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双语·书屋环游记 第六章

所属教程:译林版·书屋环游记

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2022年05月10日

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VI

Which are the great short stories of the English language?Not a bad basis for a debate!This I am sure of:that there are far fewer supremely good short stories than there are supremely good long books.It takes more exquisite skill to carve the cameo than the statue.But the strangest thing is that the two excellences seem to be separate and even antagonistic.Skill in the one by no means ensures skill in the other.The great masters of our literature,Fielding,Scott,Dickens,Thackeray,Reade,have left no single short story of outstanding merit behind them,with the possible exception of Wandering Willie's Tale in“Redgauntlet.”On the other hand,men who have been very great in the short story,Stevenson,Poe,and Bret Harte,have written no great book.The champion sprinter is seldom a five-miler as well.

Well,now,if you had to choose your team whom would you put in?You have not really a large choice.What are the points by which you judge them?You want strength,novelty,compactness,intensity of interest,a single vivid impression left upon the mind.Poe is the master of all.I may remark by the way that it is the sight of his green cover,the next in order upon my favorite shelf,which has started this train of thought.Poe is,to my mind,the supreme original short story writer of all time.His brain was like a seed-pod full of seeds which flew carelessly around,and from which have sprung nearly all our modern types of story.Just think of what he did in his offhand,prodigal fashion,seldom troubling to repeat a success,but pushing on to some new achievement.To him must be ascribed the monstrous progeny of writers on the detection of crime—“quorum pars parva fui!”Each may find some little development of his own,but his main art must trace back to those admirable stories of Monsieur Dupin,so wonderful in their masterful force,their reticence,their quick dramatic point.After all,mental acuteness is the one quality which can be ascribed to the ideal detective,and when that has once been admirably done,succeeding writers must necessarily be content for all time to follow in the same main track.But not only is Poe the originator of the detective story;all treasure-hunting,cryptogram-solving yarns trace back to his“Gold Bug,”just as all pseudo-scientific Verne-and-Wells stories have their prototypes in the“Voyage to the Moon,”and the“Case of Monsieur Valdemar.”If every man who receives a cheque for a story which owes its springs to Poe were to pay tithe to a monument for the master,he would have a pyramid as big as that of Cheops.

And yet I could only give him two places in my team.One would be for the“Gold Bug,”the other for the“Murder in the Rue Morgue.”I do not see how either of those could be bettered.But I would not admit perfect excellence to any other of his stories.These two have a proportion and a perspective which are lacking in the others,the horror or weirdness of the idea intensified by the coolness of the narrator and of the principal actor,Dupin in the one case and Le Grand in the other.The same may be said of Bret Harte,also one of those great short story tellers who proved himself incapable of a longer flight.He was always like one of his own gold-miners who struck a rich pocket,but found no continuous reef.The pocket was,alas,a very limited one,but the gold was of the best.“The Luck of Roaring Camp”and“Tennessee's Partner”are both,I think,worthy of a place among my immortals.They are,it is true,so tinged with Dickens as to be almost parodies of the master,but they have a symmetry and satisfying completeness as short stories to which Dickens himself never attained.The man who can read those two stories without a gulp in the throat is not a man I envy.

And Stevenson?Surely he shall have two places also,for where is a finer sense of what the short story can do?He wrote,in my judgment,two masterpieces in his life,and each of them is essentially a short story,though the one happened to be published as a volume.The one is“Dr.Jekyll and Mr.Hyde,”which,whether you take it as a vivid narrative or as a wonderfully deep and true allegory,is a supremely fine bit of work.The other story of my choice would be“The Pavilion on the Links”—the very model of dramatic narrative.That story stamped itself so clearly on my brain when I read it in Cornhill that when I came across it again many years afterwards in volume form,I was able instantly to recognize two small modifications of the text—each very much for the worse—from the original form.They were small things,but they seemed somehow like a chip on a perfect statue.Surely it is only a very fine work of art which could leave so definite an impression as that.Of course,there are a dozen other of his stories which would put the average writer's best work to shame,all with the strange Stevenson glamour upon them,of which I may discourse later,but only to those two would I be disposed to admit that complete excellence which would pass them into such a team as this.

