奥古斯丁·比勒尔/Augustine Birrell

奥古斯丁·比勒尔（1850—1933），英国政治家、散文家。曾任教育大臣、爱尔兰事务大臣。因出版两部题为《余论》的散文集而享誉英国文坛。《买书》一文以平和的口吻谈及书、藏书，心怀喜悦而又无可奈何地回忆起过去书的物美价廉，其爱书藏书的痴情发人深思。

The most distinguished of living Englishmen,who,great as he is in many directions,is perhaps inherently more a man of letters than anythi ng else,has been overheard mournfully to declare that there were more b ooksellers'shops in his native town sixty years ago,when he was a boy in it,than are today to be found within its boundaries.And yet the pla ce "all unabashed" now boasts its bookless self a city!

Mr.Gladstone was,of course,referring to second-hand bookshops.Ne ither he nor any other sensible man puts himself out about new books.Wh en a new book is published,read an old one,was the advice of a sound t hough surly critic.

It is one of the boasts of letters to have glorified the term "secon d-hand",which other crafts have "soiled to all ignoble use".But why it has been able to do this is obvious.All the best books are necessarily second-hand.The writers of today need not grumble.Let them "bide a wee." If their books are worth anything,they,too,one day will be secondhand.If their books are not worth anything there are ancient trades sti ll in full operation amongst us--the pastry cooks and the trunk-makers--who must have paper.

But is there any substance in the plaint that nobody now buys books,meaning thereby second-hand books?The late Mark Pattison,who had 16000 volumes,and whose lightest word has therefore weight,once stated tha t he had been informed,and verily believed,that there were men of his own University of Oxford who,being in uncontrolled possession of annual incomes of not less than￡500,thought they were doing the thing handsom ely if they expended￡50 a year upon their libraries.But we are not bou nd to believe this unless we like.There was a touch of moroseness about the late rector of Lincoln which led him to take gloomy views of men,pa rticularly Oxford men.

No doubt arguments a priori may readily be found to support the cont ention that the habit of book-buying is on the decline.I confess to kno wing one or two men,not Oxford men either,but Cambridge men (and the p assion of Cambridge for literature is a by-word),who,on the plea of be ing pressed with business,or because they were going to a funeral,have passed a bookshop in a strange town without so much as stepping inside " just to see whether the fellow had anything ".But painful as facts of t his sort necessarily are,any damaging inference we might feel disposed to draw from them is dispelled by a comparison of price-lists.Compare a bookseller's catalogue of 1862 with one of the present year,and your p essimism is washed away by the tears which unrestrainedly flow as your s ee what bonnes fortunes you have lost.A young book-buyer might well tur n out upon Primroses Hill and bemoan his youth,after comparing old cata logues with new.

Nothing but American competition,grumble some old stagers.

Well!Why not?This new battle for the books is a free fight,not a private one,and Columbia has "joined in".Lower prices are not to be lo oked for.The book-buyer of 1900 will be glad to buy at to-day's prices.I take pleasure in thinking he will not be able to do so.Good finds g row scarcer and scarcer.True it is that but a few short weeks ago I pic ked up (such is the happy phrase,most apt to describe what was indeed a"street casualty") a copy of the original edition of Endymion (Keats's poem--O subscriber to Mudie 's!--not Lord Beaconsfield's novel) for t he easy equivalent of half-a-crown--but then that was one of my lucky da ys.The enormous increase of booksellers'catalogues and their wide cir culation amongst the trade has already produced a hateful uniformity of prices.Go where you will it is all the same to the odd sixpence.Time w as when you could map out the country for yourself with some hopefulness of plunder.There were districts where the Elizabethan dramatists were b ut slenderly protected.A raid into the "bonnie North Countries" sent yo u home again cheered with chap-books and weighted with old pamphlets of curious interests;whilst the West of England seldom failed to yield a c rop of novels.I remember getting a complete set of the Bronte books in the original issues at Torquay,I may say,for nothing.Those days are o ver.Your country bookseller is,in fact,more likely,such tales does h e hear of London auctions,and such catalogues does he hear of London au ctions,and such catalogues does he receive by every post,to exaggerate the value of his wares than to part with them pleasantly,and as a count ry bookseller should,"just to clear my shelves,you know,and give me a bit of room." The only compensation for this is the catalogues themselve s.You get them,at least,for nothing,and it cannot be denied that the y make mighty pretty reading.

