第四冊第12篇：筆桿，我的老伙伴
For more than a week my pen has lain untouched. I have written nothing for seven whole days, not even a letter. Except during one or two bouts of illness, such a thing never happened in my life before. In my life; the life, that is, which had to be supported by anxious toil; the life which was not lived for living's sake, as all life should be, but under the goad of fear . The earning of money should be a means to an end; for more than thirty years─I began to support myself at sixteen─I had to regard it as the end itself.
我的筆已經(jīng)個把星期躺在那里沒人碰它。整整七天我什么也沒有寫，連一封信也沒有寫。有生以來夕除了一兩次生病期間，從來不曾有過這樣的事。我這一生是全靠兢兢業(yè)業(yè)艱苦勞動來維持生活的一生，這一生不是為了生活而生活，象所有生活應(yīng)該有的情況那樣，而是在恐俱的孤便下掙扎茍活的一生。 掙錢本不是生活的目的，而不過是達(dá)到目的的手段。我從十六歲起獨(dú)自謀生，三十多年以來我卻不得不把掙錢當(dāng)作目的。
I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards me. Has it not served me well ? Why do 1, in my happiness, let it lie there neglected, gathering dust? The same penholder that has lain against my forefinger day after day, for─how many years ? Twenty, at least; I remember buying it at a shop in Tottenham Court Road. By the same token I bought that day a paperweight, which cost me a whole shilling─an extravagance which made me tremble. The penholder shone with its new varnish, now it is plain brown wood from end to end. On my forefinger it has made a callosity.
我可以想象，我的老伙伴筆桿在責(zé)備我。它不是很好地為我服務(wù)過了嗎?為什么我在幸福之中把它棄置不度，讓它躺在那里沾灰呢?正是這支筆桿日復(fù)一日地依著我的食指，已經(jīng)有多少年了?至少二十年,我記得是在托特納姆廣場路一家鋪?zhàn)永镔I的。既買了筆，那天我就再買了一只鎮(zhèn)紙，這使我花費(fèi)了整整一個先令一一這種浪費(fèi)當(dāng)時叫我發(fā)抖。剛買時，筆桿是油光錚亮的，現(xiàn)在從頭到尾都只剩棕色的木質(zhì)本色了。這筆桿曾叫我的食指磨出老繭。
Old companion, yet old enemy ! How many a time have I taken it up, loathing the necessity, heavy in head and heart? my hand shaking, my eyes sick-dazzled. How I dreaded the white page I had to foul with ink ! Above all, on days scub as this, when the blue eyes of Spring, laughed from between rosy clouds, when the sunlight shimmered upon my table and made me long, long all but to madness, for the scent of the flowering earth, for the green of hillside larches, for the singing of the skylark above the downs. There was a time─it seems further away than childhood─when I hook up my pen with eagerness; if my hand trembled it was with hope. But a hope that fooled me, for never a page of my writing deserved to live. I can say that now without bitterness. It was youthful error, and only the force of circumstance prolonged it. The world has done me no injustice; thank Heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this; And why should any man who writes, even if he write things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect ? Who asked him to publish ? Who promised him a hearing ? Who has broken faith with him? If my shoemaker turn me out an excellent pair of boots, and I, in some mood of cantankerous unreason, throw them back upon his hands, the man has just cause of complaint. But your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it ? If it is honest journeywork, yet lacks purchasers, at most you may call yourself a hapless tradesman. If it come from on high, with what decency do you fret and fumebe cause it is not paid for in heavy cash ? For the work of man's mind there is one test, and one alone, the judgment of generations yet unborn .If you have written a great book , the world to come will know of it. But you don't care for posthumous glory. You want to enjoy fame in a comfortable armchair. Ah, that is quite another thing . Have the courage of your desire . Admit yourself a merchant, and protest to gods and men that the merchamdise you offer is of better quality than much which sells for a high price. You may be right, and indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your stall.
我的老伙伴，可又是我的老對頭!有多少次我拿起這筆桿，頭腦昏沉沉，心單沉甸甸、手發(fā)抖，眼發(fā)花，感到厭惡而不得不寫?？吹讲坏貌挥媚畞硗课鄣陌准垼艺婧ε?。尤其是碰上這樣的日子—當(dāng)春天的藍(lán)湛湛的眼睛從玫瑰色的云縫里歡笑，當(dāng)陽光在我的書桌上閃爍，使我?guī)缀醢l(fā)狂地想念那百花盛開的大地的芳馨，想念那山坡上落葉松的一片青翠，思念那丘睦上空.云雀的歌聲時，我更是害怕了。想舀年一仿佛比童年還早些—每當(dāng)提筆，我總是充滿熱望。那時如果我的手發(fā)抖，那是為希望而發(fā)抖。可暈希望作弄了我，因?yàn)槲业奈恼?rsquo;投有一頁值得生存?，F(xiàn)在我能說著話而不感到心酸了。那是我年輕時犯下的錯誤，由于環(huán)境所迫，才延誤至今。這世界并沒 有對我不公平。感謝上蒼，我現(xiàn)已知事明理，不會為此錯誤怨天尤人了。一個人寫了點(diǎn)東西，哪怕是寫出了不朽的作品，何必因未受世人的重視而懷很在心呢?誰要他出版的?誰向他 保證過必有人析他?又是誰朱信子恤的?如呆我的桂匠給我勝了一雙浮亮靴子，正祖上我心情不好，.蠻不講理，把靴子扔回他手里，那鞋匠就有正當(dāng)理由來抱怨?？墒悄愕脑?，你的小說，誰跟你談好這筆生意了?如果那是一件貨真價實(shí)的商品，可是沒有買主，你至多只能說你自己是個不走運(yùn)的店主。如果那是憑空來的，。你有什么臉面由于它沒有人高價買它而煩惱和光火呢?對于人的心靈的產(chǎn)品，只有—也只能有一種檢驗(yàn)，那就是未來的一代一代人的裁判。如果你果真寫出了一部偉大的作品。未來的世界會知道它的。，偏偏你不愛身后的光榮，你要舒 舒服服坐在安樂椅里享受盛名，恩，這就完全是另一回事了。 那么你就勇敢地提出你的要求吧，你得承認(rèn)你是個商人，并對神和人聲明，說你提供的貨色比許多賣高價的質(zhì)量更高。說不定你是對的，而倘若時髦人物還是不肯光顧你的貨攤，哪就真是使你極其難受了。
