The season had warmed into May, of all seasons the sweetest in Italy. To see the sun shine, it seemed impossible to think that he would not shine for ever; and, when the window of the sick room was opened in the early morning, such a breath of life and happiness came in—such a sweet gust4 of air, wild from the great breadth of the Campagna, breathing of dews and blossoms—as felt to Colin’s lips like an elixir5 of life. But that breathing balm imparted no refreshment6 to the dying man. He was not suffering much; he was only weary to the bottom of his soul—languid and yet restless, eager to be moved, yet unable to bear any motion. While Alice withdrew behind them by times to shed the tears that kept always gathering7, and say a prayer in her heart for her dying brother—a prayer in which, with a child’s simplicity8, she still left room for his restoration, and called it possible—the two others watched with the profoundest interest that which was not only the dying of a friend, but the waning9 of a life. To see him so individual and characteristic, with all the notable features and even faults of his mind as distinct and apparent as if he had been in the strongest health, and yet so near the end, was the strangest spectacle. What was it the end of? He directed them all from his deathbed, and, indeed, controlled them all, with a will stronger than ever before, securing his own way in face of all their remonstrances10, and, indeed, seemed to grow more and more strong, absolute, and important, as he approached the final stage of weakness—which is a sight always wonderful to see. He kept on writing his book, propped11 up upon pillows, as long as he had strength enough to hold the pen; but, when that power too failed him, the unyielding soul coerced12 itself into accepting the pen of another, and dictated13 the last chapter, at which Alice laboured during the day, and which occasionally, to beguile14 the tedium15 of the long night-watches, his other attendants were permitted to carry on.{269}
The nights grew shorter and shorter as the season advanced, and sometimes it was by the lovely light of the dawning morning, instead of the glimmer16 of the lamp, that these solemn sentences were written. At other moments, when the patient could not sleep, but was content to rest, wonderful scraps17 of conversation went on in that chamber18 of death. Meredith lay gaunt and wasted among his pillows—his great eyes filling the room, as the spectators sometimes thought; and by his bedside rose, sometimes the gigantic figure of Lauderdale, dimly visible by means of the faint night-light—sometimes Colin’s young softened19 face and air of tender compassion20. It did not occur to any of the three to ask by what right they came together in relations so near and sacred. The sick man’s brothers, had he possessed21 them, could not have watched him with more care, or with less doubt about his claim upon all their ministrations: but they talked with him as perhaps no brother could have talked—recognising the reality of his position, and even discussing it as a matter in which they too had the profoundest interest. The room was bare enough, and contained little comfort to English eyes—uncarpeted, with bare tiles underneath22 the feet, and scantily23 furnished with an old sofa, a chair or two, and a table. There were two windows, which looked out upon the Campagna which the dying man was to see no more, nor cared to see. But that great living picture, of no benefit to him, was the only one there; for poor Meredith had himself caused to be taken down from the wall a print of the Madonna, and the little cross with its basin for holy water underneath, which had hung at the head of his bed. He had even sent away a picture of the Crucifixion—a bad, yet not unimpressive copy. “I want no outward symbols,” said the sick man; “there will be none where I am going,” and this was the beginning of one of those strange talks by night.
“It’s awfu’ difficult to ken24,” said Lauderdale. “For my part it’s a great wonder to me that there has never been any revelation worthy25 of credit out of that darkness. That poor fellow Dives, in the parable26, is the only man I mind of that takes a Christian27 view of the subject. He would have sent one to tell. The miracle is, that nae man was ever permitted to come.”
“Don’t say so,” said Meredith. “Oh, my dear friend! if you could but know the joy it would give me to bring you to Christ before I die—to see you accept and receive Him. Has not He come to seek and to save?{270}”
“Callant,” said the watcher, with a long drawn28 breath, “I’ve longer acquaintance with Him than you can have; and if I dinna believe in Him I would hang myself, and get to an explanation of all things. If it was not for Him, wherefore should I, that have nobody dependent on me, endure the mystery? But that’s no answer to my question. He came to put a meaning in the world that has little enough signification without Him, but no to answer a’ the questions that a human spirit can put to heaven and earth. I’ve heard of bargains made between them that were to die and them that had to live—”
“You put it in a strange way, Lauderdale,” said the dying man; “most people would say, those who had to die. But what can any one want beyond what is revealed—Jerusalem the golden? How strange it is to think that a worm like me shall so soon be treading those shining streets, while you—you whom the world thinks so much better off—”
“Whisht,” said Lauderdale, with a husky voice. “Do you no think it would be an awfu’ satisfaction to us that stay behind if we could have but a glint of the shining streets you speak of? Many a long day we’ll strain our eyes and try hard to see you there, but a’ to little purpose. I’m no saying I would not take it on trust for myself, and be content with what God pleased; but it’s hard to part with them that belong to us, and ken nothing about them—where they are, or how they are—”
“They are in Heaven! If they were children of God they are with Him,” said the sick man, anxiously. “Lauderdale, I cannot bear to think that you do not believe—that perhaps I may not meet you there.”
