Four Years-第1章

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Four　YearsI

！小＄说＾网＆
four　years　1887？1891。

at　the　end　of　the　eighties　my　father　and　mother；　my　brother　and　sisters　and　myself；　all　newly　arrived　from　dublin；　were　settled　in　bedford　park　in　a　red？brick　house　with　several　wood　mantlepieces　copied　from　marble　mantlepieces　by　the　brothers　adam；　a　balcony；　and　a　little　garden　shadowed　by　a　great　horse？chestnut　tree。　years　before　we　had　lived　there；　when　the　crooked；　ostentatiously　picturesque　streets；　with　great　trees　casting　great　shadows；　had　been　anew　enthusiasm：　the　pre？raphaelite　movement　at　last　affecting　life。　but　now　exaggerated　criticism　had　taken　the　place　of　enthusiasm；　the　tiled　roofs；　the　first　in　modern　london；　were　said　to　leak；　which　they　did　not；　&　the　drains　to　be　bad；　though　that　was　no　longer　true；　and　i　imagine　that　houses　were　cheap。　i　remember　feeling　disappointed　because　the　co？operative　stores；　with　their　little　seventeenth　century　panes；　were　so　like　any　mon　shop；　and　because　the　public　house；　called　the　tabard

after　chaucers　inn；　was　so　plainly　a　mon　public　house；　and　because　the　great　sign　of　a　trumpeter　designed　by　rooke；　the　pre？　raphaelite　artist；　had　been　freshened　by　some　inferior　hand。　the　big　red？brick　church　had　never　pleased　me；　and　i　was　accustomed；　when　i　saw　the　wooden　balustrade　that　ran　along　the　slanting　edge　of　the　roof；　where　nobody　ever　walked　or　could　walk；　to　remember　the　opinion　of　some　architect　friend　of　my　fathers；　that　it　had　been　put　there　to　keep　the　birds　from　falling　off。　still；　however；　it　had　some　village　characters　and　helped　us　to　feel　not　wholly　lost　in　the　metropolis。　i　no　longer　went　to　church　as　a　regular　habit；　but　go　i　sometimes　did；　for　one　sunday　morning　i　saw　these　words　painted　on　a　board　in　the　porch：　the　congregation　are　requested　to　kneel　during　prayers；　the　kneelers　are　afterwards　to　be　hung　upon　pegs　provided　for　the　purpose。　in　front　of　every　seat　hung　a　little　cushion；　and　these　cushions　were　called　kneelers。　presently　the　joke　ran　through　the　munity；　where　there　were　many　artists；　who　considered　religion　at　best　an　unimportant　accessory　to　good　architecture　and　who　disliked　that　particular　church。

。d　xs　



Four　YearsII

。小［说网｝
i　could　not　understand　where　the　charm　had　gone　that　i　had　felt；　when　as　a　school？boy　of　twelve　or　thirteen；　i　had　played　among　the　unfinished　houses；　once　leaving　the　marks　of　my　two　hands；　blacked　by　a　fall　among　some　paint；　upon　a　white　balustrade。　sometimes　i　thought　it　was　because　these　were　real　houses；　while　my　play　had　been　among　toy？houses　some　day　to　be　inhabited　by　imaginary　people　full　of　the　happiness　that　one　can　see　in　picture　books。　i　was　in　all　things　pre？raphaelite。　when　i　was　fifteen　or　sixteen；　my　father　had　told　me　about　rossetti　and　blake　and　given　me　their　poetry　to　read；　&　once　in　liverpool　on　my　way　to　sligo；　〃i　had　seen　dantes　dream　in　the　gallery　there？？a　picture　painted　when　rossetti　had　lost　his　dramatic　power；　and　to？day　not　very　pleasing　to　me？？and　its　colour；　its　people；　its　romantic　architecture　had　blotted　all　other　pictures　away。〃　it　was　a　perpetual　bewilderment　that　my　father；　who　had　begun　life　as　a　pre？raphaelite　painter；　now　painted　portraits　of　the　first　er；　children　selling　newspapers；　or　a　consumptive　girl　with　a　basket　offish　upon　her　head；　and　that　when；　moved　perhaps　by　memory　of　his　youth；　he　chose　some　theme　from　poetic　tradition；　he　would　soon　weary　and　leave　it　unfinished。　i　had　seen　the　change　ing　bit　by　bitand　its　defence　elaborated　by　young　men　fresh　from　the　paris　art？　schools。　we　must　paint　what　is　in　front　of　us；　or　a　man　must　be　of　his　own　time；　they　would　say；　and　if　i　spoke　of　blake　or　rossetti　they　would　point　out　his　bad　drawing　and　tell　me　to　admire　carolus　duran　and　bastien？lepage。　then；　too；　they　were　very　ignorant　men；　they　read　nothing；　for　nothing　mattered　but　knowing　how　to　paint；　being　in　reaction　against　a　generation　that　seemed　to　have　wasted　its　time　upon　so　many　things。　i　thought　myself　alone　in　hating　these　young　men；　now　indeed　getting　towards　middle　life；　their　contempt　for　the　past；　their　monopoly　of　the　future；　but　in　a　few　months　i　was　to　discover　others　of　my　own　age；　who　thought　as　i　did；　for　it　is　not　true　that　youth　looks　before　it　with　the　mechanical　gaze　of　a　well？drilled　soldier。　its　quarrel　is　not　with　the　past；　but　with　the　present；　where　its　elders　are　so　obviously　powerful；　and　no　cause　seems　lost　if　it　seem　to　threaten　that　power。

