现代大学英语精读第二版（第六册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——12 - Notes on the English Character（英国人性格的笔记）

Unit 12 - Notes on the English Character

Notes on the English Character

E·M·Forster

First note. I had better let the cat out of the bag at once and record my opinion that the character of the English is essentially middle class. There is sound historical reason for this, for, since the end of the eighteenth century, the middle classes have been the dominant force in our community. They gained wealth by the Industrial Revolution, political power by the Reform Bill of 1832; they are connected with the rise and organization of the British Empire; they are responsible for the literature of the nineteenth century. Solidity, caution, integrity, efficiency. Lack of imagination, hypocrisy. These qualities characterize the middle classes in every country, but in England they are national characteristics also, because only in England have the middle classes been in power for one hundred and fifty years. Napoleon, in his rude way, called us "a nation of shopkeepers." We prefer to call ourselves "a great commercial nation"-it sounds more dignified—but the two phrases amount to the same. Of course there are other classes: there is an aristocracy, there are the poor. But it is on the middle classes that the eye of the critic rests—just as it rests on the poor in Russia and on the aristocracy in Japan. Russia is symbolized by the peasant or by the factory worker; Japan by the samurai; the national figure of England is Mr. Bull with his top hat, his comfortable clothes, his substantial stomach, and his substantial balance at the bank. Saint George may caper on banners and in the speeches of politicians, but it is John Bull who delivers the goods. And even Saint George—if Gibbon is correct—wore a top hat once; he was an army contractor and supplied indifferent bacon. It all amounts to the same in the end.

Second Note. Just as the heart of England is the middle classes, so the heart of the middle classes is the public school system. This extraordinary institution is local. It does not even exist all over the British Isles. It is unknown in Ireland, almost unknown in Scotland (countries excluded from my survey), and though it may inspire other great institutions—Aligarh, for example, and some of the schools in the United States—it remains unique, because it was created by the Anglo-Saxon middle classes, and can flourish only where they flourish. How perfectly it expresses their character—far better for instance, than does the university, into which social and spiritual complexities have already entered. With its boarding-houses, its compulsory games, its system of prefects and fagging, its insistence on good form and on esprit de corps, it produces a type whose weight is out of all proportion to its numbers.

On leaving his school, the boy either sets to work at once-goes into the army or into business, or emigrates—or else proceeds to the university, and after three or four years there enters some other profession—becomes a barrister, doctor, civil servant, schoolmaster, or journalist. (If through some mishap he does not become a manual worker or an artist.) In all these careers his education, or the absence of it, influences him. Its memories influence him also. Many men look back on their school days as the happiest of their lives. They remember with regret that golden time when life, though hard, was not yet complex, when they all worked together and played together and thought together, so far as they thought at all; when they were taught that school is the world in miniature and believed that no one can love his country who does not love his school. And they prolong that time as best they can by joining their Old Boys' society: indeed, some of them remain Old Boys and nothing else for the rest of their lives. They attribute all good to the school. They worship it. They quote the remark that "The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton." It is nothing to them that the remark is inapplicable historically and was never made by the Duke of Wellington, and that the Duke of Wellington was an Irishman. They go on quoting it because it expresses their sentiments; they feel that if the Duke of Wellington didn't make it he ought to have, and if he wasn't an Englishman he ought to have been. And they go forth into a world that is not entirely composed of public-school men or even of Anglo-Saxons, but of men who are as various as the sands of the sea; into a world of whose richness and subtlety they have no conception. They go forth into it with well-developed bodies, fairly developed minds, and undeveloped hearts. And it is this undeveloped heart that is largely responsible for the difficulties of Englishmen abroad. An undeveloped heart—not a cold one. The difference is important, and on it my next note will be based.

For it is not that the Englishman can't feel—it is that he is afraid to feel. He has been taught at his public school that feeling is bad form. He must not express great joy or sorrow or even open his mouth too wide when he talks—his pipe might fall out if he did. He must bottle up his emotions, or let them out only on a very special occasion.

Once upon a time (this is an anecdote) I went for a week's holiday on the Continent with an Indian friend. We both enjoyed ourselves and were sorry when the week was over, but on parting our behaviour was absolutely different. He was plunged in despair. He felt that because the holiday was over all happiness was over until the world ended. He could not express his sorrow too much. But in me the Englishman came out strong I reflected that we should meet again in a month or two, and could write in the interval if we had anything to say; and under these circumstance I could not see what there was to make a fuss about. It wasn't as if we were parting forever or dying. "Buck up," I said, "do buck up." He refused to buck up, and I left him plunged in gloom.