And who else?If it be not an impertinence to mention a contemporary I should certainly have a brace from Rudyard Kipling.His power,his compression,his dramatic sense,his way of glowing suddenly into a vivid flame,all mark him as a great master.But which are we to choose from that long and varied collection,many of which have claims to the highest?Speaking from memory,I should say that the stories of his which have impressed me most are“The Drums of the Fore and Aft,”“The Man who Would be King,”“The Man who Was,”and“The Brushwood Boy.”Perhaps,on the whole,it is the first two which I should choose to add to my list of masterpieces.

They are stories which invite criticism and yet defy it.The great batsman at cricket is the man who can play an unorthodox game,take every liberty which is denied to inferior players,and yet succeed brilliantly in the face of his disregard of law.So it is here.I should think the model of these stories is the most dangerous that any young writer could follow.There is digression,that most deadly fault in the short narrative;there is incoherence,there is want of proportion which makes the story stand still for pages and bound forward in a few sentences.But genius overrides all that,just as the great cricketer hooks the off ball and glides the straight one to leg.There is a dash,an exuberance,a full-blooded,confident mastery which carries everything before it.Yes,no team of immortals would be complete which did not contain at least two representatives of Kipling.

And now whom?Nathaniel Hawthorne never appealed in the highest degree to me.The fault,I am sure,is my own,but I always seemed to crave stronger fare than he gave me.It was too subtle,too elusive,for effect.Indeed,I have been more affected by some of the short work of his son Julian,though I can quite understand the high artistic claims which the senior writer has,and the delicate charm of his style.There is Bulwer-Lytton as a claimant.His“Haunted and the Haunters”is the very best ghost story that I know.As such I should include it in my list.There was a story,too,in one of the old Blachwoods—“Metempsychosis”it was called,which left so deep an impression upon my mind that I should be inclined,though it is many years since I read it,to number it with the best.Another story which has the characteristics of great work is Grant Allen's“John Creedy.”So good a story upon so philosophic a basis deserves a place among the best.There is some first-class work to be picked also from the contemporary work of Wells and of Quiller-Couch which reaches a high standard.One little sketch—“Old Aeson”in“Noughts and Crosses”—is,in my opinion,as good as anything of the kind which I have ever read.

And all this didactic talk comes from looking at that old green cover of Poe.I am sure that if I had to name the few books which have really influenced my own life I should have to put this one second only to Macaulay's Essays.I read it young when my mind was plastic.It stimulated my imagination and set before me a supreme example of dignity and force in the methods of telling a story.It is not altogether a healthy influence,perhaps.It turns the thoughts too forcibly to the morbid and the strange.

He was a saturnine creature,devoid of humor and geniality,with a love for the grotesque and the terrible.The reader must himself furnish the counteracting qualities or Poe may become a dangerous comrade.We know along what perilous tracks and into what deadly quagmires his strange mind led him,down to that gray October Sunday morning,when he was picked up,a dying man,on the sidewalk at Baltimore,at an age which should have seen him at the very prime of his strength and his manhood.

I have said that I look upon Poe as the world's supreme short story writer.His nearest rival,I should say,was Maupassant.The great Norman never rose to the extreme force and originality of the American,but he had a natural inherited power,an inborn instinct towards the right way of making his effects,which mark him as a great master.He produced stories because it was in him to do so,as naturally and as perfectly as an apple tree produces apples.What a fine,sensitive,artistic touch it is!How easily and delicately the points are made!How clear and nervous is his style,and how free from that redundancy which disfigures so much of our English work!He pares it down to the quick all the time.

I cannot write the name of Maupassant without recalling what was either a spiritual interposition or an extraordinary coincidence in my own life.I had been traveling in Switzerland and had visited,among other places,that Gemmi Pass,where a huge cliff separates a French from a German canton.On the summit of this cliff was a small inn,where we broke our journey.It was explained to us that,although the inn was inhabited all the year round,still for about three months in winter it was utterly isolated,because it could at any time only be approached by winding paths on the mountain side,and when these became obliterated by snow it was impossible either to come up or to descend.They could see the lights in the valley beneath them,but were as lonely as if they lived in the moon.So curious a situation naturally appealed to one's imagination,and I speedily began to build up a short story in my own mind,depending upon a group of strong antagonistic characters being penned up in this inn,loathing each other and yet utterly unable to get away from each other's society,every day bringing them nearer to tragedy.For a week or so,as I traveled,I was turning over the idea.