does　cultivated　youth　ever　really　love　the　future；　where　the　eye　can　discover　no　persecuted　royalty　hidden　among　oak　leaves；　though　from　it　certainly　does　e　so　much　proletarian　rhetoric？　i　was　unlike　others　of　my　generation　in　one　thing　only。　i　am　very　religious；　and　deprived　by　huxley　and　tyndall；　whom　i　detested；　of　the　simple？minded　religion　of　my　childhood；　i　had　made　a　new　religion；　almost　an　infallible　church；　out　of　poetic　tradition：　a　fardel　of　stories；　and　of　personages；　and　of　emotions；　a　bundle　of　images　and　of　masks　passed　on　from　generation　to　generation　by　poets　&　painters　with　some　help　from　philosophers　and　theologians。　i　wished　for　a　world　where　i　could　discover　this　tradition　perpetually；　and　not　in　pictures　and　in　poems　only；　but　in　tiles　round　the　chimney？piece　and　in　the　hangings　that　kept　out　the　draught。　i　had　even　created　a　dogma：　because　those　imaginary　people　are　created　out　of　the　deepest　instinct　of　man；　to　be　his　measure　and　his　norm；　whatever　i　can　imagine　those　mouths　speaking　may　be　the　nearest　i　can　go　to　truth。

when　i　listened　they　seemed　always　to　speak　of　one　thing　only：　they；　their　loves；　every　incident　of　their　lives；　were　steeped　in　the　supernatural。　could　even　titians　ariosto　that　i　loved　beyond　other　portraits；　have　its　grave　look；　as　if　waiting　for　some　perfect　final　event；　if　the　painters；　before　titian；　had　not　learned　portraiture；　while　painting　into　the　corner　of　positions；　full　of　saints　and　madonnas；　their　kneeling　patrons？　at　seventeen　years　old　i　was　already　an　old？fashioned　brass　cannon　full　of　shot；　and　nothing　kept　me　from　going　off　but　a　doubt　as　to　my　capacity　to　shoot　straight。

。。！



Four　YearsIII

　　
i　was　not　an　industrious　student　and　knew　only　what　i　had　found　by　accident；　and　i　had　found　〃nothing　i　cared　for　after　titian？？and　titian　i　knew　chiefly　from　a　copy　of　the　supper　of　emmaus　in　dublin？？till　blake　and　the　pre？raphaelites；〃　and　among　my　fathers　friends　were　no　pre？raphaelites。　some　indeed　had　e　to　bedford　park　in　the　enthusiasm　of　the　first　building；　and　others　to　be　near　those　that　had。　there　was　todhunter；　a　well？off　man　who　had　bought　my　fathers　pictures　while　my　father　was　still　pre？　raphaelite。

once　a　dublin　doctor　he　was　a　poet　and　a　writer　of　poetical　plays：　a　tall；　sallow；　lank；　melancholy　man；　a　good　scholar　and　a　good　intellect；　and　with　him　my　father　carried　on　a　warm　exasperated　friendship；　fed　i　think　by　old　memories　and　wasted　by　quarrels　over　matters　of　opinion。　of　all　the　survivors　he　was　the　most　dejected；　and　the　least　estranged；　and　i　remember　encouraging　him；　with　a　sense　of　worship　shared；　to　buy　a　very　expensive　carpet　designed　by　morris。　he　displayed　it　without　strong　liking　and　would　have　agreed　had　there　been　any　to　find　fault。　if　he　had　liked　anything　strongly　he　might　have　been　a　famous　man；　for　a　few　years　later　he　was　to　write；　under　some　casual　patriotic　impulse；　certain　excellent　verses　now　in　all　irish　anthologies；　but　with　him　every　book　was　a　new　planting　and　not　a　new　bud　on　an　old　bough。　he　had　i　think　no　peace　in　himself。　but　my　fathers　chief　friend　was　york　powell；　a　famous　oxford　professor　of　history；　a　broad？built；　broad？headed；　brown？bearded　man；　clothed　in　heavy　blue　cloth　and　looking；　but　for　his　glasses　and　the　dim　sight　of　a　student；　like　some　captain　in　the　merchant　service。　one　often　passed　with　pleasure　from　todhunters　pany　to　that　of　one　who　was　almost　ostentatiously　at　peace。　he　cared　nothing　for　philosophy；　nothing　for　economics；　nothing　for　the　policy　of　nations；　for　history；　as　he　saw　it；　was　a　memory　of　men　who　were　amusing　or　exciting　to　think　about。　he　impressed　all　who　met　him　&　seemed　to　some　a　man　of　genius；　but　he　had　not　enough　ambition　to　shape　his　thought；　or　conviction　to　give　rhythm　to　his　style；　and　remained　always　a　poor　writer。　i　was　too　full　of　unfinished　speculations　and　premature　convictions　to　value　rightly　his　conversation；　in？formed　by　a　vast　erudition；　which　would　give　itself　to　every　casual　association　of　speech　and　pany　precisely　because　he　had　neither　cause　nor　design。　my　father；　however；　found　powells　concrete　narrative　manner　a　necessary　pletion　of　his　own；　and　when　i　asked　him；　in　a　letter　many　years　later；　wherehe　got　his　philosophy；　replied　from　york　powell　and　thereon　added；　no　doubt　remembering　that　powell　was　without　ideas；　by　looking　at　him。　then　there　was　a　good　listener；　a　painter　in　whose　hall　hung　a　big　picture；　painted　in　his　student　days；　of　ulysses　sailing　home　from　the　phaeacian　court；　an　orange　and　a　skin　of　wine　at　his　side；　blue　mountains　towering　behind；　but　who　lived　by　drawing　domestic　scenes　and　lovers　meetings　for　a　weekly　magazine　that　had　an　immense　circulation　among　the　imperfectly　educated。　to　escape　the　boredom　of　work；　which　he　never　turn