I was very young when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chance it excited attention, and various persons sought my acquaintance.
It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London when first, bashful but eager, I was introduced to it. It is long since I frequented it, and if the novels that describe its present singularities are accurate much in it is now changed. The venue is different. Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate, and High Street, Kensington. Then it was a distinction to be under forty, but now to be more than twenty-five is absurd. I think in those days we were a little shy of our emotions, and the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness. I do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia an intensive culture of chastity, but I do not remember so crude a promiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day. We did not think it hypocritical to draw over our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence. The spade was not invariably called a bloody shovel. Woman had not yet altogether come into her own.
I lived near Victoria Station, and I recall long excursions by bus to the hospitable houses of the literary. In my timidity I wandered up and down the street while I screwed up my courage to ring the bell; and then, sick with apprehension, was ushered into an airless room full of people. I was introduced to this celebrated person after that one, and the kind words they said about my book made me excessively uncomfortable. I felt they expected me to say clever things, and I never could think of any till after the party was over. I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups of tea and rather ill-cut bread-and-butter. I wanted no one to take notice of me, so that I could observe these famous creatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said.
I have a recollection of large, unbending women with great noses and rapacious eyes, who wore their clothes as though they were armour; and of little, mouse-like spinsters, with soft voices and a shrewd glance. I never ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with their gloves on, and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which they wiped their fingers on their chair when they thought no one was looking. It must have been bad for the furniture, but I suppose the hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when, in turn, she visited them. Some of them were dressed fashionably, and they said they couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just because you had written a novel; if you had a neat figure you might as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe on a small foot had never prevented an editor from taking your "stuff." But others thought this frivolous, and they wore "art fabrics" and barbaric jewelry. The men were seldom eccentric in appearance. They tried to look as little like authors as possible. They wished to be taken for men of the world, and could have passed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm. They always seemed a little tired. I had never known writers before, and I found them very strange, but I do not think they ever seemed to me quite real.
I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant, and I used to listen with astonishment to the stinging humour with which they would tear a brother-author to pieces the moment that his back was turned. The artist has this advantage over the rest of the world, that his friends offer not only their appearance and their character to his satire, but also their work. I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness or with such fluency. In those days conversation was still cultivated as an art; a neat repartee was more highly valued than the crackling of thorns under a pot; and the epigram, not yet a mechanical appliance by which the dull may achieve a semblance of wit, gave sprightliness to the small talk of the urbane. It is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation. But I think the conversation never settled down so comfortably as when it turned to the details of the trade which was the other side of the art we practised. When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book, it was natural to wonder how many copies had been sold, what advance the author had received, and how much he was likely to make out of it. Then we would speak of this publisher and of that, comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another; we would argue whether it was better to go to one who gave handsome royalties or to another who "pushed" a book for all it was worth. Some advertised badly and some well. Some were modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk of agents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and the sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a thousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me it was all very romantic. It gave me an intimate sense of being a member of some mystic brotherhood.
Chapter 3
But all this is by the way.
I was very young when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chance it excited attention, and various persons sought my acquaintance.
It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London when first, bashful but eager, I was introduced to it. It is long since I frequented it, and if the novels that describe its present singularities are accurate much in it is now changed. The venue is different. Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate, and High Street, Kensington. Then it was a distinction to be under forty, but now to be more than twenty-five is absurd. I think in those days we were a little shy of our emotions, and the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness. I do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia an intensive culture of chastity, but I do not remember so crude a promiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day. We did not think it hypocritical to draw over our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence. The spade was not invariably called a bloody shovel. Woman had not yet altogether come into her own.
第三章
闲言少絮，言归正传。
我的处女作问世时我还很年轻。机缘巧合，我的这本书引起了人们的注意，各色人等都想要同我认识。
我刚被人引见到伦敦文艺圈时，面带羞怯但心情迫切；现在回想起来，不无忧郁惆怅之感。我过去经常去伦敦，自距上次去那里已经有很长时间了，如果小说中描写的伦敦当下各种奇特之处比较准确的话，那就说明伦敦现在已经发生了变化。文人墨客聚会的地点已不同往日。柴尔森和布鲁姆斯柏瑞取代了汉普斯待德、诺廷山门、高街和肯星顿的地位。当时未到不惑之年才成名被看作出类拔萃，如今刚过二十五岁成名就会让人觉得荒唐可笑了。我想在过去的岁月里我们都有些害羞，不敢流露自己的感情，害怕被人取笑的心理作用打消了比较明显的装腔作势形象。我认为风流不羁的波西米亚地区文化并不强调洁身自爱，但我不记得那时候会有现今如此粗鄙污秽淫乱的现象。出于面子考虑，我们在自己所做的某些荒唐事情上拉了一道缄口不言的帘幕，竟然觉得这并非表里不一的虚伪做法。我们说话拐弯抹角，并不单刀直入，当年铁锹并非一成不变地被人称作该死的铁铲。那时女性独立还尚未取得胜利。
I lived near Victoria Station, and I recall long excursions by bus to the hospitable houses of the literary. In my timidity I wandered up and down the street while I screwed up my courage to ring the bell; and then, sick with apprehension, was ushered into an airless room full of people. I was introduced to this celebrated person after that one, and the kind words they said about my book made me excessively uncomfortable. I felt they expected me to say clever things, and I never could think of any till after the party was over. I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups of tea and rather ill-cut bread-and-butter. I wanted no one to take notice of me, so that I could observe these famous creatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said.
