Chapter 19 Mr Bennett and Mrs Brown

It was possible, or desirable, for me: I might be the only idiot in this room who had written, tried to write, or hadn't written a novel.When I asked myself—and because you invited me to tell you about modern fiction, it prompted me to ask myself—what ghosts and ghosts whispered beside me, and urged me to this dead end, and a little A small figure (the figure of a man or a woman) stood up before me, and she said to me, "My name is Brown. Come and catch me if you can." Most novelists have had the same experience.Some Brown Smith or Jones comes up to them and says in the most seductive and charming way in the world, "Catch me if you can." So follow this flickering will-o'-the-wisp , they staggered on, writing book after book, killing the most precious years of their lives in this chase, most of them for little reward.Only a few caught the specter; most had to be content with tearing off a piece of clothing or a lock of hair.

Writers of both sexes write novels because they are tempted to make out of the characters that occupy their minds; a conviction I have been endorsed by Mr. Arnold Bennett.In an essay I will quote: "The basis of good fiction is characterization and nothing else. . . . There is value in style; value in plot; originality of point of view is value." valuable, but none of them are as valuable as a convincing character. If the character is real, the novel will have a chance of survival; if the character is unreal, the novel's The fate must be oblivion...." He further concluded that at present, we don't have first-class and important young novelists, because they have no ability to create vivid and believable characters.

These are the issues that I want to discuss this evening boldly, not cautiously.I want to find out what we mean when we speak of "characters" in fiction; I want to offer some insight into the question of authenticity raised by Mr. Find some reason for the failures of the characters, if they do fail as Mr. Bennett asserts.I am well aware that this will lead me to some very general and very vague conclusions.Because, this is an extremely difficult problem.Consider how little we know about characters—and how ignorant we are about art.But, to clear things up before I proceed, I suggest that we divide the Edwardian and Georgian writers into two camps; I shall call Mr. Wells, Mr. Bennett and Mr. Galsworthy the The Edwardian writers call Mr. Foster, Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Strachey, Mr. Joyce, and Mr. Eliot the Georgian writers.I beg your pardon if I speak in the first person with intolerable ego.I do not wish to take the opinion of an ill-informed, misguided individual as the general opinion of the world.

My first assertion, which I think you will all agree with, is that everyone in this room is a judge of character.Indeed, it is impossible for you to live a year in peace and tranquility without being engaged in "judgment of character" and having some skill in the art.Our marriages, our friendships depend on it; most of our careers depend on it; many problems that arise in everyday life can only be solved with its help.I will now venture to make a second assertion, perhaps more debatable, that in December 1910, or about this time, human nature changed. I don't mean that we went out, perhaps into the garden, and saw a rose bloom there, or a hen lay an egg.The change of which I speak is not so sudden and definite as this.But, at any rate, there has been a change; and since we cannot avoid drawing arbitrary lines, let us date the year 1910.The first signs of this change are recorded in the writings of Samuel Butler, especially in his novel The Way of All Beings; it continues to be recorded in the plays of Bernard Shaw.In life, we can also see this change.If I may illustrate the point with a homely illustration, I would say that we can see this change in the character of our cooks.The Victorian cook was a monster in deep water, majestic, silent, indistinct, and intangible; the Georgian cook was a creature of light and fresh air, who walks in our parlors. In and out, now borrowing a copy of the Daily Herald, now asking you for advice on what kind of hat he should buy.Do you need a more serious illustration of the transforming power of man?Just read Agamemnon, and see if, in time, your sympathy goes all the way to Clytemnestra's side; or consider the married life of the Carlyles, You cannot but deplore the futility of their years by that dreadful family tradition which seems to make a woman of genius spend her time catching bedbugs and scrubbing pots and spoons instead of writing books. .All human relationships—between master and servant, between husband and wife, between father and son—have changed.And once the relationship between people has changed, beliefs, behaviors, politics and literature have also changed.Let us all agree to date one of these changes at about 1910.

I have just said that people have to acquire the skill of judging characters if they are to live a year without disaster.However, this is the art of the younger generation.Middle-aged and old people use this art mostly for utilitarian purposes, and they seldom make friendships and other attempts and experiments in the art of judging and analyzing characters.Novelists, however, are different from other people because, after they have learned enough about characters for utilitarian purposes, they are incessantly interested in their characters.They go a step further, and they feel that there is something in the character itself that will always interest people.When all the practical affairs of life have been performed, there is a certain element about characters which still seems to them to be of the utmost importance, though it has nothing to do with their happiness, comfort, or income.For them the analysis of character has become a preoccupied pursuit; they endow it with an inescapable fascination.I find this difficult to explain: what do novelists mean when they refer to character?What was the motive that often so powerfully impelled them to express their views in their creations?

