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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft-Part15_George Gissing(1857-1903)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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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

become 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 comes 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 merit to be pored over, not once but

many a time. Yet never again shall I hold them in my hand; the



years fly too quickly, and are too few. Perhaps when I lie waiting

for the end, some of those lost books will come into my wandering



thoughts, and I shall remember them as friends to whom I owed a

kindness--friends passed upon the way. What regret in that last



farewell!

III



Every one, I suppose, is subject to a trick of mind which often

puzzles me. I am reading or thinking, and at a moment, without any



association or suggestion that I can discover, there rises before me

the vision of a place I know. Impossible to explain why that



particular spot should show itself to my mind's eye; the cerebral

impulse is so subtle that no search may trace its origin. If I am



reading, doubtless a thought, a phrase, possibly a mere word, on the

page before me serves to awaken memory. If I am otherwise occupied,



it must be an object seen, an odour, a touch; perhaps even a posture

of the body suffices to recall something in the past. Sometimes the



vision passes, and there an end; sometimes, however, it has

successors, the memory working quite independently of my will, and



no link appearing between one scene and the next.

Ten minutes ago I was talking with my gardener. Our topic was the



nature of the soil, whether or not it would suit a certain kind of

vegetable. Of a sudden I found myself gazing at--the Bay of Avlona.



Quite certainly my thoughts had not strayed in that direction. The

picture that came before me caused me a shock of surprise, and I am



still vainlytrying to discover how I came to behold it.

A happy chance that I ever saw Avlona. I was on my way from Corfu



to Brindisi. The steamer sailed late in the afternoon; there was a

little wind, and as the December night became chilly, I soon turned



in. With the first daylight I was on deck, expecting to find that

we were near the Italian port; to my surprise, I saw a mountainous



shore, towards which the ship was making at full speed. On inquiry,

I learnt that this was the coast of Albania; our vessel not being



very seaworthy, and the wind still blowing a little (though not

enough to make any passenger uncomfortable), the captain had turned



back when nearly half across the Adriatic, and was seeking a haven

in the shelter of the snow-topped hills. Presently we steamed into



a great bay, in the narrow mouth of which lay an island. My map

showed me where we were, and with no small interest I discovered



that the long line of heights guarding the bay on its southern side

formed the Acroceraunian Promontory. A little town visible high up



on the inner shore was the ancient Aulon.

Here we anchored, and lay all day long. Provisions running short, a



boat had to be sent to land, and the sailors purchased, among other

things, some peculiarly detestable bread--according to them, cotto



al sole. There was not a cloud in the sky; till evening, the wind

whistled above our heads, but the sea about us was blue and smooth.



I sat in hot sunshine, feasting my eyes on the beautiful cliffs and

valleys of the thickly-wooded shore. Then came a noble sunset; then






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