四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第18部分

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Ought　I；　in　truth；　to　be　ashamed　of　it？
I　always　read　the　newspaper　articles　on　exhibitions　of　pictures；　and　with　most　pleasure　when　the　pictures　are　landscapes。　The　mere　names　of　paintings　often　gladden　me　for　a　whole　day……those　names　which　bring　before　the　mind　a　bit　of　seashore；　a　riverside；　a　glimpse　of　moorland　or　of　woods。　However　feeble　his　criticism；　the　journalist　generally　writes　with　appreciation　of　these　subjects；　his　descriptions　carry　me　away　to　all　sorts　of　places　which　I　shall　never　see　again　with　the　bodily　eye；　and　I　thank　him　for　his　unconscious　magic。　Much　better　this；　after　all；　than　really　going　to　London　and　seeing　the　pictures　themselves。　They　would　not　disappoint　me；　I　love　and　honour　even　the　least　of　English　landscape　painters；　but　I　should　try　to　see　too　many　at　once；　and　fall　back　into　my　old　mood　of　tired　grumbling　at　the　conditions　of　modern　life。　For　a　year　or　two　I　have　grumbled　little……all　the　better　for　me。
XXVI
Of　late；　I　have　been　wishing　for　music。　An　odd　chance　gratified　my　desire。
I　had　to　go　into　Exeter　yesterday。　I　got　there　about　sunset；　transacted　my　business；　and　turned　to　walk　home　again　through　the　warm　twilight。　In　Southernhay；　as　I　was　passing　a　house　of　which　the　ground…floor　windows　stood　open；　there　sounded　the　notes　of　a　piano……chords　touched　by　a　skilful　hand。　I　checked　my　step；　hoping；　and　in　a　minute　or　two　the　musician　began　to　play　that　nocturne　of　Chopin　which　I　love　best……I　don't　know　how　to　name　it。　My　heart　leapt。　There　I　stood　in　the　thickening　dusk；　the　glorious　sounds　floating　about　me；　and　I　trembled　with　very　ecstasy　of　enjoyment。　When　silence　came；　I　waited　in　the　hope　of　another　piece；　but　nothing　followed；　and　so　I　went　my　way。
It　is　well　for　me　that　I　cannot　hear　music　when　I　will；　assuredly　I　should　not　have　such　intense　pleasure　as　es　to　me　now　and　then　by　haphazard。　As　I　walked　on；　forgetting　all　about　the　distance；　and　reaching　home　before　I　knew　I　was　half　way　there；　I　felt　gratitude　to　my　unknown　benefactor……a　state　of　mind　I　have　often　experienced　in　the　days　long　gone　by。　It　happened　at　times……not　in　my　barest　days；　but　in　those　of　decent　poverty……that　some　one　in　the　house　where　I　lodged　played　the　piano……and　how　it　rejoiced　me　when　this　came　to　pass！　I　say　〃played　the　piano〃……a　phrase　that　covers　much。　For　my　own　part；　I　was　very　tolerant；　anything　that　could　by　the　largest　interpretation　be　called　music；　I　weled　and　was　thankful；　for　even　〃five…finger　exercises〃　I　found；　at　moments；　better　than　nothing。　For　it　was　when　I　was　labouring　at　my　desk　that　the　notes　of　the　instrument　were　grateful　and　helpful　to　me。　Some　men；　I　believe；　would　have　been　driven　frantic　under　the　circumstances；　to　me；　anything　like　a　musical　sound　always　came　as　a　godsend；　it　tuned　my　thoughts；　it　made　the　words　flow。　Even　the　street　organs　put　me　in　a　happy　mood；　I　owe　many　a　page　to　them……written　when　I　should　else　have　been　sunk　in　bilious　gloom。
More　than　once；　too；　when　I　was　walking　London　streets　by　night；　penniless　and　miserable；　music　from　an　open　window　has　stayed　my　step；　even　as　yesterday。　Very　well　can　I　remember　such　a　moment　in　Eaton　Square；　one　night　when　I　was　going　back　to　Chelsea；　tired；　hungry；　racked　by　frustrate　passions。　I　had　tramped　miles　and　miles；　in　the　hope　of　wearying　myself　so　that　I　could　sleep　and　forget。　Then　came　the　piano　notes……I　saw　that　there　was　festival　in　the　house……and　for　an　hour　or　so　I　revelled　as　none　of　the　bidden　guests　could　possibly　be　doing。　And　when　I　reached　my　poor　lodgings；　I　was　no　longer　envious　nor　mad　with　desires；　but　as　I　fell　asleep　I　thanked　the　unknown　mortal　who　had　played　for　me；　and　given　me　peace。
