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The Art of Writing-Part10_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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evil heart, suggested it was easy to disguise his ancient



livery wit a little lace and a few frogs and buttons, so that

Thackeray himself should hardly recognise him. And then of a



sudden there came to me memories of a young Irishman, with

whom I was once intimate, and had spent long nights walking



and talking with, upon a very desolate coast in a bleak

autumn: I recalled him as a youth of an extraordinary moral



simplicity - almost vacancy; plastic to any influence, the

creature of his admirations: and putting such a youth in



fancy into the career of a soldier of fortune, it occurred to

me that he would serve my turn as well as Mr. Lyndon, and in



place of entering into competition with the Master, would

afford a slight though a distinctrelief. I know not if I



have done him well, though his moral dissertations always

highly entertained me: but I own I have been surprised to



find that he reminded some critics of Barry Lyndon after all.

. . .



CHAPTER VII - PREFACE TO 'THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE' (19)

ALTHOUGH an old, consistent exile, the editor of the



following pages revisits now and again the city of which he

exults to be a native; and there are few things more strange,



more painful, or more salutary, than such revisitations.

Outside, in foreign spots, he comes by surprise and awakens



more attention than he had expected; in his own city, the

relation is reversed, and he stands amazed to be so little



recollected. Elsewhere he is refreshed to see attractive

faces, to remark possible friends; there he scouts the long



streets, with a pang at heart, for the faces and friends that

are no more. Elsewhere he is delighted with the presence of



what is new, there tormented by the absence of what is old.

Elsewhere he is content to be his present self; there he is



smitten with an equal regret for what he once was and for

what he once hoped to be.



He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station,

on his last visit; he was feeling it still as he alighted at



the door of his friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S., with whom

he was to stay. A heartywelcome, a face not altogether



changed, a few words that sounded of old days, a laugh

provoked and shared, a glimpse in passing of the snowy cloth



and bright decanters and the Piranesis on the dining-room

wall, brought him to his bed-room with a somewhat lightened



cheer, and when he and Mr. Thomson sat down a few minutes

later, cheek by jowl, and pledged the past in a preliminary



bumper, he was already almost consoled, he had already almost

forgiven himself his two unpardonable errors, that he should



ever have left his native city, or ever returned to it.

'I have something quite in your way,' said Mr. Thomson. 'I



wished to do honour to your arrival; because, my dear fellow,

it is my own youth that comes back along with you; in a very



tattered and withered state, to be sure, but - well! - all

that's left of it.'



'A great deal better than nothing,' said the editor. 'But

what is this which is quite in my way?'



'I was coming to that,' said Mr. Thomson: 'Fate has put it in

my power to honour your arrival with something really



original by way of dessert. A mystery.'

'A mystery?' I repeated.



'Yes,' said his friend, 'a mystery. It may prove to be

nothing, and it may prove to be a great deal. But in the



meanwhile it is truly mysterious, no eye having looked on it

for near a hundred years; it is highly genteel, for it treats



of a titled family; and it ought to be melodramatic, for

(according to the superscription) it is concerned with



death.'

'I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more promising



annunciation,' the other remarked. 'But what is It?'

'You remember my predecessor's, old Peter M'Brair's



business?'

'I remember him acutely; he could not look at me without a



pang of reprobation, and he could not feel the pang without

betraying it. He was to me a man of a great historical



interest, but the interest was not returned.'

'Ah well, we go beyond him,' said Mr. Thomson. 'I daresay



old Peter knew as little about this as I do. You see, I

succeeded to a prodigious accumulation of old law-papers and



old tin boxes, some of them of Peter's hoarding, some of his




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