Therefore, if you will allow me, in place of analysis and abstract exposition, I shall substitute a simple story, however pointless and pointless, which has the virtue of being truthful.It involved a journey from Richmond to Waterloo.I hope, through this story, that I can show you what I mean by character itself; The dire dangers to which they are immediately confronted. One night a few weeks ago, I went to catch a train, and because I was running late, I jumped into the first car I encountered.As I sat down, I had a strange feeling of unease: I interrupted a conversation between two people who were already sitting there.Not because they were young or a happy couple.Far from it.Both of them are not young, the woman is in her sixties, and the man is nearly fifty years old.They sat facing each other, and the man, judging from his attitude and the color of his face, who had been leaning forward, stretching his neck, and speaking with emphasis, leaned back and kept his mouth shut. said.Obviously, I disturbed him and made him feel uncomfortable.But the old lady, whom I shall call Mrs. Brown, seemed greatly relieved.She was a clean old lady in old flocks of frayed and threaded clothes, every button and placket fastened, every hole patched and brushed, her Her extreme poverty was more evident in extreme neatness than in rags and filth.She had a look of embarrassment about her--a distressed, worried expression, and, besides, she was extremely small.Her feet, in clean little leather boots, barely touched the floor.No one was supporting her, it seemed to me; she had to make her own decisions; many years ago she was abandoned or widowed, and lived a sad, tormented life, bringing up her only son, Maybe he's starting to fall now too.All this flashed through my mind as I sat down; at the same time, like most people, I felt uncomfortable traveling with other travelers unless for some reason I already knew their ins and outs.Then, I stared at the man.I felt that he was certainly not of Mrs. Brown's kind; he was of a stronger, more solid, coarser type.I supposed he was a merchant, probably a respectable northern grain merchant; he wore a fine blue serge suit, pocket knife and silk handkerchief, and a stout traveling bag.However, he evidently had an unpleasant matter to settle with Mrs. Brown; it was a secret, perhaps not an aboveboard business, and they did not want to discuss it in my presence.

"Yes, the Clovers have been very unlucky with their servants," said Mr. Smith (as I shall call him), considering it; and, in order to preserve his outward calm, he returned to the earlier subject. "Oh, poor people," said Mrs. Brown, somewhat humiliated, "my grandmother had a maid who was fifteen when she came, and she stayed until she was eighty." Speaking in a defiantly proud tone, perhaps to impress both of us.) "It doesn't happen to people very often these days," said Mr. Smith in a conciliatory tone. So they fell silent. "It's a wonder they don't have a golf club there—I thought one of those young men would start it," said Mr. Smith, for he was evidently disturbed by the silence.

Mrs. Brown hardly wanted to answer him. "What a change they've made in this country," said Mr. Smith, looking out of the window; and as he spoke he looked me furtively. It was clear from Mrs. Brown's silence, and from Mr. Smith's unnatural attentions when he spoke, that he had some power over her which he was now exercising unpleasantly.It could be her son's fall, or some painful episode in her past life, or something that happened to her daughter.Perhaps she was on her way to London to sign a deed of conveyance.Apparently against her own will, she was in Mr. Smith's grasp.I began to feel great pity for her when she said suddenly incoherently:

"Can you tell me if an oak tree dies when its leaves are eaten by worms for two consecutive years?" She spoke in a cultivated, curious voice, quite crisp and precise. Mr. Smith was taken aback; but he was relieved that it gave him a safe subject to talk about.He told her quite quickly about the pest infestation of the plants.He told her that his brother had an orchard in Kent. He told her what the orchard growers in Kent did each year, and so on and so forth.While he was talking, a very strange thing happened.Mrs. Brown took out her little white handkerchief and began dabbing the corners of her eyes.she is crying.But she listened to him with considerable composure; and he raised his voice a little, and went on a little angrily, as if he had often seen her cry, as if it were a painful habit.Finally, he finally got impatient.He stopped abruptly, stared out of the window, then leaned towards her as I had just entered, and spoke to her in a menacing manner, as if he could bear no more of this nonsense.He said:

"As far as we've been discussing, that's it. George will be there on Tuesday, won't he?" "We're never late," said Mrs. Brown, cheering up with the most solemnity. Mr. Smith was silent.He stood up, buttoned his coat, took his traveling bag from the rack, and jumped off before the train stopped at Cleham Station.He had achieved his purpose, but he felt guilty that he would gladly be out of the old lady's sight. Mrs Brown stayed with me.She sat in the opposite corner, very tidy, very small, very strange, suffering intense pain.The impression she made was overwhelming.It was like a draft, a smell of burnt smoke, coming to the nostrils.What was it made of—that overwhelming strange impression?In this case, a myriad of conflicting thoughts come to mind, and you see that character, you see Mrs. Brown, at the center of various scenes.I imagined her in a little house by the sea, surrounded by odd bric-a-brac: sea urchins and model ships in glass cases.Her husband's medal hung above the fireplace.She rattled in and out of the room, sat on the edge of a chair, took small sips from the saucer, gazed raptly ahead, lost in long meditations.The worms and oaks mentioned just now seem to imply all this.Later, Mr. Smith broke into this fantasy, quiet life.I saw him come in like a whirlwind on a howling day.He snapped the door open and slammed it shut again.His dripping umbrella left a puddle in the hall.The two of them sat down together in a small room and talked secretly.

