四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第17部分

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ty　years　ago；　more　glorious；　it　seems　to　me；　than　any　I　have　since　beheld。　It　happened　that；　on　one　such　evening；　I　was　by　the　river　at　Chelsea；　with　nothing　to　do　except　to　feel　that　I　was　hungry；　and　to　reflect　that；　before　morning；　I　should　be　hungrier　still。　I　loitered　upon　Battersea　Bridge……the　old　picturesque　wooden　bridge；　and　there　the　western　sky　took　hold　upon　me。　Half　an　hour　later；　I　was　speeding　home。　I　sat　down；　and　wrote　a　description　of　what　I　had　seen；　and　straightway　sent　it　to　an　evening　newspaper；　which；　to　my　astonishment；　published　the　thing　next　day……〃On　Battersea　Bridge。〃　How　proud　I　was　of　that　little　bit　of　writing！　I　should　not　much　like　to　see　it　again；　for　I　thought　it　then　so　good　that　I　am　sure　it　would　give　me　an　unpleasant　sensation　now。　Still；　I　wrote　it　because　I　enjoyed　doing　so；　quite　as　much　as　because　I　was　hungry；　and　the　couple　of　guineas　it　brought　me　had　as　pleasant　a　ring　as　any　money　I　ever　earned。
XXII
I　wonder　whether　it　be　really　true；　as　I　have　more　than　once　seen　suggested；　that　the　publication　of　Anthony　Trollope's　autobiography　in　some　degree　accounts　for　the　neglect　into　which　he　and　his　works　fell　so　soon　after　his　death。　I　should　like　to　believe　it；　for　such　a　fact　would　be；　from　one　point　of　view；　a　credit　to　〃the　great　big　stupid　public。〃　Only；　of　course；　from　one　point　of　view；　the　notable　merits　of　Trollope's　work　are　unaffected　by　one's　knowledge　of　how　that　work　was　produced；　at　his　best　he　is　an　admirable　writer　of　the　pedestrian　school；　and　this　disappearance　of　his　name　does　not　mean　final　oblivion。　Like　every　other　novelist　of　note；　he　had　two　classes　of　admirers……those　who　read　him　for　the　sake　of　that　excellence　which　here　and　there　he　achieved；　and　the　undistinguishing　crowd　which　found　in　him　a　level　entertainment。　But　it　would　be　a　satisfaction　to　think　that　〃the　great　big　stupid〃　was　really；　somewhere　in　its　secret　economy；　offended　by　that　revelation　of　mechanical　methods　which　made　the　autobiography　either　a　disgusting　or　an　amusing　book　to　those　who　read　it　more　intelligently。　A　man　with　a　watch　before　his　eyes；　penning　exactly　so　many　words　every　quarter　of　an　hour……one　imagines　that　this　picture　might　haunt　disagreeably　the　thoughts　even　of　Mudie's　steadiest　subscriber；　that　it　might　e　between　him　or　her　and　any　Trollopean　work　that　lay　upon　the　counter。
The　surprise　was　so　cynically　sprung　upon　a　yet　innocent　public。　At　that　happy　time　（already　it　seems　so　long　ago）　the　literary　news　set　before　ordinary　readers　mostly　had　reference　to　literary　work；　in　a　reputable　sense　of　the　term；　and　not；　as　now；　to　the　processes　of　〃literary〃　manufacture　and　the　ups　and　downs　of　the　〃literary〃　market。　Trollope　himself　tells　how　he　surprised　the　editor　of　a　periodical；　who　wanted　a　serial　from　him；　by　asking　how　many　thousand　words　it　should　run　to；　an　anecdote　savouring　indeed　of　good　old　days。　Since　then；　readers　have　grown　accustomed　to　revelations　of　〃literary〃　method；　and　nothing　in　that　kind　can　shock　them。　