The conclusion of the anecdote is even more instructive. For when we met the next month our conversation threw a good deal of light on the English character. I began by scolding my friend. I told him that he had been wrong to feel and display so much emotion upon so slight an occasion; that it was inappropriate. The word "inappropriate" roused him to fury. "what?" he cried. "Do you measure out your emotions as if they were potatoes" I did not like the simile of the potatoes, but after a moment's reflection I said: "Yes, I do; and what's more, I think I ought to. A small occasion demands a little emotion just as a large occasion demands a great one. I would like my emotions to be appropriate. This may be measuring them like potatoes, but it is better than slopping them about like water from a pail, which is what you did." He did not like the simile of the pail. "If those are your opinions, they part us forever," he cried, and left the room. Returning immediately, he added: "No—but your whole attitude toward emotion is wrong. Emotion has nothing to do with appropriateness. It matters only that it shall be sincere. I happened to feel deeply. showed it. It doesn't matter whether ought to have felt deeply or not."

This remark impressed me very much. Yet I could not agree with it, and said that I valued emotion as much as he did, but used it differently; if I poured it out on small occasions I was afraid of having none left for the great ones, and of being bankrupt at the crises of life.

Note the word "bankrupt." I spoke as a member of a prudent middle-class nation, always anxious to meet my liabilities, but my friend spoke as an Oriental, and the Oriental has behind him a tradition, not of middle-class prudence but of kingly munificence and splendour. He feels his resources are endless, just as John Bull feels his are finite. As regards material resources, the Oriental is clearly unwise. Money isn't endless. If we spend or give away all the money we have, we haven't any more, and must take the consequences, which are frequently unpleasant. But, as regards the resources of the spirit, he may be right. The emotions may be endless. The more we express them, the more we may have to express.

True love in this differs from gold and clay,

That to divide is not to take away.

Says Shelley. Shelley, at all events, believes that the wealth of the spirit is endless; that we may express it copiously, passionately, and always; that we can never feel sorrow or joy too acutely.

In the above anecdote, I have figured as a typical Englishman. I will now descend from that dizzy and somewhat unfamiliar height, and return to my business of notetaking. A note on the slowness of the English character. The Englishman appears too cold and unemotional because he is really slow. When an event happens, he may understand it quickly enough with his mind, but he takes quite a while to feel it. Once upon a time a coach, containing some Englishmen and some Frenchmen, was driving over the Alps. The horses ran away, and as they were dashing across a bridge the coach caught on the stonework, tottered, and nearly fell into the ravine below. The Frenchmen were frantic with terror: they screamed and gesticulated and flung themselves about, as Frenchmen would. The Englishmen sat quite calm. An hour later, the coach drew up at an inn to change horses, and by that time the situations were exactly reversed. The Frenchmen had forgotten all about the danger, and were chattering gaily; the Englishmen had just begun to feel it, and one had a nervous breakdown and was obliged to go to bed. We have here a clear physical difference between the two races—a difference that goes deep into character. The Frenchmen responded at once; the Englishmen responded in time. They were slow and they were also practical. Their instinct forbade them to throw themselves about in the coach, because it was more likely to tip over if they did.

They had this extraordinary appreciation of fact that we shall notice again and again. When disaster comes, the English instinct is to do what can be done first, and to postpone the feeling as long as possible. Hence they are splendid at emergencies. No doubt they are brave—no one will deny that—bravery is partly an affair of the nerves, and the English nervous system is well equipped for meeting physical emergency. It acts promptly and feels slowly. Such a combination is fruitful, and anyone who possesses it has gone long way toward being brave. And when the action is over, then the Englishman can feel.

There is one more consideration—most important one. If the English nature is cold, how is it that it has produced a great literature and a literature that is particularly great in poetry? Judged by its prose, English literature would not stand in the first rank. It is its poetry that raises it to the level of Greek, Persian, or French. And yet the English are supposed to be so unpoetical. How is this? The nation that produced the Elizabethan drama and the Lake Poets cannot be a cold, unpoetical nation. We can't get fire out of ice. Since literature always rests upon national character, there must be in the English nature hidden springs of fire to produce the fire we see. The warm sympathy, the romance, the imagination, that we look for in Englishmen whom we meet, and too often vainly look for, must exist in the nation as a whole, or we could not have this outburst of national song. An undeveloped heart—not a cold one.

