第1部分(第6/7 頁)

n　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。

I　could　imagine　that　my　old　penholder　feels　reproachfully　towards　me。　Has　it　not　served　me　well？　Why　do　I；　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　paper…weight；　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。

Old　panion；　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　such　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　took　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