“Maybe no,” said the philosopher; “there’s the awfu’ question. A man might go ranging about the shining streets (as you say) for ever, and never find them that belonged to him; or, if there’s no geographical29 limits, there may be others harder to pass. It’s awfu’ little comfort I can get for my own mind out of shining streets. How am I to picture you to myself, callant, when I take thoughts of you? I have the fancy in my mind to give you messages to friends I have away yonder; but how can I tell if you’ll ever see them? It’s no a question of believing or not believing; I put little faith in Milton, and none in the good books, from which two sources we draw a great part of our talk about Heaven. It’s no even to ken if they’re happy or no happy that troubles me. I’ve nae hesitation30 to speak of in leaving that in God’s hand. It’s but to have an inkling ever so slight where ye are, and how you are,{271}” said Lauderdale, unconsciously changing his pronouns, “and that ye keep thought of us that spend so many thoughts on you.”
After this there was a little pause, which fell into the perfect stillness of the night outside, and held the little dim-lighted chamber in the midst of all the darkness, like the picture of a shadowy “interior,” with two motionless figures, the living and the dying, painted upon the great gloom of night. Meredith, who, notwithstanding the superior intensity31 of his own thoughts, had been moved by Lauderdale’s—and who, used as he was to think himself dying, yet perhaps heard himself thus unconsciously reckoned among the dead with a momentary32 thrill—was the first to speak.
“In all this I find you too vague,” said the patient. “You speak about Heaven as if you were uncertain only of its aspect; you have no anxiety about the way to get there. My friend, you are very good to me—you are excellent, so far as this world goes; I know you are. But, oh, Lauderdale, think! Our righteousnesses are as filthy33 rags. Before you speculate about Heaven, ask yourself are you sure to get there?”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, vaguely34, “it’s maybe a wee like the question of the Sadducees—I’m no saying; and it’s awfu’, the dead blank of wisdom and knowledge that’s put forth35 for a response—no any information to you; nothing but a quenching36 of your flippant questions and impudent37 pretensions38. No marrying nor giving in marriage there, and the curious fools baffled, but nae light thrown upon the darkness! I’ll have to wait like other folk for my answer; but, if it’s according to your new nature and faculties39—which surely it must be—you’ll not forget to give us a thought at times? If you feel a wee lonely at the first—I’m no profane40, callant; you’re but a man when a’s done, or rather a laddie, and you’ll surely miss your friends—dinna forget how long and how often we’ll think of you.”
“Shall you?” said the dying man. “I have given you nothing but trouble ever since I knew you, and it is more than I deserve. But there is One who is worthy of all your thoughts. When you think of me, O love Him, my dear friend, and so there will be a bond between us still.”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale once more. It was a word he used when his voice could not be trusted, and his heart was full. “Ay,” he repeated, after a long pause, “I’ll no neglect that grand bond. It’s a bargain between you and me no to be broken. If ye were free for such an act, it would be awfu’ friendly to bring me word how things are”—he continued, in a low tone, “though{272} it’s folly41 to ask, for if it had been possible it would have been done before now.”
“It is God who must teach and not me,” said the dying man. “He has other instruments—and you must seek Him for yourself, and let Him reveal His will to you. If you are faithful to God’s service, He will relieve you of your doubts,” said Arthur, who did not understand his friend’s mind, but even at that solemn moment looked at him with a perplexed42 mixture of disapproval43 and compassion. And thus the silence fell again like a curtain over the room, and once more it became a picture faintly painted on the darkness, faintly relieved and lighted up by touches of growing light, till at length the morning came in full and fair, finding out as with a sudden surprise the ghostly face on the pillow, with its great eyes closed in disturbed sleep, and by the bedside another face scarcely less motionless, the face of the man who was no unbeliever, but whose heart longed to know and see what others were content, in vague generalities to tell of, and say they believed.
This was one of the conversations held in the dead of night in Meredith’s room. Next evening it was Colin, reluctantly permitted by his faithful guardian44 to share this labour, who took the watcher’s place; and then the two young men, who were so near of an age, but whose prospects45 were so strangely different, talked to each other after a different fashion. Both at the beginning of their career, and with incalculable futures46 before them, it was natural they should discuss the objects and purposes of life, upon which Meredith, who thought himself matured by the approach of death, had, as he imagined, so much advantage over his friend, who was not going to die.