Thus, the terrible truth was revealed in front of Mrs. Brown.She made a heroic decision.Early the next morning, before dawn, she packed her travel bag and took it to the train station by herself.She didn't want Smith to touch it.Her pride was wounded, and she lifted anchor from her mooring; she was of a respectable family with servants, gentle manners—but the details will be known in the future.The important thing is to understand her character, to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of her environment.I have no time to explain why, before the train came to a halt, there was something tragic and heroic about the incident, mixed with that strange fantasy.I watched her take her bag and disappear into the spacious, brightly lit station.She looked very small, very tenacious, and at the same time very fragile and very heroic.I never saw her again, and I'll never know how she ended up. The story ends nowhere.But it is not by telling you this anecdote that I am clever, or that it was a pleasant journey from Richmond to Waterloo.I want you to see this in this story: here is a character who leaves her own impression on other people's minds.Mrs. Brown is here to make others compelled to write a novel about her.I believe that all novels begin with a description of an old lady in the opposite corner.That is to say, I believe that all novels have to deal with characters, to express their characters—that the form of the novel has developed to be so heavy, cumbersome and undramatic, so rich, flexible and full of life. To show character, not to preach, sing or glorify the British Empire.I have said that a novel is for the expression of character; but you will immediately respond that this statement can be interpreted in the widest possible sense.For example, the character of Mrs. Brown will leave very different impressions on you according to your age and nationality.The episode on the train could easily have been written in three completely different texts: one in English, one in French, and one in Russian.The English writer will make the old lady a "character," and he will show her proclivities and habits, her buttons and wrinkles, her ribbons and warts.Her personality would dominate that novel.A French novelist would have wiped them all out; he would have sacrificed Mrs. Brown personally to offer a more general conception of human nature, to fashion a more abstract, more proportionate, more harmonious whole.The gaze of the Russian writer would penetrate flesh and blood to reveal the soul—and only that soul, wandering the streets of Waterloo, asking some of life's most momentous questions.After reading this book, these questions are still lingering in our ears.Moreover, in addition to the era and country, the temperament of the writer has to be considered.You see this in the characters, I see that.You say it means this, I say it means that.When it comes time to write, everyone makes further choices based on their own principles.Therefore, according to the writer's age, nationality and temperament, the description of Mrs. Brown can be varied and varied. However, I must now recall what Mr. Arnold Bennett said.He said that the novel had a chance of survival only if the characters were real; otherwise it was bound to perish.But, I asked myself: what is real?Who is the real judge?A character may be real to Mr. Bennet and quite unreal to me.For example, in his article, he said that Dr. Watson in Sherlock Holmes was real to him; to me, Dr. Watson was just a sack stuffed with straw , a puppet, a jerk.This is true for