四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第13部分

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other　they　rise　before　me。　Books　gentle　and　quieting；　books　noble　and　inspiring；　books　that　well　merit　to　be　pored　over；　not　once　but　many　a　time。　Yet　never　again　shall　I　hold　them　in　my　hand；　the　years　fly　too　quickly；　and　are　too　few。　Perhaps　when　I　lie　waiting　for　the　end；　some　of　those　lost　books　will　e　into　my　wandering　thoughts；　and　I　shall　remember　them　as　friends　to　whom　I　owed　a　kindness……friends　passed　upon　the　way。　What　regret　in　that　last　farewell！
III
Every　one；　I　suppose；　is　subject　to　a　trick　of　mind　which　often　puzzles　me。　I　am　reading　or　thinking；　and　at　a　moment；　without　any　association　or　suggestion　that　I　can　discover；　there　rises　before　me　the　vision　of　a　place　I　know。　Impossible　to　explain　why　that　particular　spot　should　show　itself　to　my　mind's　eye；　the　cerebral　impulse　is　so　subtle　that　no　search　may　trace　its　origin。　If　I　am　reading；　doubtless　a　thought；　a　phrase；　possibly　a　mere　word；　on　the　page　before　me　serves　to　awaken　memory。　If　I　am　otherwise　occupied；　it　must　be　an　object　seen；　an　odour；　a　touch；　perhaps　even　a　posture　of　the　body　suffices　to　recall　something　in　the　past。　Sometimes　the　vision　passes；　and　there　an　end；　sometimes；　however；　it　has　successors；　the　memory　working　quite　independently　of　my　will；　and　no　link　appearing　between　one　scene　and　the　next。
Ten　minutes　ago　I　was　talking　with　my　gardener。　Our　topic　was　the　nature　of　the　soil；　whether　or　not　it　would　suit　a　certain　kind　of　vegetable。　Of　a　sudden　I　found　myself　gazing　at……the　Bay　of　Avlona。　Quite　certainly　my　thoughts　had　not　strayed　in　that　direction。　The　picture　that　came　before　me　caused　me　a　shock　of　surprise；　and　I　am　still　vainly　trying　to　discover　how　I　came　to　behold　it。
A　happy　chance　that　I　ever　saw　Avlona。　I　was　on　my　way　from　Corfu　to　Brindisi。　The　steamer　sailed　late　in　the　afternoon；　there　was　a　little　wind；　and　as　the　December　night　became　chilly；　I　soon　turned　in。　With　the　first　daylight　I　was　on　deck；　expecting　to　find　that　we　were　near　the　Italian　port；　to　my　surprise；　I　saw　a　mountainous　shore；　towards　which　the　ship　was　making　at　full　speed。　On　inquiry；　I　learnt　that　this　was　the　coast　of　Albania；　our　vessel　not　being　very　seaworthy；　and　the　wind　still　blowing　a　little　（though　not　enough　to　make　any　passenger　unfortable）；　the　captain　had　turned　back　when　nearly　half　across　the　Adriatic；　and　was　seeking　a　haven　in　the　shelter　of　the　snow…topped　hills。　Presently　we　steamed　into　a　great　bay；　in　the　narrow　mouth　of　which　lay　an　island。　My　map　showed　me　where　we　were；　and　with　no　small　interest　I　discovered　that　the　long　line　of　heights　guarding　the　bay　on　its　southern　side　formed　the　Acroceraunian　Promontory。　A　little　town　visible　high　up　on　the　inner　shore　was　the　ancient　Aulon。
