第5部分(第4/7 頁)

cribbling；　torn；　blotted……no　matter；　I　liked　better　to　read　out　of　that　than　out　of　a　copy　that　was　not　mine。　But　I　was　guilty　at　times　of　mere　self…indulgence；　a　book　tempted　me；　a　book　which　was　not　one　of　those　for　which　I　really　craved；　a　luxury　which　prudence　might　bid　me　forego。　As；　for　instance；　my　Jung…Stilling。　It　caught　my　eye　in　Holywell　Street；　the　name　was　familiar　to　me　in　Wahrheit　und　Dichtung；　and　curiosity　grew　as　I　glanced　over　the　pages。　But　that　day　I　resisted；　in　truth；　I　could　not　afford　the　eighteen…pence；　which　means　that　just　then　I　was　poor　indeed。　Twice　again　did　I　pass；　each　time　assuring　myself　that　Jung…Stilling　had　found　no　purchaser。　There　came　a　day　when　I　was　in　funds。　I　see　myself　hastening　to　Holywell　Street　（in　those　days　my　habitual　pace　was　five　miles　an　hour）；　I　see　the　little　grey　old　man　with　whom　I　transacted　my　business……what　was　his　name？……the　bookseller　who　had　been；　I　believe；　a　Catholic　priest；　and　still　had　a　certain　priestly　dignity　about　him。　He　took　the　volume；　opened　it；　mused　for　a　moment；　then；　with　a　glance　at　me；　said；　as　if　thinking　aloud：　〃Yes；　I　wish　I　had　time　to　read　it。〃

Sometimes　I　added　the　labour　of　a　porter　to　my　fasting　endured　for　the　sake　of　books。　At　the　little　shop　near　Portland　Road　Station　I　came　upon　a　first　edition　of　Gibbon；　the　price　an　absurdity……I　think　it　was　a　shilling　a　volume。　To　possess　those　clean…paged　quartos　I　would　have　sold　my　coat。　As　it　happened；　I　had　not　money　enough　with　me；　but　sufficient　at　home。　I　was　living　at　Islington。　Having　spoken　with　the　bookseller；　I　walked　home；　took　the　cash；　walked　back　again；　and……carried　the　tomes　from　the　west　end　of　Euston　Road　to　a　street　in　Islington　far　beyond　the　Angel。　I　did　it　in　two　journeys……this　being　the　only　time　in　my　life