四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第22部分

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word　Home　will　have　only　a　special　significance；　indicating　the　mon　abode　of　retired　labourers　who　are　drawing　old…age　pensions。
XVIII
I　cannot　close　my　eyes　upon　this　day　without　setting　down　some　record　of　it；　yet　the　foolish　insufficiency　of　words！　At　sunrise　I　looked　forth；　nowhere　could　I　discern　a　cloud　the　size　of　a　man's　hand；　the　leaves　quivered　gently；　as　if　with　joy　in　the　divine　morning　which　glistened　upon　their　dew。　At　sunset　I　stood　in　the　meadow　above　my　house；　and　watched　the　red　orb　sink　into　purple　mist；　whilst　in　the　violet　heaven　behind　me　rose　the　perfect　moon。　All　between；　through　the　soft　circling　of　the　dial's　shadow；　was　loveliness　and　quiet　unutterable。　Never；　I　could　fancy；　did　autumn　clothe　in　such　magnificence　the　elms　and　beeches；　never；　I　should　think；　did　the　leafage　on　my　walls　blaze　in　such　royal　crimson。　It　was　no　day　for　wandering；　under　a　canopy　of　blue　or　gold；　where　the　eye　could　fall　on　nothing　that　was　not　beautiful；　enough　to　be　at　one　with　Nature　in　dreamy　rest。　From　stubble　fields　sounded　the　long　caw　of　rooks；　a　sleepy　crowing　ever　and　anon　told　of　the　neighbour　farm；　my　doves　cooed　above　their　cot。　Was　it　for　five　minutes；　or　was　it　for　an　hour；　that　I　watched　the　yellow　butterfly　wafted　as　by　an　insensible　tremor　of　the　air　amid　the　garden　glintings？　In　every　autumn　there　es　one　such　flawless　day。　None　that　I　have　known　brought　me　a　mind　so　touched　to　the　fitting　mood　of　wele；　and　so　fulfilled　the　promise　of　its　peace。
XIX
I　was　at　ramble　in　the　lanes；　when；　from　somewhere　at　a　distance；　there　sounded　the　voice　of　a　countryman……strange　to　say……singing。　The　notes　were　indistinct；　but　they　rose；　to　my　ear；　with　a　moment's　musical　sadness；　and　of　a　sudden　my　heart　was　stricken　with　a　memory　so　keen　that　I　knew　not　whether　it　was　pain　or　delight。　For　the　sound　seemed　to　me　that　of　a　peasant's　song　which　I　once　heard　whilst　sitting　among　the　ruins　of　Paestum。　The　English　landscape　faded　before　my　eyes。　I　saw　great　Doric　columns　of　honey…golden　travertine；　between　them；　as　I　looked　one　way；　a　deep　strip　of　sea；　when　I　turned；　the　purple　gorges　of　the　Apennine；　and　all　about　the　temple；　where　I　sat　in　solitude；　a　wilderness　dead　and　still　but　for　that　long　note　of　wailing　melody。　I　had　not　thought　it　possible　that　here；　in　my　beloved　home；　where　regret　and　desire　are　all　but　unknown　to　me；　I　could　have　been　so　deeply　troubled　by　a　thought　of　things　far　off。　I　returned　with　head　bent；　that　voice　singing　in　my　memory。　All　the　delight　I　have　known　in　Italian　travel　burned　again　within　my　heart。　The　old　spell　has　not　lost　its　power。　Never；　I　know；　will　it　again　draw　me　away　from　England；　but　the　Southern　sunlight　cannot　fade　from　my　imagination；　and　to　dream　of　its　glow　upon　the　ruins　of　old　time　wakes　in　me　the　voiceless　desire　which　once　was　anguish。
In　his　Italienische　Reise；　Goethe　tells　that　at　one　moment　of　his　life　the　desire　for　Italy　became　to　him　a　scarce　endurable　suffering；　at　length　he　could　not　bear　to　hear　or　to　read　of　things　Italian；　even　the　sight　of　a　Latin　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