序
Preface
The name of Henry Ryecroft never became familiar to what is called the reading public. A year ago obituary paragraphs in the literary papers gave such account of him as was thought needful: the date and place of his birth, the names of certain books he had written, an allusion to his work in the periodicals, the manner of his death. At the time it sufficed. Even those few who knew the man, and in a measure understood him, must have felt that his name called for no further celebration; like other mortals, he had lived and laboured; like other mortals, he had entered into his rest. To me, however, fell the duty of examining Ryecroft’s papers; and having, in the exercise of my discretion, decided to print this little volume, I feel that it requires a word or two of biographical complement, just so much personal detail as may point the significance of the self-revelation here made.
亨利·賴克羅夫特（Henry Ryecroft）之名素未為所謂讀者大衆所知。一年前，文學報紙刊登賴氏訃告，僅言渠何日何地出生，部分著作何名，何書曾為某刊言及，及渠之死狀。訃告雖簡，然就當時言之，則已足矣。即賴氏不多幾位知交，料亦必以訃告無需再多頌詞。如萬千凡人，賴氏一生勞碌紅塵；如萬千凡人，賴氏業已長眠地下。余身負整理賴氏遺稿之責，既經思量，決意將此小書付梓，甚覺有補述渠生平之必要，以彰渠書中自白之意義也。
When first I knew him, Ryecroft had reached his fortieth year; for twenty years he had lived by the pen. He was a struggling man, beset by poverty and other circumstances very unpropitious to mental work. Many forms of literature had he tried; in none had he been conspicuously successful; yet now and then he had managed to earn a little more money than his actual needs demanded, and thus was enabled to see something of foreign countries. Naturally a man of independent and rather scornful outlook, he had suffered much from defeated ambition, from disillusions of many kinds, from subjection to grim necessity; the result of it, at the time of which I am speaking, was, certainly not a broken spirit, but a mind and temper so sternly disciplined, that, in ordinary intercourse with him, one did not know but that he led a calm, contented life. Only after several years of friendship was I able to form a just idea of what the man had gone through, or of his actual existence. Little by little Ryecroft had subdued himself to a modestly industrious routine. He did a great deal of mere hack-work; he reviewed, he translated, he wrote articles; at long intervals a volume appeared under his name. There were times, I have no doubt, when bitterness took hold upon him; not seldom he suffered in health, and probably as much from moral as from physical over-strain; but, on the whole, he earned his living very much as other men do, taking the day’s toil as a matter of course, and rarely grumbling over it.
余與初識時，賴氏年四十，筆耕謀食已廿年。渠命途多舛，貧而多厄，極不利寫作。雖曾涉足文學諸體，皆無甚知名。雖然，渠鬻文所得，除去平日必要開銷，不時仍稍有餘錢，因得偶作異國之遊。渠生性孤傲，而幾一生愁苦，以有志難伸，有夢難圓，於生活之艱，亦常無可奈何也。然即在當時，渠亦毫無頹狀，且極自律。平日相與結交者，咸以渠乃一安逸人。相交多年而後，余始知渠生平之梗概，或曰其真實境況。蓋積習使然，渠工作甚勤，平時評論，翻譯，創作，沉寂良久，偶亦出書，然其文多奉命而作者，無甚可觀。渠素多疾，於德行檢束之過甚，概亦不讓勞苦身體之過甚，故料時亦不免愁苦。然渠於謀生一事，與他人並無大異：終日辛勞以為常，鮮有怨。
Time went on; things happened; but Ryecroft was still laborious and poor. In moments of depression he spoke of his declining energies, and evidently suffered under a haunting fear of the future. The thought of dependence had always been intolerable to him; perhaps the only boast I at any time heard from his lips was that he had never incurred debt. It was a bitter thought that, after so long and hard a struggle with unkindly circumstance, he might end his life as one of the defeated.
