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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft-Part1_George Gissing(1857-1903)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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year. So I hit upon the thought of dividing the little book into

four chapters, named after the seasons. Like all classifications,



it is imperfect, but 'twill serve.

G. G.



SPRING

I



For more than a week my pen has lain untouched. I have written

nothing for seven whole days, not even a letter. Except during one



or two bouts of illness, such a thing never happened in my life

before. In my life; the life, that is, which had to be supported by



anxious toil; the life which was not lived for living's sake, as all

life should be, but under the goad of fear. The earning of money



should be a means to an end; for more than thirty years--I began to

support myself at sixteen--I had to regard it as the end itself.



I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards

me. Has it not served me well? Why do I, in my happiness, let it



lie there neglected, gathering dust? The same penholder that has

lain against my forefinger day after day, for--how many years?



Twenty, at least; I remember buying it at a shop in Tottenham Court

Road. By the same token I bought that day a paper-weight, which



cost me a whole shilling--an extravagance which made me tremble.

The penholder shone with its new varnish, now it is plain brown wood



from end to end. On my forefinger it has made a callosity.

Old companion, yet old enemy! How many a time have I taken it up,



loathing the necessity, heavy in head and heart, my hand shaking, my

eyes sick-dazzled! How I dreaded the white page I had to foul with



ink! Above all, on days such as this, when the blue eyes of Spring

laughed from between rosy clouds, when the sunlight shimmered upon



my table and made me long, long all but to madness, for the scent of

the flowering earth, for the green of hillside larches, for the



singing of the skylark above the downs. There was a time--it seems

further away than childhood--when I took up my pen with eagerness;



if my hand trembled it was with hope. But a hope that fooled me,

for never a page of my writing deserved to live. I can say that now



without bitterness. It was youthful error, and only the force of

circumstance prolonged it. The world has done me no injustice;



thank Heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this!

And why should any man who writes, even if he write things immortal,



nurse anger at the world's neglect? Who asked him to publish? Who

promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? If my



shoemaker turn me out an excellent pair of boots, and I, in some

mood of cantankerous unreason, throw them back upon his hands, the



man has just cause of complaint. But your poem, your novel, who

bargained with you for it? If it is honest journeywork, yet lacks



purchasers, at most you may call yourself a haplesstradesman. If

it come from on high, with what decency do you fret and fume because



it is not paid for in heavy cash? For the work of man's mind there

is one test, and one alone, the judgment of generations yet unborn.



If you have written a great book, the world to come will know of it.

But you don't care for posthumous glory. You want to enjoy fame in



a comfortable armchair. Ah, that is quite another thing. Have the

courage of your desire. Admit yourself a merchant, and protest to



gods and men that the merchandise you offer is of better quality

than much which sells for a high price. You may be right, and



indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your stall.

II



The exquisite quiet of this room! I have been sitting in utter

idleness, watching the sky, viewing the shape of golden sunlight



upon the carpet, which changes as the minutes pass, letting my eye

wander from one framed print to another, and along the ranks of my



beloved books. Within the house nothing stirs. In the garden I can

hear singing of birds, I can hear the rustle of their wings. And



thus, if it please me, I may sit all day long, and into the

profounder quiet of the night.



My house is perfect. By great good fortune I have found a

housekeeper no less to my mind, a low-voiced, light-footed woman of






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