There　has　e　into　existence　a　school　of　journalism　which　would　seem　to　have　deliberately　set　itself　the　task　of　degrading　authorship　and　everything　connected　with　it；　and　these　pernicious　scribblers　（or　typists；　to　be　more　accurate）　have　found　the　authors　of　a　fretful　age　only　too　receptive　of　their　mercantile　suggestions。　Yes；　yes；　I　know　as　well　as　any　man　that　reforms　were　needed　in　the　relations　between　author　and　publisher。　Who　knows　better　than　I　that　your　representative　author　face　to　face　with　your　representative　publisher　was；　is；　and　ever　will　be；　at　a　ludicrous　disadvantage？　And　there　is　no　reason　in　the　nature　and　the　decency　of　things　why　this　wrong　should　not　by　some　contrivance　be　remedied。　A　big；　blusterous；　genial　brute　of　a　Trollope　could　very　fairly　hold　his　own；　and　exact　at　all　events　an　acceptable　share　in　the　profits　of　his　work。　A　shrewd　and　vigorous　man　of　business　such　as　Dickens；　aided　by　a　lawyer　who　was　his　devoted　friend；　could　do　even　better；　and；　in　reaping　sometimes　more　than　his　publisher；　redress　the　ancient　injustice。　But　pray；　what　of　Charlotte　Bronte？　Think　of　that　grey；　pinched　life；　the　latter　years　of　which　would　have　been　so　brightened　had　Charlotte　Bronte　received　but；　let　us　say；　one　third　of　what；　in　the　same　space　of　time；　the　publisher　gained　by　her　books。　I　know　all　about　this；　alas！　no　man　better。　None　the　less　do　I　loathe　and　sicken　at　the　manifold　baseness；　the　vulgarity　unutterable；　which；　as　a　result　of　the　new　order；　is　blighting　our　literary　life。　It　is　not　easy　to　see　how；　in　such　an　atmosphere；　great　and　noble　books　can　ever　again　e　into　being。　May　it；　perhaps；　be　hoped　that　once　again　the　multitude　will　be　somehow　touched　with　disgust？……that　the　market　for　〃literary〃　news　of　this　costermonger　sort　will　some　day　fail？
Dickens。　Why；　there　too　was　a　disclosure　of　literary　methods。　Did　not　Forster　make　known　to　all　and　sundry　exactly　how　Dickens'　work　was　done；　and　how　the　bargains　for　its　production　were　made？　The　multitudinous　public　saw　him　at　his　desk；　learnt　how　long　he　sat　there；　were　told　that　he　could　not　get　on　without　having　certain　little　ornaments　before　his　eyes；　and　that　blue　ink　and　a　quill　pen　were　indispensable　to　his　writing；　and　did　all　this　information　ever　chill　the　loyalty　of　a　single　reader？　There　was　a　difference；　in　truth；　between　the　picture　of　Charles　Dickens　sitting　down　to　a　chapter　of　his　current　novel；　and　that　of　the　broad…based　Trollope　doing　his　so　many　words　to　the　fifteen　minutes。　Trollope；　we　know；　wronged　himself　by　the　tone　and　manner　of　his　reminiscences；　but　that　tone　and　manner　indicated　an　inferiority　of　mind；　of　nature。　Dickens……though　he　died　in　the　endeavour　to　increase　（not　for　himself）　an　already　ample　fortune；　disastrous　influence　of　his　time　and　class……wrought　with　an　artistic　ingenuousness　and　fervour　such　as　Trollope　could　not　even　conceive。　Methodical；　of　course；　he　was；　no　long　work　of　prose　fiction　was　ever　brought　into　existence　save　by　methodical　labour；　but　we　know　that　there　was　no　measuring　of　so　many　words　to　the　hour。　The　picture　of　him　at　work　which　is　seen　in　his　own　letters　is　one　of　the　most　bracing　and　inspiring　in　the　history　of　literature。　It　has　had；　and　will　always　have；　a　great　part　in　maintaining　Dickens'　place　in　the　love　and　reverence　of　those　who　understand。
