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Notes on Life and Letters-Part3_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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tangible, in the struggles, in the contacts of the fine

consciences, in their perplexities, in the sophism of their



mistakes. For a fine conscience is naturally a virtuous one. What

is natural about it is just its fineness, an abiding sense of the



intangible, ever-present, right. It is most visible in their

ultimatetriumph, in their emergence from miracle, through an



energetic act of renunciation. Energetic, not violent: the

distinction is wide, enormous, like that between substance and



shadow.

Through it all Mr. Henry James keeps a firm hold of the substance,



of what is worth having, of what is worth holding. The contrary

opinion has been, if not absolutelyaffirmed, then at least



implied, with some frequency. To most of us, living willingly in a

sort of intellectualmoonlight, in the faintly reflected light of



truth, the shadows so firmly renounced by Mr. Henry James's men and

women, stand out endowed with extraordinary value, with a value so



extraordinary that their rejection offends, by its uncalled-for

scrupulousness, those business-like instincts which a careful



Providence has implanted in our breasts. And, apart from that just

cause of discontent, it is obvious that a solution by rejection



must always present a certain lack of finality, especially

startling when contrasted with the usual methods of solution by



rewards and punishments, by crowned love, by fortune, by a broken

leg or a sudden death. Why the reading public which, as a body,



has never laid upon a story-teller the command to be an artist,

should demand from him this sham of Divine Omnipotence, is utterly



incomprehensible. But so it is; and these solutions are legitimate

inasmuch as they satisfy the desire for finality, for which our



hearts yearn with a longing greater than the longing for the loaves

and fishes of this earth. Perhaps the only true desire of mankind,



coming thus to light in its hours of leisure, is to be set at rest.

One is never set at rest by Mr. Henry James's novels. His books



end as an episode in life ends. You remain with the sense of the

life still going on; and even the subtle presence of the dead is



felt in that silence that comes upon the artist-creation when the

last word has been read. It is eminently satisfying, but it is not



final. Mr. Henry James, great artist and faithfulhistorian, never

attempts the impossible.



ALPHONSE DAUDET--1898

It is sweet to talk decorously of the dead who are part of our



past, our indisputable possession. One must admit regretfully that

to-day is but a scramble, that to-morrow may never come; it is only



the precious yesterday that cannot be taken away from us. A gift

from the dead, great and little, it makes life supportable, it



almost makes one believe in a benevolentscheme of creation. And

some kind of belief is very necessary. But the real knowledge of



matters infinitely more profound than any conceivablescheme of

creation is with the dead alone. That is why our talk about them



should be as decorous as their silence. Their generosity and their

discretion deserve nothing less at our hands; and they, who belong



already to the unchangeable, would probably disdain to claim more

than this from a mankind that changes its loves and its hates about






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