you can guess, for I have answered them, and in those answers you
could read all I might not say. “There must be an end, and it is not
because of the trouble, but it is because of the pleasure.” You could
not tell me that and think, because you bid me, I would not answer?
Nor does one forget--fortunately--though if to forget be fortunate,
I suppose to remember must be unfortunate, only it does not seem so
to me. “Silence is a great barrier”--yes, death is silence, and the
greatest barrier of all, and the silence of the living is, in a way,
harder to bear, for it seems so needlessly unkind. Silence, determined,
unbroken silence, will, I think, kill all feeling. I will not accept
that as your last word, not yet; but if, when you receive this, you
make that the beginning of silence, then I shall know, and I will not
break it. Only I beg of you not to do so hard a thing as this, for
I will gladly accept any less cruel sentence if you will not make
yourself as dead to me. I have not done anything that need drive you to
issue such an edict. Will not some less hopeless judgment, something
short of eternal silence, serve until I bring on myself this ghastly
doom? You are thinking that it was I who said, “All or nothing,” I who
said friendship was too hard a road to tread. That was before--before I
had tried; before I knew all I know now. You hid your heart far out of
sight, and I never dared to guess--I do not now. But you went, and I,
remembering how you went, catch at straws; for, as the Eastern says, I
am drowning in the deepest sea. Do not think that is extravagant; it is
because I have learned to count the unattainable at its true value that
I also realise the immensity of the loss. We stood on either side of a
wall, and because the wall was near to me I looked over it and almost
forgot its existence. You, standing farther off, saw always the wall,
and it shut me out. Then I, thinking it could be nothing to you, tried
to get across the intervening space, and so fell, hurting myself, as
those who fall must do. It was not a caprice, not an impulse that took
me, it was the victory of the uncontrollable. So, doubting me, and to
do right for both, you said, “I will build a wall too, stronger and
higher, and then we can sometimes look over and talk to each other,
and everything will be well.” But it is not well. Only you have vowed
yourself to the work, and, if it seems hard, you say that all things
are hard, and this must be good because it costs so much. To suffer
is bad enough; to give suffering where you would strain every nerve
to give only joy is so hard that, to help the other, seems worth any
conceivable pain to oneself. What can it matter how it affects me,
if I can do some little good for you; something that may save you a
little pain, win you a little joy? Believe me, I have no wish but this.
Whatever my selfishness would suggest is not really me, for “Thy law is
my delight”; nay more, it is my delight to try to anticipate your wish.
I have no fear except that you should misunderstand me, that I should
misunderstand you. I am my own to offer, yours to accept--equally if,
by effacement, I can save you the smallest regret, help you for a few
yards over the stony path of life by keeping silence, you will neither
see nor hear from me again. I would you did not doubt, perhaps you do
not now; at least you cannot distrust, and in this I shall not fail. I
shall not say farewell. I will never say that; but through the silence,
if so it must be, sometimes, on a day in spring, perhaps, will come
the echo of a past that you can recall with nothing more than regret.
And that is what I do not quite understand. You say, “In all the years
to come I shall not regret.” Not regret what has been, what might
have been, or what will be then? Therein lies all the difference, and
therein lies the riddle, there and in those words, “I am sometimes--”
How am I to supply the rest? It might be any one of so many things.
Could it ever be that you are sometimes driven to wonder whether
everything I could offer is worth anything you would give? “Many waters
cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it; if a man would
give all the substance of his house for love, it would be utterly
contemned.” If that be true, and it has high authority, then in that
one sentence is contained the conclusion of the whole matter. It tells
you all that you can wish to know for yourself and myself and even for
others. I have done; an accident drew from me an acknowledgment of my
own hurt when it seemed unlikely that the fact should interest you. Now
I am so unfortunate that, hurt myself, I have made you suffer as well.
I have nothing to offer to help you, for all I had is yours already.
And so the end: if so you deem it best. “_Si j’étais Dieu_,” I would
use what power I had to spare you a moment’s pain and give you such
happiness that you should forget the meaning of the word “suffering.”
How utterly powerless we are, how impotent to save those we love, when
no offer of the best we have, no devotion, no self-effacement, will
secure the happiness of one other being, whose every pulse throbs in
unison with ours, yet between whom and us there is fixed the great
gulf of our own conventions. Is the end of all human hopes, all human
sorrows, described in these two lines?--
“Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was, and then no more of Thee and Me.”