character after character in book after book.Few things, especially those in modern works, are so different in their perceptions of the truthfulness of characters.But if you take a broader view, I think Mr. Bennett is absolutely right.That is, if you recall those novels that seem great to you—, Vanity Fair, Triston Shandy, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Villetti "—if you think of these books, you do immediately think of a character who seems so real to you (and I don't mean exactly like life) who has the power to remind you not only of himself but of You saw things through his eyes--religion, love, war, peace, home life, country dances, the afterglow of the setting sun, the rising moon, the immortal soul.It seems to me that almost any theme in human experience is covered in this novel.In all these novels, all the great novelists make us see everything they want us to see through the eyes of one character.Otherwise, they would not be novelists but poets, historians or agitators. Let us now examine what Mr. Bennet goes on to say-that there were no great novelists among the Georgian writers because they could not create real, living, convincing characters.I disagree with that.I think there are reasons, excuses and possibilities that could make us think differently about this issue.At least it seems so to me; however, I am fully aware that I may be biased, overconfident, or short-sighted.I want to make my opinion known to all my listeners, and I hope you will make it impartial, impartial, and magnanimous.Why, then, is it so difficult for contemporary novelists to create characters who are real not only to Bennett but also to the public?Why do publishers always fail to provide us with an immortal masterpiece as October approaches and the end of the year approaches? One of the reasons for this is that writers of both sexes who began writing fiction around 1910 faced this great difficulty—there is no British novelist alive who can serve as a model for them. They come to learn how to write.Mr. Conrad is a Pole, which puts him aside, and however admirable he may be, he will not be of much help to writers.Mr. Hardy has not written a novel since 1895.The most prominent and successful novelists of the 1910s, I think, were Mr. Wells, Mr. Bennett, and Mr. Galsworthy.It seems to me that going to them and asking them to teach you how to write a novel--how to make real characters--is like going to a bootmaker and asking him to teach you how to fix a clock.I hope I don't give you the illusion that I don't admire them and appreciate their work.To me they seem to have great value, and indeed great necessity.In some seasons, leather boots are more important than clocks.Let's not use metaphors, let's open the skylight and speak plainly.I think that after the creative activity of the Victorian age, not only for literature but for life, someone needs to write novels of the kind written by Mr. Wells, Mr. Bennett, and Mr. Galsworthy.And yet, what strange creations they are!Sometimes I simply wonder whether I should call them works at all.Because, they leave such a strange sense of incompleteness and dissatisfaction.To make them whole, something seems to be needed to remedy it—join a society, or, as a last resort, sign a cheque.When the work is done, the restlessness subsides, the work is finished; it can be put on the shelf, never to be read again.However, the situation is different for the works of other novelists. Triston Shandy may be complete in itself; they are self-sufficient; Good to understand it.Perhaps this