四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第6节

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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　name？……the　bookseller　who　had　been；　I　believe；　a　Catholic　priest；　and　still　had　a　certain　priestly　dignity　about　him。　He　took　the　volume；　opened　it；　mused　for　a　moment；　then；　with　a　glance　at　me；　said；　as　if　thinking　aloud：　〃Yes；　I　wish　I　had　time　to　read　it。〃
Sometimes　I　added　the　labour　of　a　porter　to　my　fasting　endured　for　the　sake　of　books。　At　the　little　shop　near　Portland　Road　Station　I　came　upon　a　first　edition　of　Gibbon；　the　price　an　absurdity……I　think　it　was　a　shilling　a　volume。　To　possess　those　clean…paged　quartos　I　would　have　sold　my　coat。　As　it　happened；　I　had　not　money　enough　with　me；　but　sufficient　at　home。　I　was　living　at　Islington。　Having　spoken　with　the　bookseller；　I　walked　home；　took　the　cash；　walked　back　again；　and……carried　the　tomes　from　the　west　end　of　Euston　Road　to　a　street　in　Islington　far　beyond　the　Angel。　I　did　it　in　two　journeys……this　being　the　only　time　in　my　life　when　I　thought　of　Gibbon　in　avoirdupois。　Twice……three　times；　reckoning　the　walk　for　the　money……did　I　descend　Euston　Road　and　climb　Pentonville　on　that　occasion。　Of　the　season　and　the　weather　I　have　no　recollection；　my　joy　in　the　purchase　I　had　made　drove　out　every　other　thought。　Except；　indeed；　of　the　weight。　I　had　infinite　energy；　but　not　much　muscular　strength；　and　the　end　of　the　last　journey　saw　me　upon　a　chair；　perspiring；　flaccid；　aching……exultant！
The　well…to…do　person　would　hear　this　story　with　astonishment。　Why　did　I　not　get　the　bookseller　to　send　me　the　volumes？　Or；　if　I　could　not　wait；　was　there　no　omnibus　along　that　London　highway？　How　could　I　make　the　well…to…do　person　understand　that　I　did　not　feel　able　to　afford；　that　day；　one　penny　more　than　I　had　spent　on　the　book？　No；　no；　such　labour…saving　expenditure　did　not　e　within　my　scope；　whatever　I　enjoyed　I　earned　it；　literally；　by　the　sweat　of　my　brow。　In　those　days　I　hardly　knew　what　it　was　to　travel　by　omnibus。　I　have　walked　London　streets　for　twelve　and　fifteen　hours　together　without　ever　a　thought　of　saving　my　legs；　or　my　time；　by　paying　for　waftage。　Being　poor　as　poor　can　be；　there　were　certain　things　I　had　to　renounce；　and　this　was　one　of　them。
Years　after；　I　sold　my　first　edition　of　Gibbon　for　even　less　than　it　cost　me；　it　went　with　a　great　many　other　fine　books　in　folio　and　quarto；　which　I　could　not　drag　about　with　me　in　my　constant　removals；　the　man　who　bought　them　spoke　of　them　as　〃tomb…stones。〃　Why　has　Gibbon　no　market　value？　Often　has　my　heart　ached　with　regret　for　those　quartos。　The　joy　of　reading　the　Decline　and　Fall　in　that　fine　type！　The　page　was　appropriate　to　the　dignity　of　the　subject；　the　mere　sight　of　it　tuned　one's　mind。　I　suppose　I　could　easily　get　another　copy　now；　but　it　would　not　be　to　me　what　that　other　was；　with　its　memory　of　dust　and　toil。
XIII
There　must　be　several　men　of　spirit　and　experiences　akin　to　mine　who　remember　that　little　book…shop　opposite　Portland　Road　Station。　It　had　a　peculiar　character；　the　books　were　of　a　solid　kind……chiefly　theology　and　classics……and　for　the　most　part　those　old　editions　which　are　called　worthless；　which　have　no　bibliopolic　value；　and　have　been　supplanted　for　practical　use　by　modern　issues。　The　bookseller　was　very　much　a　gentleman；　and　this　singular　fact；　together　with　the　extremely　low　prices　at　which　his　volumes　were　marked；　sometimes　inclined　me　to　think　that　he　kept　the　shop　for　mere　love　of　letters。　Things　in　my　eyes　inestimable　I　have　purchased　there　for　a　few　pence；　and　I　don't　think　I　ever　gave　more　than　a　shilling　for　any　volume。　As　I　once　had　the　opportunity　of　perceiving；　a　young　man　fresh　from　class…rooms　could　only　look　with　wondering　contempt　on　the　antiquated　stuff　which　it　rejoiced　me　to　gather　from　that　kindly　stall；　or　from　the　richer　shelves　within。　My　Cicero's　Letters　for　instance：　podgy　volumes　in　parchment；　with　all　the　notes　of　Graevius；　Gronovius；　and　I　know　not　how　many　other　old　scholars。　Pooh！　Hopelessly　out　of　date。　But　I　could　never　feel　that。　I　have　a　deep　affection　for　Graevius　and　Gronovius　and　the　rest；　and　if　I　knew　as　much　as　they　did；　I　should　be　well　satisfied　to　rest　und