四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第6章

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my　thoughts。　On　the　whole；　it　seems　to　me　something　to　be　rather　proud　of；　I　smile　approvingly　at　that　thin；　white…faced　youth。　Me？　My　very　self？　No；　no！　He　has　been　dead　these　thirty　years。
Scholarship　in　the　high　sense　was　denied　me；　and　now　it　is　too　late。　Yet　here　am　I　gloating　over　Pausanias；　and　promising　myself　to　read　every　word　of　him。　Who　that　has　any　tincture　of　old　letters　would　not　like　to　read　Pausanias；　instead　of　mere　quotations　from　him　and　references　to　him？　Here　are　the　volumes　of　Dahn's　Die　Konige　der　Germanen：　who　would　not　like　to　know　all　he　can　about　the　Teutonic　conquerors　of　Rome？　And　so　on；　and　so　on。　To　the　end　I　shall　be　reading……and　forgetting。　Ah；　that's　the　worst　of　it！　Had　I　at　mand　all　the　knowledge　I　have　at　any　time　possessed；　I　might　call　myself　a　learned　man。　Nothing　surely　is　so　bad　for　the　memory　as　long…enduring　worry；　agitation；　fear。　I　cannot　preserve　more　than　a　few　fragments　of　what　I　read；　yet　read　I　shall；　persistently；　rejoicingly。　Would　I　gather　erudition　for　a　future　life？　Indeed；　it　no　longer　troubles　me　that　I　forget。　I　have　the　happiness　of　the　passing　moment；　and　what　more　can　mortal　ask？
XVIII
Is　it　I；　Henry　Ryecroft；　who；　after　a　night　of　untroubled　rest；　rise　unhurriedly；　dress　with　the　deliberation　of　an　oldish　man；　and　go　downstairs　happy　in　the　thought　that　I　can　sit　reading；　quietly　reading；　all　day　long？　Is　it　I；　Henry　Ryecroft；　the　harassed　toiler　of　so　many　a　long　year？
I　dare　not　think　of　those　I　have　left　behind　me；　there　in　the　ink…　stained　world。　It　would　make　me　miserable；　and　to　what　purpose？　Yet；　having　once　looked　that　way；　think　of　them　I　must。　Oh；　you　heavy…laden；　who　at　this　hour　sit　down　to　the　cursed　travail　of　the　pen；　writing；　not　because　there　is　something　in　your　mind；　in　your　heart；　which　must　needs　be　uttered；　but　because　the　pen　is　the　only　tool　you　can　handle；　your　only　means　of　earning　bread！　Year　after　year　the　number　of　you　is　multiplied；　you　crowd　the　doors　of　publishers　and　editors；　hustling；　grappling；　exchanging　maledictions。　Oh；　sorry　spectacle；　grotesque　and　heart…breaking！
Innumerable　are　the　men　and　women　now　writing　for　bread；　who　have　not　the　least　chance　of　finding　in　such　work　a　permanent　livelihood。　They　took　to　writing　because　they　knew　not　what　else　to　do；　or　because　the　literary　calling　tempted　them　by　its　independence　and　its　dazzling　prizes。　They　will　hang　on　to　the　squalid　profession；　their　earnings　eked　out　by　begging　and　borrowing；　until　it　is　too　late　for　them　to　do　anything　else……and　then？　With　a　lifetime　of　dread　experience　behind　me；　I　say　that　he　who　encourages　any　young　man　or　woman　to　look　for　his　living　to　〃literature；〃　mits　no　less　than　a　crime。　If　my　voice　had　any　authority；　I　would　cry　this　truth　aloud　wherever　men　could　hear。　Hateful　as　is　the　struggle　for　life　in　every　form；　this　rough…and…tumble　of　the　literary　arena　seems　to　me　sordid　and　degrading　beyond　all　others。　Oh；　your　prices　per　thousand　words！　Oh；　your　paragraphings　and　your　interviewings！　And　oh；　the　black　despair　that　awaits　those　down…trodden　in　the　fray。
Last　midsummer　I　received　a　circular　from　a　typewriting　person；　soliciting　my　custom；　some　one　who　had　somehow　got　hold　of　my　name；　and　fancied　me　to　be　still　in　purgatory。　This　person　wrote：　〃If　you　should　be　in　need　of　any　extra　assistance　in　the　pressure　of　your　Christmas　work；　I　hope；〃　etc。