is the difference: Sterne and Jane Austen are interested in the thing itself, the character itself, the work itself.Therefore, everything is contained within the work, not outside the work.But the interest of the Edwardian writers was never in the characters themselves or in the work itself.Their interest lies in something outside.As a result, their books are incomplete as works, and actually require readers to actively complete them. This may be clarified if we venture to imagine a small party in a railway carriage—assume that Mr. Wells, Mr. Galsworthy, Mr. Bennett, and Mrs. Brown are traveling by train to Waterloo to go.Mrs. Brown, as I have said, is poorly dressed, and of small stature.She looked anxious and disturbed.I don't know if she is what you call an educated woman.The swiftness with which Mr. Wells--with a swiftness which I cannot adequately describe--has grasped all these symptoms of the unsatisfactory condition of our elementary schools, he will soon devise on the window-panes a better picture. , more relaxed, more joyful, happier, more adventurous and heroic world picture, in this ideal world, these shabby carriages and stuffy old ladies would never exist; Tropical fruit delivered to Camberwell, London, at eight o'clock in the morning; where there are public nurseries, fountains, libraries, dining-rooms, parlors, and mass weddings; where every citizen is generous, Frank and upright, majestic and noble, very much like the portrayal of Mr. Wells himself.But there will never be anyone who is even remotely like Mrs. Brown.There is no Mrs. Brown in Utopia.Really, I don't think Mr. Wells, when he is so anxious to make Mrs. Brown into what she should be, pays any attention to what she really is.What will Mr. Galsworthy see?Can we still doubt that Dalton's factory walls first interested him?In that factory, women workers produced twenty-five dozen ceramic jars a day.The mothers in the Myrtle Road lived off the little money the women workers earned.But Mr. Galsworthy was filled with righteous indignation, his mind was filled with various statistics, and he was setting out to arrange the rectification Civilization and order, as for Mrs. Brown, he saw only a broken jar smashed on the wheels of society and flung into a corner. Of these Edwardian writers only Mr. Bennett still did not take his eyes off the carriage.He does observe every detail with the utmost care.He would notice the advertisements; the pictures of Swanage and Portsmouth; Three shillings and thirteenpence brooch; both of her gloves mended--in fact the thumb of the left glove had been replaced.Finally, he will note that this is intended to provide a direct express train from Windsor to Richmond for the convenience of middle-class residents who have the money to go to the theater but who have not yet reached the social status of owning their own car, although sometimes They also have the opportunity (he will tell us what opportunity) to hire a taxi from the car company (he will tell us which company).He would then draw closer to Mrs. Brown with aplomb, and notice that she had inherited a small estate in Datchet, a hereditary estate leased by official deeds and not free for life, mortgaged to the balance Mr. Bungay, lawyer for the court--but why should I imagine Mr. Bennett's way of seeing?Isn't Mr. Bennett writing a novel himself?I'm going to open the first book I've got handy - Hilda Lethwess by Mr. Bennett.Let's see how he makes us feel that Hilda is a real, living, convincing character in the way a novelist should.The softness with which she