我住在维多利亚车站附近，我记得需要坐公共汽车走遥远的路途，才能到达那些热情好客的文人住处。因为胆怯，我到了目的地后，在街上来回踱步，最后才鼓起勇气拉响门铃。然后我心生恐惧，被人领到一个密不透风的房间，这里人满为患。我被引见给一位接着一位的名流，他们对我作品的各种恭维之词令我感到浑身不舒服。我觉得他们都巴望着我能够口吐珠玑，可直到聚会结束之后，我才想起只字片语。为了掩盖尴尬之态，我忙着给客人端茶递水，把涂有黄油切得不成样的面包送到客人手里。我希望没人留意我，这样我就可以安心自在地端详一下这些鼎鼎大名的活物儿，聆听他们所说的巧言妙语。
I have a recollection of large, unbending women with great noses and rapacious eyes, who wore their clothes as though they were armour; and of little, mouse-like spinsters, with soft voices and a shrewd glance. I never ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with their gloves on, and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which they wiped their fingers on their chair when they thought no one was looking. It must have been bad for the furniture, but I suppose the hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when, in turn, she visited them. Some of them were dressed fashionably, and they said they couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just because you had written a novel; if you had a neat figure you might as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe on a small foot had never prevented an editor from taking your "stuff." But others thought this frivolous, and they wore "art fabrics" and barbaric jewelry. The men were seldom eccentric in appearance. They tried to look as little like authors as possible. They wished to be taken for men of the world, and could have passed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm. They always seemed a little tired. I had never known writers before, and I found them very strange, but I do not think they ever seemed to me quite real.
我记得遇见几位体型肥大、腰板挺直的妇人，她们鼻头硕大，目光凶悍，身上穿的衣服像是批了一副铠甲；我也遇到许多骨瘦如柴，身板跟小耗子似的老姑娘，她们说话娇声细气，眼光机敏。她们坚决不摘掉手套去拿涂了黄油的面包片，那种吃相让我禁不住神魂颠倒；她们想着趁人不注意，把手指头往椅子上一抹，我看到她们满不在乎的样子，不禁感到心悦诚服。对于主人的家具而言，这肯定是坏事一桩，但我想到等女主人反过来哪天去这些人家里作客时，肯定也会照猫画虎在她们的家具上施行报复。她们有些人穿着打扮时髦，声称她们这辈子无论如何也看不出为何一个人只是因为写了本小说，就该不修边幅、蓬头垢面。如果你身材苗条，难不成还不想让别人多看你两眼？两只小脚配上双漂亮鞋子，绝不妨碍编辑采用你的那些“货”。但其他人会觉得这样做轻佻浮浪，她们穿的是“绘画布料”，戴的是浑金璞玉，显得粗鄙野蛮。男士们外表打扮一般很少怪里怪气。他们尽可能不让人看出自己是位作家，总希望别人把他们当作老于世故的练达之士。不论走到哪里，人们都会认为他们是某家公司的高层管理人员。他们看上去好像总是有些疲累。我过去从未结识过任何作家，我发现他们不同寻常，但我总觉得对我而言他们看上去似乎不那么真实。
I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant, and I used to listen with astonishment to the stinging humour with which they would tear a brother-author to pieces the moment that his back was turned. The artist has this advantage over the rest of the world, that his friends offer not only their appearance and their character to his satire, but also their work. I despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness or with such fluency. In those days conversation was still cultivated as an art; a neat repartee was more highly valued than the crackling of thorns under a pot; and the epigram, not yet a mechanical appliance by which the dull may achieve a semblance of wit, gave sprightliness to the small talk of the urbane. It is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation. But I think the conversation never settled down so comfortably as when it turned to the details of the trade which was the other side of the art we practised. When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book, it was natural to wonder how many copies had been sold, what advance the author had received, and how much he was likely to make out of it. Then we would speak of this publisher and of that, comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another; we would argue whether it was better to go to one who gave handsome royalties or to another who "pushed" a book for all it was worth. Some advertised badly and some well. Some were modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk of agents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and the sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a thousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me it was all very romantic. It gave me an intimate sense of being a member of some mystic brotherhood.
我记得我当时觉得他们的谈话内容锋芒毕露，我常常听得目瞪口呆，同行刚一转过身，其他作家就会用尖酸刻薄的幽默言语把那位同行批得体无完肤。艺术家与其他人相比，在一个方面占上风，他们不仅可以挖苦朋友的仪表和性格，而且也包括朋友的作品。他们能如此恰如其分、明白流畅地表达自我，我实在是自愧不如。在那些日子里，谈话仍然被看作是一门经过培养的艺术，妙语连珠比釜底下燃烧的荆棘噼噼啪啪声更受人重视，格言警句还尚未成为痴人笨蛋用来冒充才思敏捷的机械工具，温文尔雅之人甩出一两句则会使得谈天说地妙趣横生。糟糕的是，这些闪光的巧言妙语我现在一句都想不起来。我认为他们谈起交易细节（我们从艺的另一方面）时，谈话从未像现在这样，令人感到如此舒适畅快。我们讨论完最近新出的一本书的优点后，自然想要知道这本书的销量如何，作者已经收到多少预支稿费，他一共会得到多少钱。接下来我们就要谈到这家出版商还是那家出版商，拿其中一家的的慷慨大方去和另一家的吝啬小气进行比较；我们还要争论一番，是把稿件交给这家版税优厚的出版商，还是那家为获得书的实际价值把书“推”出去的出版商。有些出版商广告做得很差，有些做得非常在行。有些与时俱进，有些古板守旧。接下来我们还要谈到出版代理商以及他们为我们作家争取到的出版商的开价。我们还要谈论编辑以及他们欢迎的投稿类型，千字稿费，稿费支付及时与否。这些对我而言，都非常富于传奇色彩。我有一种身为某神秘同业会成员的亲切感。
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