Here　we　anchored；　and　lay　all　day　long。　Provisions　running　short；　a　boat　had　to　be　sent　to　land；　and　the　sailors　purchased；　among　other　things；　some　peculiarly　detestable　bread……according　to　them；　cotto　al　sole。　There　was　not　a　cloud　in　the　sky；　till　evening；　the　wind　whistled　above　our　heads；　but　the　sea　about　us　was　blue　and　smooth。　I　sat　in　hot　sunshine；　feasting　my　eyes　on　the　beautiful　cliffs　and　valleys　of　the　thickly…wooded　shore。　Then　came　a　noble　sunset；　then　night　crept　gently　into　the　hollows　of　the　hills；　which　now　were　coloured　the　deepest；　richest　green。　A　little　lighthouse　began　to　shine。　In　the　perfect　calm　that　had　fallen；　I　heard　breakers　murmuring　softly　upon　the　beach。
At　sunrise　we　entered　the　port　of　Brindisi。
IV
The　characteristic　motive　of　English　poetry　is　love　of　nature；　especially　of　nature　as　seen　in　the　English　rural　landscape。　From　the　〃Cuckoo　Song〃　of　our　language　in　its　beginnings　to　the　perfect　loveliness　of　Tennyson's　best　verse；　this　note　is　ever　sounding。　It　is　persistent　even　amid　the　triumph　of　the　drama。　Take　away　from　Shakespeare　all　his　bits　of　natural　description；　all　his　casual　allusions　to　the　life　and　aspects　of　the　country；　and　what　a　loss　were　there！　The　reign　of　the　iambic　couplet　confined；　but　could　not　suppress；　this　native　music；　Pope　notwithstanding；　there　came　the　〃Ode　to　Evening〃　and　that　〃Elegy〃　which；　unsurpassed　for　beauty　of　thought　and　nobility　of　utterance　in　all　the　treasury　of　our　lyrics；　remains　perhaps　the　most　essentially　English　poem　ever　written。
This　attribute　of　our　national　mind　availed　even　to　give　rise　to　an　English　school　of　painting。　It　came　late；　that　it　ever　came　at　all　is　remarkable　enough。　A　people　apparently　less　apt　for　that　kind　of　achievement　never　existed。　So　profound　is　the　English　joy　in　meadow　and　stream　and　hill；　that；　unsatisfied　at　last　with　vocal　expression；　it　took　up　the　brush；　the　pencil；　the　etching　tool；　and　created　a　new　form　of　art。　The　National　Gallery　represents　only　in　a　very　imperfect　way　the　richness　and　variety　of　our　landscape　work。　Were　it　possible　to　collect；　and　suitably　to　display；　the　very　best　of　such　work　in　every　vehicle；　I　know　not　which　would　be　the　stronger　emotion　in　an　English　heart；　pride　or　rapture。
One　obvious　reason　for　the　long　neglect　of　Turner　lies　in　the　fact　that　his　genius　does　not　seem　to　be　truly　English。　Turner's　landscape；　even　when　it　presents　familiar　scenes；　does　not　show　them　in　the　familiar　light。　Neither　the　artist　nor　the　intelligent　layman　is　satisfied。　He　gives　us　glorious　visions；　we　admit　the　glory……but　we　miss　something　which　we　deem　essential。　I　doubt　whether　Turner　tasted　rural　England；　I　doubt　whether　the　spirit　of　English　poetry　was　in　him；　I　doubt　whether　the　essential　significance　of　the　mon　things　which　we　call　beautiful　was　revealed　to　his　soul。　Such　doubt　does　not　affect　his　greatness　as　a　poet　in　colour　and　in　form；　but　I　suspect　that　it　has　always　been　the　cause　why　England　could　not　love　him。　If　any　man　whom　I　knew　to　be　a　man　of　brains　confessed　to　me　that　he　preferred　Birket　Foster；　I　should　smile……but　I　should　understand。
V
A　long　time　since　I　wrote　in　this　book。　In　September　I　caught　a　cold；　which　meant　three　weeks'　illness。