These high prices tell their own tale,and force upon us the convict ion that there never were so many private libraries in course of growth as there are to-day.

Libraries are not made;they grow.Your first two thousand volumes p resent no difficulty,and cost astonishingly little money.Given￡400 an d five years,and an ordinary man can in the ordinary course,without un due haste or putting any pressure upon his taste,surround himself with this number of books,all in his own language,and thenceforward have at least one place in the world in which it is possible to be happy.But pr ide is still out of the question.To be proud of having two thousand boo ks would be absurd.You might as well be proud of having two top-coats.After your first two thousand difficulty begins,but until you have ten thousand volumes the less you say about your library the better.Then yo u may begin to speak.

It is no doubt a pleasant thing to have a library left you.The pres ent writer will disclaim no such legacy,but hereby undertakes to accept it,however dusty.But good as it is to inherit a library,it is better to collect one.Each volume then,however lightly a stranger's eye may roam from shelf to shelf,has its own individuality,a history of its ow n.You remember where you got it,and how much you gave for it;and your word may safely be taken for the first of these facts,but not for the s econd.

The man who has a library of his own collection is able to contempla te himself objectively,and is justified in believing in his own existen ce.No other man but he would have made precisely such a combination as his.Had he been in any single respect different from what he is,his li brary,as it exists,never would have existed.Therefore,surely he may exclaim,as in the gloaming he contemplates the backs of his loved ones."They are mine,and I am theirs."

But the eternal note of sadness will find its way even through the k eyhole of a library.You turn some familiar page,of Shakespeare it may be,and his "infinite variety",his "multitudinous mind" suggests some n ew thought,and as you are wondering over it you think of Lycidas,your friend,and promise yourself the pleasure of having his opinion of your discovery the very next time when by the fire you two "help:waste a sul len day".Or it is,perhaps,some quainter,tenderer fancy that engages your solitary attention,something in Sir Philip Sydney or Henry Vaughan,and then you turn to look for Phyllis,ever the best interpreter of lo ve,human or divine.Alas!The printed page grows hazy beneath a filmy e ye as you suddenly remember that Lycidas is dead--"dead ere his prime"--and that the pale cheek of Phyllis will never again be relumined by the white light of her pure enthusiasm.And then you fall to thinking of the inevitable,and perhaps,in you present mood,not unwelcome hour,when t he "ancient peace" of your old friends will be disturbed,when rude hand s will dislodge them from their accustomed nooks and break up their good ly company.

"Death bursts amongst them like a shell,

And strews them over all the town..."

They will form new combinations,lighten other men's toil,and soot he another's sorrow.Fool that I was to call anything mine!

在英国有一位久负盛名的伟人，他在很多方面成就非凡，尤其以天才作家著称。有人无意中听见他悲哀地说，六十年前，他的孩提时代，家乡的书店比现在多得多。但这个地方现在一本书都没有，还“无耻”地自称是一座城市！

当然，格拉德斯通先生在这里指的是二手书店。他是不会为新书劳神的，智者都是如此。一位怪僻而又颇有见地的批评家说过，出新书时读旧书。

作家可以夸耀的事很多，其一就是给二手货增辉，而不是像其他行业那样使它变得俗不可耐。原因显而易见。最好的书肯定都是旧书，今天的作家不必不高兴，权且忍耐一下。如果他们的书真有价值，总有一天也会变成旧书，就算没有一点价值，还有一些历史悠久的职业在我们中间活跃——做糕点的，做箱子的，这些都是需要用纸的。

但是现在抱怨没人买书，这里是指旧书，对吗？已逝的马克·帕蒂生前有一万六千册的藏书，所以他说的每句话都很值得掂量。他曾说，有人告诉他，在他的母校牛津大学，有些人年收入中可自由支配的不下五百英镑，但觉得一年花五十英镑用于藏书就很不错了——对于这个说法他确实相信。信不信由你。因为脾气不大好，这位已故的林肯学院院长对人，尤其是牛津人很悲观。

毫无疑问，很容易就能够找出一些论据来支持买书的风气每况愈下的观点。我就认识那么一两个人，不是牛津而是剑桥的（剑桥热衷于文学已经成为笑料），以公事为托词，或借参加葬礼，在一座陌生的城市哪怕路过一家书店时，也不肯进去“仅仅是看看那家伙有没有点东西”。虽然这种事情令人痛心，但与书价单比较一下，这些不好的结论，又算不了什么。把1862年的书目与今年的相比，你不仅是悲观，而可能是痛哭流涕，因为你发现你错失良机！新旧书目比较之后，喜好购书的年轻人，可能会登上报春花山，惋惜他没赶上好时机。