closed the door showed how reserved her relationship with her mother was.She liked to read Maud; she had a gift of great sensibility.So far so good; and in these opening pages every stroke counts; and Mr. Bennett tries, in his unhurried, sure-footed way, to show us what kind of girl she is. But next he began to describe, not Hilda herself, but the view from her bedroom window, on the pretext that Mr. Skellen, the rent-collector, had come there.Mr Bennett went on to write: "The Diocese of Turnhill stretched out behind her; it was but the outpost of Five Towns to the north, and all the other shadowy districts of the Five Towns, to the south. At the end of Chatterley Woods the canal turned A couple of big bends to the unpolluted plains of Chessel and the sea. On the edge of the canal, just facing Hilda's window, is a flour mill, from which sometimes the smoke and There were as many lime kilns on either side of the foreground as there was smoke from the chimneys. From the flour mill a brick path separated the rows of cottages from the gardens attached to them, and this path led down to Ley. Lethwith Avenue in front of Mrs. Swiss's house. Mr. Skellen must come here by the path, as he lives in the furthest of these cottages." A single penetrating line can express more than these few lines of description; but let us let them pass as the inevitable burden of the novelist.Now let's see--where's Hilda?ouch.Hilda was still watching from the window.For all her enthusiasm and disappointment, the girl loved looking at houses.She often compared old Mr. Skellen with the villas she had seen from her bedroom window.Therefore, these villas must be described.Mr Bennett went on to write: "The row of houses is known as 'hereditary villas for life', a title that is consciously proud of in this area, as most of the land in this area is officially registered and leased, only paying 'tax ', and with the feudal sanction of a 'court' presided over by agents of the manor landowners, the majority of the villas belong to their occupants, each of whom is the absolute owner of his land rulers, they spent the evening in the soot-blackened garden, among the drying shirts and towels blowing in the wind, for some trivial things. The hereditary villa for life is a symbol of the Victorian economy. Victory in the end is the highest ideal of careful, industrious craftsmen. It is in keeping with the dream of a Architectural Society president for Paradise. And it is indeed a very considerable achievement. Nevertheless, Hilda did not Irrational contempt and unwillingness to admit it." We shouted: Thank goodness!We finally get to Hilda herself.However, don't get complacent too early.Hilda could be this way, that way, or another way; Hilda not only liked to see houses but also thought about them, and Hilda herself lived in a house.What kind of house did Hilda live in?Mr Bennett went on to write: "Her grandfather, the teapot maker Lesways, built four houses on a separate lot; she lived in one of the two houses in the middle; it was the principal of the four houses , apparently the property of the owner of the grounds himself. Among the neighboring houses, a greengrocer was set up, and this house was stripped of its proportionate garden, in order to allow the lord's The garden may be made a little larger than the gardens of other houses. It is not cottages built on this ground, but buildings rented at twenty-six to thirty-six pounds a year; Not only that, but the house was well built, no expense spared; its architecture, though a little compromised, was somewhat