I　have　not　been　suffering；　merely　feverish　and　weak　and　unable　to　use　my　mind　for　anything　but　a　daily　hour　or　two　of　the　lightest　reading。　The　weather　has　not　favoured　my　recovery；　wet　winds　often　blowing；　and　not　much　sun。　Lying　in　bed；　I　have　watched　the　sky；　studied　the　clouds；　which……so　long　as　they　are　clouds　indeed；　and　not　a　mere　waste　of　grey　vapour……always　have　their　beauty。　Inability　to　read　has　always　been　my　horror；　once；　a　trouble　of　the　eyes　all　but　drove　me　mad　with　fear　of　blindness；　but　I　find　that　in　my　present　circumstances；　in　my　own　still　house；　with　no　intrusion　to　be　dreaded；　with　no　task　or　care　to　worry　me；　I　can　fleet　the　time　not　unpleasantly　even　without　help　of　books。　Reverie；　unknown　to　me　in　the　days　of　bondage；　has　brought　me　solace；　I　hope　it　has　a　little　advanced　me　in　wisdom。
For　not；　surely；　by　deliberate　effort　of　thought　does　a　man　grow　wise。　The　truths　of　life　are　not　discovered　by　us。　At　moments　unforeseen；　some　gracious　influence　descends　upon　the　soul；　touching　it　to　an　emotion　which；　we　know　not　how；　the　mind　transmutes　into　thought。　This　can　happen　only　in　a　calm　of　the　senses；　a　surrender　of　the　whole　being　to　passionless　contemplation。　I　understand；　now；　the　intellectual　mood　of　the　quietist。
Of　course　my　good　housekeeper　has　tended　me　perfectly；　with　the　minimum　of　needless　talk。　Wonderful　woman！
If　the　evidence　of　a　well…spent　life　is　necessarily　seen　in　〃honour；　love；　obedience；　troops　of　friends；〃　mine；　it　is　clear；　has　fallen　short　of　a　moderate　ideal。　Friends　I　have　had；　and　have；　but　very　few。　Honour　and　obedience……why；　by　a　stretch；　Mrs。　M…　may　perchance　represent　these　blessings。　As　for　love……？
Let　me　tell　myself　the　truth。　Do　I　really　believe　that　at　any　time　of　my　life　I　have　been　the　kind　of　man　who　merits　affection？　I　think　not。　I　have　always　been　much　too　self…absorbed；　too　critical　of　all　about　me；　too　unreasonably　proud。　Such　men　as　I　live　and　die　alone；　however　much　in　appearance　acpanied。　I　do　not　repine　at　it；　nay；　lying　day　after　day　in　solitude　and　silence；　I　have　felt　glad　that　it　was　so。　At　least　I　give　no　one　trouble；　and　that　is　much。　Most　solemnly　do　I　hope　that　in　the　latter　days　no　long　illness　a　this　life　of　quiet　enjoyment　to　the　final　peace。　So　shall　no　one　think　of　me　with　pained　sympathy　or　with　weariness。　One……two……even　three　may　possibly　feel　regret；　e　the　end　how　it　may；　but　I　do　not　flatter　myself　that　to　them　I　am　more　than　an　object　of　kindly　thought　at　long　intervals。　It　is　enough；　it　signifies　that　I　have　not　erred　wholly。　And　when　I　think　that　my　daily　life　testifies　to　an　act　of　kindness　such　as　I　could　never　have　dreamt　of　meriting　from　the　man　who　performed　it；　may　I　not　be　much　more　than　content？
VI
How　I　envy　those　who　bee　prudent　without　thwackings　of　experience！　Such　men　seem　to　be　not　unmon。　I　don't　mean　cold…　blooded　calculators　of　profit　and　loss　in　life's　possibilities；　nor　yet　the　plodding　dull；　who　never　have　imagination　enough　to　quit　the　beaten　track　of　security；　but　bright…witted　and　large…hearted　fellows　who　seem　always　to　be　led　by　mon　sense；　who　go　steadily　from　stage　to　stage　of　life；　doing　the　right；　the　prudent　things；　guilty　of　no　vagaries；　winning　respect　by　natural　progress；　seldom　needing　aid　themselves；　often　helpful　to　others；　and；　through　all；　good…tempered；　deliberate；　happy。　How　I　envy　them！
