四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第19章

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　book　so　tortured　him　that　he　turned　away　from　it；　and　the　day　arrived　when；　in　spite　of　every　obstacle；　he　yielded　to　the　sickness　of　longing；　and　in　secret　stole　away　southward。　When　first　I　read　that　passage；　it　represented　exactly　the　state　of　my　own　mind；　to　think　of　Italy　was　to　feel　myself　goaded　by　a　longing　which；　at　times；　made　me　literally　ill；　I；　too；　had　put　aside　my　Latin　books；　simply　because　I　could　not　endure　the　torment　of　imagination　they　caused　me。　And　I　had　so　little　hope　（nay；　for　years　no　shadow　of　reasonable　hope）　that　I　should　ever　be　able　to　appease　my　desire。　I　taught　myself　to　read　Italian；　that　was　something。　I　worked　（half…heartedly）　at　a　colloquial　phrase…book。　But　my　sickness　only　grew　towards　despair。
Then　came　into　my　hands　a　sum　of　money　（such　a　poor　little　sum）　for　a　book　I　had　written。　It　was　early　autumn。　I　chanced　to　hear　some　one　speak　of　Naples……and　only　death　would　have　held　me　back。
XX
Truly；　I　grow　aged。　I　have　no　longer　much　delight　in　wine。
But　then；　no　wine　ever　much　rejoiced　me　save　that　of　Italy。　Wine…　drinking　in　England　is；　after　all；　only　make…believe；　a　mere　playing　with　an　exotic　inspiration。　Tennyson　had　his　port；　whereto　clings　a　good　old　tradition；　sherris　sack　belongs　to　a　nobler　age；　these　drinks　are　not　for　us。　Let　him　who　will；　toy　with　dubious　Bordeaux　or　Burgundy；　to　get　good　of　them；　soul's　good；　you　must　be　on　the　green　side　of　thirty。　Once　or　twice　they　have　plucked　me　from　despair；　I　would　not　speak　unkindly　of　anything　in　cask　or　bottle　which　bears　the　great　name　of　wine。　But　for　me　it　is　a　thing　of　days　gone　by。　Never　again　shall　I　know　the　mellow　hour　cum　regnat　rosa；　cum　madent　capilli。　Yet　how　it　lives　in　memory！
〃What　call　you　this　wine？〃　I　asked　of　the　temple…guardian　at　Paestum；　when　he　ministered　to　my　thirst。　〃Vino　di　Calabria；〃　he　answered；　and　what　a　glow　in　the　name！　There　I　drank　it；　seated　against　the　column　of　Poseidon's　temple。　There　I　drank　it；　my　feet　resting　on　acanthus；　my　eyes　wandering　from　sea　to　mountain；　or　peering　at　little　shells　niched　in　the　crumbling　surface　of　the　sacred　stone。　The　autumn　day　declined；　a　breeze　of　evening　whispered　about　the　forsaken　shore；　on　the　far　summit　lay　a　long；　still　cloud；　and　its　hue　was　that　of　my　Calabrian　wine。
How　many　such　moments　e　back　to　me　as　my　thoughts　wander！　Dim　little　trattorie　in　city　byways；　inns　smelling　of　the　sun　in　forgotten　valleys；　on　the　mountain　side；　or　by　the　tideless　shore；　where　the　grape　has　given　me　of　its　blood；　and　made　life　a　rapture。　Who　but　the　veriest　fanatic　of　teetotalism　would　grudge　me　those　hours　so　gloriously　redeemed？　No　draught　of　wine　amid　the　old　tombs　under　the　violet　sky　but　made　me　for　the　time　a　better　man；　larger　of　brain；　more　courageous；　more　gentle。　'Twas　a　revelry　whereon　came　no　repentance。　Could　I　but　live　for　ever　in　thoughts　and　feelings　such　as　those　born　to　me　in　the　shadow　of　the　Italian　vine！　There　I　listened　to　the　sacred　poets；　there　I　walked　with　the　wise　of　old；　there　did　the　gods　reveal　to　me　the　secret　of　their　eternal　calm。　I　hear　the　red　rillet　as　it　flows　into　the　rustic　glass；　I　see　the　purple　light　upon　the　hills。　Fill　to　me　again；　thou　of　the　Roman　visage　and　all　but　Roman　speech！　Is　not　yonder　the　long　gleaming　of　the　Appian　Way？　Chant　in　the　old　measure；　the　song　imperishable
