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Memories and Portraits-Part18_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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lamp-light evening by the fire. And yet I know not why I call it

silent, when it was enlivened with such a clatter of horse-shoes,



and such a rattle of musketry, and such a stir of talk; or why I

call those evenings solitary in which I gained so many friends. I



would rise from my book and pull the blind aside, and see the snow

and the glittering hollies chequer a Scotch garden, and the winter



moonlight brighten the white hills. Thence I would turn again to

that crowded and sunny field of life in which it was so easy to



forget myself, my cares, and my surroundings: a place busy as a

city, bright as a theatre, thronged with memorable faces, and



sounding with delightful speech. I carried the thread of that epic

into my slumbers, I woke with it unbroken, I rejoiced to plunge



into the book again at breakfast, it was with a pang that I must

lay it down and turn to my own labours; for no part of the world



has ever seemed to me so charming as these pages, and not even my

friends are quite so real, perhaps quite so dear, as d'Artagnan.



Since then I have been going to and fro at very brief intervals in

my favourite book; and I have now just risen from my last (let me



call it my fifth) perusal, having liked it better and admired it

more seriously than ever. Perhaps I have a sense of ownership,



being so well known in these six volumes. Perhaps I think that

d'Artagnan delights to have me read of him, and Louis Quatorze is



gratified, and Fouquet throws me a look, and Aramis, although he

knows I do not love him, yet plays to me with his best graces, as



to an old patron of the show. Perhaps, if I am not careful,

something may befall me like what befell George IV. about the



battle of Waterloo, and I may come to fancy the VICOMTE one of the

first, and Heaven knows the best, of my own works. At least, I



avow myself a partisan; and when I compare the popularity of the

VICOMTE with that of MONTRO CRISTO, or its own elder brother, the



TROIS MOUSQUETAIRES, I confess I am both pained and puzzled.

To those who have already made acquaintance with the titular hero



in the pages of VINGT ANS APRES, perhaps the name may act as a

deterrent. A man might, well stand back if he supposed he were to



follow, for six volumes, so well-conducted, so fine-spoken, and

withal so dreary a cavalier as Bragelonne. But the fear is idle.



I may be said to have passed the best years of my life in these six

volumes, and my acquaintance with Raoul has never gone beyond a



bow; and when he, who has so long pretended to be alive, is at last

suffered to pretend to be dead, I am sometimes reminded of a saying



in an earlier volume: "ENFIN, DIT MISS STEWART," - and it was of

Bragelonne she spoke - "ENFIN IL A FAIL QUELQUECHOSE: C'EST, MA



FOI! BIEN HEUREUX." I am reminded of it, as I say; and the next

moment, when Athos dies of his death, and my dear d'Artagnan bursts



into his storm of sobbing, I can but deplore my flippancy.

Or perhaps it is La Valliere that the reader of VINGT ANS APRES is



inclined to flee. Well, he is right there too, though not so

right. Louise is no success. Her creator has spared no pains; she



is well-meant, not ill-designed, sometimes has a word that rings

out true; sometimes, if only for a breath, she may even engage our



sympathies. But I have never envied the King his triumph. And so

far from pitying Bragelonne for his defeat, I could wish him no



worse (not for lack of malice, but imagination) than to be wedded

to that lady. Madame enchants me; I can forgive that royal minx



her most serious offences; I can thrill and soften with the King on

that memorable occasion when he goes to upbraid and remains to



flirt; and when it comes to the "ALLONS, AIMEZ-MOI DONC," it is my

heart that melts in the bosom of de Guiche. Not so with Louise.



Readers cannot fail to have remarked that what an author tells us

of the beauty or the charm of his creatures goes for nought; that



we know instantly better; that the heroine cannot open her mouth

but what, all in a moment, the fine phrases of preparation fall



from round her like the robes from Cinderella, and she stands

before us, self-betrayed, as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps



a strapping market-woman. Authors, at least, know it well; a




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