How　otherwise　could　one　write　if　addressing　a　shopkeeper？　〃The　pressure　of　your　Christmas　work〃！　Nay；　I　am　too　sick　to　laugh。
XIX
Some　one；　I　see；　is　lifting　up　his　sweet　voice　in　praise　of　Conscription。　It　is　only　at　long　intervals　that　one　reads　this　kind　of　thing　in　our　reviews　or　newspapers；　and　I　am　happy　in　believing　that　most　English　people　are　affected　by　it　even　as　I　am；　with　the　sickness　of　dread　and　of　disgust。　That　the　thing　is　impossible　in　England；　who　would　venture　to　say？　Every　one　who　can　think　at　all　sees　how　slight　are　our　safeguards　against　that　barbaric　force　in　man　which　the　privileged　races　have　so　slowly　and　painfully　brought　into　check。　Democracy　is　full　of　menace　to　all　the　finer　hopes　of　civilization；　and　the　revival；　in　not　unnatural　panionship　with　it；　of　monarchic　power　based　on　militarism；　makes　the　prospect　dubious　enough。　There　has　but　to　arise　some　Lord　of　Slaughter；　and　the　nations　will　be　tearing　at　each　other's　throats。　Let　England　be　imperilled；　and　Englishmen　will　fight；　in　such　extremity　there　is　no　choice。　But　what　a　dreary　change　must　e　upon　our　islanders　if；　without　instant　danger；　they　bend　beneath　the　curse　of　universal　soldiering！　I　like　to　think　that　they　will　guard　the　liberty　of　their　manhood　even　beyond　the　point　of　prudence。
A　lettered　German；　speaking　to　me　once　of　his　year　of　military　service；　told　me　that；　had　it　lasted　but　a　month　or　two　longer；　he　must　have　sought　release　in　suicide。　I　know　very　well　that　my　own　courage　would　not　have　borne　me　to　the　end　of　the　twelvemonth；　humiliation；　resentment；　loathing；　would　have　goaded　me　to　madness。　At　school　we　used　to　be　〃drilled〃　in　the　playground　once　a　week；　I　have　but　to　think　of　it；　even　after　forty　years；　and　there　es　back　upon　me　that　tremor　of　passionate　misery　which；　at　the　time；　often　made　me　ill。　The　senseless　routine　of　mechanic　exercise　was　in　itself　all　but　unendurable　to　me；　I　hated　the　standing　in　line；　the　thrusting…out　of　arms　and　legs　at　a　signal；　the　thud　of　feet　stamping　in　constrained　unison。　The　loss　of　individuality　seemed　to　me　sheer　disgrace。　And　when；　as　often　happened；　the　drill…sergeant　rebuked　me　for　some　inefficiency　as　I　stood　in　line；　when　he　addressed　me　as　〃Number　Seven！〃　I　burned　with　shame　and　rage。　I　was　no　longer　a　human　being；　I　had　bee　part　of　a　machine；　and　my　name　was　〃Number　Seven。〃　It　used　to　astonish　me　when　I　had　a　neighbour　who　went　through　the　drill　with　amusement；　with　zealous　energy；　I　would　gaze　at　the　boy；　and　ask　myself　how　it　was　possible　that　he　and　I　should　feel　so　differently。　To　be　sure；　nearly　all　my　schoolfellows　either　enjoyed　the　thing；　or　at　all　events　went　through　it　with　indifference；　they　made　friends　with　the　sergeant；　and　some　were　proud　of　walking　with　him　〃out　of　bounds。〃　Left；　right！　Left；　right！　For　my　own　part；　I　think　I　have　never　hated　man　as　I　hated　that　broad…shouldered；　hard…visaged；　brassy…voiced　fellow。　Every　word　he　spoke　to　me；　I　felt　as　an　insult。　Seeing　him　in　the　distance；　I　have　turned　and　fled；　to　escape　the　necessity　of　saluting；　and；　still　more；　a　quiver　of　the　nerves　which　affected　me　so　painfully。　If　ever　a　man　did　me　harm；　it　was　he；　harm　physical　and　moral。　In　all　seriousness　I　believe　that　something　of　the　nervous　instability　from　which　I　have　suffered　since　boyhood　is　traceable　to　those　accursed　hours　of　drill；　and　I　am　very　sure　that　I　can　date　from　the　same　wretched　moments　a　fierceness　of　personal　pride　which　has　been　one　of　my　most　troublesome　characteristics。　The　disposition；　of　course；　was　there；　it　should　have　been　modified；　not　exacerbated。