The trouble is that the English nature is not at all easy to understand. It has a great air of simplicity, it advertises itself as simple, but the more we consider it, the greater the problems we shall encounter. People talk of the mysterious East, but the West also is mysterious. It has depths that do not reveal themselves at the first gaze. We know what the sea looks like from a distance: it is of one color, and level, and obviously cannot contain such creatures as fish. But if we look into the sea over the edge of a boat, we see a dozen colors, and depth below depth, and fish swimming in them. That sea is the English character—apparently imperturbable and even.

These depths and the colors are the English romanticism and the English sensitiveness—we do not expect to find such things, but they exist. And—to continue my metaphor—the fish are the English emotions, which are always trying to get up to the surface, but don't quite know how. For the most part we see them moving far below, distorted and obscure. Now and then they succeed and we exclaim, "Why, the Englishman has emotions! He actually can feel!" And occasionally we see that beautiful creature the flying fish, which rises out of the water altogether into the air and the sunlight. English literature is a flying fish. It is a sample of the life that goes on day after day beneath the surface; it is a proof that beauty and emotion exist in the salt, inhospitable sea.

And now let's get back to terra firma. The Englishman's attitude toward criticism will give us another starting point. He is not annoyed by criticism. He listens or not as the case may be smiles and passes on, saying, "Oh, the fellow's jealous"; "Oh, I'm used to Bernard Shaw; monkey tricks don't hurt me." It never occurs to him that the fellow may be accurate as well as jealous, and that he might do well to take the criticism to heart and profit by it. It never strikes him—except as a form of words—that he is capable of improvement; his self-complacency is abysmal. Other nations, both Oriental and European, have an uneasy feeling that they are not quite perfect. In consequence they resent criticism. It hurts them; and their snappy answers often mask a determination to improve themselves. Not so the Englishman. He has no uneasy feeling. Let the critics bark. And the "tolerant humorous attitude" with which he confronts them is not really humorous, because it is bounded by the titter and the guffaw.

I have suggested earlier that the English are sometimes hypocrites, and it is now my duty to develop this rather painful subject. Hypocrisy is the prime charge that is always brought against us. The Germans are called brutal, the Spanish cruel, the Americans superficial, and so on; but we are perfide Albion, the island of hypocrites, the people who have built up an Empire with a Bible in one hand, a pistol in the other and financial concessions in both pockets.

Is the charge true? I think it is; but while making it, we must be quite clear as to what we mean by hypocrisy? Well, the English are comparatively guiltless of this; they have little of the Renaissance villain about them. Do we mean unconscious deceit? Muddle-headedness? Of this believe them to be guilty. When an Englishman has been led into a course of wrong action, he has nearly always begun by muddling himself. A public-school education does not make for mental clearness, and he possesses to a very high degree the power of confusing his own mind. We have seen this tendency at work in the domain of theology; how does it work in the domain of conduct?

Jane Austen may seem an odd authority to cite, but Jane Austen has, within her limits, marvelous insight into the English mind. Her range is limited, her characters never attempt any of the more scarlet sins. But she has a merciless eye for questions of conduct, and the classical example of two English people muddling themselves before they embark upon a wrong course of action is to be found in the opening chapters of Sense and Sensibility. Old Mr. Dashwood has just died. He has been twice married. By his first marriage he has a son, John; by his second marriage three daughters. The son is well off; the young ladies and their mother—for Mr. Dashwood's second wife survives him—are badly off. He has called his son to his death-bed and has solemnly adjured him to provide for the second family. Much moved, the young man promises, and mentally decides to give each of his sisters a thousand pounds: and then the comedy begins. For he announces his generous intention to his wife, and Mrs. John Dashwood by no means approves of depriving their own little boy of so large a sum. The thousand pounds are accordingly reduced to five hundred. But even this seems rather much. Might not an annuity to the stepmother be less of a wrench? Yes—but though less of wrench it might be more of drain, for "she is very stout and healthy, and scarcely forty." An occasional present of fifty pounds will be better, "and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father." Or, better still, an occasional present of fish. And in the end nothing is done, nothing; the four impecunious ladies are not even helped in the moving of their furniture.

Well, are the John Dashwoods hypocrites? It depends upon our definition of hypocrisy. The young man could not see his evil impulses as they gathered force and gained on him. And even his wife, though a worse character, is also self-deceived. She reflects that old Mr. Dashwood may have been out of his mind at his death. She thinks of her own little boy—and surely a mother ought to think of her own child. She has muddled herself so completely that in one sentence she can refuse the ladies the income that would enable them to keep a carriage and in the next can say that they will not be keeping a carriage and so will have no expenses. No doubt men and women in other lands can muddle themselves, too, yet the state of mind of Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood seems to me typical of England. They are slow—they take time even to do wrong; whereas people in other lands do wrong quickly.