XXIII
As　I　walked　to…day　in　the　golden　sunlight……this　warm；　still　day　on　the　far　verge　of　autumn……there　suddenly　came　to　me　a　thought　which　checked　my　step；　and　for　the　moment　half　bewildered　me。　I　said　to　myself：　My　life　is　over。　Surely　I　ought　to　have　been　aware　of　that　simple　fact；　certainly　it　has　made　part　of　my　meditation；　has　often　coloured　my　mood；　but　the　thing　had　never　definitely　shaped　itself；　ready　in　words　for　the　tongue。　My　life　is　over。　I　uttered　the　sentence　once　or　twice；　that　my　ear　might　test　its　truth。　Truth　undeniable；　however　strange；　undeniable　as　the　figure　of　my　age　last　birthday。
My　age？　At　this　time　of　life；　many　a　man　is　bracing　himself　for　new　efforts；　is　calculating　on　a　decade　or　two　of　pursuit　and　attainment。　I；　too；　may　perhaps　live　for　some　years；　but　for　me　there　is　no　more　activity；　no　ambition。　I　have　had　my　chance……and　I　see　what　I　made　of　it。
The　thought　was　for　an　instant　all　but　dreadful。　What！　I；　who　only　yesterday　was　a　young　man；　planning；　hoping；　looking　forward　to　life　as　to　a　practically　endless　career；　I；　who　was　so　vigorous　and　scornful；　have　e　to　this　day　of　definite　retrospect？　How　is　it　possible？　But；　I　have　done　nothing；　I　have　had　no　time；　I　have　only　been　preparing　myself……a　mere　apprentice　to　life。　My　brain　is　at　some　prank；　I　am　suffering　a　momentary　delusion；　I　shall　shake　myself；　and　return　to　mon　sense……to　my　schemes　and　activities　and　eager　enjoyments。
Nevertheless；　my　life　is　over。
What　a　little　thing！　I　knew　how　the　philosophers　had　spoken；　I　repeated　their　musical　phrases　about　the　mortal　span……yet　never　till　now　believed　them。　And　this　is　all？　A　man's　life　can　be　so　brief　and　so　vain？　Idly　would　I　persuade　myself　that　life；　in　the　true　sense；　is　only　now　beginning；　that　the　time　of　sweat　and　fear　was　not　life　at　all；　and　that　it　now　only　depends　upon　my　will　to　lead　a　worthy　existence。　That　may　be　a　sort　of　consolation；　but　it　does　not　obscure　the　truth　that　I　shall　never　again　see　possibilities　and　promises　opening　before　me。　I　have　〃retired；〃　and　for　me　as　truly　as　for　the　retired　tradesman；　life　is　over。　I　can　look　back　upon　its　pleted　course；　and　what　a　little　thing！　I　am　tempted　to　laugh；　I　hold　myself　within　the　limit　of　a　smile。
And　that　is　best；　to　smile；　not　in　scorn；　but　in　all　forbearance；　without　too　much　self…passion。　After　all；　that　dreadful　aspect　of　the　thing　never　really　took　hold　of　me；　I　could　put　it　by　without　much　effort。　Life　is　done……and　what　matter？　Whether　it　has　been；　in　sum；　painful　or　enjoyable；　even　now　I　cannot　say……a　fact　which　in　itself　should　prevent　me　from　taking　the　loss　too　seriously。　What　does　it　matter？　Destiny　with　the　hidden　face　decreed　that　I　should　e　into　being；　play　my　little　part；　and　pass　again　into　silence；　is　it　mine　either　to　approve　or　to　rebel？　