At the end of that time I returned through France.Having nothing to read I happened to buy a volume of Maupassant's Tales which I had never seen before.The first story was called“L'Auberge”(The Inn)—and as I ran my eye down the printed page I was amazed to see the two words,“Kandersteg”and“Gemmi Pass.”I settled down and read it with ever-growing amazement.The scene was laid in the inn I had visited.The plot depended on the isolation of a group of people through the snowfall.Everything that I imagined was there,save that Maupassant had brought in a savage hound.

Of course,the genesis of the thing is clear enough.He had chanced to visit the inn,and had been impressed as I had been by the same train of thought.All that is quite intelligible.But what is perfectly marvelous is that in that short journey I should have chanced to buy the one book in all the world which would prevent me from making a public fool of myself,for who would ever have believed that my work was not an imitation?I do not think that the hypothesis of coincidence can cover the facts.It is one of several incidents in my life which have convinced me of spiritual interposition—of the promptings of some beneficent force outside ourselves,which tries to help us where it can.The Old Catholic doctrine of the Guardian Angel is not only a beautiful one,but has in it,I believe,a real basis of truth.

Or is it that our subliminal ego,to use the jargon of the new psychology,or our astral,in the terms of the new theology,can learn and convey to the mind that which our own known senses are unable to apprehend?But that is too long a side track for us to turn down it.

When Maupassant chose he could run Poe close in that domain of the strange and weird which the American had made so entirely his own.Have you read Maupassant's story called“La Horla”?That is as good a bit of diablerie as you could wish for.And the Frenchman has,of course,far the broader range.He has a keen sense of humor,breaking out beyond all decorum in some of his stories,but giving a pleasant sub-flavor to all of them.And yet,when all is said,who can doubt that the austere and dreadful American is far the greater and more original mind of the two?

Talking of weird American stories,have you ever read any of the works of Ambrose Bierce?I have one of his works there,“In the Midst of Life.”This man had a flavor quite his own,and was a great artist in his way.It is not cheering reading,but it leaves its mark upon you,and that is the proof of good work.

I have often wondered where Poe got his style.There is a somber majesty about his best work,as if it were carved from polished jet,which is peculiarly his own.I dare say if I took down that volume I could light anywhere upon a paragraph which would show you what I mean.This is the kind of thing—

Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi—in the iron-bound melancholy volumes of the Magi.Therein,I say,are glorious histories of the heaven and of the earth,and of the mighty sea—and of the genius that overruled the sea,and the earth,and the lofty heaven.There was much lore,too,in the sayings which were said by the Sybils,and holy,holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves which trembled round Dodona,but as Allah liveth,that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb,I hold to be the most wonderful of all.

Or this sentence:

And then did we,the seven,start from our seats in horror,and stand trembling and aghast,for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being,but of a multitude of beings,and,varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable,fell duskily upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends.

Is there not a sense of austere dignity?No man invents a style.It always derives back from some influence,or,as is more usual,it is a compromise between several influences.I cannot trace Poe's.And yet if Hazlitt and De Quincey had set forth to tell weird stories they might have developed something of the kind.

Now,by your leave,we will pass on to my noble edition of“The Cloister and the Hearth,”the next volume on the left.

I notice,in glancing over my rambling remarks,that I classed“Ivanhoe”as the second historical novel of the century.I dare say there are many who would give“Esmond”the first place,and I can quite understand their position,although it is not my own.I recognize the beauty of the style,the consistency of the character-drawing,the absolutely perfect Queen Anne atmosphere.There was never an historical novel written by a man who knew his period so thoroughly.But,great as these virtues are,they are not the essential in a novel.The essential in a novel is interest,though Addison unkindly remarked that the real essential was that the pastry-cooks should never run short of paper.Now“Esmond”is,in my opinion,exceedingly interesting during the campaigns in the Lowlands,and when our Machiavelian hero,the Duke,comes in,and also whenever Lord Mohun shows his ill-omened face;but there are long stretches of the story which are heavy reading.A preeminently good novel must always advance and never mark time.“Ivanhoe”never halts for an instant,and that just makes its superiority as a novel over“Esmond,”though as a piece of literature I think the latter is the more perfect.

