第89部分(第2/7 頁)

r　a　little　while　he　is　content。　Not　for　long　—　no　artist；　I　think；　is　ever　contented　for　long　with　what　he　has　done。　But　he　thinks：　“At　least；　I　have　done　something。”

Then；　perhaps；　he　begins　to　understand　—　it　es　into　his　mind　—　that　that　was　not　his　real　inspiration。　Not　in　these　gauds　of　the　imagination；　these　sparkling　things；　these　plays　of　fancy　or　of　eloquence　or　wit；　was　the　real　inspiration　to　be　found。　He　turns　and　wonders　where　it　is。　And　he　turns；　let　us　say；　and　looks　at　the　dull　masses　of　misery　that　pervade　the　globe；　he　looks　and　wonders；　and　he　thinks：　Is　there　nothing　that　I；　humble　as　I　am；　can　do　to　help　to　alleviate　that　misery；　to　lift　up　those　who　are　fallen；　to　lift　them　up　for　their　own　good　and　for　the　good　of　the　world？　And　then；　gentlemen；　he　knows　that　that；　not　the　gaudy；　exciting　work　is　the　real　inspiration　of　his　life。

And；　perhaps；　he　turns　and　tries　to　match　his　own　single　strength　against　the　prejudices　of　generations；　and　tries　to　get　men　to　think　as　he　does；　tries　to　show　them　where　the　evil　lies　and　where；　too；　lies　the　remedy。　Gentlemen；　I　have　spoken；　as　it　were；　in　allegory。　And　yet　these　things　have　some　application；　certainly　in　my　humble　case　they　have　some　application。　Years　ago；　I　saw　what　I　described　to　you；　I　saw　the　evils　with　which；　since　then；　I　have　attempted　to　cope。　I　recognised　that　it　was　my　duty　to　cope　with　them　if　I　could。

It　is　a　hard　task；　gentlemen。　It　is　a　hard　thing；　in　the　first　place；　to　live　down　the　reputation　of　being　a　writer　of　fiction　—　to　surmount　the　enormous　barrier　of　prejudice　that　lies　across　one’s　path。　And　it　is　not　for　years；　perhaps；　that　people　will　begin　to　listen　and　will　begin　to　understand　that　to　most　men’s　minds　there　are　two　sides。　Still；　humbly；　imperfectly；