四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第38章

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is　over。
It　all　means；　of　course；　that；　owing　to　defective　opportunity；　owing；　still　more　perhaps；　to　lack　of　method　and　persistence；　a　possibility　that　was　in　me　has　been　wasted；　lost。　My　life　has　been　merely　tentative；　a　broken　series　of　false　starts　and　hopeless　new　beginnings。　If　I　allowed　myself　to　indulge　that　mood；　I　could　revolt　against　the　ordinance　which　allows　me　no　second　chance。　O　mihi　praeteritos　referat　si　Jupiter　annos！　If　I　could　but　start　again；　with　only　the　experience　there　gained！　I　mean；　make　a　new　beginning　of　my　intellectual　life；　nothing　else；　O　heaven！　nothing　else。　Even　amid　poverty；　I　could　do　so　much　better；　keeping　before　my　eyes　some　definite；　some　not　unattainable；　good；　sternly　dismissing　the　impracticable；　the　wasteful。
And；　in　doing　so；　bee　perhaps　an　owl…eyed　pedant；　to　whom　would　be　for　ever　dead　the　possibility　of　such　enjoyment　as　I　know　in　these　final　years。　Who　can　say？　Perhaps　the　sole　condition　of　my　progress　to　this　state　of　mind　and　heart　which　make　my　happiness　was　that　very　stumbling　and　erring　which　I　so　regret。
XVII
Why　do　I　give　so　much　of　my　time　to　the　reading　of　history？　Is　it　in　any　sense　profitable　to　me？　What　new　light　can　I　hope　for　on　the　nature　of　man？　What　new　guidance　for　the　direction　of　my　own　life　through　the　few　years　that　may　remain　to　me？　But　it　is　with　no　such　purpose　that　I　read　these　voluminous　books；　they　gratify……or　seem　to　gratify……a　mere　curiosity；　and　scarcely　have　I　closed　a　volume；　when　the　greater　part　of　what　I　have　read　in　it　is　forgotten。
Heaven　forbid　that　I　should　remember　all！　Many　a　time　I　have　said　to　myself　that　I　would　close　the　dreadful　record　of　human　life；　lay　it　for　ever　aside；　and　try　to　forget　it。　Somebody　declares　that　history　is　a　manifestation　of　the　triumph　of　good　over　evil。　The　good　prevails　now　and　then；　no　doubt；　but　how　local　and　transitory　is　such　triumph。　If　historic　tomes　had　a　voice；　it　would　sound　as　one　long　moan　of　anguish。　Think　steadfastly　of　the　past；　and　one　sees　that　only　by　defect　of　imaginative　power　can　any　man　endure　to　dwell　with　it。　History　is　a　nightmare　of　horrors；　we　relish　it；　because　we　love　pictures；　and　because　all　that　man　has　suffered　is　to　man　rich　in　interest。　But　make　real　to　yourself　the　vision　of　every　blood…stained　page……stand　in　the　presence　of　the　ravening　conqueror；　the　savage　tyrant……tread　the　stones　of　the　dungeon　and　of　the　torture…room……feel　the　fire　of　the　stake……hear　the　cries　of　that　multitude　which　no　man　can　number；　the　victims　of　calamity；　of　oppression；　of　fierce　injustice　in　its　myriad　forms；　in　every　land；　in　every　age……and　what　joy　have　you　of　your　historic　reading？　One　would　need　to　be　a　devil　to　understand　it　thus；　and　yet　to　delight　in　it。
Injustice……there　is　the　loathed　crime　which　curses　the　memory　of　the　world。　The　slave　doomed　by　his　lord's　caprice　to　perish　under　tortures……one　feels　it　a　dreadful　and　intolerable　thing；　but　it　is　merely　the　crude　presentment　of　what　has　been　done　and　endured　a　million　times　in　every　stage　of　civilization。　Oh；　the　last　thoughts　of　those　who　have　agonized　unto　death　amid　wrongs　to　which　no　man　would　give　ear！　That　appeal　of　innocence　in　anguish　to　the　hard；　mute　heavens！　Were　there　only　one　such　instance　in　all　the　chronicles　of　time；　it　should　doom　the　past　to　abhorred　oblivion。　Yet　injustice；　the　basest；　the　most　ferocious；　is　inextricable　from　warp　and　woof　in　the　tissue　of　things　gone　by。　And　if　anyone　soothes　himself　with　the　reflection　that　such　outrages　can　happen　no　more；　that　mankind　has　passed　beyond　such　hideous　possibility；　he　is　better　acquainted　with　books　than　with　human　nature。