No,if I had three votes,I should plump them all for“The Cloister and the Hearth,”as being our greatest historical novel,and,indeed,as being our greatest novel of any sort.I think I may claim to have read most of the more famous foreign novels of last century,and(speaking only for myself and within the limits of my reading)I have been more impressed by that book of Reade's and by Tolstoi's“Peace and War”than by any others.They seem to me to stand at the very top of the century's fiction.There is a certain resemblance in the two—the sense of space,the number of figures,the way in which characters drop in and drop out.The Englishman is the more romantic.The Russian is the more real and earnest.But they are both great.

Think of what Reade does in that one book.He takes the reader by the hand,and he leads him away into the Middle Ages,and not a conventional study-built Middle Age,but a period quivering with life,full of folk who are as human and real as a'bus-load in Oxford Street.He takes him through Holland,he shows him the painters,the dykes,the life.He leads him down the long line of the Rhine,the spinal marrow of Mediaeval Europe.He shows him the dawn of printing,the beginnings of freedom,the life of the great mercantile cities of South Germany,the state of Italy,the artist-life of Rome,the monastic institutions on the eve of the Reformation.And all this between the covers of one book,so naturally introduced,too,and told with such vividness and spirit.Apart from the huge scope of it,the mere study of Gerard's own nature,his rise,his fall,his regeneration,the whole pitiable tragedy at the end,make the book a great one.It contains,I think,a blending of knowledge with imagination,which makes it stand alone in our literature.Let anyone read the“Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini,”and then Charles Reade's picture of Mediaeval Roman life,if he wishes to appreciate the way in which Reade has collected his rough ore and has then smelted it all down in his fiery imagination.It is a good thing to have the industry to collect facts.It is a greater and a rarer one to have the tact to know how to use them when you have got them.To be exact without pedantry,and thorough without being dull,that should be the ideal of the writer of historical romance.

Reade is one of the most perplexing figures in our literature.Never was there a man so hard to place.At his best he is the best we have.At his worst he is below the level of Surreyside melodrama.But his best have weak pieces,and his worst have good.There is always silk among his cotton,and cotton among his silk.But,for all his flaws,the man who,in addition to the great book of which I have already spoken,wrote“It is Never Too Late to Mend,”“Hard Cash,”“Foul Play,”and“Griffith Gaunt,”must always stand in the very first rank of our novelists.

There is a quality of heart about his work which I recognize nowhere else.He so absolutely loves his own heroes and heroines,while he so cordially detests his own villains,that he sweeps your emotions along with his own.No one has ever spoken warmly enough of the humanity and the lovability of his women.It is a rare gift—very rare for a man—this power of drawing a human and delightful girl.If there is a better one in nineteenth-century fiction than Julia Dodd I have never had the pleasure of meeting her.A man who could draw a character so delicate and so delightful,and yet could write such an episode as that of the Robber Inn in“The Cloister and the Hearth,”adventurous romance in its highest form,has such a range of power as is granted to few men.My hat is always ready to come off to Charles Reade.

第六章

英语中最好看的短篇小说是哪些?用这个话题开始辩论可真不错!有一点我很确定:品质一流的短篇小说要比品质一流的长篇小说少太多了。就像是雕刻一个小浮雕要比雕刻一座大雕像需要更多精湛的技巧。但奇怪的是,这两种技巧似乎是彼此独立的,甚至还是对立的。谁要是精通其中一种技巧绝不能保证这个人在另一领域也很高超。我们文学史上的大师们,比如菲尔丁、司各特、狄更斯、萨克雷、里德,都没有留下任何一篇质量上乘的短篇小说,唯一的例外可能是司各特的《雷德冈脱利特》里的《流浪汉威利的故事》。同样,另一些写短篇小说很厉害的人,比如史蒂文森、爱伦·坡和布赖特·哈特,却没有一部长篇佳作。短跑冠军很少能在五英里长跑比赛中夺得冠军。