For　of　myself　it　might　be　said　that　whatever　folly　is　possible　to　a　moneyless　man；　that　folly　I　have　at　one　time　or　another　mitted。　Within　my　nature　there　seemed　to　be　no　faculty　of　rational　self…　guidance。　Boy　and　man；　I　blundered　into　every　ditch　and　bog　which　lay　within　sight　of　my　way。　Never　did　silly　mortal　reap　such　harvest　of　experience；　never　had　any　one　so　many　bruises　to　show　for　it。　Thwack；　thwack！　No　sooner　had　I　recovered　from　one　sound　drubbing　than　I　put　myself　in　the　way　of　another。　〃Unpractical〃　I　was　called　by　those　who　spoke　mildly；　〃idiot〃……I　am　sure……by　many　a　ruder　tongue。　And　idiot　I　see　myself；　whenever　I　glance　back　over　the　long；　devious　road。　Something；　obviously；　I　lacked　from　the　beginning；　some　balancing　principle　granted　to　most　men　in　one　or　another　degree。　I　had　brains；　but　they　were　no　help　to　me　in　the　mon　circumstances　of　life。　But　for　the　good　fortune　which　plucked　me　out　of　my　mazes　and　set　me　in　paradise；　I　should　no　doubt　have　blundered　on　to　the　end。　The　last　thwack　of　experience　would　have　laid　me　low　just　when　I　was　being　really　a　prudent　man。
VII
This　morning's　sunshine　faded　amid　slow…gathering　clouds；　but　something　of　its　light　seems　still　to　linger　in　the　air；　and　to　touch　the　rain　which　is　falling　softly。　I　hear　a　pattering　upon　the　still　leafage　of　the　garden；　it　is　a　sound　which　lulls；　and　tunes　the　mind　to　calm　thoughtfulness。
I　have　a　letter　to…day　from　my　old　friend　in　Germany；　E。　B。　For　many　and　many　a　year　these　letters　have　made　a　pleasant　incident　in　my　life；　more　than　that；　they　have　often　brought　me　help　and　fort。　It　must　be　a　rare　thing　for　friendly　correspondence　to　go　on　during　the　greater　part　of　a　lifetime　between　men　of　different　nationalities　who　see　each　other　not　twice　in　two　decades。　We　were　young　men　when　we　first　met　in　London；　poor；　struggling；　full　of　hopes　and　ideals；　now　we　look　back　upon　those　far　memories　from　the　autumn　of　life。　B。　writes　to…day　in　a　vein　of　quiet　contentment；　which　does　me　good。　He　quotes　Goethe：　〃Was　man　in　der　Jugend　begehrt　hat　man　im　Alter　die　Fulle。〃
These　words　of　Goethe's　were　once　a　hope　to　me；　later；　they　made　me　shake　my　head　incredulously；　now　I　smile　to　think　how　true　they　have　proved　in　my　own　case。　But　what；　exactly；　do　they　mean？　Are　they　merely　an　expression　of　the　optimistic　spirit？　If　so；　optimism　has　to　content　itself　with　rather　doubtful　generalities。　Can　it　truly　be　said　that　most　men　find　the　wishes　of　their　youth　satisfied　in　later　life？　Ten　years　ago；　I　should　have　utterly　denied　it；　and　could　have　brought　what　seemed　to　me　abundant　evidence　in　its　disproof。　And　as　regards　myself；　is　it　not　by　mere　happy　accident　that　I　pass　my　latter　years　in　such　enjoyment　of　all　I　most　desired？　Accident……but　there　is　no　such　thing。　I　might　just　as　well　have　called　it　an　accident　had　I　succeeded　in　earning　the　money　on　which　now　I　live。