资历颇深的人将之归咎于美国人的竞争。

是吗！干吗不竞争呢？这场新的书业之战是自由之战，不只是私人事务，所以哥伦比亚公司“参战”了。廉价书没有了。如果1900年的购书者能够以今天的价格去购买图书，一定非常开心！但我心中窃喜这是不可能的。真的，便宜书越来越少了。不过几周前我“捡到”（多妙的字眼啊，最适合形容不期而遇）《恩底弥翁》的初版（济慈的诗——喔！是米迪图书馆读者的——不是比肯斯菲尔德勋爵的小说），只花了大约半克朗——那一天真走运。业内书目剧增，流通广泛，致使书价趋同，令人憎恶。以前踏遍全国，总能淘到一些东西，现在走到哪里，都是六便士左右一本书。伊丽莎白时代的戏曲作品在有些地区保护不严。如果偷袭“美丽的北国”，你将满载而归，购回大量廉价书和一摞内容离奇的旧书。而在英格兰西部，搜罗一大批小说十分容易。记得我几乎没花钱就在托基弄到了勃朗特作品全集的初版。不过这都是往事了。事实上，乡下的书商听说了伦敦书目拍卖的事，并且邮差也送来很多书目，这些都使他们本应该很乐意将书卖掉，现在却夸大了手头物品的价值，“您知道，我只是想清理书架，腾出点地方，”不愿卖了。这样一来，我只能以目录本身为慰藉了。它们至少不用花钱。不可否认，目录值得一读。

书价高本身就说明了某些问题，也令我们深信，个人图书馆从来没有像今天这样蓬勃发展。

图书馆可以进行自身维持。攒上头两千册不是什么问题，花钱很少。只要有四百英镑和五年时间，不紧不慢，不需要抑制自己的兴趣，按照常规的做法，就可以积攒出一堆书。都是母语书，从此拥有至少一个可以获得快乐的地方。不过想要自豪还不行。有两千册书就骄傲是很让人好笑的，那你拥有两件外套也就值得自豪了。问题开始在藏书超过两千册之后，藏书没有到一万还是少拿出来说好些，除非你有了一万本藏书才有资格发言。

毫无疑问，有人遗赠藏书是一件高兴的事。现有的作者不放弃这种遗产，并特此保证不管尘封多久都乐意接受。不过尽管继承藏书好，但自己收集更好。自己收集的每一本书，都有它的个性，它的来历——虽然陌生人目光会漫不经心地浏览一架架藏书。但你会记得每本书都是在哪里买的，花了多少钱，你说的这些事实中的第一点——购书地点别人也许会相信，但价钱就不一定了。

拥有自己藏书的人能够客观地检视自我，能够证明自己存在的价值。没有人能够收集到跟他十分相似的图书。如果他跟现在的自己略有不同，就不可能存在现有的藏书。因此，日落薄暮时分，当他凝望一排排心爱图书的书脊时，一定会感慨地说：“它们属于我，我也属于它们。”

即使是通过门上的锁眼，一丝永恒的忧愁也会袭来。翻动熟悉的某一页，可能是莎士比亚的著作，他的“无穷变幻”、“博大胸襟”，给人带来崭新的思索：你思绪飞转，想起你的朋友利西达斯，满怀喜悦地等待着能够再次听到他对你的发现的看法；你们俩会坐在火炉旁“相互探讨：混过毫无生气的一天”。或者，可能是某种更奇特更温柔的幻想占据你孤寂的注意力，比如菲利普·锡德尼爵士或亨利·沃恩的某种东西，然后你又去寻找菲利斯，只有她最能阐释天上人间的爱情。突然想到利西达斯死了——“英年早逝”——菲利斯那苍白的脸颊再也不能为她那纯洁热情的白光所照亮了！啊！这时眼睛模糊了，书上的字也看不清了。然后你开始想到必然来临，或许就你目前心情而言也还能接受的那一刻，老朋友“远古的宁静”将被打破，粗暴的双手将把它们从习惯的角落拿走，拆散它们友好的伴侣。

“死亡像炮弹一样在它们中间爆炸，

它们被炸得满城皆是。”

它们将形成新组合，减轻他人的劳作，抚平他人的忧伤。我是如此的傻，竟然将任何东西都说成是我的。