那么,如果一定要你选,你会把哪些人放进你的队伍呢?你的选择范围其实不是很广。你会以什么标准评价他们呢?你需要看作品是否有力度,是否新颖、简洁,能否让人保持阅读兴趣,以及是否给人留下了独特、深刻的印象。爱伦·坡在这几方面都是大师。可以说正是我看到了最爱的书架上爱伦·坡那绿色封面的书,才引发了我的思绪,在我看来,坡是有史以来最具原创精神的短篇小说家。他的大脑就像是装满了种子的种荚,随处播撒,从中几乎产生了我们现在所有种类的小说。想想吧,他随意写出了那么多天才作品,从不重复自己的成功之作,而是不断获得新成就。在犯罪小说方面,他是后世庞大作家群的先祖—“绝大多数的!”虽然每个作家都可能发展出了一点自己的写作技巧,但是他主要的技巧还是要追溯到杜平探长那些精彩的故事,它们力道精湛,结构严谨,情节转折迅速。总之,头脑敏锐这一特点很适合设定在一个理想侦探身上,由于已经有人把这一点运用得如此令人敬佩,后来的作家们必然愿意沿袭相同的套路。坡不仅是侦探小说的鼻祖,其他所有寻宝、破解密码的故事都可以追溯到他的《金甲虫》,还有凡尔纳—威尔斯式伪科学小说的原型就是他的《月球旅行记》和《瓦尔德玛先生的病例》。写小说的人,如果他的故事是从坡那里起源,若是他收到稿费支票的时候都要给这位大师的纪念碑交一份“什一税”,那坡的金字塔肯定跟基奥普斯金字塔差不多大了。

但是我只会在我的队伍里给坡的作品两个位置,一个给《金甲虫》,另一个给《毛格街谋杀案》。我觉得在这两个故事里,找不到瑕疵。而坡其他的故事,我认为并不算“完美”。这两个故事的格局和视角在他其他故事里都找不到,小说意象之恐怖,或说诡谲,因为叙述者和主人公的冷静而显得更加浓烈了,他们分别是杜平侦探和勒格朗。布赖特·哈特也是一个在长篇小说创作方面有所欠缺的伟大短篇小说家。他本人就像他小说里的淘金者一样,总能挖到金矿,但是挖完了接下去就没矿脉了。虽然这个金矿产量有限,但是金子质量确实最好。《咆哮营的幸运儿》和《田纳西的伙伴》这两篇都可以进入我的不朽殿堂。它们确实很有狄更斯作品的味道,甚至像是在模仿这位大师的风格,但是它们自有短篇作品的那种对称感和让人满意的整体感,就连狄更斯本人也达不到这样的水准。读这两篇故事的时候,要是喉咙里不曾哽咽的人,我可不羡慕。

那么史蒂文森呢?当然了,他的作品在我的队伍里也有两个位置,不然还有谁能让人那么真切地体验到短篇小说的精练呢?我认为他一生中创作出了两部大师之作,它们本质上都是短篇,尽管都是作为单行本出版。其中之一是《化身博士》,无论你认为它是生动的叙事小说,还是一则纯正而深刻的寓言故事,它都是质量一流的杰作。我选的另一篇是《沙汀上的孤阁》,它是戏剧性叙事文的经典模板。那篇故事在我脑海里留下了清晰的印记,那时我在《谷山杂志》上读到了它,后来又读过单行本,我立刻就看出了文本里的两处修改—都改得比原文差得多。两处修改都是极小的细节,但它们就好像是一尊完美雕塑上面出现的瑕疵。必定只有极为精妙的作品才能给人留下那么深刻的印象。当然,他也有其他十几篇小说完全能让一般作家最好的作品蒙羞,每一篇都带着史蒂文森特有的魅力,我之后再谈它们,但是只有这两篇让我觉得达到了完美境界,能加入到我选定的队伍中来。

那么还有谁呢?如果可以提名当下的作家,我一定要把鲁德亚德·吉卜林算上。他的叙事才能、凝练的文风、对戏剧感的把握,以及瞬间引燃绚丽火焰的表达方式,都足以让他被归入大师之列。但是如何从他那本收录了多篇题材各异的作品集里挑选出最合适的呢?书中很多篇都有资格获得最高地位。在我的记忆中,他最令我印象深刻的作品有《前后军团的鼓声》《国王迷》《从前的那个人》《丛林男孩》。不过,总体来说,我倾向于把前两篇加进我的杰作名单里。

它们很容易招来批评,但是也经得起批判。板球队里,伟大的击球手总是不走寻常路,敢于冒险,抓得住劣等球手把握不了的机会,蔑视了规则,而且能取得精彩的成果。它们就是这样。我想,对于年轻作家来说,以吉卜林的这些作品为模板进行创作极其危险。他的作品里有离题—短篇小说最致命的缺陷;还缺乏连贯性,结构失衡,使得故事情节在几页里处于停滞,而又只用几句话就推动了情节发展。但是他的天才战胜了一切弱点,就像伟大的板球击球手对右前方来的球会打出左旋球,并且将直球击向外场。故事里有一种冲击力和激昂的活力,用丰富而自信的技巧把情节向前推进。是的,如果不选两篇吉卜林的代表作,不朽名作的清单也不完整。