recognizable of Georgian elegance for comfort. It was recognized as the town's new The best row of houses in the estate. Mr. Skellen walked to the outskirts of the hereditary villa enjoyed for life. He had obviously come to a higher, more spacious and freer place. Suddenly Hilda heard her mother The voice of speaking..." But we don't hear her mother's voice, nor Hilda's; we hear only Mr. "Taxes" and so on.What is Mr. Bennett's purpose?I've formed my own opinion on this—he's trying to make us use our imaginations for him; he's trying to fascinate us, make us believe that since he conceived a house, it must be inside.Despite Mr. Bennet's amazing powers of observation, his great sympathy and fraternity, he never once looked at Mrs. Brown, who sat in the corner.She was sitting in the corner of that carriage—the train was running, and it was not from Richmond to Waterloo, but from one age of English literature to another, for, Mrs. Brown is eternal, Mrs. Brown is humanity, Mrs. Brown has changed only superficially, and the people passing in and out of the train are the novelists.She just sat there, and not a single Edwardian writer even glanced at her.他们的目光使劲地、探索地、同情地向窗外望去，注视着工厂、乌托邦，甚至还注视车厢里的装饰物和壁毯；但是他们却从来也不去注视布朗夫人，不注视生活，不注视人性。因此，他们形成了一种符合于他们目标的小说写作技巧；他们制造了各种工具，建立了各种传统规范，来干他们的事业。然而，那些工具可不是我们的工具，那些事业也不是我们的事业。对我们说来，那些传统意味着毁灭，那些工具意味着死亡。 你们完全可以抱怨我的语言涵义模糊。你们可以质问我：什么是传统规范？什么是工具？你说贝内特先生、威尔斯先生和高尔斯华绥先生的传统规范对于乔治时代的作家来说是不合适的，这又是什么意思呢？这问题难以解答；我想找一条捷径。一种写作的传统规范和一种行为的传统规范没有多大的差别。在生活中和文学中，都必须有某种手段，来作为沟通女主人和她不熟悉的客人，沟通作家和他不认识的读者的一座桥梁。女主人想起了她可以谈谈天气，因为世世代代的女主人已经确定了这个事实：天气是一个普遍感到兴趣的话题，这是我们全都相信的。她一开始就说，今年五月天气可真糟，她这样和不熟悉的客人接触之后，接下去她就谈一些更有兴趣的事情。在文学中，也是如此。作家要和他的读者接触，他就必须把读者所熟悉的某种东西放在他面前，让它来激发他的想象力，使他能在以后建立默契的更加困难的事业中自愿与作家合作。最重要的是：这种双方接触的交叉点，必须是容易达到的，几乎是出于本能、在黑暗之中闭着眼睛也能达到。在我上面引述的那段文字中，贝内特先生就在利用这种交叉点。他所面临的问题，就是要使我们相信希尔达·莱斯威斯的真实性。因此，他这位爱德华时代的作家，就从精确地、详细地描绘希尔达所住的那幢房子以及她从窗口看到的那些房屋来着手。爱德华时代的人们发现，房产是他们很容易着手建立默契的交叉点，虽然对我们说来，它似乎太间接。这种传统方式的效果极佳，于是成百上千个希尔达·莱斯威斯就被人用这种方式投入了这个世界。对于那个时代和那一代人而言，这种传统规范的确是很优良的。 但是，现在如果你们允许我把我自己的那段轶事肢解成碎片，你们会发现，我是多么敏锐地感觉到：我缺乏一种传统规范，而一代人的工具对于下一代毫无用处，又是一个多么严重的问题。火车上的那个插曲，给我留下了强烈的印象。但是，我怎样才能把它传达给你们呢？我所能做到的一切，不过是尽可能精确地把他们所说的话报道出来，把他们所穿的衣服详细描述一番，把在我的头脑中纷至沓来的各种景象绝望地、杂乱无章地全都端出来，并且把这生动的、强烈的印象比喻为一阵穿堂风、一股烧焦东西的烟味儿。老实告诉你们，我也受到强烈的诱惑，很想写一部三大卷的小说，来描述那位老太太的儿子和他横渡大西洋的冒险，描述她的女儿以及她如何在西敏斯特经营一家女帽商店，描述史密斯本人的以往经历和他在雪菲尔德的房屋，虽然对我说来，这样的故事似乎是世界上最沉闷、最不恰当和最无聊的东西。 但是，如果我写了那样一部小说，我就可以不必费尽九牛二虎之力把自己的意思表达出来。要表达我的意思，我就必须回顾、回顾、再回顾；我必须把一样样东西加以实验；我必须试试这个句子再试试那个句子，把每一个字和我头脑中的景象相互参照斟酌，使它尽可能毫厘不爽；而且我知道，我必须找到一个我们之间的共同的立足点，一种对你们说来不会显得太奇特、太不真实、太牵强附会、太遥不可及以至于使你们觉得无法信赖的传统规范。我承认，我想逃避这种艰苦的责任。我让我的布朗夫人从手指缝里溜走了。我并没有告诉你们关于她本人的任何事情。但是，这有一部分是那些伟大的爱德华时代作家的过错。我向他们请教——他们是我的前辈，又比我高明——我应该如何着手描写这位妇女的性格？他们说：“你开始就说，她的父亲在海洛盖特经营一个店铺。调查一下它的租金是多少。调查一下一八七八年店员的工资。你得弄清楚她的母亲死于什么疾病。描述一下癌症。描述一下她穿的印花布。描述一下——”但是我喊道：“别说啦！别说啦！”我很遗憾地说，我把这个丑陋的、累赘的、不恰当的工具从窗口扔了出去，因为我知道，如果我开始描述癌症和印花布，我的布朗夫人，这个紧紧缠住我不放然而我又不知道用什么方法才能传达给你们的幻象，就会黯然失色、毫无光彩、永久消失了。 我说爱德华时代的工具对我们不适用，就是这个意思。那些作家极端强调事物的外部结构。他们给了我们一幢房屋，指望我们也许能够推论演绎屋内人物的情况。我们要给他们以应有的评价，他们已经使那幢房子大大超过了值得一住的水平。然而，如果你们认为，小说首先是关于人物，其次才是关于他们所住的房屋的，这样来着手写作，就是一种错误的方法。因此，你们瞧，乔治时代的作家着手写作之时，不得不抛弃当时人们通用的方法。他孤零零地面对着布朗夫人，没有任何方法可以把她的形象传达给读者。但是，那样说是不精确的。一位作家永远不会孤独。公众总是伴随着他——如果不是和他坐在同一个座位上，至少是在隔壁车厢里。公众可是个奇特的旅伴。在英国，公众是一种非常容易接受暗示影响的、驯服的生物，一旦你与它为伴，它将会在许多年之内，毫无保留地相信你所告诉它的话。如果你以足够的说服力对公众说：“女人都有尾巴，男人都有驼峰，”公众就确实会发觉女人有尾巴，男人有驼峰；如果你说：“胡说八道。猴子有尾巴。骆驼有驼峰。但是男人和女人有头脑，有心灵；他们会思考，有感情，”它就会觉得这种说法十分革命，也许很不恰当——对它说来，这似乎是一个蹩脚的而且很不贴切的笑话。 现在让我们言归正传。不列颠的公众在这儿坐在作家身旁，用它广泛一致的口气说道：“老太太们有屋子。她们有父亲、有收入、有仆人、有热水袋。这样我们才知道她是位老太太。威尔斯先生、贝内特先生和高尔斯华绥先生一贯教导我们，这才是辨认她们的方法。现在出现了你的布朗夫人——我们如何能够相信她是真实的呢？