There are national faults as there are national diseases, and perhaps one can draw a parallel between them. It has always impressed me that the national diseases of England should be cancer and consumption—slow, insidious, pretending to be something else; while the diseases proper to the South should be cholera and plague, which strike at a man when he is perfectly well and may leave him a corpse by evening. Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood are moral consumptives. They collapse gradually without realizing what the disease is. There is nothing dramatic or violent about their sin. You cannot call them villains.

Here is the place to glance at some of the other charges that have been brought against the English as a nation. They have, for instance, been accused of treachery cruelty, and fanaticism. In these charges have never been able to see the least point, because treachery and cruelty are conscious sins. The man knows he is doing wrong, and does it deliberately, like Tartuffe or lago. He betrays his friend because he wishes to. He tortures his prisoners because he enjoys seeing the blood flow. He worships the Devil because he prefers evil to good. From villainies such as these the average Englishman is free. His character, which prevents his rising to certain heights, also prevents him from sinking to these depths. Because he doesn't produce mystics he doesn't produce villains either; he gives the world no prophets, but no anarchists, no fanatics—religious or political.

Of course there are cruel and treacherous people in England—one has only to look at the police courts—and examples of public infamy can be found, such as the Amritsar massacre. But one does not look at the police courts or the military mind to find the soul of any nation; and the more English people one meets the more convinced one becomes that the charges as a whole are untrue. Yet foreign critics often make them. Why? Partly because they are annoyed with certain genuine defects in the English character, and in their irritation throw in cruelty in order to make the problem simpler. Moral indignation is always agreeable, but nearly always misplaced. It is indulged in both by the English and by the critics of the English. They all find it great fun. The drawback is that while they are amusing themselves the world becomes neither wiser nor better.

The main point of these notes is that the English character is incomplete. No national character is complete. We have to look for some qualities in one part of the world and others in another. But the English character is incomplete in a way that is particularly annoying to the foreign observer. It has bad surface —self complacent, unsympathetic, and reserved. There is plenty of emotion further down, but it never gets used. There is plenty of brain power, but it is more often used to confirm prejudices than to dispel them. With such an equipment the Englishman cannot be popular. Only I would repeat: there is little vice in him and no real coldness. It is the machinery that is wrong.

I hope and believe myself that in the next twenty years we shall see a great change, and that the national character will alter into something that is less unique but more lovable. The supremacy of the middle classes is probably ending. What new element the working classes will introduce one cannot say, but at all events they will not have been educated at public schools. And whether these notes praise or blame the English character—that is only incidental. They are the notes of a student who is trying to get at the truth and would value the assistance of others. I believe myself that the truth is great and that it shall prevail. I have no faith in official caution and reticence. The cats are all out of their bags, and diplomacy cannot recall them. The nations must understand one another and quickly; and without the interposition of their governments, for the shrinkage of the globe is throwing them into one another's arms. To that understanding these notes are a feeble contribution—notes on the English character as it has struck novelist.

参考译文——英国人性格的笔记

英国人性格的笔记

E·M·福斯特

首先，我最好和盘托出并且点明我的观点，从根本上来说，英国人的性格特点是中产阶级的性格特点。此观点拥有翔实的历史渊源，因为自18世纪末起中产阶级就成了英国社会的主导阶级。中产阶级凭借工业革命发家，凭借1832年的《改革法案》掌权。他们与大英帝国的崛起和构成休戚相关，他们也是19世纪文学的缔造者。稳重、谨慎、正直、高效、缺乏想象力、虚伪是每个国家中产阶级的特点，然而在英国，上述特点也是全体英国人的特点，因为只有英国的中产阶级掌权长达150年。拿破仑无礼地称我们为“店老板民族”；而我们更喜欢称自己为“伟大的商业民族”，后者听起来更有尊严，但是二者在本质上是相同的。但是，（在英国）最吸引评论者关注的是中产阶级，正如在俄国人们关注穷人，在日本人们关注贵族一样。俄国的典型形象是农民和工人；日本的典型形象是武士；英国的典型形象是布尔先生，他头戴高顶大礼帽，身穿合体的衣服，挺着大肚皮，数着银行的大笔存款。圣·乔治也许会出现在标语上和政治演说中，而约翰·布尔则会去送货。如果吉本的观点是正确的，甚至圣·乔治也曾戴上高顶大礼帽。他是一位军队物资承包商，并且供应质量低劣的熏肉。最终的结果都是一样的。