那还有谁呢?纳撒尼尔·霍桑一直都无法引起我特别高的兴趣。应该说,错在我身上,似乎我总是期待过高,而他给我的达不到这个标准。太微妙,太难以捉摸,太像给人做样子了。实际上,他儿子朱利安的一些短篇小说更能打动我,当然我完全承认老作家高超的艺术造诣和他作品风格中优雅的魅力。还有布尔沃—利顿也要求加入这个名单。他那篇《被鬼魂缠身的人与鬼魂们》是我所知的最棒的鬼故事。就冲这一点,我会把它列入我的清单。还有一个故事,叫《轮回》,我在一本旧《布莱克伍德》杂志上读到了它,也给我留下了非常深刻的印象,尽管读过很多年了,但是我还是会把它列入最佳作品的行列。另外能说是伟大杰作的还有格兰特·艾伦的一篇《约翰·科瑞蒂》。这个故事建立在一种哲学价值观之上,就此而言,它已经非常优秀了,值得被列入最佳行列。还有威尔斯和奎勒—库奇创作的一些高水准的当代作品,也达到了相当高度。在我看来,奎勒—库奇的《圈叉游戏:故事、研究和随笔》一书中那篇随笔—《老埃宋》—是同类故事中的极品。

好了,看到了坡的书,那老旧的绿色封面让我讲了这么多说教的话。如果要让我说出哪些书影响了我的人生,坡的这本短篇集的重要性仅仅排在麦考莱的《批评和历史文集》之后。我读它的时候还很年轻,思想还很容易受影响。它激发了我的想象力,在我面前树立了一个绝佳的榜样,告诉我如何讲一个优雅而有感染力的故事。当然,这也不全是有益的影响,也会让人禁不住去想那些病态而怪异的事物。

坡性情忧郁,没有幽默感,待人也不热情,热爱怪异而可怕的事物。读者必须自己拥有与之相抵消的品性,否则坡可能是个危险的同伴。我们都知道他的奇思异想把他带上了多么危险的道路,最后陷进了死亡的沼泽。十月那个阴沉的周日早上,人们在巴尔的摩街头找到了垂死的坡,他当时的年纪,本该处于力量与气概的巅峰才是。

我说过,坡是我心目中最伟大的短篇小说大师。能跟他媲美的人,我觉得只有莫泊桑了。这位伟大的诺曼人在激烈程度和原创性方面远不及那位美国人,但是他有一种与生俱来的天赋,总能找到适当的方式达到他要的效果,这让他成了文学大师。他写小说是因为他生来就有这种能力,就像苹果树上结出苹果一样,自然而完美。他的风格是多么细腻、富有表现力和艺术性啊!如此轻易而优雅地就申明了自己的观点!他的文风是多么明晰,多么刚健!完全没有英语行文中的啰唆—这种赘言风气总是让我们的文学作品大为失色。他总是直达要害。

当我写下莫泊桑的名字时,禁不住总会想起我生活中跟他有关的一次神灵干预,或称为一个惊人巧合。那时我正在瑞士各地游历,在盖米山口的一边有一座很高的悬崖,悬崖的两边分别是一个法国的州和一个德国的州。在这座悬崖的顶上,有一家小旅馆,我们在那里稍作停留。我们被告知虽然这家旅馆一年到头都有人住,但是在冬天,这里大概有三个月完全与世隔绝,因为人们只能通过一些蜿蜒的盘山小路到达这里,一旦大雪封住了这些小路,那就上也上不来,下也下不去了。那时,住在小旅馆里的人能看见下面山谷里的灯火,但却孤单得像生活在月球上一样。如此有趣的情形自然会激发人的想象力,我很快就在脑海里构思起一个短篇故事,是关于几个被困在小旅馆里的强势人物的故事,他们互相对抗、互相厌恶,却又无法摆脱彼此,每一天都离悲剧更近一步。大约有一周的时间,我一边游玩,一边在想这个故事。

