of piety toward
their shades in three or four tales； and if any man on earth more
than another needs to be true to himself as he hopes to be saved；
it is certainly the writer of fiction。
What I meant to say； simply； is that the quarter…deck training
does not prepare one sufficiently for the reception of literary
criticism。 Only that； and no more。 But this defect is not
without gravity。 If it be permissible to twist； invert； adapt
（and spoil） Mr。 Anatole France's definition of a good critic；
then let us say that the good author is he who contemplates
without marked joy or excessive sorrow the adventures of his soul
among criticisms。 Far be from me the intention to mislead an
attentive public into the belief that there is no criticism at
sea。 That would be dishonest； and even impolite。 Ever thing can
be found at sea； according to the spirit of your queststrife；
peace； romance； naturalism of the most pronounced kind； ideals；
boredom； disgust； inspirationand every conceivable opportunity；
including the opportunity to make a fool of yourself； exactly as
in the pursuit of literature。 But the quarter…deck criticism is
somewhat different from literary criticism。 This much they have
in common； that before the one and the other the answering back；
as a general rule； does not pay。
Yes； you find criticism at sea； and even appreciationI tell you
everything is to be found on salt watercriticism generally
impromptu； and always viva voce； which is the outward； obvious
difference from the literary operation of that kind； with
consequent freshness and vigour which may be lacking in the
printed word。 With appreciation； which comes at the end； when
the critic and the criticised are about to part； it is otherwise。
The sea appreciation of one's humble talents has the permanency
of the written word； seldom the charm of variety； is formal in
its phrasing。 There the literary master has the superiority；
though he； too； can in effect but sayand often says it in the
very phrase〃I can highly recommend。〃 Only usually he uses the
word 〃We；〃 there being some occult virtue in the first person
plural which makes it specially fit for critical and royal
declarations。 I have a small handful of these sea appreciations；
signed by various masters； yellowing slowly in my writing…table's
left hand drawer； rustling under my reverent touch； like a
handful of dry leaves plucked for a tender memento