四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第5部分

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e　most　I　ever　could　pay　for　a　〃furnished　room　with　attendance〃　in　those　days　of　pretty　stern　apprenticeship。　And　I　was　easily　satisfied；　I　wanted　only　a　little　walled　space　in　which　I　could　seclude　myself；　free　from　external　annoyance。　Certain　forts　of　civilized　life　I　ceased　even　to　regret；　a　stair…carpet　I　regarded　as　rather　extravagant；　and　a　carpet　on　the　floor　of　my　room　was　luxury　undreamt　of。　My　sleep　was　sound；　I　have　passed　nights　of　dreamless　repose　on　beds　which　it　would　now　make　my　bones　ache　only　to　look　at。　A　door　that　locked；　a　fire　in　winter；　a　pipe　of　tobacco……these　were　things　essential；　and；　granted　these；　I　have　been　often　richly　contented　in　the　squalidest　garret。　One　such　lodging　is　often　in　my　memory；　it　was　at　Islington；　not　far　from　the　City　Road；　my　window　looked　upon　the　Regent's　Canal。　As　often　as　I　think　of　it；　I　recall　what　was　perhaps　the　worst　London　fog　I　ever　knew；　for　three　successive　days；　at　least；　my　lamp　had　to　be　kept　burning；　when　I　looked　through　the　window；　I　saw；　at　moments；　a　few　blurred　lights　in　the　street　beyond　the　Canal；　but　for　the　most　part　nothing　but　a　yellowish　darkness；　which　caused　the　glass　to　reflect　the　firelight　and　my　own　face。　Did　I　feel　miserable？　Not　a　bit　of　it。　The　enveloping　gloom　seemed　to　make　my　chimney…corner　only　the　more　cosy。　I　had　coals；　oil；　tobacco　in　sufficient　quantity；　I　had　a　book　to　read；　I　had　work　which　interested　me；　so　I　went　forth　only　to　get　my　meals　at　a　City　Road　coffee…shop；　and　hastened　back　to　the　fireside。　Oh；　my　ambitions；　my　hopes！　How　surprised　and　indignant　I　should　have　felt　had　I　known　of　any　one　who　pitied　me！
Nature　took　revenge　now　and　then。　In　winter　time　I　had　fierce　sore　throats；　sometimes　acpanied　by　long　and　savage　headaches。　Doctoring；　of　course；　never　occurred　to　me；　I　just　locked　my　door；　and；　if　I　felt　very　bad　indeed；　went　to　bed……to　lie　there；　without　food　or　drink；　till　I　was　able　to　look　after　myself　again。　I　could　never　ask　from　a　landlady　anything　which　was　not　in　our　bond；　and　only　once　or　twice　did　I　receive　spontaneous　offer　of　help。　Oh；　it　is　wonderful　to　think　of　all　that　youth　can　endure！　What　a　poor　feeble　wretch　I　now　seem　to　myself；　when　I　remember　thirty　years　ago！
XI
Would　I　live　it　over　again；　that　life　of　the　garret　and　the　cellar？　Not　with　the　assurance　of　fifty　years'　contentment　such　as　I　now　enjoy　to　follow　upon　it！　With　man's　infinitely　pathetic　power　of　resignation；　one　sees　the　thing　on　its　better　side；　forgets　all　the　worst　of　it；　makes　out　a　case　for　the　resolute　optimist。　Oh；　but　the　waste　of　energy；　of　zeal；　of　youth！　In　another　mood；　I　could　shed　tears　over　that　spectacle　of　rare　vitality　condemned　to　sordid　strife。　The　pity　of　it！　And……if　our　conscience　mean　anything　at　all……the　bitter　wrong！
Without　seeking　for　Utopia；　think　what　a　man's　youth　might　be。　I　suppose　not　one　in　every　thousand　uses　half　the　possibilities　of　natural　joy　and　delightful　effort　which　lie　in　those　years　between　seventeen　and　seven…and…twenty。　All　but　all　men　have　to　look　back　upon　beginnings　of　life　deformed　and　discoloured　by　necessity；　accident；　wantonness。　If　a　young　man　avoid　the　grosser　pitfalls；　if　he　keep　his　eye　fixed　steadily　on　what　is　called　the　main　chance；　if；　without　flagrant　selfishness；　he　prudently　subdue　every　interest　to　his　own　（by　〃interest〃　understanding　only　material　good）；　he　is　putting　his　youth　to　profit；　he　is　an　exemplar　and　a　subject　of　pride。　