其次，正如中产阶级是英格兰的核心一样，英国公学制度是中产阶级的核心。这种超乎寻常的体制具有地域性，它还没有扩展到英伦三岛。爱尔兰和苏格兰都不存在这种体制（这两个地区不在我的调查之列），尽管这样有利于其他优秀体制的出现，比如仅限于美国某些学校所采用的阿里加体制，因为它产生于安格鲁一撒克逊中产阶级，而且只能在上述阶级中实行。英国公学制度比大学更充分地、更好地诠释了英国中产阶级的特性，因为社会与精神的复杂性已经进入大学。学生寄宿、必修运动项目、高年级同学役使和欺侮低年级同学，以及高度重视身材与团队精神是英国公学制度的四大特点，正是这些特点使公学的影响力远远超过其数量。

毕业后，男生们要么立刻开始工作、参军从商或者移民，要么进入大学深造，经过三至四年的学习后从事律师、医生、公务员、教师或记者等职业（如果他们无缘成为体力工人或艺术家。）在上述事业中，他所受到的教育，或者说没有受到的教育，深深地影响着他。回忆也会影响他们。许多人都把在学校的日子视为人生中最快乐的时光。他们带着遗憾的心情怀念那段金色时光。那时，生活虽然艰苦，但还不算复杂。那时，他们同学习、同游戏、同思考，如果说他们思考的话。他们受到的教导告诉他们，学校是个微型世界，他们相信，一个人如果不爱自己的学校，那他就不可能爱自己的国家。而且他们通过加入“老朋友”社团尽量使那段岁月延长，事实上他们中某些人一生都没有离开这个社团。他们认为学校万事好。他们崇拜学校并引用这样的评论来赞誉学校：“打赢滑铁卢战役的基础是在伊顿公学的球场上奠定的。”他们并不在乎这句评论在历史上是不适用的，也不在乎它并不是惠灵顿公爵发表的，而且惠灵顿公爵是一位爱尔兰人。他们反复引用这句评论，因为它表达了他们的情感。他们认为，即使惠灵顿公爵没有这样说，他也应该这样说；即使他不是英国人，他也应该是英国人。他们所生活的社会并不完全由公学学生或安格鲁-撒克逊人组成的，而是由形形色色的人组成的，对于这个社会中的财富与难以捉摸的东西，他们完全摸不着头脑。他们进入社会时，体魄健全，智力一般，感情匮乏（身体锻炼得十分结实，大脑的开发一般，而心的发育则不健全）而恰恰就是感情匮乏使英国人在国外遇到了许多困难。感情匮乏并不是冷酷无情，这一差别相当重要，也是我下一个论点的基础。

并不是英国人没有感情，而是英国人害怕有感情。在公学中他们所受的教育是，感情是有害的。他们不应该表现出大喜大悲，甚至在谈话时不应该把嘴巴张得过大，否则他们的烟斗会从口中掉落。他们必须掩饰自己的情绪，或者仅在特殊场合才可以表达自己的感情。

从前（这是一件逸事），我与一位印度朋友到欧洲度假，为期一周。我们玩得很愉快，当一周结束时我们都感到十分难过。然而在分别时，我们的行为却是截然相反的。我的朋友完全陷入了绝望。他认为假期结束了，所有的幸福也将随之而去，而且痛苦的日子将一直持续至世界末日。他将伤心表达到了极点，到了无以复加的程度。但是我身上则表现出强烈的英国人特性。我想到我们可以在一至两个月以后再次见面，如果我们在此期间有话要说，可以通信，而且在这种情况下我认为这不值得大惊小怪。这并不是生离死别。“振作起来，”我说，“振作起来。”他拒绝振作，于是我任由他陷入郁闷。

这件事的结尾更说明问题。因为当我们于次月见面时，我们的谈话对了解英国人的性格大有裨益。一开始我便指责朋友，我告诉他不应该在这种小事上牵动并体现出这么多感情，这并不妥当。“妥当”这个字眼儿激怒了他，“什么？”他大声说道，“你是不是像分配土豆一样分配你的感情？”我不喜欢土豆这个比喻，但是沉思片刻后我说，“是的，我是这样；而且，我认为应该这样。小事需要的感情少，大事需要的感情多。我希望我的感情分配得当。我也许是像分配土豆一样分配感情，但是要胜过你像桶里的水一样乱溅。”他不喜欢水桶这个比喻。“如果是这样想的，那么我们绝交，他喊道，然后离开了房间，而后又立刻转回来，补充说道，“不——但是你对于感情的整个态度是错的。感情与妥当无关，感情只在于是否真诚。我碰巧是个感情丰富的人，于是我流露我的感情；你是否应该感情丰富这并不重要。”

