lavengro-第111部分

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author　may　be　summed　briefly　as　an　almost　uninterrupted　series　of　

doubts；　anxieties；　and　trepidations。　　I　see　clearly　that　it　is　not　

good　to　love　anything　immoderately　in　this　world；　but　it　has　been　

my　misfortune　to　love　immoderately　everything　on　which　I　have　set　

my　heart。　　This　is　not　good；　I　repeat　…　but　where　is　the　remedy？　　

The　ancients　were　always　in　the　habit　of　saying；　〃Practise　

moderation；〃　but　the　ancients　appear　to　have　considered　only　one　

portion　of　the　subject。　　It　is　very　possible　to　practise　moderation　

in　some　things；　in　drink　and　the　like　…　to　restrain　the　appetites　…　

but　can　a　man　restrain　the　affections　of　his　mind；　and　tell　them；　

so　far　you　shall　go；　and　no　farther？　　Alas；　no！　for　the　mind　is　a　

subtle　principle；　and　cannot　be　confined。　　The　winds　may　be　

imprisoned；　Homer　says　that　Odysseus　carried　certain　winds　in　his　

ship；　confined　in　leathern　bags；　but　Homer　never　speaks　of　

confining　the　affections。　　It　were　but　right　that　those　who　exhort　

us　against　inordinate　affections；　and　setting　our　hearts　too　much　

upon　the　world　and　its　vanities；　would　tell　us　how　to　avoid　doing　

so。



'I　need　scarcely　tell　you　that　no　sooner　did　I　become　an　author　

than　I　gave　myself　up　immoderately　to　my　vocation。　　It　became　my　

idol；　and；　as　a　necessary　consequence；　it　has　proved　a　source　of　

misery　and　disquietude　to　me；　instead　of　pleasure　and　blessing。　　I　

had　trouble　enough　in　writing　my　first　work；　and　I　was　not　long　in　

discovering　that　it　was　one　thing　to　write　a　stirring　and　spirited　

address　to　a　set　of　county　electors；　and　another　widely　different　

to　produce　a　work　at　all　calculated　to　make　an　impression　upon　the　

great　world。　　I　felt；　however；　that　I　was　in　my　proper　sphere；　and　

by　dint　of　unwearied　diligence　and　exertion　I　succeeded　in　evolving　

from　the　depths　of　my　agitated　breast　a　work　which；　though　it　did　

not　exactly　please　me；　I　thought　would　serve　to　make　an　experiment　

upon　the　public；　so　I　laid　it　before　the　public；　and　the　reception　

which　it　met　with　was　far　beyond　my　wildest　expectations。　　The　

public　were　delighted　with　it；　but　what　were　my　feelings？　　

Anything；　alas！　but　those　of　delight。　　No　sooner　did　the　public　

express　its　satisfaction　at　the　result　of　my　endeavours；　than　my　

perverse　imagination　began　to　conceive　a　thousand　chimerical　

doubts；　forthwith　I　sat　down　to　analyse　it；　and　my　worst　enemy；　and　

all　people　have　their　enemies；　especially　authors　…　my　worst　enemy　

could　not　have　discovered　or　sought　to　discover　a　tenth　part　of　the　

faults　which　I；　the　author　and　creator　of　the　unfortunate　

production；　found　or　sought　to　find　in　it。　　It　has　been　said　that　

love　makes　us　blind　to　the　faults　of　the　loved　object　…　common　love　

does；　perhaps　…　the　love　of　a　father　to　his　child；　or　that　of　a　

lover　to　his　mistress；　but　not　the　inordinate　love　of　an　author　to　

his　works；　at　least　not　the　love　which　one　like　myself　bears　to　his　

works：　　to　be　brief；　I　discovered　a　thousand　faults　in　my　work；　

which　neither　public　nor　critics　discovered。　　However；　I　was　

beginning　to　get　over　this　misery；　and　to　forgive　my　work　all　its　

imperfections；　when　…　and　I　shake　when　I　mention　it　…　the　same　kind　

of　idea　which　perplexed　me　with　regard　to　the　hawks　and　the　gypsy　

pony　rushed　into　my　mind；　and　I　forthwith　commenced　touching　the　

objects　around　me；　in　order　to　baffle　the　evil　chance；　as　you　call　

it；　it　was　neither　more　nor　less　than　a　doubt　of　the　legality　of　my　