Let　me　be　grateful　that　I　have　suffered　no　intolerable　wrong；　no　terrible　woe　of　flesh　or　spirit；　such　as　others……alas！　alas！……have　found　in　their　lot。　Is　it　not　much　to　have　acplished　so　large　a　part　of　the　mortal　journey　with　so　much　ease？　If　I　find　myself　astonished　at　its　brevity　and　small　significance；　why；　that　is　my　own　fault；　the　voices　of　those　gone　before　had　sufficiently　warned　me。　Better　to　see　the　truth　now；　and　accept　it；　than　to　fall　into　dread　surprise　on　some　day　of　weakness；　and　foolishly　to　cry　against　fate。　I　will　be　glad　rather　than　sorry；　and　think　of　the　thing　no　more。
XXIV
Waking　at　early　dawn　used　to　be　one　of　the　things　I　most　dreaded。　The　night　which　made　me　capable　of　resuming　labour　had　brought　no　such　calm　as　should　follow　upon　repose；　I　woke　to　a　vision　of　the　darkest　miseries　and　lay　through　the　hours　of　daybreak……too　often……　in　very　anguish。　But　that　is　past。　Sometimes；　ere　yet　I　know　myself；　the　mind　struggles　as　with　an　evil　spirit　on　the　confines　of　sleep；　then　the　light　at　my　window；　the　pictures　on　my　walls；　restore　me　to　happy　consciousness；　happier　for　the　miserable　dream。　Now；　when　I　lie　thinking；　my　worst　trouble　is　wonder　at　the　mon　life　of　man。　I　see　it　as　a　thing　so　incredible　that　it　oppresses　the　mind　like　a　haunting　illusion。　Is　it　the　truth　that　men　are　fretting；　raving；　killing　each　other；　for　matters　so　trivial　that　I；　even　I；　so　far　from　saint　or　philosopher；　must　needs　fall　into　amazement　when　I　consider　them？　I　could　imagine　a　man　who；　by　living　alone　and　at　peace；　came　to　regard　the　everyday　world　as　not　really　existent；　but　a　creation　of　his　own　fancy　in　unsound　moments。　What　lunatic　ever　dreamt　of　things　less　consonant　with　the　calm　reason　than　those　which　are　thought　and　done　every　minute　in　every　munity　of　men　called　sane？　But　I　put　aside　this　reflection　as　soon　as　may　be；　it　perturbs　me　fruitlessly。　Then　I　listen　to　the　sounds　about　my　cottage；　always　soft；　soothing；　such　as　lead　the　mind　to　gentle　thoughts。　Sometimes　I　can　hear　nothing；　not　the　rustle　of　a　leaf；　not　the　buzz　of　a　fly；　and　then　I　think　that　utter　silence　is　best　of　all。
This　morning　I　was　awakened　by　a　continuous　sound　which　presently　shaped　itself　to　my　ear　as　a　multitudinous　shrilling　of　bird　voices。　I　knew　what　it　meant。　For　the　last　few　days　I　have　seen　the　swallows　gathering；　now　they　were　ranged　upon　my　roof；　perhaps　in　the　last　council　before　their　setting　forth　upon　the　great　journey。　I　know　better　than　to　talk　about　animal　instinct；　and　to　wonder　in　a　pitying　way　at　its　resemblance　to　reason。　I　know　that　these　birds　show　to　us　a　life　far　more　reasonable；　and　infinitely　more　beautiful；　than　that　of　the　masses　of　mankind。　They　talk　with　each　other；　and　in　their　talk　is　neither　malice　nor　folly。　Could　one　but　interpret　the　converse　in　which　they　make　their　plans　for　the　long　and　perilous　flight……and　then　pare　it　with　that　of　numberless　respectable　persons　who　even　now　are　projecting　their　winter　in　the　South！
XXV