〃dum　Capitolium　Scandet　cum　tacita　virgine　pontifex……〃
aye；　and　for　how　many　an　age　when　Pontiff　and　Vestal　sleep　in　the　eternal　silence。　Let　the　slave　of　the　iron　gods　chatter　what　he　will；　for　him　flows　no　Falernian；　for　him　the　Muses　have　no　smile；　no　melody。　Ere　the　sun　set；　and　the　darkness　fall　about　us；　fill　again！
XXI
Is　there；　at　this　moment；　any　boy　of　twenty；　fairly　educated；　but　without　means；　without　help；　with　nothing　but　the　glow　in　his　brain　and　steadfast　courage　in　his　heart；　who　sits　in　a　London　garret；　and　writes　for　dear　life？　There　must　be；　I　suppose；　yet　all　that　I　have　read　and　heard　of　late　years　about　young　writers；　shows　them　in　a　very　different　aspect。　No　garretteers；　these　novelists　and　journalists　awaiting　their　promotion。　They　eat……and　entertain　their　critics……at　fashionable　restaurants；　they　are　seen　in　expensive　seats　at　the　theatre；　they　inhabit　handsome　flats……photographed　for　an　illustrated　paper　on　the　first　excuse。　At　the　worst；　they　belong　to　a　reputable　club；　and　have　garments　which　permit　them　to　attend　a　garden　party　or　an　evening　〃at　home〃　without　attracting　unpleasant　notice。　Many　biographical　sketches　have　I　read；　during　the　last　decade；　making　personal　introduction　of　young　Mr。　This　or　young　Miss　That；　whose　book　was……as　the　sweet　language　of　the　day　will　have　it…　…〃booming〃；　but　never　one　in　which　there　was　a　hint　of　stern　struggle；　of　the　pinched　stomach　and　frozen　fingers。　I　surmise　that　the　path　of　〃literature〃　is　being　made　too　easy。　Doubtless　it　is　a　rare　thing　nowadays　for　a　lad　whose　education　ranks　him　with　the　upper　middle　class　to　find　himself　utterly　without　resources；　should　he　wish　to　devote　himself　to　the　profession　of　letters。　And　there　is　the　root　of　the　matter；　writing　has　e　to　be　recognized　as　a　profession；　almost　as　cut…and…dried　as　church　or　law；　a　lad　may　go　into　it　with　full　parental　approval；　with　ready　avuncular　support。　I　heard　not　long　ago　of　an　eminent　lawyer；　who　had　paid　a　couple　of　hundred　per　annum　for　his　son's　instruction　in　the　art　of　fiction……　yea；　the　art　of　fiction……by　a　not　very　brilliant　professor　of　that　art。　Really；　when　one　es　to　think　of　it；　an　astonishing　fact；　a　fact　vastly　significant。　Starvation；　it　is　true；　does　not　necessarily　produce　fine　literature；　but　one　feels　uneasy　about　these　carpet…authors。　To　the　two　or　three　who　have　a　measure　of　conscience　and　vision；　I　could　wish；　as　the　best　thing；　some　calamity　which　would　leave　them　friendless　in　the　streets。　They　would　perish；　perhaps。　But　set　that　possibility　against　the　all　but　certainty　of　their　present　prospect……fatty　degeneration　of　the　soul；　and　is　it　not　acceptable？
I　thought　of　this　as　I　stood　yesterday　watching　a　noble　sunset；　which　brought　back　to　my　memory　the　sunsets　of　a　London　autumn；　thirty　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　ma