“I remember once thinking as you do,” said the dying man. “The world looked so beautiful! No man ever loved its vanities and its pomp more than I. I shudder47 sometimes to think what would have become of me if God had left me to myself—but He was more merciful. I see things in their true light now.”
“You will have a great advantage over us,” said Colin, trying to smile; “for you will always know the nature of our occupations, while yours will be a mystery to us. But we can be friends all the same. As for me, I shall not have many pomps and vanities to distract me; a poor man’s son, and a Scotch48 minister does not fall in the way of such temptations.”
“There are temptations to worldliness in every sphere,” said Meredith. “You once spoke49 eagerly about going to Oxford,{273} and taking honours. My dear friend, trust a dying man. There are no honours worth thinking of but the crown and the palm, which Christ bestows50 on them that love Him.”
“Yes,” said Colin; “but we are not all chosen for these. If I have to live, I must qualify myself the best I can for my work. I should like to be of a little use to Scotland, if that was possible. When I hear the poor people here singing their vespers——”
“Ah, Campbell! one word—let me speak,” said his friend. “Alice showed me the poem you gave her. You don’t mean it, I know; but let me beg you not to utter such sentiments. You seem to consent to the doctrine51 of purgatory52, one of the worst delusions53 of the Church of Rome. There are no spirits in prison, my dear, dear friend. When I leave you, I shall be with my Saviour54. Don’t give your countenance55 to such inventions of the devil.”
“That was not what I intended to say,” said Colin, who had no heart for argument. “I meant that to see the habit of devotion of all these people, whom we call so ignorant, and to remember how little we have of that among our own people, whom we think enlightened, goes to my heart. I should like to do a priest’s duty——”
“Again!” said Meredith. “Dear Campbell, you will be a minister; there is but one great High Priest.”
“Yes,” said Colin, “most true, and the greatest of all consolations56. But yet I believe in priests inferior—priests who need be nothing more than men. I am not so much for teaching as you are, you know; I have so little to teach any man. With you who are going to the Fount of all knowledge it will be different. I can conceive, I can imagine how magnificent may be your work,” the young man said, with a faltering57 voice, as he laid his warm young hand upon the fingers which were almost dead.
Meredith closed his hand upon that of his friend, and looked at him with his eyes so clear and awful, enlarged and lighted up with the prescience of what was to come. “If you do your work faithfully it will be the same work,” he said. “Our Master alone knows the particulars. If I might have perhaps to supplement and complete what you do on earth!—Ah, but I must not be tempted58 into vain speculations59! Enough that I shall know His will and see Him as He is. I desire no more.”
“Amen,” said Colin; “and, when you are in your new career, think of me sometimes, worried and vexed60 as I know I shall be. We shall not be able to communicate then, but I{274} know now beforehand what I shall have to go through. You don’t know Scotland, Meredith. A man who tries for any new reformation in the Church will have to fight for trifles of detail which are not worth fighting for, and perhaps get both himself and his work degraded in consequence. You can know no such cares. Think of me sometimes when you are doing your work ‘with thunders of acclaim61.’ I wonder—but you would think it a profanity if I said what I was going to say.”
“What was it?” said Meredith, who, indeed, would not have been sorry had his friend uttered a profanity which might give him occasion to speak, for perhaps the last time, “faithfully” to his soul.
“I wonder,” said Colin, whose voice was low, “whether our Master, who sees us both, though we cannot see each other, might tell you sometimes what your friend was doing. He, too, is a man. I mean no irreverence62, Meredith. There were men for whom, above His tenderness for all, He had a special love. I should like to think it. I can know nothing of you; but then I am less likely to forget you, staying behind in this familiar world.”
And the two youths again clasped hands, tears filling the eyes of the living one, but no moisture in the clear orbs63 of him who was about to die.
“Let us be content to leave it all in His hands,” said Meredith. “God bless you, Colin, for your love; but think nothing of me; think of Him who is our first and greatest Friend.”
