My Old Penholder
笔杆，我的老伙伴
For more than a week my pen has lain 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.
我的笔已经个把星期躺在那里没人碰它。整整七天我什么也没有写，连一封信也没有写。有生以来，除了一两次生病期间，从来不曾有过这样的事。我这一生是全靠兢兢业业艰苦劳动来维持生活的一生，这一生不是为了生活而生活，像所有生活应该有的情况那样，而是在恐惧的驱使下挣扎苟活的一生。挣钱本不是生活的目的，而不过是达到目的的手段。我从十六岁起独自谋生，三十多年以来我却不得不把挣钱当作目的。
I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards me. Has it not served me well ? Why do 1, 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 paperweight, 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.
我可以想象，我的老伙伴笔杆在责备我。它不是很好地为我服务过了吗？为什么我在幸福之中把它弃置不顾，让它躺在那里沾灰呢？正是这支笔杆，日复一日地依着我的食指，已经有－－有多少年了？至少二十年！我记得是在托特纳姆广场路一家铺子里买的。既买了笔，那天我就再买了一只镇纸，这使我花费了整整一个先令——这种浪费当时叫我发抖。刚买时，笔杆是油光铮亮的，现在从头到尾都只剩棕色的木质本色了。这笔杆曾叫我的食指磨出老茧。
Old companion, 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 scub 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 hook 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 live. I can say that now without bitterness. It was youthful error, and only the force of circumstance prolonged it. The world has done me no injustice; thank Heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this; And why should any man who writes, even if he write things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect ? Who asked him to publish ? Who promised him a hearing ? Who has broken faith with him? If my shoemaker turn me out an excellent pair of boots, and I, in some mood of cantankerous unreason, throw them back upon his hands, the man has just cause of complaint. But your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it ? If it is honest journeywork, yet lacks purchasers, at most you may call yourself a hapless tradesman. If it come from on high, with what decency do you fret and fumebe cause it is not paid for in heavy cash ? For the work of man's mind there is one test, and one alone, the judgment of generations yet unborn .If you have written a great book , the world to come will know of it. But you don't care for posthumous glory. You want to enjoy fame in a comfortable armchair. Ah, that is quite another thing . Have the courage of your desire . Admit yourself a merchant, and protest to gods and men that the merchamdise you offer is of better quality than much which sells for a high price. You may be right, and indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your stall.
我的老伙伴，可又是我的老对头！有多少次我拿起这笔杆，头脑昏沉沉，心里沉甸甸，手发抖，眼发花，感到厌恶而又不得不写。看到不得不用墨水来涂污的白纸，我真害怕。尤其是碰上这样的日子－－当春天的蓝湛湛的眼睛从玫瑰色的云缝里欢笑，当阳光在我的书桌上闪烁，使我几乎发狂地想念那百花盛开的大地的芳馨，想念那山坡上落叶松的一片青翠，想念那丘陵上空云雀的歌声时，我更是害怕了。想当年－－仿佛比童年还早些－－每当提笔，我总是充满热望。那时如果我的手发抖，那是为希望而发抖。可是希望作弄了我，因为我的文章没有一页值得生存。现在我能说这话而不感到辛酸了。那是我年轻时犯下的错误，由于环境所迫，才延误至今。这世界并没有对我不公平。感谢上苍，我现已知事明理，不会为此错误怨天尤人了。一个人写了点东西，哪怕是写出了不朽的作品，何必因未受世人的重视而怀恨在心呢？谁要他出版的？谁向他保证过必有人听他？又是谁失信于他的？如果我的鞋匠给我做了一双漂亮靴子，正碰上我心情不好，蛮不讲理，把靴子扔回他手里，那鞋匠就有正当理由来抱怨。可是你的诗，你的小说，谁跟你谈好这笔生意了？如果那是一件货真价实的商品，可是没有买主，你至多只能说你自己是个不走运的店主。如果那是凭空来的，你有什么脸面由于它没有人高价买它而烦恼和光火呢？对于人的心灵的产品，只有－－也只能有一种检验，那就是未来的一代一代人的裁判。如果你果真写出了一部伟大的作品。未来的世界会知道它的。偏偏你不爱身后的光荣，你要舒舒服服坐在安乐椅里享受盛名，嗯，这就完全是另一回事了。那么你就勇敢地提出你的要求吧。你得承认你是个商人，并对神和人声明，说你提供的货色比许多卖高价的质量更高。说不定你是对的，而倘若时髦人物还是不肯光顾你的货摊，那就真是使你极其难受了。