XXVII
To…day　I　have　read　The　Tempest。　It　is　perhaps　the　play　that　I　love　best；　and；　because　I　seem　to　myself　to　know　it　so　well；　I　monly　pass　it　over　in　opening　the　book。　Yet；　as　always　in　regard　to　Shakespeare；　having　read　it　once　more；　I　find　that　my　knowledge　was　less　plete　than　I　supposed。　So　it　would　be；　live　as　long　as　one　might；　so　it　would　ever　be；　whilst　one　had　strength　to　turn　the　pages　and　a　mind　left　to　read　them。
I　like　to　believe　that　this　was　the　poet's　last　work；　that　he　wrote　it　in　his　home　at　Stratford；　walking　day　by　day　in　the　fields　which　had　taught　his　boyhood　to　love　rural　England。　It　is　ripe　fruit　of　the　supreme　imagination；　perfect　craft　of　the　master　hand。　For　a　man　whose　life's　business　it　has　been　to　study　the　English　tongue；　arking　the　happy　ease　wherewith　Shakespeare　surpasses；　in　mere　mand　of　words；　every　achievement　of　those　even　who；　apart　from　him；　are　great？　I　could　fancy　that；　in　The　Tempest；　he　wrought　with　a　peculiar　consciousness　of　this　power；　smiling　as　the　word　of　inimitable　felicity；　the　phrase　of　inparable　cadence；　was　whispered　to　him　by　the　Ariel　that　was　his　genius。　He　seems　to　sport　with　language；　to　amuse　himself　with　new　discovery　of　its　resources。　From　king　to　beggar；　men　of　every　rank　and　every　order　of　mind　have　spoken　with　his　lips；　he　has　uttered　the　lore　of　fairyland；　now　it　pleases　him　to　create　a　being　neither　man　nor　fairy；　a　something　between　brute　and　human　nature；　and　to　endow　its　purposes　with　words。　These　words；　how　they　smack　of　the　moist　and　spawning　earth；　of　the　life　of　creatures　that　cannot　rise　above　the　soil！　We　do　not　think　of　it　enough；　we　stint　our　wonder　because　we　fall　short　in　appreciation。　A　miracle　is　worked　before　us；　and　we　scarce　give　heed；　it　has　bee　familiar　to　our　minds　as　any　other　of　nature's　marvels；　which　we　rarely　pause　to　reflect　upon。
The　Tempest　contains　the　noblest　meditative　passage　in　all　the　plays；　that　which　embodies　Shakespeare's　final　view　of　life；　and　is　the　inevitable　quotation　of　all　who　would　sum　the　teachings　of　philosophy。　It　contains　his　most　exquisite　lyrics；　his　tenderest　love　passages；　and　one　glimpse　of　fairyland　which……I　cannot　but　think……outshines　the　utmost　beauty　of　A　Midsummer　Night's　Dream：　Prospero's　farewell　to　the　〃elves　of　hills；　brooks；　standing　lakes；　and　groves。〃　Again　a　miracle；　these　are　things　which　cannot　be　staled　by　repetition。　e　to　them　often　as　you　will；　they　are　ever　fresh　as　though　new　minted　from　the　brain　of　the　poet。　Being　perfect；　they　can　never　droop　under　that　satiety　which　arises　from　the　perception　of　fault；　their　virtue　can　never　be　so　entirely　savoured　as　to　leave　no　pungency　of　gusto　for　the　next　approach。
