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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft-Part14_George Gissing(1857-1903)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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me to see them thus transplanted.

I think of foxgloves, for it is the moment of their glory.



Yesterday I went to the lane which I visit every year at this time,

the deep, rutty cart-track, descending between banks covered with



giant fronds of the polypodium, and overhung with wych-elm and

hazel, to that cool, grassy nook where the noble flowers hang on



stems all but of my own height. Nowhere have I seen finer

foxgloves. I suppose they rejoice me so because of early memories--



to a child it is the most impressive of wild flowers; I would walk

miles any day to see a fine cluster, as I would to see the shining



of purple loosestrife by the water edge, or white lilies floating

upon the still depth.



But the gardener and I understand each other as soon as we go to the

back of the house, and get among the vegetables. On that ground he



finds me perfectly sane. And indeed I am not sure that the kitchen

garden does not give me more pleasure than the domain of flowers.



Every morning I step round before breakfast to see how things are

"coming on." It is happiness to note the swelling of pods, the



healthy vigour of potato plants, aye, even the shooting up of

radishes and cress. This year I have a grove of Jerusalem



artichokes; they are seven or eight feet high, and I seem to get

vigour as I look at the stems which are all but trunks, at the great



beautiful leaves. Delightful, too, are the scarlet runners, which

have to be propped again and again, or they would break down under



the abundance of their yield. It is a treat to me to go among them

with a basket, gathering; I feel as though Nature herself showed



kindness to me, in giving me such abundant food. How fresh and

wholesome are the odours--especially if a shower has fallen not long



ago!

I have some magnificent carrots this year--straight, clean,



tapering, the colour a joy to look upon.

XXV



For two things do my thoughts turn now and then to London. I should

like to hear the long note of a master's violin, or the faultless



cadence of an exquisite voice, and I should like to see pictures.

Music and painting have always meant much to me; here I can enjoy



them only in memory.

Of course there is the discomfort of concert-hall and exhibition-



rooms. My pleasure in the finest music would be greatly spoilt by

having to sit amid a crowd, with some idiot audible on right hand or



left, and the show of pictures would give me a headache in the first

quarter of an hour. Non sum qualis eram when I waited several hours



at the gallery door to hear Patti, and knew not a moment's fatigue

to the end of the concert; or when, at the Academy, I was astonished



to find that it was four o'clock, and I had forgotten food since

breakfast. The truth is, I do not much enjoy anything nowadays



which I cannot enjoy ALONE. It sounds morose; I imagine the comment

of good people if they overheard such a confession. 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.




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