最后,我经法国回家,因为没有书读,我买了从前没看过的一本莫泊桑的故事集,第一篇就叫“旅馆”,我快速浏览了第一页,看到了两个让我惊讶的词,“坎德斯泰格”和“盖米山口”。我专心往下读,却感到越来越惊讶。故事就发生在我去过的那家旅馆,讲的是一群人被大雪隔离在那里的事。我想象出的东西都在这个故事里,除此以外,莫泊桑还加进去了一只凶狠的猎犬。

当然了,这个故事的由来再清楚不过了。莫泊桑也正好去过那家旅馆,跟我一样想到了这一连串的事情。这一切都容易理解了。但是不可思议的是我在这短暂的旅途中竟然能把这本书买下来,才让我没当众出丑,不然谁会相信我要写的故事不是在模仿莫泊桑呢?我不认为假设它是巧合能掩盖事实。在我一生中,它是让我确信有神灵干预的几件事情之一,在我们自身之外的某种仁慈力量会在它力所能及之时,给予我们帮助。我相信,天主教关于守护天使的教义不仅非常美好,还有一些真实的现实依据。

或者,用最新的精神分析术语来说,是我们潜意识里的自我,用最新神学词语来说,是我们的精神,能了解我们的感官所不能领会的东西,并将其传达给大脑。但是如果转到这个话题,那又要耗费我们很长的时间了。

只要莫泊桑愿意,他也能与爱伦·坡一样写出诡异怪诞的故事,而那位美国人几乎独占了这个领域。你读过莫泊桑的一篇叫《奥尔拉》的故事吗?如果你想读魔鬼学的文章,那它肯定符合标准。当然了,这个法国人的创作范围比这要广泛得多。他富有幽默感,常常在他的故事中打破各种文学规范,但是他的故事却都别有一番滋味,读来令人愉悦。然而,归根结底,在他们两人之间,若说那位阴郁可怕的美国人更为杰出、更具独创性,谁能表示怀疑呢?

说起怪诞美国小说,你读过安布罗斯·比尔斯的书吗?我这里有他的一本《在人生中间》。这个人的风格非常独特,是一位伟大的艺术家。这本书读起来并不令人快乐,但是会在你心中留下它的印记,这就是好作品的证明。

我经常在想爱伦·坡的风格究竟是从何来的。他最好的作品有一种阴郁的威严感,就像用抛光过的墨玉雕刻而成,而且这是他独有的材料。我敢说只要我取下那本书,从中任挑一个段落,都能向你说明我的观点。以下这段就是:

东方三博士的那套书里有许多美好的故事,那都是些铁封的、充满了愁思的大书。啊,书里有关于天上、地上以及海洋的光辉历史,还有曾经统治海洋、陆地与至高天堂的神灵的故事。三博士的语录里也包含着许多学识,以及多多纳神谕所周围的古树摇曳着黯淡的叶子聆听到的圣贤之言,但是,真主在上,坐在我身边的魔鬼在坟墓阴影里给我讲的那个故事,将永远最令人难忘。

或者还有这句话:

然后我们七个人,在坐着的地方被吓到了,然后颤抖着站了起来,惊惶无措,因为阴影里的那个声音并不是来自某一个人,而是许多人的,每个音调都不同,忧郁地飘进我们的耳朵,就像是成百上千个我们怀念的故友的声音。

这样的字句里难道不隐藏着一种质朴的威严吗?风格不是人发明出来的,它是某种影响的作用结果,或者说,是多种影响互相妥协的结果。可我找不出是谁影响了爱伦·坡。不过,如果黑兹利特和德昆西去写怪异故事,可能会写出类似风格的。

好了,如果你允许,我们开始谈我珍贵的《患难与忠诚》吧,就在《在人生中间》的左边。

我注意到在我之前的漫谈里,把《艾凡赫》归类为十九世纪排名第二的历史小说。我敢说肯定有许多人会把《亨利·埃斯蒙德的历史》排在第一,我理解他们的看法,不过我个人不会这么做。我承认它的语言极为优美,人物塑造方面也非常连续,还有安妮女王时代的完美氛围。从来没有哪位历史小说家能对他所描写的时代有这么透彻的了解。不过,虽然这些优点都非常突出,但它们不是小说的核心。小说最重要的是要有趣,即便艾迪生曾经尖刻地说真正要紧的是糕点师不能把包装纸用光。在我看来,《埃斯蒙德》中描述的在苏格兰低地的活动,我们的马基雅维利式主人公—公爵—登场的时候,以及莫恩勋爵不详的脸出现的时候,都非常有趣,不过,故事中也有很多拖沓的部分,读起来很沉闷。一部优秀的小说作品,情节应该一直往前发展,不应出现停滞。《艾凡赫》就一刻也没有停下来,就是这一点让它比《埃斯蒙德》要优秀得多。不过,作为一部文学作品,我觉得后者更加完美。