I　doubt　whether；　in　our　civilization；　any　other　ideal　is　easy　of　pursuit　by　the　youngster　face　to　face　with　life。　It　is　the　only　course　altogether　safe。　Yet　pare　it　with　what　might　be；　if　men　respected　manhood；　if　human　reason　were　at　the　service　of　human　happiness。　Some　few　there　are　who　can　look　back　upon　a　boyhood　of　natural　delights；　followed　by　a　decade　or　so　of　fine　energies　honourably　put　to　use；　blended　therewith；　perhaps；　a　memory　of　joy　so　exquisite　that　it　tunes　all　life　unto　the　end；　they　are　almost　as　rare　as　poets。　The　vast　majority　think　not　of　their　youth　at　all；　or；　glancing　backward；　are　unconscious　of　lost　opportunity；　unaware　of　degradation　suffered。　Only　by　contrast　with　this　thick…witted　multitude　can　I　pride　myself　upon　my　youth　of　endurance　and　of　bat。　I　had　a　goal　before　me；　and　not　the　goal　of　the　average　man。　Even　when　pinched　with　hunger；　I　did　not　abandon　my　purposes；　which　were　of　the　mind。　But　contrast　that　starved　lad　in　his　slum　lodging　with　any　fair　conception　of　intelligent　and　zealous　youth；　and　one　feels　that　a　dose　of　swift　poison　would　have　been　the　right　remedy　for　such　squalid　ills。
XII
As　often　as　I　survey　my　bookshelves　I　am　reminded　of　Lamb's　〃ragged　veterans。〃　Not　that　all　my　volumes　came　from　the　second…hand　stall；　many　of　them　were　neat　enough　in　new　covers；　some　were　even　stately　in　fragrant　bindings；　when　they　passed　into　my　hands。　But　so　often　have　I　removed；　so　rough　has　been　the　treatment　of　my　little　library　at　each　change　of　place；　and；　to　tell　the　truth；　so　little　care　have　I　given　to　its　well…being　at　normal　times　（for　in　all　practical　matters　I　am　idle　and　inept）；　that　even　the　eliest　of　my　books　show　the　results　of　unfair　usage。　More　than　one　has　been　foully　injured　by　a　great　nail　driven　into　a　packing…case……this　but　the　extreme　instance　of　the　wrongs　they　have　undergone。　Now　that　I　have　leisure　and　peace　of　mind；　I　find　myself　growing　more　careful……an　illustration　of　the　great　truth　that　virtue　is　made　easy　by　circumstance。　But　I　confess　that；　so　long　as　a　volume　hold　together；　I　am　not　much　troubled　as　to　its　outer　appearance。
I　know　men　who　say　they　had　as　lief　read　any　book　in　a　library　copy　as　in　one　from　their　own　shelf。　To　me　that　is　unintelligible。　For　one　thing；　I　know　every　book　of　mine　by　its　SCENT；　and　I　have　but　to　put　my　nose　between　the　pages　to　be　reminded　of　all　sorts　of　things。　My　Gibbon；　for　example；　my　well…bound　eight…volume　Milman　edition；　which　I　have　read　and　read　and　read　again　for　more　than　thirty　years……never　do　I　open　it　but　the　scent　of　the　noble　page　restores　to　me　all　the　exultant　happiness　of　that　moment　when　I　received　it　as　a　prize。　Or　my　Shakespeare；　the　great　Cambridge　Shakespeare……it　has　an　odour　which　carries　me　yet　further　back　in　life；　for　these　volumes　belonged　to　my　father；　and　before　I　was　old　enough　to　read　them　with　understanding；　it　was　often　permitted　me；　as　a　treat；　to　take　down　one　of　them　from　the　bookcase；　and　reverently　to　turn　the　leaves。　The　volumes　smell　exactly　as　they　did　in　that　old　time；　and　what　a　strange　tenderness　es　upon　me　when　I　hold　one　of　them　in　hand。　For　that　reason　I　do　not　often　read　Shakespeare　in　this　edition。　My　eyes　being　good　as　ever；　I　take　the　Globe　volume；　which　I　bought　in　days　when　such　a　purchase　was　something　more　than　an　extravagance；　wherefore　I　regard　the　book　with　that　peculiar　affection　which　results　from　sacrifice。
