the days of my life-第30章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　to　your　wife　and　Mr。　Haggard。
Very　sincerely　yours；
Brother　Basil。
When　your　book　es　out　＇Brother　B。　here　alludes　to　“Cetewayo　and　his　White　Neighbours”＇　I　will　make　one　of　my　sisters　send　it　if　it　is　not　too　long；　I　have　not　much　time　for　reading；　especially　in　summer。
It　will　be　observed　from　the　tenor　of　this　letter　that　the　writer　is　already　almost　lost　in　the　monastic　atmosphere。　He　still　retains　his　personal　friendship　for　myself　and　is　interested　in　one　or　two　of　his　old　associates；　but　all　his　earnest　thought　is　given　to　his　soul　and　its　salvation。　The　world　is　slipping　away　from　him。　He　even　fears　to　read　my　forthing　history　lest　it　should　be　“too　long”　and　take　his　time　from　his　devotions　and　self…imposed　physical　labours；　which　could　have　been　so　much　better　done　by　any　working　man。
Eight　years　go　by　and　there　es　another　note；　also　apparently　in　answer　to　one　from　myself。　It　is　dated　September　3；　1890。
Your　good　memory　is　very　kind；　and　now　that　you　have　bee　so　famous；　highly　flattering。　I　suppose　in　your　judgment　our　regime　ought　to　have　improved　me　off　the　face　of　the　globe；　however　here　I　am；　by　no　means　dead；　and　not　even；　I　am　sorry　to　say；　in　the　sense　of　Colossians　iii。　3　＇“For　ye　are　dead；　and　your　life　is　hid　with　Christ　in　God。”　—　H。　R。　H。＇。　I　should　be　delighted　to　see　you　again　if　you　are　able　to　e　here；　I　have　often　wished　to　hear　of　our　mutual　friends。　Of　you；　of　course；　I　have　heard；　and　perused　somee　since　you　were　here；　it　is　startling　to　find　that　we　are　ten　years　older。　。　。　。　I　hope　Mrs。　R。　H。　not　only　lives　but　is　well　and　happy。　Please　give　her　my　kind　regards。
Always　your　sincere　friend；
Brother　Basil。
Both　this　letter　and　the　one　which　remains　are　written　in　a　somewhat　different　handwriting　to　those　already　quoted。　It　is　more　careful　and　less　natural。
The　last　letter；　dated　September　10；　1891；　deals　with　the　death　of　my　son；　of　which　I　had　written　to　Brother　Basil。　I　think；　too；　that　I　had　sent　him　a　copy　of　“Allan　Quatermain；”　which　was　dedicated　to　the　boy　and；　after　his　death；　contained　his　portrait。　Here　is　the　portion　of　the　letter　that　is　essential。
You　wrote　to　me　when　you　came　back　from　Africa；　so　I　have　had　your　son　in　mind　when　I　have　thought　of　you。　The　idea　of　you　as　paterfamilias　seemed　very　amusing。　So　now　there　is　an　end　of　hopes。　Of　course　your　loss　is　irreparable；　even　if　you　had　another　son　he　would　not　be　the　same。　Judging　from　his　picture　he　must　have　been　a　very　nice　fellow。　I　am　afraid　that　in　the　reality　of　sorrow　you　have　felt　the　“great　breast　of　Nature”　rather　too　hard　to　give　rest。　What　a　curious　irony　that　that　introduction　should　have　followed　that　dedication。　＇The　quotation　here　and　the　subsequent　remark　referred　to　the　Introduction　to　“Allan　Quatermain；”　in　which　he　laments　the　death　of　his　only　son。　—　H。　R。　H。＇
Looking　at　matters　from　their　point　of　view　I　don’t　regret　much　the　death　of　children。　They　have　been　rightly　baptised；　and　they　are　not　old　enough　to　stand　in　crying　need　of　other　sacraments。　I　wish　my　prospects　were　as　bright　as　your　son’s。　Vae　nobis　quia　peccavimus　。　。　。　。
Brother　Basil。
I　pass　on　to　the　end　of　the　story；　which　the　following　letter　tells。
Mt。　St。　Bernard’s　Abbey：　August　6；　1893。
Dear　Sir；　—　The　notice　in　the　papers　was　unfortunately　too　true　in　the　case　of　good　Fr。　Basil。　He　died　in　Rome　on　May　11th。
