"Doyle, Arthur Conan - Stark Munro Letters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doyle Arthur Conan)

HOME, 10th April, 1881.

Well, my dear Bertie, here I am again in your
postbox. It's not a fortnight since I wrote you that
great long letter, and yet you see I have news enough to
make another formidable budget. They say that the art of
letter-writing has been lost; but if quantity may atone
for quality, you must confess that (for your sins) you
have a friend who has retained it.

When I wrote to you last I was on the eve of going
down to join the Cullingworths at Avonmouth, with every
hope that he had found some opening for me. I must tell
you at some length the particulars of that expedition.

I travelled down part of the way with young Leslie
Duncan, whom I think you know. He was gracious enough to
consider that a third-class carriage and my company were
to be preferred to a first class with solitude. You know
that he came into his uncle's money a little time
ago, and after a first delirious outbreak, he has now
relapsed into that dead heavy state of despair which is
caused by having everything which one can wish for. How
absurd are the ambitions of life when I think that I, who
am fairly happy and as keen as a razor edge, should be
struggling for that which I can see has brought neither
profit nor happiness to him! And yet, if I can read my
own nature, it is not the accumulation of money which is
my real aim, but only that I may acquire so much as will
relieve my mind of sordid cares and enable me to develop
any gifts which I may have, undisturbed. My tastes are
so simple that I cannot imagine any advantage which
wealth can give--save indeed the exquisite pleasure of
helping a good man or a good cause. Why should people
ever take credit for charity when they must know that
they cannot gain as much pleasure out of their guineas in
any other fashion? I gave my watch to a broken
schoolmaster the other day (having no change in my
pocket), and the mater could not quite determine whether
it was a trait of madness or of nobility. I could have
told her with absolute confidence that it was neither the
one nor the other, but a sort of epicurean
selfishness with perhaps a little dash of swagger away
down at the bottom of it. What had I ever had from my
chronometer like the quiet thrill of satisfaction when
the fellow brought me the pawn ticket and told me that
the thirty shillings had been useful?

Leslie Duncan got out at Carstairs, and I was left