不,如果我有三次投票机会,我还是要把这三票都投给《患难与忠诚》,因为它真的是我们最伟大的历史小说,而且也可以说,无论把它放进哪个小说类别里,它都是最伟大的作品。我想,我可以说自己读过了大多数比它更有名的那些十九世纪的外国小说,仅以我自己有限的阅读范围来讲,我觉得查尔斯·里德的《患难与忠诚》和托尔斯泰的《战争与和平》给我留下的印象要比其他书好太多了。我认为它们站在了那个世纪小说创作的最高峰。这两部作品有相似的地方—空间广阔、篇幅恢宏,人物出场与退场的方式也类似。英国作家更浪漫,俄国作家更真实、诚恳,但他们都是卓越的作家。

想想看,里德在这本书里展现了多么丰富的内容啊!他牵着读者的手,带他进入了中世纪,并不是学究气的传统中世纪,而是一个因生命力而震颤的时代,其中的人物就跟如今牛津街上挤满巴士的人们一样鲜活而真实。他带着读者去了荷兰,给他介绍那些画家,带他看纵横的水道,带他见识生活的模样。他带读者沿着长长的莱茵河—中世纪欧洲的脊髓—顺流而下。他向读者展现了印刷业的曙光、自由时代的开端、德意志南部繁华的商业城市、意大利的盛景,让读者见识到了艺术大师云集的罗马、宗教改革前夕的修道院体制。所有这一切内容都在这本书的封面和封底之间,而且穿插得那么自然,叙述得那么生动而有力。这本书之所以是一部杰作,除了它拥有恢宏的视角之外,对于杰勒德这个人物的成功刻画也是一个因素—他的本性、他的发迹和败落,以及他的重生,小说最终的悲剧性结局也动人心魄。我觉得它将知识和想象力融合在了一起,这让它在我们文学史上拥有无与伦比的价值。先读《本韦努托·切利尼自传》,再读查尔斯·里德笔下中世纪的罗马,就能明白他是如何收集到原矿,然后用自己炽烈的想象力将其熔化提炼。一个人能勤奋地去收集素材固然值得称道,但是拥有素材之后,能摸清使用法则的人,技艺则更加高超,这样的人也更为少见。能做到事实准确而不让人觉得作者在卖弄学识,行文周密但不至于读来无趣,这两点就是历史小说家追求的理想状态。

在英国文学史上,里德算得上最难以捉摸的人物之一。从来没有哪位作家像他那样难以定位。他最高水准的作品也是英国文学史上的杰作。然而他最差的作品几乎比萨里城边的低俗戏剧还要糟糕。他最好的作品里有瑕疵,最差的作品里也有可取之处;就好比他的丝绸里会掺杂着棉布,而棉布堆里也有丝绸出现。不过,虽然他有不足,他仍然是我们国家一流的小说家,他不仅写出了我刚提到的那部杰作,还创作了《亡羊补牢》《现金》《欺诈》和《格里菲斯·冈特利特》。

他的书里有一种发自内心的情感,我在别的书里都没看到过。他真心喜爱他创造的男女主人公,厌恶故事里他塑造出来的坏人,让读者也跟着他一道经历情绪起伏。对于他刻画的那些富有人情味儿、惹人喜爱的女性人物,我们只会由衷地赞美。描绘出一个充满人情味儿和优点的女子,是一种罕有的才能,尤其对于男人而言。如果十九世纪的小说中还有比茱莉亚·多德更可爱的女子,那我只能感到遗憾没能与她结识。他塑造出了这样一个优雅而美好的人物,同时写就了《患难与忠诚》中“黑店”的章节,这体现了冒险小说的最高水准,只有极少数的人拥有如此全面的才能。面对查尔斯·里德先生,我随时都准备脱帽行礼。

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