claim　to　the　thoughts；　expressions；　and　situations　contained　in　the　

book；　that　is；　to　all　that　constituted　the　book。　　How　did　I　get　

them？　　How　did　they　come　into　my　mind？　　Did　I　invent　them？　　Did　

they　originate　with　myself？　　Are　they　my　own；　or　are　they　some　

other　body's？　　You　see　into　what　difficulty　I　had　got；　I　won't　

trouble　you　by　relating　all　that　I　endured　at　that　time；　but　will　

merely　say　that　after　eating　my　own　heart；　as　the　Italians　say；　and　

touching　every　object　that　came　in　my　way　for　six　months；　I　at　

length　flung　my　book；　I　mean　the　copy　of　it　which　I　possessed；　into　

the　fire；　and　began　another。



'But　it　was　all　in　vain；　I　laboured　at　this　other；　finished　it；　and　

gave　it　to　the　world；　and　no　sooner　had　I　done　so；　than　the　same　

thought　was　busy　in　my　brain；　poisoning　all　the　pleasure　which　I　

should　otherwise　have　derived　from　my　work。　　How　did　I　get　all　the　

matter　which　composed　it？　　Out　of　my　own　mind；　unquestionably；　but　

how　did　it　come　there　…　was　it　the　indigenous　growth　of　the　mind？　　

And　then　I　would　sit　down　and　ponder　over　the　various　scenes　and　

adventures　in　my　book；　endeavouring　to　ascertain　how　I　came　

originally　to　devise　them；　and　by　dint　of　reflecting　I　remembered　

that　to　a　single　word　in　conversation；　or　some　simple　accident　in　a　

street　or　on　a　road；　I　was　indebted　for　some　of　the　happiest　

portions　of　my　work；　they　were　but　tiny　seeds；　it　is　true；　which　in　

the　soil　of　my　imagination　had　subsequently　become　stately　trees；　

but　I　reflected　that　without　them　no　stately　trees　would　have　been　

produced；　and　that；　consequently；　only　a　part　in　the　merit　of　these　

compositions　which　charmed　the　world　…　for　the　did　charm　the　world　

…　was　due　to　myself。　　Thus；　a　dead　fly　was　in　my　phial；　poisoning　

all　the　pleasure　which　I　should　otherwise　have　derived　from　the　

result　of　my　brain…sweat。　　〃How　hard！〃　I　would　exclaim；　looking　up　

to　the　sky；　〃how　hard！　　I　am　like　Virgil's　sheep；　bearing　fleeces　

not　for　themselves。〃　　But；　not　to　tire　you；　it　fared　with　my　second　

work　as　it　did　with　my　first；　I　flung　it　aside；　and；　in　order　to　

forget　it；　I　began　a　third；　on　which　I　am　now　occupied；　but　the　

difficulty　of　writing　it　is　immense；　my　extreme　desire　to　be　

original　sadly　cramping　the　powers　of　my　mind；　my　fastidiousness　

being　so　great　that　I　invariably　reject　whatever　ideas　I　do　not　

think　to　be　legitimately　my　own。　　But　there　is　one　circumstance　to　

which　I　cannot　help　alluding　here；　as　it　serves　to　show　what　

miseries　this　love　of　originality　must　needs　bring　upon　an　author。　　

I　am　constantly　discovering　that；　however　original　I　may　wish　to　

be；　I　am　continually　producing　the　same　things　which　other　people　

say　or　write。　　Whenever；　after　producing　something　which　gives　me　

perfect　satisfaction；　and　which　has　cost　me　perhaps　days　and　nights　

of　brooding；　I　chance　to　take　up　a　book　for　the　sake　of　a　little　

relaxation；　a　book　which　I　never　saw　before；　I　am　sure　to　find　in　

it　something　more　or　less　resembling　some　part　of　what　I　have　been　

just　composing。　　You　will　easily　conceive　the　distress　which　then　

comes　over　me；　'tis　then　that　I　am　almost　tempted　to　execrate　the　

chance　which；　by　discovering　my　latent　powers；　induced　me　to　adopt　

a　profession　of　such　anxiety　and　misery。



'For　some　time　past　I　have　given　up　reading　almost　entirely；　owing　

to　the　dread　which　I　entertain　of　lighting　upon　something　similar　

to　what　I　myself　have　written。　　I　scarcely　ever　transgress　without　

having　a