In　younger　manhood　it　would　have　flattered　me　to　think　that　I　alone　on　the　school　drill…ground　had　sensibility　enough　to　suffer　acutely。　Now　I　had　much　rather　feel　assured　that　many　of　my　schoolfellows　were　in　the　same　mind　of　subdued　revolt。　Even　of　those　who；　boylike；　enjoyed　their　drill；　scarce　one　or　two；　I　trust；　would　have　weled　in　their　prime　of　life　the　imposition　of　military　servitude　upon　them　and　their　countrymen。　From　a　certain　point　of　view；　it　would　be　better　far　that　England　should　bleed　under　conquest　than　that　she　should　be　saved　by　eager；　or　careless；　acceptance　of　Conscription。　That　view　will　not　be　held　by　the　English　people；　but　it　would　be　a　sorry　thing　for　England　if　the　day　came　when　no　one　of　those　who　love　her　harboured　such　a　thought。
XX
It　has　occurred　to　me　that　one　might　define　Art　as：　an　expression；　satisfying　and　abiding；　of　the　zest　of　life。　This　is　applicable　to　every　form　of　Art　devised　by　man；　for；　in　his　creative　moment；　whether　he　produce　a　great　drama　or　carve　a　piece　of　foliage　in　wood；　the　artist　is　moved　and　inspired　by　supreme　enjoyment　of　some　aspect　of　the　world　about　him；　an　enjoyment　in　itself　keener　than　that　experienced　by　another　man；　and　intensified；　prolonged；　by　the　power……which　es　to　him　we　know　not　how……of　recording　in　visible　or　audible　form　that　emotion　of　rare　vitality。　Art；　in　some　degree；　is　within　the　scope　of　every　human　being；　were　he　but　the　ploughman　who　utters　a　few　would…be　melodious　notes；　the　mere　oute　of　health　and　strength；　in　the　field　at　sunrise；　he　sings；　or　tries　to；　prompted　by　an　unusual　gusto　in　being；　and　the　rude　stave　is　all　his　own。　Another　was　he；　who　also　at　the　plough；　sang　of　the　daisy；　of　the　field…mouse；　or　shaped　the　rhythmic　tale　of　Tam　o'　Shanter。　Not　only　had　life　a　zest　for　him　incalculably　stronger　and　subtler　than　that　which　stirs　the　soul　of　Hodge；　but　he　uttered　it　in　word　and　music　such　as　go　to　the　heart　of　mankind；　and　hold　a　magic　power　for　ages。
For　some　years　there　has　been　a　great　deal　of　talk　about　Art　in　our　country。　It　began；　I　suspect；　when　the　veritable　artistic　impulse　of　the　Victorian　time　had　flagged；　when　the　energy　of　a　great　time　was　all　but　exhausted。　Principles　always　bee　a　matter　of　vehement　discussion　when　practice　is　at　ebb。　Not　by　taking　thought　does　one　bee　an　artist；　or　grow　even　an　inch　in　that　direction……　which　is　not　at　all　the　same　as　saying　that　he　who　IS　an　artist　cannot　profit　by　conscious　effort。　Goethe　（the　example　so　often　urged　by　imitators　unlike　him　in　every　feature　of　humanity）　took　thought　enough　about　his　Faust；　but　what　of　those　youthtime　lyrics；　not　the　least　precious　of　his　achievements；　which　were　scribbled　as　fast　as　pen　could　go；　thwartwise　on　the　paper；　because　he　could　not　stop　to　set　it　straight？　Dare　I　pen；　even　for　my　own　eyes；　the　venerable　truth　that　an　artist　is　born　and　not　made？　