这些话给我留下了深刻印象。然而我不同意他的看法，并且要说明我与他一样重视感情，只是表达的方式不同而已。如果我在小事上随意挥洒感情，我害怕在大事上无感情可施，比如破产、人生危机这样的大事。

注意“破产”一词，我是作为慎重的中产阶级一员讲这番话的，而且我们总惦记着欠债就一定要偿还。然而我的朋友是从东方人的角度出发的，而且东方人背后的传统不是中产阶级的谨慎而是皇帝般的慷慨大方与丰富多彩。东方人认为自己的财富是取之不尽用之不竭的，正如约翰·布尔认为他的财富是无穷无尽的。对于物质资源，东方人的态度显然是不明智的，金钱并不是无穷尽的。如果我们花费或让出我们全部的金钱，我们便身无分文，而且必须承担后果，这经常是令人不悦的。但是，就精神财富而言，东方人也许是对的。感情或许是取之不尽用之不竭的。我们表达感情越充分，我们所要表达的感情就越丰富。

真爱不同于黄金和泥土，

分享不会使之减少，

雪莱写道。无论怎样，雪莱相信精神的财富是无尽的，他相信我们可以大量地、充满激情地，在各种场合表达我们的情感，我们无论怎样表现悲哀和欢乐都不过分。

我已通过上面的逸事描绘出一个典型的英国人了。现在我将从这个眩晕又不熟悉的高度降下来，继续评论英国人的性格特点，关于英国人迟钝的特点。英国人表面上冷漠而且无感情，因为他们确实迟钝。每当有事发生，英国人会迅速弄清楚事情的来龙去脉，但是他们需要一段时间才能在感情上做出反应。从前一辆马车正驶过阿尔卑斯山，车上坐着英国人和法国人。拉车的马脱缰，马车在冲过桥时刮到了桥上的石头，马车来回摇晃，险些跌进桥下的沟壑。法国人极度恐惧，他们肆意尖叫，慌张地挥动双臂胡乱冲撞；而英国人则相当镇静地坐着。一小时后，马车停在一家小旅馆前换马，此时情形发生了逆转。法国人完全忘却了危险，快乐地闲谈着；此时英国人则刚刚感受到危险，其中一个人还因惊吓而精神崩溃，因此必须卧床休息。由此可见，两个民族在身体上存在明显差异，正是这一差异对其性格特点产生了重大影响。法国人的反应迅速及时，而英国人则需过一段时间才做出反应。英国人迟钝而又实际，英国人的本能制止他们在马车中摇来摆去，因为如果他们这样做，就更容易翻车。

英国人注意的是我们应该一再注意的事实。当灾难来临时，英国人的本能是去做最先能做的事，并且尽量推迟感情的到来。因此英国人在紧急情况下异常镇静。无疑他们是勇敢的，这一点毋庸置疑，但是勇敢的性情归功于神经而英国人的神经系统是为身体上的紧急情况而准备的。它（英国人的神经系统）行动迅速，感觉迟缓。这二者的结合的确有用，具备这一结合的人多半都很勇敢。动作结束时，英国人才会有感觉。

这里有一个更重要的结论一最重要的一点。如果英国人天性冷漠，他们如何能够创造出伟大的文学，尤其是诗体文学？就散文而言，英国文学不是一流的；是诗使得英国文学与希腊、波斯或法国文学齐名。然而英国人却被认为不解诗情画意，原因何在？拥有伊丽莎白时期的戏剧和湖畔诗人的民族绝不是一个冷漠、无诗情画意的民族，冰不能生火。因为文学总是以民族特征为基础，所以，英国特性中肯定隐藏着激情的源泉，这样才会创造出我们读到的火一般的文学作品。我们常常在周围熟悉的人身上寻找热情的同情心浪漫、想象力，但往往无功而返。然而，这些品质肯定存在于英国整体民族之中，否则我们不可能有如此热情奔放的英国国歌只是一颗发育不全的心，而不是一颗冷酷的心。

问题在于英国人的性格并不容易理解。英国人的性格彰显着简约的气质，它标榜自己简明，然而我们越探究它，遇到的问题就越多。人们往往认为东方是神秘的，其实西方也是神秘的，乍一看东西方都不会展现自身的本质。我们知道从远处看海是什么样子：颜色单一，水面平平，似乎里面不可能有鱼类动物生存。但是，如果我们沿船舷向海底望去，我们会看到十几种颜色，海水一层深似一层，鱼儿在里面游来游去。大海犹如英国人的性格特点看似波澜不惊，实则不然。