“Let me say it whilst I have the courage.” Suppose you had the greater
courage to write, “I will never say it.” Let me rather cry with Saul,
“Farewell to others, but never we part.” And yet I know that we have
already parted to meet no more.
XXXVI
OF PARADISE LOST
By a dispensation of that Providence which, if seldom kind,
is sometimes less than malignant, I received your two letters
together--the poison and the antidote. I looked at the dates on the
postmarks, and I took the poison first. It did not take long to read,
and I am glad now that I can truly tell you that my impulse was to
ignore your expressed wish, your command, and to at once tell you
that I did not believe a single word of those lines, which, if meant
to hurt, could not have been better conceived, for truly they were
coldly cruel. Indeed, the note was hateful, and so absolutely unlike
you, that it must have defeated its object, had that been really as
you declared it. If you know me at all, you must have realised that,
if I know the Kingdom of Heaven may not be taken by storm, I should
never seek for the charity which is thrown to the importunate. But the
other letter was there, and in it I found such measure of consolation
as is vouchsafed to those who find that, if their path is difficult,
they will not tread it alone, and it tends upward. It may not be all we
desire--how should it be in a world which is full of
“Infinite passion
And the pain of finite hearts that yearn”?
Still, it is much; and, at the worst, it is death without its sting.
Do I know? I think I do. You see, if the future contains nothing
for me, I have still the past--and, in that past, I have learnt to
implicitly trust you, and you have let me see enough of your very self
to make me disregard even what comes from you, when it has nothing in
common with your real character. But I shall not forget--I do not do
that easily at any time--and, if all else faded, I could not forget
our friendship. Do you think the first man and woman ever forgot that
once they dwelt in Paradise? It was the recollection of all they had
lost which was the beginning of mortal suffering. If that “pleasant
place” is closed to me, I am not likely to forget that I have seen the
gate, that I know where to find it, and that there is but one. Yes, I
understand; and the proof is, that in my regret there is no bitterness
now. I also remember what I said when we leant over the balustrade of
a verandah and looked out into the silver sheen of a ravishing Eastern
night, wherein the frail chalices of the moonflower shone like great,
milk-white stars in their leafy sky, while from the trellis-work
beneath us rose the faint, sweet scent of those strange blossoms. You
have taught me how great the exception can be. The cynicism is only
skin-deep, and I shall never swell the ranks of the Faithful--though
I still think there is much to be said for the Faith. The creed, like
other creeds, suffers by the perfunctory service of those who profess
to be true believers. As for the way you have chosen, I think it is
the right way, at least it is the best to follow now; and, to help you
tread it well, I also say, “God be with you.” They need not be my last
words to you, for, if ever my loyal service can further any wish of
yours, our friendship is not so poor a thing that you would hesitate
to give me the satisfaction of doing for you anything that lies in my
power. That was in the bond we made long ago. If we cannot forget what
came into our dream of mutual trust and intellectual companionship, is
it not better to bravely accept the fiat of Destiny and make the past a
link to bind us more closely to the terms of our bond? Even so we may
still help each other, still cleave to the sympathy which we know will
never fail us; and, if our paths divide, the earth is not wide enough
to keep us asunder, should we ever try to say “Adieu.”
XXXVII
“TO MARY, IN HEAVEN”
This is my last letter to you, _Carina_, and I am writing in the belief
that you are in heaven. But are you really there, and, if you are, is
all well with you? Have you everything you desire and no regrets? It
seems such a very long way off, you have such small control over the
means of transport, and so much depends on hearsay, that one may, I
trust, be pardoned for entertaining doubt where all is so indefinite.
Then the accounts of that blessed place that have come to different
parts of the world, though always inspired, differ so materially.
To mortals, immortality is a difficult conception. To finite minds,
conscious of the grasp of a limited intelligence, but still very much
alive to the evidence of the senses we possess, the idea of a heaven,
somewhere beyond the reach of earthly imagination, is perhaps more
difficult still. So many millions come into the world, and we realise
fairly well how and why they come; they all, without exception, go,
and none ever return, and some, we are told, are in heaven, and some
elsewhere. The time here is so absurdly short, and the eternity there
is so impossibly long, that, if our chances of spending the latter in
joy, or sorrow, depend on what we do in the former, it is only natural
that this one idea should occupy our thoughts to the exclusion of all
others. Yet there, again, we are such frail things, that in this way
lies what we call madness.