It　seems　not　superfluous；　in　times　which　have　heard　disdainful　criticism　of　Scott；　on　the　ground　that　he　had　no　artistic　conscience；　that　he　scribbled　without　a　thought　of　style；　that　he　never　elaborated　his　scheme　before　beginning……as　Flaubert；　of　course　you　know；　invariably　did。　Why；　after　all；　has　one　not　heard　that　a　certain　William　Shakespeare　turned　out　his　so…called　works　of　art　with　something　like　criminal　carelessness？　Is　it　not　a　fact　that　a　bungler　named　Cervantes　was　so　little　in　earnest　about　his　Art　that；　having　in　one　chapter　described　the　stealing　of　Sancho's　donkey；　he　presently；　in　mere　forgetfulness；　shows　us　Sancho　riding　on　Dapple；　as　if　nothing　had　happened？　Does　not　one　Thackeray　shamelessly　avow　on　the　last　page　of　a　grossly　〃subjective〃　novel　that　he　had　killed　Lord　Farintosh's　mother　at　one　page　and　brought　her　to　life　again　at　another？　These　sinners　against　Art　are　none　the　less　among　the　world's　supreme　artists；　for　they　LIVED；　in　a　sense；　in　a　degree；　unintelligible　to　these　critics　of　theirs；　and　their　work　is　an　expression；　satisfying　and　abiding；　of　the　zest　of　life。
Some　one；　no　doubt；　hit　upon　this　definition　of　mine　long　ago。　It　doesn't　matter；　is　it　the　less　original　with　me？　Not　long　since　I　should　have　fretted　over　the　possibility；　for　my　living　depended　on　an　avoidance　of　even　seeming　plagiarism。　Now　I　am　at　one　with　Lord　Foppington；　and　much　disposed　to　take　pleasure　in　the　natural　sprouts　of　my　own　wit……without　troubling　whether　the　same　idea　has　occurred　to　others。　Suppose　me；　in　total　ignorance　of　Euclid；　to　have　discovered　even　the　simplest　of　his　geometrical　demonstrations；　shall　I　be　crestfallen　when　some　one　draws　attention　to　the　book？　These　natural　sprouts　are；　after　all；　the　best　products　of　our　life；　it　is　a　mere　accident　that　they　may　have　no　value　in　the　world's　market。　One　of　my　conscious　efforts；　in　these　days　of　freedom；　is　to　live　intellectually　for　myself。　Formerly；　when　in　reading　I　came　upon　anything　that　impressed　or　delighted　me；　down　it　went　in　my　note…book；　for　〃use。〃　I　could　not　read　a　striking　verse；　or　sentence　of　prose；　without　thinking　of　it　as　an　apt　quotation　in　something　I　might　write……one　of　the　evil　results　of　a　literary　life。　Now　that　I　strive　to　repel　this　habit　of　thought；　I　find　myself　asking：　To　what　end；　then；　do　I　read　and　remember？　Surely　as　foolish　a　question　as　ever　man　put　to　himself。　You　read　for　your　own　pleasure；　for　your　solace　and　strengthening。　Pleasure；　then；　purely　selfish？　Solace　which　endures　for　an　hour；　and　strengthening　for　no　bat？　Ay；　but　I　know；　I　know。　With　what　heart　should　I　live　here　in　my　cottage；　waiting　for　life's　end；　were　it　not　for　those　hours　of　seeming　idle　reading？
I　think　sometimes；　how　good　it　were　had　I　some　one　by　me　to　listen　when　I　am　tempted　to　read　a　passage　aloud。　Yes；　but　is　there　any　mortal　in　the　whole　world　upon　whom　I　could　invariably　depend　for　sympathetic　understanding？……nay；　who　would　even　generally　be　at　one　with　me　in　my　appreciation。　Such　harmony　of　intelligences　is　the　rarest　thing。　All　through　life　we　long　for　it：　the　desire　drives　us；　like　a　demon；　into　waste　places；　too　often　ends　by　plunging　us　into　mud　and　morass。　And；　after　all；　we　learn　that　the　vision　was　illusory。　To　every　man　is　it　decreed：　thou　shalt　live　alone。　Happy　they　who　imagine　that　they　have　escaped　the　mon　lot；　happy；　whilst　they　imagine　it。　Those　to　whom　no　such　happiness　has　ever　been　granted　at　least　avoid　the　bitterest　of　disillusions。　And　is　it