Chapter 0
LETTER OF DEDICATION By WIllkie Collins LETTER OF DEDICATION To Charles James Ward, Esquire. It has long been one of my pleasantest anticipations to look forward to the time when I might offer
my old and dear friend some such acknowledgement of the value I place on your affection for me, and of my grateful sense of the many acts of kindness by which that affection has been proved, as I now gladly offer in this place. In dedicating the present work to you, I fulfill therefore a purpose which for some time past I have sincerely desired to achieve, and more than that, I gain for myself the satisfaction of knowing that there is one page, at least, of my book
on which I shall always look with unalloyed pleasure, the page that bears your name. I have founded the main event out of which this story springs, unaffected within my own knowledge. In afterwards shaping the course of the narrative thus suggested, I have guided it, as often as I could, where I knew by my own experience or by experience related to me by others, that it would touch on something real and true in its progress. My idea was that the more of the actual I could garner up as a text to speak from,
the more certain I might feel of the genuineness and value of the ideal which was sure to spring out of it. Fancy and imagination, grace and beauty, all those qualities which are to the work of art what scent and color are to the flower, can only grow towards heaven by taking root in earth. Is not the noblest poetry of prose fiction the poetry of everyday truth? Directing my characters and my story then towards the light of reality wherever I could find it,
I have not hesitated to violate some of the conventionalities of sentimental fiction. For instance, the first love meeting of two of the personages in this book occurs where the real love meeting from which it is drawn occurred, in the very last place and under the very last circumstances which the artifices of sentimental writing would sanction. Will my lovers excite ridicule instead of interest, because I have truly represented them as seeing each other where hundreds of other lovers have first seen each other, as hundreds of people will readily admit when they read the passage to which I refer?
I am sanguine enough to think not. So again, in certain parts of this book where I have attempted to excite the suspense or pity of the reader, I have admitted, as perfectly fit accessories to the scene, the most ordinary street sounds that could be heard, and the most ordinary street events that could occur at the time and in the place represented, believing that by adding to truth they were adding to tragedy, adding by all the force of fair contrast,
adding as no artifices of mere writing possibly could add, let them be ever so cunningly introduced by ever so crafty a hand. Allow me to dwell a moment longer on the story which these pages contain. Believing that the novel and the play are twin sisters in the family of fiction, that the one is a drama narrated as the other is a drama acted, and that all the strong and deep emotions which the playwriter is privileged to excite, the novel writer is privileged to excite also,
I have not thought it either politic or necessary, while adhering to realities, to adhere to everyday realities only. In other words, I have not stooped so low as to assure myself of the reader's belief in the probability of my story by never once calling on him for the exercise of his faith. Those extraordinary accidents and events which happen to few men seem to me to be as legitimate materials for fiction to work with when there was a good object in using them as the ordinary accidents and events which may and do happen to us all.
By appealing to genuine sources of interest within the reader's own experience, I could certainly gain his attention to begin with, but it would be only by appealing to other sources as genuine in their way beyond his own experience that I could hope to fix his interest and excite his suspense, to occupy his deeper feelings, or to stir his nobler thoughts. In writing thus briefly and very generally, for I must not delay you too long from the story, I can but repeat, though I hope almost unnecessarily, that I am now only speaking of what I have tried to do.
Between the purpose hinted at here and the execution of that purpose contained in the succeeding pages lies the broad line of separation which distinguishes between the will and the deed. How far I may fall short of another man's standard remains to be discovered. How far I have fallen short of my own I know painfully well. One word more on the manner in which the purpose of the following pages is worked out and I have done.
Nobody who admits that the business of fiction is to exhibit human life can deny that scenes of misery and crime must of necessity, while human nature remains what it is, form part of that exhibition. Nobody can assert that such scenes are unproductive of useful results when they are turned to a plainly and purely moral purpose.
If I am asked why I have written certain scenes in this book, my answer is to be found in the universally accepted truth which the preceding words express. I have a right to appeal to that truth, for I have guided myself by it throughout. In deriving the lesson which the following pages contain from those examples of error and crime which would most strikingly and naturally teach it,
I determined to do justice to the honesty of my object by speaking out. In drawing the two characters whose actions bring about the darker scenes of my story, I did not forget that it was my duty, while striving to portray them naturally, to put them to a good moral use. And at some sacrifice, in certain places, of dramatic effect,
though I trust with no sacrifice of truth to nature, I have shown the conduct of the vile, as always, in a greater or less degree associated with something that is selfish, contemptible, or cruel in motive. Whether any of my better characters may succeed in endearing themselves to the reader, I know not. But this I do certainly know, that I shall in no instance cheat him out of his sympathies in favor of the bad.
To those persons who dissent from the broad principles here adverted to, who deny that it is the novelist's vocation to do more than merely amuse them, who shrink from all honest and serious reference in books to subjects which they think of in private and talk of in public everywhere, who seek covert implications where nothing is implied,
and improper allusions where nothing improper is alluded to, whose innocence is in the word and not in the thought, whose morality stops at the tongue and never gets on to the heart, to those persons I should consider it loss of time and worse to offer any further explanation of my motives
than the sufficient explanation which I have given already. I do not address myself to them in this book, and she'll never think of addressing myself to them in any other. Those words formed part of the original introduction to this novel. I wrote them nearly ten years since, and what I said then I say now.
Basel was the second work of fiction which I produced. On its appearance it was condemned offhand by a certain class of readers as an outrage on their sense of propriety. Conscious of having designed and written my story with the strictest regard to true delicacy, as distinguished from false,
I allowed the prurient misinterpretation of certain perfectly innocent passages in this book to assert itself as offensively as it pleased, without troubling myself to protest against an expression of opinion which aroused in me no other feeling than a feeling of contempt. I knew that Basel had nothing to fear from pure-minded readers,
and I left these pages to stand or fall on such merits as they possessed. Slowly and surely my story forced its way through all adverse criticism to a place in the public favour which it has never lost since. Some of the most valued friends I now possess were made for me by Basel. Some of the most gratifying recognitions of my labours which I have received
from readers personally strangers to me have been recognitions of the purity of this story, from the first page to the last. All the indulgence I need now ask for Basel is indulgence for literary defects, which are the result of inexperience, which no correction can wholly remove,
and which no one sees more plainly after a lapse of ten years than the writer himself. I have only to add that the present edition of this book is the first which has had the benefit of my careful revision. While the incidents of the story remain exactly what they were, the language in which they are told has been, I hope in many cases,
greatly altered for the better. Wilkie Collins, Harley Street, London, July, 1862. End of Letter of Dedication. Recording by Crow Girl, caracrow.blogspot.com
