“It is a pity you came in so late. Earlier in the evening I was less
tired and could have explained it to you much better.”
I thought he wanted to begin worrying me again about coming in late,
and I suggested we might put off discussing things till next day.
“It is not a matter of discussing things,” he said in a dreamy
voice. “It is about something quite different--something which it is
impossible to discuss, but which you will understand directly I have
told you. But it is so difficult to talk about.”
My suspicions were aroused. “Don’t you feel well?” I said.
“I can’t really say I feel ill, but I am very tired and shall go to bed
at once.”
He rang the bell and called for Maria at the same time. When she came
he asked if his room was quite ready. He got up at once and went
towards the door, dragging one foot after the other. As he passed me he
bent down and offered me his cheek to kiss, as he did every evening.
When I saw how insecurely he walked my old doubts returned and I asked
him again if he felt unwell. We both repeated the same question and
answer several times, he assuring me that he was not ill, but tired.
Then he added:
“Now I shall think over what I want to say to you to-morrow. I know I
shall be able to convince you.”
I felt quite moved. “Father,” I said, “I shall be delighted to listen
to you.”
When he saw how ready I was to profit by his experience he seemed to
hesitate about leaving me; surely he ought to take advantage of such a
favourable moment. He passed his hand over his forehead several times
and sat down on the chair he had leaned on when he offered me his cheek
to kiss. He sighed.
“It is curious,” he said, “I can’t find anything to say, absolutely
nothing.”
He looked round as if he was hoping to get from outside what he could
not find within himself.
“Yet there are so many things I know. I feel as if I knew almost
everything. It must be the result of my great experience.”
He already felt less acutely his inability to express himself. He
smiled as if he rejoiced in the sense of his own greatness.
I don’t know why I did not send for the doctor at once. I must confess
with shame and remorse that I thought my father’s words were inspired
by a conceit which I had often noticed in him. But I could not help
seeing that he was very feeble, and that alone prevented me from
arguing with him. I was glad to see him so happy in the illusion that
he was strong just when he was at his weakest. Besides I felt flattered
by his affection and by his wanting to hand on his knowledge to me,
however convinced I may have been that I had nothing to learn from him.
To flatter him and set his mind at rest, I told him that he mustn’t
overstrain himself in trying to find the exact words he wanted on the
spot, because the wisest men often store up in the corner of their
brain things which they find too complicated to express, and trust to
time for them to become simpler.
He replied:
“What I am after is not at all complicated. It is only a matter of
finding a single word, and I know I shall find it. But not to-night,
for I shall sleep right through now and not be troubled by the least
little thought.”
But he still did not rise from his chair. He kept gazing at me and said
at last, hesitatingly:
“I am afraid I shall not be able to tell you what I really think
because you always make game of everything.”
He smiled at me as if he wanted to beg me not to take offence at his
words, got up from his chair and held out his cheek to me a second
time. I made no attempt to convince him by argument that there are
many things in this world which one can and ought to laugh at; instead
I tried to reassure him by kissing him warmly on both cheeks. Perhaps
my gesture was too emphatic, for he at once escaped from my embrace,
looking more troubled than ever; but he certainly understood that I
wanted to show him sympathy, for he waved his hand to me affectionately.
“And now to bed!” he cried merrily, and went out of the room, followed
by Maria.
When I was left alone (how strange it seems) I did not give my
father’s health a thought, but found myself respectfully regretting
that an intelligent man like my father, with such high ideals, should
not have had the opportunity of a better education. As I write now,
having very nearly reached my father’s age, I know for a fact that
it is perfectly possible for someone to be conscious of possessing a
very lofty intellect even though that consciousness is the only proof
he has of it. It is rather like this: you take a deep breath and are
filled with a sense of the wonder and greatness of Nature as she is
revealed to us, whole and immutable; and in doing that you participate
in the mind which planned the whole of creation. I thought that last
lucid moment in which my father became conscious of intellectual power,
originated in a sudden religious awakening, and that it was my telling
him about my study of the origins of Christianity which induced him to
speak to me about it. But I know now that this feeling was a symptom of
hæmorrhage of the brain.
Maria came in to clear away and told me that she thought my father had
gone to sleep at once. So I went to bed too, quite reassured. Outside
the wind howled and moaned. From my bed it sounded like a lullaby,
which grew farther and farther away as I sank deeper into sleep.
I don’t know how long I had been asleep when I was wakened by Maria. It
appears that she had been to my room to call me several times before
and then had run away again. I was conscious of a certain disturbance
in the depths of my sleep; then through my half-open eyes I recognised
the old woman dancing about the room; and finally I realised what was
happening. She was trying to wake me, but by the time I was really
wide awake she had left the room. The wind was still trying to sing
me to sleep, and to tell the truth I felt profoundly annoyed at being
snatched from my dreams so brutally, as I went along to my father’s
room. I reflected that Maria was always thinking my father was in
danger. I determined to remonstrate with her if this was another false
alarm.
My father’s bedroom was not very big, and it was over-furnished. When
my mother died he tried to help himself to forget by moving into
another room, but he took with him all the old furniture from the
bigger room. The room was all in shadow, only dimly lighted by a small
gas-jet above the low table by his bed. Maria was supporting my father,
who was lying on his back with the upper part of his body projecting
from the bed. His face, which was covered with perspiration, glowed red
in the gaslight. His head was leaning against Maria’s faithful breast.
He was groaning with pain and his mouth hung open helplessly, while the
saliva trickled from his chin. He was gazing motionless at the opposite
wall, and took no notice when I came in.
Maria said she had heard him groaning and had arrived just in time to
prevent him from falling out of bed. At first, she said, he had been
rather restless, but now he seemed to have quieted down; only she did
not dare to leave him alone. I think she wanted to apologise for having
waked me, but I at once realised that she had acted rightly. She went
on crying all the time she was talking to me. I did not cry; on the
contrary I told her to control herself and not add to the horror of
that hour by weeping. I had not really grasped yet what had happened.
The poor creature did her best to calm her sobs.