四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第22部分
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s。 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 〃ing 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 disfort 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 ment 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。
I had to go into Exeter yesterday。 I got there about sunset； transacted my business； and turned to walk home again through the warm twilight。 In Southernhay； as I was passing a house of which the ground…floor windows stood open； there sounded the notes of a piano……chords touched by a skilful hand。 I checked my step； hoping； and in a minute or two the musician began to play that nocturne of Chopin which I love best……I don't know how to name it。 My heart leapt。 There I stood in the thickening dusk； the glorious sounds floating about me； and I trembled with very ecstasy of enjoyment。 When silence came； I waited in the hope of another piece； but nothing followed； and so I went my way。
It is well for me that I cannot hear music when I will； assuredly I should not have such intense pleasure as es to me now and then by haphazard。 As I walked on； forgetting all about the distance； and reaching home before I knew I was half way there； I felt gratitude to my unknown benefactor……a state of mind I have often experienced in the days long gone by。 It happened at times……not in my barest days； but in those of decent poverty……that some one in the house where I lodged played the piano……and how it rejoiced me when this came to pass！ I say 〃played the piano〃……a phrase that covers much。 For my own part； I was very tolerant； anything that could by the largest interpretation be called music； I weled and was thankful； for even 〃five…finger exercises〃 I found； at moments； better than nothing。 For it was when I was labouring at my desk that the notes of the instrument were grateful and helpful to me。 Some men； I believe； would have been driven frantic under the circumstances； to me； anything like a musical sound always came as a godsend； it tuned my thoughts； it made the words flow。 Even the street organs put me in a happy mood； I owe many a page to them……written when I should else have been sunk in bilious gloom。
More than once； too； when I was walking London streets by night； penniless and miserable； music from an open window has stayed my step； even as yesterday。 Very well can I remember such a moment in Eaton Square； one night when I was going back to Chelsea； tired； hungry； racked by frustrate passions。 I had tramped miles and miles； in the hope of wearying myself so that I could sleep and forget。 Then came the piano notes……I saw that there was festival in the house……and for an hour or so I revelled as none of the bidden guests could possibly be doing。 And when I reached my poor lodgings； I was no longer envious nor mad with desires； but as I fell asleep I thanked the unknown mortal who had played for me； and given me peace。
XXVII
To…day I have read The Tempest。 It is perhaps the play that I love best； and； because I seem to myself to know it so well； I monly pass it over in opening the book。 Yet； as always in regard to Shakespeare； having read it once more； I find that my knowledge was less plete than I supposed。 So it would be； live as long as one might； so it would ever be； whilst one had strength to turn the pages and a mind left to read them。
I like to believe that this was the poet's last work； that he wrote it in his home at Stratford； walking day by day in the fields which had taught his boyhood to love rural England。 It is ripe fruit of the supreme imagination； perfect craft of the master hand。 For a man whose life's business it has been to study the English tongue； arking the happy ease wherewith Shakespeare surpasses； in mere mand of words； every achievement of those even who； apart from him； are great？ I could fancy that； in The Tempest； he wrought with a peculiar consciousness of this power； smiling as the word of inimitable felicity； the phrase of inparable cadence； was whispered to him by the Ariel that was his genius。 He seems to sport with language； to amuse himself with new discovery of its resources。 From king to beggar； men of every rank and every order of mind have spoken with his lips； he has uttered the lore of fairyland； now it pleases him to create a being neither man nor fairy； a something between brute and human nature； and to endow its purposes with words。 These words； how they smack of the moist and spawning earth； of the life of creatures that cannot rise above the soil！ We do not think of it enough； we stint our wonder because we fall short in appreciation。 A miracle is worked before us； and we scarce give heed； it has bee familiar to our minds as any other of nature's marvels； which we rarely pause to reflect upon。
The Tempest contains the noblest meditative passage in all the plays； that which embodies Shakespeare's final view of life； and is the inevitable quotation of all who would sum the teachings of philosophy。 It contains his most exquisite lyrics； his tenderest love passages； and one glimpse of fairyland which……I cannot but think……outshines the utmost beauty of A Midsummer Night's Dream： Prospero's farewell to the 〃elves of hills； brooks； standing lakes； and groves。〃 Again a miracle； these are things which cannot be staled by repetition。 e to them often as you will； they are ever fresh as though new minted from the brain of the poet。 Being perfect； they can never droop under that sa