And then again came silence and sleep, and the night throbbed64 silently round the lighted chamber and the human creatures full of thought; and again there took place the perennial65 transformation66, the gradual rising of the morning light, the noiseless entrance of the day, finding out, with surprised and awful looks, the face of the dying. This is how the last nights were spent. Down below in the convent there was a good friar, who watched the light in the window, and pondered much in his mind whether he should not go thither67 with his crucifix, and save the poor young heretic in spite of himself; but the Frate was well aware that the English resented such interruptions, and did better for Arthur; for he carried the thought of him through all his devotions, and muttered under his breath the absolution, with his eyes fixed68 upon the lighted window, and prayed, if he had any credit in heaven, through the compassionate69 saints, the Blessed Virgin70, and by the aid of Him whose image he held up towards the unseen sufferer, that the sins which God’s servant had thus{275} remitted71 on earth might be, even without the knowledge of the penitent72, remitted in heaven. Thus Colin’s belief in priests was justified73 without his knowing it; and perhaps God judged the intercession of Father Francisco more tenderly than poor Arthur would have done. And with these private proceedings74, which the world was unaware75 of, night after night passed on until the night came which was to have no day.
They had all assembled in the room, in which it seemed before morning so great an event was to happen—all worn and tired out with watching; the evidences of which appeared upon Colin and Alice, though Lauderdale, more used to exertion76, wore his usual aspect. As usual, Meredith lay very solemnly in a kind of pathetic youthful state in his bed; struggling for every breath, yet never forgetting that he lay there before heaven and earth, a monument as he said of God’s grace, and an example of how a Christian could die. He called Alice, and the others would have withdrawn77; but this he would not permit. “We have no secrets to discuss,” he said. “I am not able to say much now. Let my last words be for Christ. Alice, you are the last. We have all died of it. It is not very hard; but you cannot die in peace, as I do, unless you give yourself to Christ. These are my last words to my sister. You may not live long—you have not a moment to spare. Give yourself to Christ, my little Alice, and then your death-bed will be as peaceful as mine.”
“Yes,” said the docile78 sister, through her sobs79, “I will never, never forget what you have said to me. Oh, Arthur, you are going to them all!”
“I am going to God,” said the dying man; “I am going to my Lord and Saviour—that is all I desire to think of now.”
And there was a momentary breathless pause. She had his hand in both of hers, and was crying with an utter despair and abandonment to which she had never given herself up before. “Oh, Arthur—papa!” the poor girl said, under her breath. If they had been less interested, or if the stillness had been a degree less intense, the voice was so low that the two other watchers could not have heard her. But the answer was spoken aloud.
“Tell him I forgive him, Alice. I can say so now. Tell him to repent80 while there is time. If you wish it, you can tell Colin and Lauderdale—they have been brothers to us. Come here, all of you,” said Meredith. “Hear my last words. Nothing is of any importance but the love of Christ. I have tried everything in the world—its pleasures and its ambitions—and—But every{276}thing except Christ is vanity. Come to Him while it is called to-day. And now come and kiss me, Alice, for I am going to die.”
“Oh, no, Arthur. Oh, Arthur, do not leave me yet!” cried the poor girl. Lauderdale drew her gently away, and signed to Colin to take the place by the bed. He drew her hand through his arm and led her softly into the great empty salone, where there was no light except that of the moon, which came in in broad white bars at the side windows. “Whisht! it’ll no be yet,” said the kind guardian who had taken possession of Alice. No mother or lover could have been tenderer with the little forlorn creature in this hour which was the most terrible of all. He made her walk softly about with him, beguiling81 her awful suspense82 a little with that movement. “A little more strength, for his sake,” said Lauderdale; “another trial—and then nobody shall stop your tears. It’s for his sake; the last thing you can do for him.”
And then the poor little sister gave utterance83 to a bitter cry, “If he would say something kind for papa, I could bear it,” she said, smothering84 her painful sobs; and Lauderdale drew her closer on his arm, supporting and soothing85 her, and led her about, slowly and noiselessly, in the great empty room, lighted with those broad bars of moonlight, waiting till she had regained86 a little composure to return to the chamber of death.
Meredith lay silent for some time, with his great eyes gazing into the vacancy87 before him, and the last thrill of fever in his frame. He thought he was thus coming with all his faculties alert and vivid to a direct conscious encounter with the unknown might of death. “Get the book, Colin,” he said, with a voice which yet possessed a certain nervous strength; “it is now time to write the conclusion”—and he dictated with a steady voice the date of his last postscript:—“Frascati, midnight, May 16th.—The last hour of my life——”
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1
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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compassion
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possessed
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underneath
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scantily
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ken
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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parable
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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drawn
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geographical
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hesitation
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intensity
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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vaguely
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forth
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quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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futures
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| n.期货，期货交易 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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49
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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50
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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52
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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53
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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54
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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55
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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56
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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57
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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58
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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59
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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60
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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61
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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63
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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64
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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65
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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66
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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67
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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68
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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70
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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71
remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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72
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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73
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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74
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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76
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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79
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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81
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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82
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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83
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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84
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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85
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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86
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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