From　the　beginning　of　my　manhood；　it　is　true；　I　longed　for　bookish　leisure；　that；　assuredly；　is　seldom　even　one　of　the　desires　in　a　young　man's　heart；　but　perhaps　it　is　one　of　those　which　may　most　reasonably　look　for　gratification　later　on。　What；　however；　of　the　multitudes　who　aim　only　at　wealth；　for　the　power　and　the　pride　and　the　material　pleasures　which　it　represents？　We　know　very　well　that　few　indeed　are　successful　in　that　aim；　and；　missing　it；　do　they　not　miss　everything？　For　them；　are　not　Goethe's　words　mere　mockery？
Apply　them　to　mankind　at　large；　and　perhaps；　after　all；　they　are　true。　The　fact　of　national　prosperity　and　contentment　implies；　necessarily；　the　prosperity　and　contentment　of　the　greater　number　of　the　individuals　of　which　the　nation　consists。　In　other　words；　the　average　man　who　is　past　middle　life　has　obtained　what　he　strove　for…　…success　in　his　calling。　As　a　young　man；　he　would　not；　perhaps；　have　set　forth　his　aspirations　so　moderately；　but　do　they　not；　as　a　fact；　amount　to　this？　In　defence　of　the　optimistic　view；　one　may　urge　how　rare　it　is　to　meet　with　an　elderly　man　who　harbours　a　repining　spirit。　True；　but　I　have　always　regarded　as　a　fact　of　infinite　pathos　the　ability　men　have　to　subdue　themselves　to　the　conditions　of　life。　Contentment　so　often　means　resignation；　abandonment　of　the　hope　seen　to　be　forbidden。
I　cannot　resolve　this　doubt。
VIII
I　have　been　reading　Sainte…Beuve's　Port　Royal；　a　book　I　have　often　thought　of　reading；　but　its　length；　and　my　slight　interest　in　that　period；　always　held　me　aloof。　Happily；　chance　and　mood　came　together；　and　I　am　richer　by　a　bit　of　knowledge　well　worth　acquiring。　It　is　the　kind　of　book　which；　one　may　reasonably　say；　tends　to　edification。　One　is　better　for　having　lived　a　while　with　〃Messieurs　de　Port…Royal〃；　the　best　of　them　were；　surely；　not　far　from　the　Kingdom　of　Heaven。
Theirs　is　not；　indeed；　the　Christianity　of　the　first　age；　we　are　among　theologians；　and　the　shadow　of　dogma　has　dimmed　those　divine　hues　of　the　early　morning；　yet　ever　and　anon　there　es　a　cool；　sweet　air；　which　seems　not　to　have　blown　across　man's　mon　world；　which　bears　no　taint　of　mortality。
A　gallery　of　impressive　and　touching　portraits。　The　great…souled　M。　de　Saint…Cyran；　with　his　vision　of　Christ　restored；　M。　Le　Maitre；　who；　at　the　summit　of　a　brilliant　career；　turned　from　the　world　to　meditation　and　penitence；　Pascal；　with　his　genius　and　his　triumphs；　his　conflicts　of　soul　and　fleshly　martyrdom；　Lancelot；　the　good　Lancelot；　ideal　schoolmaster；　who　wrote　grammar　and　edited　classical　books；　the　vigorous　Arnauld；　doctoral　rather　than　saintly；　but　long…　suffering　for　the　faith　that　was　in　him；　and　all　the　smaller　names……　Walon　de　Beaupuis；　Nicole；　Hamon……spirits　of　exquisite　humility　and　sweetness……a　perfume　rises　from　the　page　as　one　reads　about　them。　But　best　of　all　I　like　M。　de　Tillemont；　I　could　have　wished　for　myself　even　such　a　life　as　his；　wrapped　in　silence　and　calm；　a　life　of　gentle　devotion　and　zealous　study。　From　the　age　of　fourteen；　he　said；　his　intellect　had　occupied　itself　with　but　one　subject；　that　of　ecclesiastical　history。　Rising　at　four　o'clock；　he　read　and　wrote　until　half…pa