What a strange, illusory power memory has in dealing with the past, of
creating a scene and an emotion that not only never existed, but that
could not possibly ever have existed. When I look back to my own
commonplace, ordinary, straightforward boyhood, wrapped up in tiny
ambitions, vexed with trivial cares, full of trifling events, with a
constant sense of small dissatisfaction, I am amazed at the colours
with which memory tints the scene. She selects a few golden hours,
scenes of peculiar and instantaneous radiance, when the old towers and
trees were touched with a fine sunshine, when the sky was unclouded,
the heart light, and when one lived for a moment in a sense of some
romance of ambition or friendship; and she bids one believe that all
one's boyhood was thus bright and goodly, although one knows in one's
heart that the texture of it was often mean, pitiful, and selfish;
though reason at the same time overwhelms one with reproach and shame
for not having made a brighter and braver thing of it, when all the
conditions were so favourable.
It is so too with pathos--that pathos which centres so firmly upon the
smallest details, and neglects the larger sadnesses. I had so curious
an instance of this the other day that I cannot refrain from telling
it, because I suppose it can hardly ever have happened to anyone
before.
I have an old friend who lives by himself in London, where I sometimes
visit him. He is a studious, unmethodical, untidy man. His rooms are
dusty and neglected, and he is quite unaware of his surroundings. By
his favourite arm-chair stands a table covered with papers, books,
cigar-boxes, paper-knives, pencils, in horrible confusion; a condition
of things which causes him great discomfort and frequent loss of time.
I have often exhorted him to sort the mess; he has always smilingly
undertaken to do so, but has never succeeded.
A few weeks ago I called to see him; the servant who let me in, whose
face was new to me, looked very grave; and when I asked if my friend
was in, turned pale and said: "I suppose you do not know what has
happened, sir--Mr. A---- died yesterday at Brighton. I think that Mr.
B----" (naming the owner of the house, who lets lodgings) "can tell you
all about it--will you go upstairs? I will tell him you are here."
I went up: the sun was streaming into the room, with its well-known
furniture and pictures, shabby and yet somehow home-like. There was the
familiar table, with all its litter. I was stunned with the news,
unable to realise it; and the sight of the table, with all the
customary details in the old disorder, fairly unmanned me; so it was
all over and done with, and my friend was gone without a word or sign.
I heard rapid steps along the passage; Mr. B----, the owner of the
house, entered with an apologetic smile. "I am afraid that there has
been a mistake, sir," he said. "Mr. A---- is not dead, as the servant
informed you; it is the gentleman who lives on the floor above, who has
been an invalid for some time, who is dead; the servant is new to the
place, and has made a confusion; we only had a wire a few minutes ago.
Mr. A---- is perfectly well, and will be in in a few minutes if you
will wait"
I waited, in a strange revulsion of spirit; but the most singular thing
is that the crowded table, which had been a few minutes before the most
pathetic thing in the world, had become by the time that A---- entered
smiling, as irritating and annoying as ever; changed from the poor
table where his earthly litter had accumulated, which he could touch no
more for ever, into the table which he ought to have put straight long
ago and should be ashamed of leaving in so vile a condition.