If you have solved the great problem, can you not enlighten my
darkness, my craving for exact knowledge? Write to me, _Carina_, write
and tell me what it is all like. If I have wearied you with my feeble,
little tales, my stupid questions, my pictures that must seem to you
so flat and colourless in the glory of that better world, my vain
imaginings and poor human longings, will you not take pity on me and
gladden my weary eyes with a word-painted vision of the Heavenly City,
the fields of Elysium, or at least the houris who are to be the portion
of the Faithful? I do not know which paradise you are in. See, I wait
with the pencil on the paper: will you not make it write?
You do not heed. Perhaps, after all, you are not there; or is it
possible that you have forgotten this small planet and those you left
here, and that you find more congenial friends in the company of the
angels? I dare say it is natural, and I do not upbraid you; but some
day I may reach that desired haven, and I want you to remember that I
have earned your consideration by my discretion, if you can spare me
no more tender feeling. If, for instance, I had sent you these letters
while you were still on earth, and you had incautiously left them about
(as you would have been certain to do), quite a number of them would
have compromised you in the opinion of the servant girl, and she is the
origin of a vast deal of earthly gossip. I suppose you have no servant
girls and no gossip where you are: the absence of effect depending
on the want of cause. Happy heaven! and yet I believe that there are
people on this earth who really enjoy being the subject of gossip. To
them the suggestions of scandal are as the savour of salt, as danger
is to the sportsman; the wilder the suggestion, the more amusing the
game; and there are even those who, when tattle wanes and desire fails,
say or insinuate, to their own detriment, the thing that is not, rather
than disappear into obscurity. It is the same desire for notoriety and
attention which prompted Martin to set fire to York Minster, and led
the woman to complain to the vicar that her husband had ceased to beat
her.
Up in the serene atmosphere of those heavenly heights you have no
cathedrals, no husbands, no wives, no work, no play, no food, no
frocks--pardon me, that is a slip of the pen; of course you have
frocks, but what else have you? Is it not sometimes just a little
monotonous? If life is so short that it amounts to little more than the
constant fear of coming death, are you not sometimes overawed by the
contemplation of eternity? But, after all, the dwellers in heaven may
never think. Never to remember, and so never to regret; never to think,
and so never to desire--that is a possible scheme of existence where
a thousand years might be as one day, and to the weary it would mean
rest. But so would oblivion, and we are not altogether satisfied with
the thought of oblivion.
“Oh, Threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing is certain--_This_ Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.”
That is well enough, but it is not an inspired writing; it is a cry
rather of despair than conviction, and oft repeated to make up for
want of certainty. Of things mundane we have acquired a tolerable
knowledge, however much there is yet to be learnt; but that in us which
we call the Soul will never be satisfied till it learns something of
the hereafter. Who will teach it? Do we know more now than they did
when men fought with bows and arrows, or flint weapons, instead of
hundred-ton guns fired by electricity?
Standing alone in some vast solitude where man and his doings have
no part, have made no mark and left no trace--where face to face
with Nature, with mountain and plain, forest and sea and a limitless
firmament, man’s somewhat puny efforts are forgotten, there comes an
intense longing for something higher and nobler than the life we live.
The soul of man cries out for light, for some goal towards which he may
by effort and sacrifice attain; for he is not lacking in the qualities
that have made heroes and martyrs throughout all the ages. If he cannot
rend the veil and scale the heights of heaven, he can grasp the things
within his reach; and, realising that there are problems beyond his
intelligence, he can yet give his life to make easier the lot of his
fellow-creatures, seeking humbly, but courageously, to follow, no
matter how far behind, in the footsteps of his Great Exemplar. Nor need
his efforts be less strenuous, his object less worthy, because this
passionate cry of a voice, stilled centuries ago, strikes a sympathetic
chord in his heart.
“Yet ah! that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale, that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed reveal’d,
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
Would but some wingèd Angel, ere too late,
Arrest the yet-unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
Ah Love, could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!”
THE END
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1898
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