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An Inland Voyage-Part16_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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his wandering life. Some one said, it would be better to have a



million of money down, and Mlle. Ferrario admitted that she would

prefer that mightily. 'EH BIEN, MOI NON; - not I,' cried De



Vauversin, striking the table with his hand. 'If any one is a

failure in the world, is it not I? I had an art, in which I have



done things well - as well as some - better perhaps than others;

and now it is closed against me. I must go about the country



gathering coppers and singing nonsense. Do you think I regret my

life? Do you think I would rather be a fat burgess, like a calf?



Not I! I have had moments when I have been applauded on the

boards: I think nothing of that; but I have known in my own mind



sometimes, when I had not a clap from the whole house, that I had

found a true intonation, or an exact and speakinggesture; and



then, messieurs, I have known what pleasure was, what it was to do

a thing well, what it was to be an artist. And to know what art



is, is to have an interest for ever, such as no burgess can find in

his petty concerns. TENEZ, MESSIEURS, JE VAIS VOUS LE DIRE - it is



like a religion.'

Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory and the



inaccuracies of translation, was the profession of faith of M. de

Vauversin. I have given him his own name, lest any other wanderer



should come across him, with his guitar and cigarette, and

Mademoiselle Ferrario; for should not all the world delight to



honour this unfortunate and loyal follower of the Muses? May

Apollo send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the river be no



longer scanty of her silver fishes to his lure; may the cold not

pinch him on long winter rides, nor the village jack-in-office



affront him with unseemly manners; and may he never miss

Mademoiselle Ferrario from his side, to follow with his dutiful



eyes and accompany on the guitar!

The marionnettes made a very dismalentertainment. They performed



a piece, called PYRAMUS AND THISBE, in five mortal acts, and all

written in Alexandrines fully as long as the performers. One



marionnette was the king; another the wicked counsellor; a third,

credited with exceptional" target="_blank" title="a.异常的，特别的">exceptional beauty, represented Thisbe; and then



there were guards, and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen.

Nothing particular took place during the two or three acts that I



sat out; but you will he pleased to learn that the unities were

properly respected, and the whole piece, with one exception, moved



in harmony with classical rules. That exception was the comic

countryman, a lean marionnette in wooden shoes, who spoke in prose



and in a broad PATOIS much appreciated by the audience. He took

unconstitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign; kicked



his fellow-marionnettes in the mouth with his wooden shoes, and

whenever none of the versifying suitors were about, made love to



Thisbe on his own account in comic prose.

This fellow's evolutions, and the little prologue, in which the



showman made a humorous eulogium of his troop, praising their

indifference to applause and hisses, and their single devotion to



their art, were the only circumstances in the whole affair that you

could fancy would so much as raise a smile. But the villagers of



Precy seemed delighted. Indeed, so long as a thing is an

exhibition, and you pay to see it, it is nearly certain to amuse.



If we were charged so much a head for sunsets, or if God sent round

a drum before the hawthorns came in flower, what a work should we



not make about their beauty! But these things, like good

companions, stupid people early cease to observe: and the Abstract



Bagman tittups past in his spring gig, and is positively not aware

of the flowers along the lane, or the scenery of the weather



overhead.

BACK TO THE WORLD



OF the next two days' sail little remains in my mind, and nothing

whatever in my note-book. The river streamed on steadily through



pleasant river-side landscapes. Washerwomen in blue dresses,

fishers in blue blouses, diversified the green banks; and the



relation of the two colours was like that of the flower and the

leaf in the forget-me-not. A symphony in forget-me-not; I think



Theophile Gautier might thus have characterised that two days'

panorama. The sky was blue and cloudless; and the sliding surface



of the river held up, in smooth places, a mirror to the heaven and




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