時光荏苒，世事變遷，而渠則勤貧如故。愁悶之時，常自言精力日衰，顯已久懷垂老之憂，以素弗堪依人之念故也。渠常謂余曰，此生未曾負債。忖之，蓋其唯一堪慰平生事也。渠久處困厄而不屈，若於困厄終老，思之不免令人神傷。
A happier lot was in store for him. At the age of fifty, just when his health had begun to fail and his energies to show abatement, Ryecroft had the rare good fortune to find himself suddenly released from toil, and to enter upon a period of such tranquillity of mind and condition as he had never dared to hope. On the death of an acquaintance, more his friend than he imagined, the wayworn man of letters learnt with astonishment that there was bequeathed to him a life annuity of three hundred pounds. Having only himself to support (he had been a widower for several years, and his daughter, an only child, was married), Ryecroft saw in this income something more than a competency. In a few weeks he quitted the London suburb where of late he had been living, and, turning to the part of England which he loved best, he presently established himself in a cottage near Exeter, where, with a rustic housekeeper to look after him, he was soon thoroughly at home. Now and then some friend went down into Devon to see him; those who had that pleasure will not forget the plain little house amid its half-wild garden, the cosy book-room with its fine view across the valley of the Exe to Haldon, the host’s cordial, gleeful hospitality, rambles with him in lanes and meadows, long talks amid the stillness of the rural night. We hoped it would all last for many a year; it seemed, indeed, as though Ryecroft had only need of rest and calm to become a hale man. But already, though he did not know it, he was suffering from a disease of the heart, which cut short his life after little more than a lustrum of quiet contentment. It had always been his wish to die suddenly; he dreaded the thought of illness, chiefly because of the trouble it gave to others. On a summer evening, after a long walk in very hot weather, he lay down upon the sofa in his study, and there—as his calm face declared—passed from slumber into the great silence.
所幸，轉運之日非遙矣。渠年五十，形神始衰之際，一日忽知終於可以告別勞苦，安享餘年。此渠夢中亦未曾敢奢望者也。原來，一位相識身故之後，遺渠一終身年金，每年計三百英鎊。渠久潦倒，知之甚訝，未料彼之厚己若此也。鰥居多年，膝下止一女，亦已成家，年以三百英鎊供養一己，渠料綽綽有餘。幾週之後，便辭當時所居之倫敦郊區，遷往埃克塞特附近。此英格蘭全境之內，渠最中意之地也。渠於此購得一小宅為新居，又僱得一淳樸婦照料起居，不久便已全然習慣新生活。渠小宅樸雅，庭有野趣，書齋暖馨，隔窗可見艾克斯河谷至哈爾登山之美景，友人偶南下德文郡探訪者，必難忘也；而主人待客之殷勤，以及主客相與漫步幽徑草地之樂、主客於鄉村靜夜相與漫談之樂，亦必難忘也。諸友人咸望歲歲能有德文相聚之樂，而渠亦確似衹需靜養，便能長保康健，然不知是時己身已患心疾耳。適享清福五年，便未老而卒。渠畏疾，以罹疾輒累人也，故向有猝死之願。一年夏，渠不避暑熱，於夜長足遊樂，待歸，臥書齋沙發上，酣然而眠，不意竟爾長逝。
When he left London, Ryecroft bade farewell to authorship. He told me that he hoped never to write another line for publication. But, among the papers which I looked through after his death, I came upon three manuscript books which at first glance seemed to be a diary; a date on the opening page of one of them showed that it had been begun not very long after the writer’s settling in Devon. When I had read a little in these pages, I saw that they were no mere record of day-to-day life; evidently finding himself unable to forego altogether the use of the pen, the veteran had set down, as humour bade him, a thought, a reminiscence, a bit of reverie, a description of his state of mind, and so on, dating such passage merely with the month in which it was written. Sitting in the room where I had often been his companion, I turned page after page, and at moments it was as though my friend’s voice sounded to me once more. I saw his worn visage, grave or smiling; recalled his familiar pose or gesture. But in this written gossip he revealed himself more intimately than in our conversation of the days gone by. Ryecroft had never erred by lack of reticence; as was natural in a sensitive man who had suffered much, he inclined to gentle acquiescence, shrank from argument, from self-assertion. Here he spoke to me without restraint, and, when I had read it all through, I knew the man better than before.