大海的最深处和各种各样的颜色就像英国的浪漫主义和敏感性。我们没料到能在英国人的特性中找到这些特点，但它们确实存在。现在继续我的比喻，鱼是英国人的感情，总想游到水面，只是不知道如何才能实现。多数情况下我们看到它们在深处游动，形体扭曲，模糊不清。有时它们成功地游到水面，我们便会欢呼：“哇，英国人是有感情的！他们的确会感受！”偶尔我们会看到那美丽的文鳐鱼完全跃出海面，跳到空中，沐浴在阳光下。英国文学如同一条文鳐鱼。它表明，在表层下面在人们不易注意到的地方，生命一天天地延续着；同时它也证明在咸咸的、不适于居住的海水中存在着美丽和情感。

现在让我们回到陆地。我们将以英国人对于批评的态度为起点。英国人不会被批评惹恼。他们聆听，也许根本没听，一笑了之，并说，“噢，那家伙在嫉妒。”“噢，我已经适应了萧伯纳似的老把戏，它们伤害不到我。”英国人从来不去想那人可能有点嫉妒但他批评得对，不会认真考虑别人的批评并从中受益。英国人从不认为自己还需要进步，改进只是说说而已，他们极度自满；东方和欧洲的其他国家总是因自身不够完美而不安，因此，他们憎恶批评，批评伤害了他们，他们迅速而又愤怒的回答常常掩饰了他们追求进步的决心。而英国人却不这样，他们根本没有不安的感觉。让批评家们去叫嚣吧，英国人认为自己在遇到困难时所采取的“宽容的幽默态度”并不是真正的幽默，因为无论是偷笑还是狂笑都暴露了他的不安。

此前我曾暗示英国人有时是虚伪的，现在我有责任展开这个相当痛苦的话题。虚伪是向我们提出的最重要的指控。德国人野蛮，西班牙人残忍，美国人肤浅，等等；然而我们是虚伪的英国、虚伪的岛屿，这里的人们一手拿着圣经，一手握着手枪建立了大英帝国，两手同时拥有财政特许权。

这项指控公正吗？我想是公正的；但是当我们进行指控时，我们必须清楚何为虚伪。虚伪是否意味着有意识的欺骗？如果是，那么英国人是无辜的，英国人中不存在文艺复兴式的反派人物。虚伪是否意味着无意识的欺骗？糊涂虫？如果是，那么我相信英国人是有罪的。当一个英国人被引入歧途时，他几乎总是从犯糊涂开始。公学教育没有赋予学生清楚的头脑，而且他很容易使自己的思维混淆。我们在神学领域看到了这一倾向，在行为学领域是否也如此？

这里把简·奥斯汀作为权威来引用似乎有些奇怪，但是简·奥斯汀已经在她有限的范围内非凡地洞察了英国人的思维。她的世界是有限的，而她笔下的人物也从未犯过任何重罪。但是在观察行为问题时，她的目光尖锐无情。她的小说《理智与情感》的前几章提供了一个经典例子，使我们看到两个英国人在走上一条错误道路之前是如何先犯糊涂的。老达什伍德先生刚刚去世。他有过两次婚姻，第一次婚姻为他留下一个儿子约翰，第二次婚姻为他留下三个女儿。他的儿子富有，而比他长寿的第二个妻子和三个女儿则贫困。他把儿子叫到病榻前郑重地将一家人托付给他。备受感动的年轻人答应了父亲的要求，并暗下决心给每个妹妹1000英镑，随后喜剧性的情节开始了。由于约翰·达什伍德向妻子宣布了自己慷慨的意图，而太太当然不同意让别人来剥夺自己儿子的财产。于是1000英镑减少为500英镑。即使这个数目也太多了，那么向继母支付赡养费会不会减少失财的痛苦？会的，但是减少痛苦会增加支出，因为“她现在相当强壮、健康，而且还不到40岁”。偶尔给她50英镑作为礼物也许更好，“而且，我认为，我也完全履行了对父亲的诺言。最好什么都不给，反正父亲已经死了。最终什么都没有，什么都没有，甚至没有帮四位身无分文的女士搬运家具。

那么，约翰·达什伍德家的人是伪君子吗？这要取决于我们对于虚伪的定义。当他积蓄力量并逐渐向好的意图努力时，这个年轻人不会意识到他邪恶的冲动。甚至他那性格更加糟糕的妻子也是自欺欺人的。她认为老达什伍德先生在临死前一定是疯了。她只想着自己的儿子，当然母亲想着自己的孩子是天经地义的。她的头脑一片混乱，总之一句话她可以拒绝支付让女士们雇车的钱，而后她便可以说她们不愿意雇车，自然无须支付任何费用。诚然其他国家的人也会犯糊涂，然而约翰·达什伍德的思维状态是典型的英国人的思维方式。英国人头脑迟钝，甚至犯错误也需要一段时间，而其他国家的人则迅速犯错。