Yesterday　I　passed　by　an　elm　avenue；　leading　to　a　beautiful　old　house。　The　road　between　the　trees　was　covered　in　all　its　length　and　breadth　with　fallen　leaves……a　carpet　of　pale　gold。　Further　on；　I　came　to　a　plantation；　mostly　of　larches；　it　shone　in　the　richest　aureate　hue；　with　here　and　there　a　splash　of　blood…red；　which　was　a　young　beech　in　its　moment　of　autumnal　glory。
I　looked　at　an　alder；　laden　with　brown　catkins；　its　blunt　foliage　stained　with　innumerable　shades　of　lovely　colour。　Near　it　was　a　horse…chestnut；　with　but　a　few　leaves　hanging　on　its　branches；　and　those　a　deep　orange。　The　limes；　I　see；　are　already　bare。
To…night　the　wind　is　loud；　and　rain　dashes　against　my　casement；　to…　morrow　I　shall　awake　to　a　sky　of　winter。

WINTER　

I　
Blasts　from　the　Channel；　with　raining　scud；　and　spume　of　mist　breaking　upon　the　hills；　have　kept　me　indoors　all　day。　Yet　not　for　a　moment　have　I　been　dull　or　idle；　and　now；　by　the　latter　end　of　a　sea…coal　fire；　I　feel　such　enjoyment　of　my　ease　and　tranquillity　that　I　must　needs　word　it　before　going　up　to　bed。
Of　course　one　ought　to　be　able　to　breast　weather　such　as　this　of　to…　day；　and　to　find　one's　pleasure　in　the　strife　with　it。　For　the　man　sound　in　body　and　serene　of　mind　there　is　no　such　thing　as　bad　weather；　every　sky　has　its　beauty；　and　storms　which　whip　the　blood　do　but　make　it　pulse　more　vigorously。　I　remember　the　time　when　I　would　have　set　out　with　gusto　for　a　tramp　along　the　wind…swept　and　rain…beaten　roads；　nowadays；　I　should　perhaps　pay　for　the　experiment　with　my　life。　All　the　more　do　I　prize　the　shelter　of　these　good　walls；　the　honest　workmanship　which　makes　my　doors　and　windows　proof　against　the　assailing　blast。　In　all　England；　the　land　of　fort；　there　is　no　room　more　fortable　than　this　in　which　I　sit。　fortable　in　the　good　old　sense　of　the　word；　giving　solace　to　the　mind　no　less　than　ease　to　the　body。　And　never　does　it　look　more　homely；　more　a　refuge　and　a　sanctuary；　than　on　winter　nights。
In　my　first　winter　here；　I　tried　fires　of　wood；　having　had　my　hearth　arranged　for　the　purpose；　but　that　was　a　mistake。　One　cannot　burn　logs　successfully　in　a　small　room；　either　the　fire；　being　kept　moderate；　needs　constant　attention；　or　its　triumphant　blaze　makes　the　room　too　hot。　A　fire　is　a　delightful　thing；　a　panion　and　an　inspiration。　If　my　room　were　kept　warm　by　some　wretched　modern　contrivance　of　water…pipes　or　heated　air；　would　it　be　the　same　to　me　as　that　beautiful　core　of　glowing　fuel；　which；　if　I　sit　and　gaze　into　it；　bees　a　world　of　wonders？　Let　science　warm　the　heaven…　forsaken　inhabitants　of　flats　and　hotels　as　effectually　and　economically　as　it　may；　if　the　choice　were　forced　upon　me；　I　had　rather　sit；　like　an　Italian；　wrapped　in　my　mantle；　softly　stirring　with　a　key　the　silver…grey　surface　of　the　brasier's　charcoal。　They　tell　me　we　are　burning　all　our　coal；　and　with　wicked　wastefulness。　I　am　sorry　for　it；　but　I　cannot　on　that　account　make　cheerless　perhaps　the　last　winter　of　my　life。　There　may　be　waste　on　domestic　hearths；　but　the　wickedness　is　elsewhere……too　blatant　to　call　for　indication。　Use　mon　sense；　by　all　means；　in　the　construction　of　grates；　that　more　than　half　the　heat　of　the　kindly　coal　should　be　blown　up　the　chimney　is　desired　by　n