For　some　years　he　had　been　suffering　from　abscesses　in　different　parts　of　the　body；　which　the　doctors　considered　showed　a　tendency　to　consumption；　and　they　strongly　remended　a　change　of　climate。　Last　autumn　it　was　arranged　that　he　should　go　to　Rome　for　a　year　or　so。　Unhappily　instead　of　improving　he　became　worse；　though　not　seriously　so；　until　the　first　week　in　May；　when　the　spine　seems　to　have　bee　affected；　and　on　the　8th　he　was　seized　with　paralysis；　and　died；　as　I　have　said；　on　the　11th；　the　feast　of　the　Ascension　of　Our　Lord。
From　accounts　received；　his　death　was　most　peaceful　and　happy；　he　being　fully　conscious　and　perfectly　resigned　to　the　Will　of　God。
When　he　left　us　he　was　Sub…Prior；　and　after　being　in　Rome　for　a　short　time　he　was　appointed　Procurator…General　for　the　whole　Order。　His　death　has　been　a　great　loss　to　us　here　and　to　all　the　Members　of　the　Reformed　Cistercian　body。
I　am　happy　thus　to　testify　to　the　high　esteem　in　which　he　was　held；　and　very　numerous　have　been　the　letters　received；　expressing　deep　regret　at　his　death；　and　the　highest　regard　for　him。
With　every　good　wish；
I　remain；　dear　sir；
Yours　very　truly　in　Christ；
C。　W。　Hipwood；
Abb。　O。C。R。
Thus　ends　the　earthly　story　of　my　friend　Justin　Sheil；　known　in　religion　as　Brother　Basil；　between　whom　and　me；　different　as　were　our　characters　and　our　walks　in　life；　there　existed　some　curious　affinity。　As　he　himself　remarks；　it　is　strange　that　a　man　of　his　pleasure…loving　nature　and　somewhat　sardonic　vein　of　humour　should　have　bee　a　Trappist　monk　and　been　well　pleased　with　his　choice。　To　use　his　own　words；　this　is　indeed　a　mystery；　one　of　those　mysteries　which　appear　to　suggest　that　the　human　heart　is　much　wider　than　it　seems。　We　see　the　point　of　an　iceberg　floating　on　the　ocean　and　are　apt　to　forget　that　hidden　in　its　depths　is　a　vast；　unsuspected　bulk。　So　it　may　be　with　the　nature　of　man。　We　perceive　its　visible　portion；　we　think　we　know　it；　we　sum　it　up　and　declare　that　its　character　is　this　or　that。　Nay；　more；　we　declare　it　of　our　own　natures　wherewith　we　should　be　well　acquainted。　And　yet　deep　in　the　ocean　of　being　floats　the　real　nature；　unmeasured；　unsuspected；　till　perhaps；　in　some　cataclysm　of　the　soul；　not　all　but　a　new　portion　of　it　is　revealed；　and　that　which　was　familiar　is　submerged。　Is　every　individuality　in　truth　multiple？　Are　reincarnationists　right　when　they　assert　that　only　a　part　of　it　bees　active　in　this　world　at　one　time　—　a　part　that　we　think　the　whole？　Who　can　tell？
It　was　a　hard　and　dreadful　life　that　he　led；　if　measured　by　our　standards；　how　hard　only　those　who　are　familiar　with　the　rules　of　the　Trappists　will　rightly　know。　Yet　even　in　these　iron　bonds　his　native　ability　asserted　itself；　for　just　as　he　died　he　rose　to　high　office　in　the　Order　while　still　a　young　man；　though　now；　after　eighteen　years　of　silence　more　plete　even　than　that　in　which　he　dwelt；　probably　he　is　forgotten。　Others　pray　where　he　prayed；　think　what　he　thought　and　fast　as　he　fasted；　till；　worn　out　by　privation　and　by　the　burning　fire　of　spiritual　ardour；　they　join　him　in　his　unrecorded　grave。　So　it　has　ever　been　with　spirits　like　his　own。　In　Egypt　I　have　seen　the　cells　occupied　by　anchorites　a　thousand　years　before　Christ　was　born。　On　Tabir；　Mount　of　the　Transfiguration；　I　have　stood　in　the　living　tombs　of　the　hermits　who　dreamed　away　their　long　years；　generation　after　generation　of　them；　and　hollowed　the　rock　of　the　holy　mountain　with　their　nightly　tossings。　In　Tibet　the　lean　and　wasted　claw　of　the　immured；　thrust　through　some　hole　to　grasp　the　offering　of　food；　advises　the　traveller　that　here；　dead　and　yet　breathing；　dwells　a　holy　man　who　thus　seeks　to　propitiate　the　unanswering　gods。　That　which　was；　still　is　and　shall　be　while　the　world　endures；　not　in　one　religion　but　in　many。