Sacrifice……in　no　drawing…room　sense　of　the　word。　Dozens　of　my　books　were　purchased　with　money　which　ought　to　have　been　spent　upon　what　are　called　the　necessaries　of　life。　Many　a　time　I　have　stood　before　a　stall；　or　a　bookseller's　window；　torn　by　conflict　of　intellectual　desire　and　bodily　need。　At　the　very　hour　of　dinner；　when　my　stomach　clamoured　for　food；　I　have　been　stopped　by　sight　of　a　volume　so　long　coveted；　and　marked　at　so　advantageous　a　price；　that　I　COULD　not　let　it　go；　yet　to　buy　it　meant　pangs　of　famine。　My　Heyne's　Tibullus　was　grasped　at　such　a　moment。　It　lay　on　the　stall　of　the　old　book…shop　in　Goodge　Street……a　stall　where　now　and　then　one　found　an　excellent　thing　among　quantities　of　rubbish。　Sixpence　was　the　price……　sixpence！　At　that　time　I　used　to　eat　my　midday　meal　（of　course　my　dinner）　at　a　coffee…shop　in　Oxford　Street；　one　of　the　real　old　coffee…shops；　such　as　now；　I　suppose；　can　hardly　be　found。　Sixpence　was　all　I　had……yes；　all　I　had　in　the　world；　it　would　purchase　a　plate　of　meat　and　vegetables。　But　I　did　not　dare　to　hope　that　the　Tibullus　would　wait　until　the　morrow；　when　a　certain　small　sum　fell　due　to　me。　I　paced　the　pavement；　fingering　the　coppers　in　my　pocket；　eyeing　the　stall；　two　appetites　at　bat　within　me。　The　book　was　bought　and　I　went　home　with　it；　and　as　I　made　a　dinner　of　bread　and　butter　I　gloated　over　the　pages。
In　this　Tibullus　I　found　pencilled　on　the　last　page：　〃Perlegi；　Oct。　4；　1792。〃　Who　was　that　possessor　of　the　book；　nearly　a　hundred　years　ago？　There　was　no　other　inscription。　I　like　to　imagine　some　poor　scholar；　poor　and　eager　as　I　myself；　who　bought　the　volume　with　drops　of　his　blood；　and　enjoyed　the　reading　of　it　even　as　I　did。　How　much　THAT　was　I　could　not　easily　say。　Gentle…hearted　Tibullus！…　…of　whom　there　remains　to　us　a　poet's　portrait　more　delightful；　I　think；　than　anything　of　the　kind　in　Roman　literature。
An　tacitum　silvas　inter　reptare　salubres；　Curantem　quidquid　dignum　sapiente　bonoque　est？
So　with　many　another　book　on　the　thronged　shelves。　To　take　them　down　is　to　recall；　how　vividly；　a　struggle　and　a　triumph。　In　those　days　money　represented　nothing　to　me；　nothing　I　cared　to　think　about；　but　the　acquisition　of　books。　There　were　books　of　which　I　had　passionate　need；　books　more　necessary　to　me　than　bodily　nourishment。　I　could　see　them；　of　course；　at　the　British　Museum；　but　that　was　not　at　all　the　same　thing　as　having　and　holding　them；　my　own　property；　on　my　own　shelf。　Now　and　then　I　have　bought　a　volume　of　the　raggedest　and　wretchedest　aspect；　dishonoured　with　foolish　scribbling；　torn；　blotted……no　matter；　I　liked　better　to　read　out　of　that　than　out　of　a　copy　that　was　not　mine。　But　I　was　guilty　at　times　of　mere　self…indulgence；　a　book　tempted　me；　a　book　which　was　not　one　of　those　for　which　I　really　craved；　a　luxury　which　prudence　might　bid　me　forego。　As；　for　instance；　my　Jung…Stilling。　It　caught　my　eye　in　Holywell　Street；　the　name　was　familiar　to　me　in　Wahrheit　und　Dichtung；　and　curiosity　grew　as　I　glanced　over　the　pages。　But　that　day　I　resisted；　in　truth；　I　could　not　afford　the　eighteen…pence；　which　means　that　just　then　I　was　poor　indeed。　Twice　again　did　I　pass；　each　time　assuring　myself　that　Jung…Stilling　had　found　no　purchaser。　There　came　a　day　when　I　was　in　funds。　I　see　myself　hastening　to　Holywell　Street　（in　those　days　my　habitual　pace　was　five　miles　an　hour）；　I　see　the　little　grey　old　man　with　whom　I　transacted　my　business……what　was　his