It　were　wiser　to　spend　my　hours　with　the　books　which　bring　no　aftertaste　of　bitterness……with　the　great　poets　whom　I　love；　with　the　thinkers；　with　the　gentle　writers　of　pages　that　soothe　and　tranquillize。　Many　a　volume　regards　me　from　the　shelf　as　though　reproachfully；　shall　I　never　again　take　it　in　my　hands？　Yet　the　words　are　golden；　and　I　would　fain　treasure　them　all　in　my　heart's　memory。　Perhaps　the　last　fault　of　which　I　shall　cure　myself　is　that　habit　of　mind　which　urges　me　to　seek　knowledge。　Was　I　not　yesterday　on　the　point　of　ordering　a　huge　work　of　erudition；　which　I　should　certainly　never　have　read　through；　and　which　would　only　have　served　to　waste　precious　days？　It　is　the　Puritan　in　my　blood；　I　suppose；　which　forbids　me　to　recognise　frankly　that　all　I　have　now　to　do　is　to　ENJOY。　This　is　wisdom。　The　time　for　acquisition　has　gone　by。　I　am　not　foolish　enough　to　set　myself　learning　a　new　language；　why　should　I　try　to　store　my　memory　with　useless　knowledge　of　the　past？
e；　once　more　before　I　die　I　will　read　Don　Quixote。
XVIII
Somebody　has　been　making　a　speech；　reported　at　a　couple　of　columns'　length　in　the　paper。　As　I　glance　down　the　waste　of　print；　one　word　catches　my　eye　again　and　again。　It's　all　about　〃science〃……and　therefore　doesn't　concern　me。
I　wonder　whether　there　are　many　men　who　have　the　same　feeling　with　regard　to　〃science〃　as　I　have？　It　is　something　more　than　a　prejudice；　often　it　takes　the　form　of　a　dread；　almost　a　terror。　Even　those　branches　of　science　which　are　concerned　with　things　that　interest　me……which　deal　with　plants　and　animals　and　the　heaven　of　stars……even　these　I　cannot　contemplate　without　uneasiness；　a　spiritual　disaffection；　new　discoveries；　new　theories；　however　they　engage　my　intelligence；　soon　weary　me；　and　in　some　way　depress。　When　it　es　to　other　kinds　of　science……the　sciences　blatant　and　ubiquitous……the　science　by　which　men　bee　millionaires……I　am　possessed　with　an　angry　hostility；　a　resentful　apprehension。　This　was　born　in　me；　no　doubt；　I　cannot　trace　it　to　circumstances　of　my　life；　or　to　any　particular　moment　of　my　mental　growth。　My　boyish　delight　in　Carlyle　doubtless　nourished　the　temper；　but　did　not　Carlyle　so　delight　me　because　of　what　was　already　in　my　mind？　I　remember；　as　a　lad；　looking　at　plicated　machinery　with　a　shrinking　uneasiness　which；　of　course；　I　did　not　understand；　I　remember　the　sort　of　disturbed　contemptuousness　with　which；　in　my　time　of　〃examinations；〃　I　dismissed　〃science　papers。〃　It　is　intelligible　enough　to　me；　now；　that　unformed　fear：　the　ground　of　my　antipathy　has　grown　clear　enough。　I　hate　and　fear　〃science〃　because　of　my　conviction　that；　for　long　to　e　if　not　for　ever；　it　will　be　the　remorseless　enemy　of　mankind。　I　see　it　destroying　all　simplicity　and　gentleness　of　life；　all　the　beauty　of　the　world；　I　see　it　restoring　barbarism　under　a　mask　of　civilization；　I　see　it　darkening　men's　minds　and　hardening　their　hearts；　I　see　it　bringing　a　time　of　vast　conflicts；　which　will　pale　into　insignificance　〃the　thousand　wars　of　old；〃　and；　as　likely　as　not；　will　whelm　all　the　laborious　advances　of　mankind　in　blood…drenched　chaos。
Yet　to　rail　against　it　is　as　idle　as　to　quarrel　with　any　other　force　of　nature。　For　myself；　I　can　hold　apart；　and　see　as　little　as　possible　of　the　thing　I　deem　accursed。　But　I　think　of　some　who　are　dear　to　me；　whose　life　will　be　lived　in　the　hard　and　fierce　new　age。　The　roaring　〃Jubilee〃　of　last　summer　was　for　me　an　occasion　of　sadness；　it　meant　that　so　much　was　over　and　gone……so　much　of　good　and　noble；　the　like　of　which　the　world　will　not　see　again；　and　that　a　new　time　of　which　only　the　perils　are　clearly　visible；　is　rushing　upon　us。　Oh；　the　generous　hopes　and　aspirations　of　forty　years　ago！　Science；　then；　was　seen　as　the　deliverer；　only　a　few　could　prophesy　its　tyranny；　could　foresee　that　it　would　revive　old　evils　and　trample　on　the　promises　of　its　beginning。　This　is　the　course　of　things；　we　must　accept　it。　But　it　is　some　fort　to　me　that　I……　poor　little　mortal……have　had　no　part　in　bringing　the　tyrant　to　his　throne。
XIX
The　Christmas　bells　drew　me　forth　this　morning。　With　but　half…　formed　purpose；　I　walked　through　soft；　hazy　sunshine　towards　the　city；　and　came　into　the　Cathedral　Close；　and；　after　lingering　awhile；　heard　the　first　notes　of　the　organ；　and　so　entered。　I　believe　it　is　more　than　thirty　years　since　I　was　in　an　English　church　on　Christmas　Day。　The　old　time　and　the　old　faces　lived　again　for　me；　I　saw　myself　on　the　far　side　of　the　abyss　of　years……that　self　which　is　not　myself　at　all；　though　I　mark　points　of　kindred　between　the　beings　of　then　and　now。　He　who　in　that　o