As I walked to-day in the golden sunlight--this warm, still day on the
far verge of autumn--there suddenly came to me a thought which checked my
step, and for the moment half bewildered me. I said to myself: My life
is over. Surely I ought to have been aware of that simple fact;
certainly it has made part of my meditation, has often coloured my mood;
but the thing had never definitely shaped itself, ready in words for the
tongue. My life is over. I uttered the sentence once or twice, that my
ear might test its truth. Truth undeniable, however strange; undeniable
as the figure of my age last birthday.
My age? At this time of life, many a man is bracing himself for new
efforts, is calculating on a decade or two of pursuit and attainment. I,
too, may perhaps live for some years; but for me there is no more
activity, no ambition. I have had my chance--and I see what I made of
it.
The thought was for an instant all but dreadful. What! I, who only
yesterday was a young man, planning, hoping, looking forward to life as
to a practically endless career, I, who was so vigorous and scornful,
have come to this day of definite retrospect? How is it possible? But,
I have done nothing; I have had no time; I have only been preparing
myself--a mere apprentice to life. My brain is at some prank; I am
suffering a momentary delusion; I shall shake myself, and return to
common sense--to my schemes and activities and eager enjoyments.
Nevertheless, my life is over.
What a little thing! I knew how the philosophers had spoken; I repeated
their musical phrases about the mortal span--yet never till now believed
them. And this is all? A man's life can be so brief and so vain? Idly
would I persuade myself that life, in the true sense, is only now
beginning; that the time of sweat and fear was not life at all, and that
it now only depends upon my will to lead a worthy existence. That may be
a sort of consolation, but it does not obscure the truth that I shall
never again see possibilities and promises opening before me. I have
"retired," and for me as truly as for the retired tradesman, life is
over. I can look back upon its completed course, and what a little
thing! I am tempted to laugh; I hold myself within the limit of a smile.
And that is best, to smile, not in scorn, but in all forbearance, without
too much self-compassion. After all, that dreadful aspect of the thing
never really took hold of me; I could put it by without much effort. Life
is done--and what matter? Whether it has been, in sum, painful or
enjoyable, even now I cannot say--a fact which in itself should prevent
me from taking the loss too seriously. What does it matter? Destiny
with the hidden face decreed that I should come into being, play my
little part, and pass again into silence; is it mine either to approve or
to rebel? Let me be grateful that I have suffered no intolerable wrong,
no terrible woe of flesh or spirit, such as others--alas! alas!--have
found in their lot. Is it not much to have accomplished so large a part
of the mortal journey with so much ease? If I find myself astonished at
its brevity and small significance, why, that is my own fault; the voices
of those gone before had sufficiently warned me. Better to see the truth
now, and accept it, than to fall into dread surprise on some day of
weakness, and foolishly to cry against fate. I will be glad rather than
sorry, and think of the thing no more.