I　make　no　excuse　for　the　telling　of　this　true　tale；　because　it　seems　to　me　to　constitute　a　human　document　of　great　interest。　It　is　not　often　that　we　have　the　opportunity　of　ing　face　to　face　with　this　kind　of　heart　as　it　reveals　itself　in　the　foregoing　letters。　Besides；　any　whom　it　does　not　interest　can　leave　it　unread。
May　my　dear　friend’s　prayer　be　fulfilled：　may　we　meet　again　in　some　other　phase　of　life　and　there　learn　the　true　reason　of　these　matters；　if　a　mon；　erring　man　may　hope　to　associate　with　a　spirit　so　purified　and　—　yes；　so　holy。　Peace　be　with　him；　but　since　I　for　one　cannot　believe　that　he　and　all　mankind　are　the　victims　of　a　ghastly　delusion；　or　are　led　forward　by　mocking　marsh…fires　of　self…evolved　aspirations　to　be　lost　in　some　bottomless　gulf　of　death；　I　will　not　add　—　farewell。
To　return　to　my　own　history。　When　I　reached　home　everyone　was　very　glad　to　see　me；　especially　my　mother；　but　my　father　did　not　wele　my　reappearance　with　whole…hearted　enthusiasm。　He　remarked　with　great　candour　that　I　should　probably　bee　“a　waif　and　a　stray；”　or　possibly　—　my　taste　for　writing　being　already　known　—　“a　miserable　penny…a…liner。”　I　am　sure　I　do　not　wonder　at　his　irritation；　which；　were　I　in　his　place　today；　I　should　certainly　share。　He　saw　that　I　had　thrown　up　my　billet　and　he　had　no　faith　in　the　possibilities　of　African　farming。
All　of　these　things；　and　others；　he　told　me　in　the　course　of　a　row　which　arose　over　the　loss　of　a　gigantic　turtle　which　I　had　brought　home　from　the　Island　of　Ascension；　where　I　had　visited　my　brother　John；　who　at　that　time　was　first…lieutenant　of　H。M。S。　Flora。　The　Island　of　Ascension；　by　the　way；　where　they　catch　these　turtles　on　the　beach　and　store　them　in　tanks；　is　a　very　interesting　spot；　for　there　one　sees　a　part　of　the　world　in　the　making。　On　the　top　of　a　peak　is　a　green　area　of　soil　that　I　presume　owes　its　origin　to　the　droppings　of　sea…birds。　Below　is　bare　rock。　This　area　must　have　been　formed　within　recent　times；　say　during　the　last　500；000　years；　and　in　another　million　or　so　of　years　doubtless　it　will　have　spread　all　over　the　island。　The　processes　of　nature　are　distinctly　slow。
In　some　mysterious　way　my　turtle　got　lost　in　the　London　Docks。　Personally　I　thought　the　occurrence　fortunate；　for　what　would　have　been　done　with　the　creature　if　I　had　succeeded　in　conveying　it　safely　to　Bradenham　Hall　still　alive　and　flapping；　I　cannot　conceive。　Imagine　the　local　butcher　confronted　with　a　turtle；　imagine　the　domestic　cook　and　the　quantities　of　soup　that　would　have　resulted；　if　it　ever　got　so　far　as　soup！　I　pointed　all　this　out　to　my　father；　but　he　took　another　view。　He　wanted　his　turtle　and　said　so；　often；　and　alas！　it　had　vanished　in　the　London　Docks。　Probably　a　steward　sold　it　to　a　City　pany　on　the　sly。　A　sportive　passenger　on　the　ship　made　a　rhyme　on　the　matter。　It　began：
’Tis　true；　O　my　Father；　from　distant　lands　I’ve　e；　a　bad　penny；　back　on　your　hands；　But　when　once　you　have　tasted　this　nice　green　fat；　You　won’t　care；　O　my　parent；　one　kipper　for　that。
The　trouble　was　that　he　never　did　“taste　that　nice　green　fat。”
However