民族缺陷如同民族疾病一样是存在的，也许可以把二者等同起来。我一直在想英国的民族疾病应该是癌症和痨病发展缓慢、隐伏危害、容易被误诊，而南部常见的疾病应该是霍乱和瘟疫，它们会使一个健壮的人在一天之内遭遇死亡。约翰达什伍德夫妇应该患有道德痨病，他们在未察觉患病的情况下日渐崩溃。既然他们的罪恶不是夸张的或猛烈的，你便不能称他们为恶棍。

下面来谈论一下对英国人的其他指控。比如，英国人被指控狡诈、残忍与狂热。我认为这些指责是名不副实的，因为狡诈和残忍是有意识的罪恶。人们知道自己做错了，仍然一意孤行，就像达尔杜弗或者伊阿古一样，他出卖朋友因为他喜欢如此；折磨犯人，因为他喜欢看见流血；他向恶魔顶礼膜拜，因为他喜欢恶而不喜欢善。普通的英国人没有这样的恶行。他的性格会阻碍他上升到一定的高度，同时也不会让他堕落到如此糟糕的地步。正因为普通的英国人不会成为神秘主义者，因此他们也不会成为恶棍；他们既不为世界造就预言家，也不给世界带来无政府主义或者宗教与政治的狂热分子。

当然有些英国人是残忍、狡诈的，你只需把目光转向政坛便可见公共耻辱的实例，比如阿姆利则惨案。然而，没有人从政坛或是军队中寻找民族精神，你结识的英国人越多，你就越相信这些指责从总体上说是虚假的。然而外国评论家经常这样指责英国人，原因何在？部分原因在于他们被英国人性格特点上的某些确实的弱点惹恼了，于是他们愤怒地将这些弱点统统归结为残忍，以便把问题简单化。道德的愤慨是可以接受的，但却是不妥当的。英国人和英国评论家均沉溺于此，他们都发现了许多乐趣。缺陷在于当他们徜徉于其中时，世人丝毫没有变得更精明或更愚蠢。

上述各点的关键之处在于英国人的性格是不完整的。任何一个民族的性格特点都是不完整的。我们必须在世界某个角落寻找某些特性，而到其他角落去寻找其他特性。然而，英国人性格不完整的方式使外国观察者感到特别烦恼。英国人的性格有一个糟糕的表面一自满、缺乏同情心、矜持。糟糕的表面下还有很多情感，却从不为英国人所用。此外，英国人还有许多聪明才智，但它往往被应用于树立偏见而不是消除偏见。具有这些性格特点的英国人是不会受欢迎的。我只想重申：英国人本身并不邪恶，也并不冷漠，一切都是体制的错。

我希望并相信我们可以在未来的20年中目睹一个巨大变化，看到英国人的性格特点变得更普遍、更可爱。中产阶级的不可一世也许会终结。我们无法确定工人阶级会引入哪些新的因素，但是，无论如何他们将不会在公学体制下受教育。上述各点是赞扬还是指责英国人的性格并不是一成不变的。它们是一个追求真知的学生的笔记，将珍视他人的协助。我相信真相的伟大并且认为应该将其推广。我不相信官方的谨慎与缄默。秘密已经公开，外交也无法将其挽回。各民族必须互相了解，而且要快，不要政府的插手与干预，因为世界在缩小，这使得他们不可避免地要进行接触。理解上述笔记只是一点微薄的贡献——一个小说家对英国人性格的印象。

Key Words:

miniature ['miniətʃə]

n. 缩图，小画像

mishap ['mis.hæp]

n. 不幸之事，灾祸，恶运

fuss [fʌs]

n. 大惊小怪，小题大作，强烈不满或争吵

munificence [mju:'nifisəns]

n. 慷慨给与；宽宏大量

imperturbable [.impə'tə:bəbl]

adj. 沉着的，泰然自若的，镇静的

inhospitable [in'hɔspitəbl]

adj. 冷淡的，不好客的；荒凉的；不适居留的

merciless ['mə:silis]

adj. 无慈悲心的，残忍的

impecunious [.impi'kju:niəs]

adj. 没有钱的，身无分文的，贫穷的

reticence ['retisəns]

n. 无言，沉默，谨慎

dispel [di'spel]

v. 驱散，驱逐

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