渠離倫敦時，決意從此棄筆，並告余曰，餘生不願再著片言發表。然渠死後，余檢其遺作，獲手稿三卷。乍見頗似日記。以其中一卷首頁所記日期觀之，則蓋始撰於渠定居德文郡未久之時也。粗閱之下，其文並非單單記其日常。渠文章老手，一時顯不能全然忘情紙筆，於是興之所至，輒記之，不拘心念、往事、遐想，抑或己之心緒。而每成一則，則僅註以當時月份。獨坐常與相伴之室，逐頁讀之，不時竟有余友音容宛在之感。但見渠容憔悴，時而肅穆，時而微笑，乃至渠平日之姿之態，皆歷歷在目。然渠於其閒文中坦露自我，較諸余二人曩昔閒談時，則更無拘束耳。渠素慎言，未曾有言語之失，加以飽受磨難，生性敏感，遇人高談闊論，往往柔色而不語，不願與人爭執，亦不願張揚自我，固也。余讀其文，若渠之與余暢談。讀畢，余知余之知彼，更勝往昔也。
Assuredly, this writing was not intended for the public, and yet, in many a passage, I seemed to perceive the literary purpose—something more than the turn of phrase, and so on, which results from long habit of composition. Certain of his reminiscences, in particular, Ryecroft could hardly have troubled to write down had he not, however vaguely, entertained the thought of putting them to some use. I suspect that, in his happy leisure, there grew upon him a desire to write one more book, a book which should be written merely for his own satisfaction. Plainly, it would have been the best he had it in him to do. But he seems never to have attempted the arrangement of these fragmentary pieces, and probably because he could not decide upon the form they should take. I imagine him shrinking from the thought of a first-person volume; he would feel it too pretentious; he would bid himself wait for the day of riper wisdom. And so the pen fell from his hand.
渠之日記，確非為出版而作。然中諸多篇章，余讀之頗有文以傳世之意，不止文辭考究。文辭考究之類，為文長久使然者也。至若文以傳世之意，尤見於數則往事。非微有此意，渠必不之記也。余疑渠安享閒暇時，曾萌念再著一書，非為娛人，慰己而已。渠果有此念，則固善。然渠似從未理其零散之文，蓋始終不能定其體例故也。 余意渠必以其文滿篇「余」「我」，易貽人自命不凡之感，故不願輯之成書，以待才智更周之日，遂暫擱筆也。
Conjecturing thus, I wondered whether the irregular diary might not have wider interest than at first appeared. To me, its personal appeal was very strong; might it not be possible to cull from it the substance of a small volume which, at least for its sincerity’s sake, would not be without value for those who read, not with the eye alone, but with the mind? I turned the pages again. Here was a man who, having his desire, and that a very modest one, not only felt satisfied, but enjoyed great happiness. He talked of many different things, saying exactly what he thought; he spoke of himself, and told the truth as far as mortal can tell it. It seemed to me that the thing had human interest. I decided to print.
余既作如此之想，繼而不禁暗忖渠之日記，成篇雖無定時，然未必如乍看之下寡味。於余，渠之日記意味甚濃。倘能採擷若干，輯一小書，於觀書以目並以心者，當不無價值，以其文至少真情沛然也。余復展卷讀之。卷中人有其所欲，而乃小慾，心滿意樂。日記中，渠筆論萬事，直抒胸臆，並亦言己，言己則必以信。余細讀之下，但覺日記頗具情味，因決心付諸梨棗。
The question of arrangement had to be considered; I did not like to offer a mere incondite miscellany. To supply each of the disconnected passages with a title, or even to group them under subject headings, would have interfered with the spontaneity which, above all, I wished to preserve. In reading through the matter I had selected, it struck me how often the aspects of nature were referred to, and how suitable many of the reflections were to the month with which they were dated. Ryecroft, I knew, had ever been much influenced by the mood of the sky, and by the procession of the year. So I hit upon the thought of dividing the little book into four chapters, named after the seasons. Like all classifications, it is imperfect, but ’twill serve.
文章編排，甚需斟酌。倘書出，而其內篇章雜亂，則非余之所樂見也。渠日記中文，各篇並無關聯，不論每篇各冠一名，即依主題輯錄成章而冠以章名，亦不免損其原味，非余所願。余讀所選之文，頓悟渠言自然者何其頻，而其所思於所註之月份亦何其合。余知風雲霜雨、四季更迭，素為渠善感之由，因靈機一動，將小書分為四章，依次以春、夏、秋、冬名之。萬千分法，必有瑕疵，如是分法亦然，然當堪用也。
Into Good Chinese 