我们甚至不知道她的别墅叫做阿尔贝特还是巴尔莫拉尔，不知道她的手套是花了多少钱买的，或者她的母亲死于癌症还是结核病。她怎么会生动逼真呢？不，她仅仅是你的想象力所虚构出来的东西罢了。” 当然，老太太们应该通过终身享有的别墅和注册居住的房屋来塑造，而不是出于想象和虚构。 因此，乔治时代的小说家们陷入了尴尬的困境。布朗夫人抗议道，她和人们所认识到的老太太不一样，大不一样。对于她的魅力的迷人而短暂的一瞥，诱惑了小说家们，使他们想要来拯救她；爱德华时代的作家们把适于建造和拆毁房屋的工具向他们递了过来；不列颠的公众又断然声称他们必须首先看到那只热水袋。乔治时代的作家们，面对着这三者而无所适从。同时，那辆火车又向着终点站飞驰，在那儿我们必须统统下车。 我想，这就是在一九一〇年左右乔治时代的年轻作家们发现他们自己陷入的那种困境。他们中间有不少人——我特别想到福斯特先生和劳伦斯先生——糟蹋了他们的早期作品，因为他们没有把那些爱德华时代的工具扔掉，而是试图去利用它们。他们企图妥协。他们试图把他们自己对于某些人物的奇特的、重要的直觉，和高尔斯华绥先生关于工厂法案的知识，贝内特先生关于五镇的知识结合起来。他们尝试过了，但是他们关于布朗夫人和她的特点的直觉太敏锐、太强有力了，这使他们不能再继续尝试下去。必须采取某种行动。我们不惜牺牲生命和肢体，不惜毁坏贵重的财产，必须在火车到站而布朗夫人一去不返之前，把她拯救出来，表现出来，把她放在她与世界的高超关系之中公诸于世。于是，我们就开始敲打、砸毁。我们在四周都听到这种声音；在诗歌、小说、传记，甚至报刊文章和散文随笔之中，我们都听到破裂、砸碎和毁坏的响声。这是乔治时代压倒一切的声音——这声音是相当凄惨忧伤的，如果你们想起往昔岁月的旋律多么优美，想起莎士比亚、弥尔顿和济慈，或者甚至想起简·奥斯丁、萨克雷和狄更斯；如果你们想起当年的语言文字和它自由地展翅飞翔之时可以达到的高度，并且看到这头兀鹰被拴住了，羽毛脱落了，在嘶哑地悲鸣；如果你们想起了这一切，乔治时代的这种声音就显得格外悲切。 有鉴于此——这些声音在我的耳际震响，这些想象在我头脑中浮现——我不打算否认，贝内特先生有理由抱怨：乔治时代的作家没有能力使我们相信他们的人物是真实的。我被迫同意：他们的确不能像维多利亚时代的作家那样，有规律地在每年秋季抛出三部不朽杰作。但我并不悲观，我是乐观的。因为我想，不论什么时候，从乳臭未干的少年到白发苍苍的老年，只要那种传统规范不再是作家和读者之间传达信息的媒介而成了一种障碍，就不可避免地会出现这种情况。目前我们正在遭受的痛苦，并非来自旧的艺术传统的崩溃，而是由于缺乏一种作者和读者都能接受的表达方式的规范，来作为更加令人兴奋的友好交往的前奏。当代的文学传统规范是如此矫揉造作——在整个作客访问过程中，你不得不谈论天气，此外别无他物可谈——因此，很自然地，弱者不免要愤怒，而强者就会摧毁文学界的基础和规范。这种迹象显然随处可见。语法被侵犯了；句法被肢解了；就像一个到姨妈家去度周末假期的男孩，当安息日在严肃沉闷的气氛中消磨过去，纯粹出于绝望的反抗，他就在天竺葵花坛中打滚。比较成熟的作家们当然不会如此任性地发泄他们的怒火。他们的真诚是绝望而不顾一切的，他们的勇气是无穷无尽的；只是他们不知道应该用哪一样工具——用一把叉子还是他们的手指。因此，如果你们去阅读乔伊斯先生和艾略特先生的作品，你们会被前者的猥亵粗俗和后者的朦胧晦涩所震惊。乔伊斯先生在中所表现出来的粗俗猥亵，在我看来，似乎是一位绝望的男子汉有意识地、故意地安排的，他觉得为了要呼吸空气，他必须打破窗子。在某些瞬间，当窗子被打破的一刹那间，他是壮丽辉煌的。但是，这多么浪费精力！而且，当它不是过于旺盛的精力或蛮力的发泄流露，而是一个需要新鲜空气的男子汉下了决心的、热心公益的行为，粗俗猥亵又是多么无聊沉闷！再来谈谈艾略特先生的朦胧晦涩。我认为，以某一行单独的诗句而论，艾略特先生创作了现代诗歌中某些最可爱的东西。然而，对于陈旧的用词方法和社会礼仪——要尊重弱者，体谅蠢才——他是多么难以容忍！但是，当我沐浴在他某一行诗句强烈的、令人陶醉的美丽阳光之中，并且想起我必须向下一行诗句作一次令人头晕目眩的跳跃，然后再一行一行跳将下去，就像一个马戏团的小丑，不稳当地从一根滑杆跳向另一根滑杆，我不禁失声大叫，我坦白承认，我要求恢复那种陈旧的礼仪，我羡慕我的先辈们的逍遥自在，他们不必在半空中疯狂地旋转跳跃，而是手中捧着一本书，在树荫下恬静地梦想。再说，在斯特雷奇先生的著作《杰出的维多利亚时代人》或《维多利亚女王传》中，那种和时代潮流相对抗而写作的紧张努力，也是明显可见的。当然，它比其他同辈作家的紧张费力要不明显得多，因为，他不仅在和事实打交道（而事实是顽固不化的），而且他主要是从十八世纪的材料中编造出一种他自己的、非常周密的表达方式的规范，它允许他和这片国土上最高贵的人物同桌而坐，并且在精致外表的掩盖之下，透露了不少事情，要是把它们赤裸裸地表白出来，就会被那些男仆从房间里赶出去。尽管如此，如果你把《杰出的维多利亚时代人》和麦考莱爵士的一些随笔相比较，虽然你们会感到麦考莱爵士总是错的而斯特雷奇先生总是对的，你们也会在麦考莱的随笔中感觉到一种实体性，一股冲击力，一种丰富多彩的内涵，这显示出他也有他的时代作为他的后盾；他所有的力量都直接使用到他的作品中去，没有一份力量被用在掩盖事实或转换语气上。但是，斯特雷奇先生在我们看到事物之前，必须先打开我们的眼睛；他必须寻求并且炮制一种极有艺术性的语言规范；而他为此所作的努力，虽然漂亮地掩盖了起来，已经剥夺了一些应该用到他的作品中去的力量，并且限制了他的视野。 于是，为了这些原因，我们必须使自己适应于一个创作失败和支离破碎的季节。我们必须想到，我们在这儿花了这么多力量去寻找一种表达事实真相的方式，当这个事实本身来到我们面前之时，就必定会相当疲乏而混乱。、《维多利亚女王传》、《普鲁福克先生》——我们只是举出了布朗夫人最近促使他们闻名的几个名字罢了。当她的拯救者们来到她的身旁，她有点脸色苍白，头发散乱。我们听到的是他们的斧凿之声（一种在我耳际震响的生气蓬勃、激动人心的声音），当然，除非你想要睡觉，否则决不会无动于衷；老天爷宽大为怀，已经提供了一大批有能力而且急于来满足你们需要的作家。 我已经试图回答我开始讲话时提出的一些问题，但是，恐怕我已说得时间太长，令人厌倦。就我的观点看来，乔治时代的作家用所有的形式来写作都是困难重重，而我已经给你们指出了其中的某些困难。我企图谅解他。我是否可以冒昧提醒你们，作为这个创作事业的一位合伙者，作为火车车厢内的同伴，作为布朗夫人的旅伴，你们的责任和义务究竟是什么？因为，布朗夫人这个人物，对于闭口不言的你们来说，和对于我们这些讲述她的故事的人一样，都是清晰可见的。在你们的日常生活中，在过去这个星期里，你们所经历的事情，比我刚才试图描述的更为奇特，更加有趣。你们在无意之中听到别人谈话的片段，会使你们充满了惊奇的感觉。你们晚上就寝之时，你们感情的复杂性，会使你们觉得困惑。在一日之中，成千上万个念头闪过你们的头脑；成千上万种情绪在你们心中交叉、冲突、消失，显得惊人地杂乱无章。尽管如此，你们却允许那些作家把一部和所有这一切毫不相干的作品硬塞给你们，它塑造了一个布朗夫人的形象，和车厢里那幅令人惊讶的幻景毫无相似之处。你们谦逊地认为：似乎作家和你们不是属于同一族类；他们对于布朗夫人比你们了解得更多。没有比这更为严重的错误了。正是这种读者和作家之间的隔阂，正是你们的谦虚精神和我们作家的职业风度与气派，腐蚀了、阉割了作品，它们本来应该是读者和作家之间亲密平等的同盟关系的健康产物。因此，就涌现出那些花哨圆滑的小说，那些滑稽可笑耸人听闻的传记，那种牛奶搀水淡而无味的评论，那些以优美的韵律去歌颂玫瑰和绵羊之纯洁的诗歌，在目前，它们就是如此花言巧语地冒充文学作品。 你们的责任，就是坚持作家必须从他们的莲花宝座上下来，无论如何要真实地并且尽可能要完美地，去描绘布朗夫人。你们必须坚持，她是一位具有无限的可能性和无穷的多样性的老太太；她可以在任何地方出现，穿任何衣服，说任何语言，并且做天晓得什么事情。但是，她说的话，她做的事，她的眼睛、鼻子、语言、沉默都有一种压倒一切的魅力，因为，她当然就是我们赖以生存的灵魂，她就是生活本身。 但是，你们切勿盼望，目前就能把她完整地、令人满意地再现出来。暂且容忍那些即兴的、晦涩的、破碎的、失败的作品吧。你们是在给一项良好的事业提供援助合作。因为，我将作出一个最后的、非常轻率的预言——我们正在英国文学的一个伟大的新时代的边缘颤抖。但是，我们只有下定决心永远不抛弃布朗夫人，我们才能达到那个时代。