Among　the　many　reasons　which　make　me　glad　to　have　been　born　in　England；　one　of　the　first　is　that　I　read　Shakespeare　in　my　mother　tongue。　If　I　try　to　imagine　myself　as　one　who　cannot　know　him　face　to　face；　who　hears　him　only　speaking　from　afar；　and　that　in　accents　which　only　through　the　labouring　intelligence　can　touch　the　living　soul；　there　es　upon　me　a　sense　of　chill　discouragement；　of　dreary　deprivation。　I　am　wont　to　think　that　I　can　read　Homer；　and；　assuredly；　if　any　man　enjoys　him；　it　is　I；　but　can　I　for　a　moment　dream　that　Homer　yields　me　all　his　music；　that　his　word　is　to　me　as　to　him　who　walked　by　the　Hellenic　shore　when　Hellas　lived？　I　know　that　there　reaches　me　across　the　vast　of　time　no　more　than　a　faint　and　broken　echo；　I　know　that　it　would　be　fainter　still；　but　for　its　blending　with　those　memories　of　youth　which　are　as　a　glimmer　of　the　world's　primeval　glory。　Let　every　land　have　joy　of　its　poet；　for　the　poet　is　the　land　itself；　all　its　greatness　and　its　sweetness；　all　that　inmunicable　heritage　for　which　men　live　and　die。　As　I　close　the　book；　love　and　reverence　possess　me。　Whether　does　my　full　heart　turn　to　the　great　Enchanter；　or　to　the　Island　upon　which　he　has　laid　his　spell？　I　know　not。　I　cannot　think　of　them　apart。　In　the　love　and　reverence　awakened　by　that　voice　of　voices；　Shakespeare　and　England　are　but　one。

AUTUMN　

I　
This　has　been　a　year　of　long　sunshine。　Month　has　followed　upon　month　with　little　unkindness　of　the　sky；　I　scarcely　marked　when　July　passed　into　August；　August　into　September。　I　should　think　it　summer　still；　but　that　I　see　the　lanes　yellow…purfled　with　flowers　of　autumn。
I　am　busy　with　the　hawkweeds；　that　is　to　say；　I　am　learning　to　distinguish　and　to　name　as　many　as　I　can。　For　scientific　classification　I　have　little　mind；　it　does　not　happen　to　fall　in　with　my　habits　of　thought；　but　I　like　to　be　able　to　give　its　name　（the　〃trivial〃　by　choice）　to　every　flower　I　meet　in　my　walks。　Why　should　I　be　content　to　say；　〃Oh；　it's　a　hawkweed〃？　That　is　but　one　degree　less　ungracious　than　if　I　dismissed　all　the　yellow…rayed　as　〃dandelions。〃　I　feel　as　if　the　flower　were　pleased　by　my　recognition　of　its　personality。　Seeing　how　much　I　owe　them；　one　and　all；　the　least　I　can　do　is　to　greet　them　severally。　For　the　same　reason　I　had　rather　say　〃hawkweed〃　than　〃hieracium〃；　the　homelier　word　has　more　of　kindly　friendship。
II
How　the　mood　for　a　book　sometimes　rushes　upon　one；　either　one　knows　not　why；　or　in　consequence；　perhaps；　of　some　most　trifling　suggestion。　Yesterday　I　was　walking　at　dusk。　I　came　to　an　old　farmhouse；　at　the　garden　gate　a　vehicle　stood　waiting；　and　I　saw　it　was　our　doctor's　gig。　Having　passed；　I　turned　to　look　back。　There　was　a　faint　afterglow　in　the　sky　beyond　the　chimneys；　a　light　twinkled　at　one　of　the　upper　windows。　I　said　to　myself；　〃Tristram　Shandy；〃　and　hurried　home　to　plunge　into　a　book　which　I　have　not　opened　for　I　dare　say　twenty　years。
Not　long　ago；　I　awoke　one　morning　and　suddenly　thought　of　the　Correspondence　between　Goethe　and　Schiller；　and　so　impatient　did　I　bee　to　open　the　book　that　I　got　up　an　hour　earlier　than　usual。　A　book　worth　rising　for；　much　better　worth　than　old　Burton；　who　pulled　Johnson　out　of　bed。　A　book　which　helps　one　to　forget　the　idle　or　venomous　chatter　going　on　everywhere　about　us；　and　bids　us　cherish　hope　for　a　world　〃which　has　such　people　in't。〃
These　volumes　I　had　at　hand；　I　could　reach　them　down　from　my　shelves　at　the　moment　when　I　hungered　for　them。　But　it　often　happens　that　the　book　which　es　into　my　mind　could　only　be　procured　with　trouble　and　delay；　I　breathe　regretfully　and　put　aside　the　thought。　Ah！　the　books　that　one　will　never　read　again。　They　gave　delight；　perchance　something　more；　they　left　a　perfume　in　the　memory；　but　life　has　passed　them　by　for　ever。　I　have　but　to　muse；　and　one　after　another　they　rise　before　me。　Books　gentle　and　quieting；　books　noble　and　inspiring；　books　that　well　mer