《Four Years》第10章

tradition；　and　if　he　does　not　move　us　deeply；　it　is　because　he　has　no　sensuous　musical　vocabulary　that　es　at　need；　without　pelling　him　to　sedentary　toil　and　so　driving　him　out　from　his　fellows。　i　thought　to　create　that　sensuous；　musical　vocabulary；　and　not　for　myself　only　but　that　i　might　leave　it　to　later　irish　poets；　much　as　a　mediaeval　japanese　painter　left　his　style　as　an　inheritance　to　his　family；　and　was　careful　to　use　a　traditional　manner　and　matter；　yet　did　something　altogether　different；　changed　by　that　toil；　impelled　by　my　share　in　cains　curse；　by　all　that　sterile　modern　plication；　by　my　originality　as　the　newspapers　call　it。　morris　set　out　to　make　a　revolution　that　the　persons　of　his　well　at　the　worlds　end　or　his　waters　of　the　wondrous　isles；　always；　to　my　mind；　in　the　likeness　of　artemisia　and　her　man；　might　walk　his　native　scenery；　and　i；　that　my　native　scenery　might　find　imaginary　inhabitants；　half　planned　a　new　method　and　a　new　culture。　my　mind　began　drifting　vaguely　towards　that　doctrine　of　the　mask　which　has　convinced　me　that　every　passionate　man　（i　have　nothing　to　do　with　mechanist；　or　philanthropist；　or　man　whose　eyes　have　no　preference）　is；　as　it　were；　linked　with　another　age；　historical　or　imaginary；　where　alone　he　finds　images　that　rouse　his　energy。　napoleon　was　never　of　his　own　time；　as　the　naturalistic　writers　and　painters　bid　all　men　be；　but　had　some　roman　emperors　image　in　his　head　and　some　condottieres　blood　in　his　heart；　and　when　he　crowned　that　head　at　rome　with　his　own　hands；　he　had　covered；　as　may　be　seen　from　davids　painting；　his　hesitation　with　that　emperors　old　suit。
Four　YearsXII
i　had　various　women　friends　on　whom　i　would　call　towards　five　oclock；　mainly　to　discuss　my　thoughts　that　i　could　not　bring　to　a　man　without　meeting　some　peting　thought；　but　partly　because　their　tea　&　toast　saved　my　pennies　for　the　bus　ride　home；　but　with　women；　apart　from　their　intimate　exchanges　of　thought；　i　was　timid　and　abashed。　i　was　sitting　on　a　seat　in　front　of　the　british　museum　feeding　pigeons；　when　a　couple　of　girls　sat　near　and　began　enticing　my　pigeons　away；　laughing　and　whispering　to　one　another；　and　i　looked　straight　in　front　of　me；　very　indignant；　and　presently　went　into　the　museum　without　turning　my　head　towards　them。　since　then　i　have　often　wondered　if　they　were　pretty　or　merely　very　young。　sometimes　i　told　myself　very　adventurous　love　stories　with　myself　for　hero；　and　at　other　times　i　planned　out　a　life　of　lonely　austerity；　and　at　other　times　mixed　the　ideals　and　planned　a　life　of　lonely　austerity　mitigated　by　periodical　lapses。　i　had　still　the　ambition；　formed　in　sligo　in　my　teens；　of　living　in　imitation　of　thoreau　on　innisfree；　a　little　island　in　lough　gill；　and　when　walking　through　fleet　street　very　homesick　i　heard　a　little　tinkle　of　water　and　saw　a　fountain　in　a　shop　window　which　balanced　a　little　ball　upon　its　jet　and　began　to　remember　lake　water。　from　the　sudden　remembrance　came　my　poem　innisfree；　my　first　lyric　with　anything　in　its　rhythm　of　my　own　music。　i　had　begun　to　loosen　rhythm　as　an　escape　from　rhetoric；　and　from　that　emotion　of　the　crowd　that　rhetoric　brings；　but　i　only　understood　vaguely　and　occasionally　that　i　must；　for　my　special　purpose；　use　nothing　but　the　mon　syntax。　a　couple　of　years　later　i　would　not　have　written　that　first　line　with　its　conventional　archaism？？arise　and　go？？nor　the　inversion　in　the　last　stanza。　passing　another　day　by　the　new　law　courts；　a　building　that　i　admired　because　it　was　gothic；？？it　is　not　very　good；　morris　had　said；　but　it　is　better　than　any　thing　else　they　have　got　and　so　they　hate　it。？？i　grew　suddenly　oppressed　by　the　great　weight　of　stone；　and　thought；　there　are　miles　and　miles　of　stone　and　brick　all　round　me；　and　presently　added；　if　john　the　baptist；　or　his　like；　were　to　e　again　and　had　his　mind　set　upon　it；　he　could　make　all　these　peoplego　out　into　some　wilderness　leaving　their　buildings　empty；　and　that　thought；　which　does　not　seem　very　valuable　now；　so　enlightened　the　day　that　it　is　still　vivid　in　the　memory。　i　spent　a　few　days　at　oxford　copying　out　a　seventeenth　century　translation　of　poggios　liber　facetiarum　or　the　hypneroto？machia　of　poliphili　for　a　publisher；　i　forget　which；　for　i　copied　both；　and　returned　very　pale　to　my　troubled　family。　i　had　lived　upon　bread　and　tea　because　i　thought　that　if　antiquity　found　locust　and　wild　honey　nutritive；　my　soul　was　strong　enough　to　need　no　better。　i　was　always　planning　some　great　gesture；　putting　the　whole　world　into　one　scale　of　the　balance　and　my　soul　into　the　other；　and　imagining　that　the　whole　world　somehow　kicked　the　beam。　more　than　thirty　years　have　passed　and　i　have　seen　no　forcible　young　man　of　letters　brave　the　metropolis　without　some　like　stimulant；　and　all；　after　two　or　three；　or　twelve　or　fifteen　years；　according　to　obstinacy；　have　understood　that　we　achieve；　if　we　do　achieve；　in　little　diligent　sedentary　stitches　as　though　we　were　making　lace。　i　had　one　unmeasured　advantage　from　my　stimulant：　i　could　ink　my　socks；　that　they　might　not　show　through　my　shoes；　with　a　most　haughty　mind；　imagining　myself；　and　my　torn　tackle；　somewhere　else；　in　some　far　place　under　the　canopy　。。。　i　the　city　of　kites　and　crows。
in　london　i　saw　nothing　good；　and　constantly　remembered　that　ruskin　had　said　to　some　friend　of　my　fathers？？as　i　go　to　my　work　at　the　british　museum　i　see　the　faces　of　the　people　bee　daily　more　corrupt。
i　convinced　myself　for　a　time；　that　on　the　same　journey　i　saw　but　what　he　saw。　certain　old　womens　faces　filled　me　with　horror；　faces　that　are　no　longer　there；　or　if　they　are；　pass　before　me　unnoticed：　the　fat　blotched　faces；　rising　above　double　chins；　of　women　who　have　drunk　too　much　beer　and　eaten　too　much　meat。　in　dublin　i　had　often　seen　old　women　walking　with　erect　heads　and　gaunt　bodies；　talking　to　themselves　in　loud　voices；　mad　with　drink　and　poverty；　but　they　were　different；　they　belonged　to　romance：　da　vinci　has　drawn　women　who　looked　so　and　so　carried　their　bodies。
xs
Four　YearsXIII
＊＝
i　attempted　to　restore　one　old　friend　of　my　fathers　to　the　practice　of　his　youth；　but　failed　though　he；　unlike　my　father；　had　not　changed　his　belief。　my　father　br