MY DEAR BOY:
All you need tell me of yourself is that you still are; for the rest I merely search back in a restive4 memory, a thermometer that records only fevers, and match you with what I was at your age. But men will chatter5 and you and I will still shout our futilities to each other across the stage until the last silly curtain falls plump! upon our bobbing heads. But you are starting the spluttering magic-lantern show of life with much the same array of slides as I had, so I need to write you if only to shriek6 the colossal7 stupidity of people....
This is the end of one thing: for better or worse you will never again be quite the Amory Blaine that I knew, never again will we meet as we have met, because your generation is growing hard, much harder than mine ever grew, nourished as they were on the stuff of the nineties.
Amory, lately I reread Aeschylus and there in the divine irony8 of the “Agamemnon” I find the only answer to this bitter age—all the world tumbled about our ears, and the closest parallel ages back in that hopeless resignation. There are times when I think of the men out there as Roman legionaries, miles from their corrupt9 city, stemming back the hordes10... hordes a little more menacing, after all, than the corrupt city... another blind blow at the race, furies that we passed with ovations11 years ago, over whose corpses12 we bleated13 triumphantly14 all through the Victorian era....
And afterward15 an out-and-out materialistic17 world—and the Catholic Church. I wonder where you'll fit in. Of one thing I'm sure—Celtic you'll live and Celtic you'll die; so if you don't use heaven as a continual referendum for your ideas you'll find earth a continual recall to your ambitions.
Amory, I've discovered suddenly that I'm an old man. Like all old men, I've had dreams sometimes and I'm going to tell you of them. I've enjoyed imagining that you were my son, that perhaps when I was young I went into a state of coma18 and begat you, and when I came to, had no recollection of it... it's the paternal19 instinct, Amory—celibacy goes deeper than the flesh....
Sometimes I think that the explanation of our deep resemblance is some common ancestor, and I find that the only blood that the Darcys and the O'Haras have in common is that of the O'Donahues... Stephen was his name, I think....
When the lightning strikes one of us it strikes both: you had hardly arrived at the port of embarkation when I got my papers to start for Rome, and I am waiting every moment to be told where to take ship. Even before you get this letter I shall be on the ocean; then will come your turn. You went to war as a gentleman should, just as you went to school and college, because it was the thing to do. It's better to leave the blustering20 and tremulo-heroism to the middle classes; they do it so much better.
Do you remember that week-end last March when you brought Burne Holiday from Princeton to see me? What a magnificent boy he is! It gave me a frightful21 shock afterward when you wrote that he thought me splendid; how could he be so deceived? Splendid is the one thing that neither you nor I are. We are many other things—we're extraordinary, we're clever, we could be said, I suppose, to be brilliant. We can attract people, we can make atmosphere, we can almost lose our Celtic souls in Celtic subtleties22, we can almost always have our own way; but splendid—rather not!
I am going to Rome with a wonderful dossier and letters of introduction that cover every capital in Europe, and there will be “no small stir” when I get there. How I wish you were with me! This sounds like a rather cynical23 paragraph, not at all the sort of thing that a middle-aged24 clergyman should write to a youth about to depart for the war; the only excuse is that the middle-aged clergyman is talking to himself. There are deep things in us and you know what they are as well as I do. We have great faith, though yours at present is uncrystallized; we have a terrible honesty that all our sophistry25 cannot destroy and, above all, a childlike simplicity26 that keeps us from ever being really malicious27.
I have written a keen for you which follows. I am sorry your cheeks are not up to the description I have written of them, but you will smoke and read all night—
At any rate here it is:
“Ochone
He is gone from me the son of my mind
And he in his golden youth like Angus Oge
Angus of the bright birds
And his mind strong and subtle like the mind of Cuchulin on
Muirtheme.
Awirra sthrue
His brow is as white as the milk of the cows of Maeve
And his cheeks like the cherries of the tree
And it bending down to Mary and she feeding the Son of God.
Aveelia Vrone
His hair is like the golden collar of the Kings at Tara
And his eyes like the four gray seas of Erin.
And they swept with the mists of rain.
Mavrone go Gudyo
His life to go from him
It is the chords of my own soul would be loosed.
A Vich Deelish
My heart is in the heart of my son
And my life is in his life surely
A man can be twice young
In the life of his sons only.
Jia du Vaha Alanav
May the Son of God be above him and beneath him, before him and
behind him
May the King of the elements cast a mist over the eyes of the
King of Foreign,
May the Queen of the Graces lead him by the hand the way he can
go through the midst of his enemies and they not seeing him
May Patrick of the Gael and Collumb of the Churches and the five
thousand Saints of Erin be better than a shield to him
And he got into the fight.
Och Ochone.”
Amory—Amory—I feel, somehow, that this is all; one or both of us is not going to last out this war.... I've been trying to tell you how much this reincarnation of myself in you has meant in the last few years... curiously31 alike we are... curiously unlike. Good-by, dear boy, and God be with you. THAYER DARCY.
Amory moved forward on the deck until he found a stool under an electric light. He searched in his pocket for note-book and pencil and then began to write, slowly, laboriously33:
“We leave to-night...
A column of dim gray,
Along the moonless way;
The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet
That turned from night and day.
And so we linger on the windless decks,
See on the spectre shore
See how the sea is white!
The clouds have broken and the heavens burn
To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light
The churning of the waves about the stern
Rises to one voluminous nocturne,
... We leave to-night.”
A letter from Amory, headed “Brest, March 11th, 1919,” to Lieutenant T. P. D'Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga.
DEAR BAUDELAIRE:—
We meet in Manhattan on the 30th of this very mo.; we then proceed to take a very sporty apartment, you and I and Alec, who is at me elbow as I write. I don't know what I'm going to do but I have a vague dream of going into politics. Why is it that the pick of the young Englishmen from Oxford39 and Cambridge go into politics and in the U. S. A. we leave it to the muckers?—raised in the ward16, educated in the assembly and sent to Congress, fat-paunched bundles of corruption40, devoid41 of “both ideas and ideals” as the debaters used to say. Even forty years ago we had good men in politics, but we, we are brought up to pile up a million and “show what we are made of.” Sometimes I wish I'd been an Englishman; American life is so damned dumb and stupid and healthy.
Since poor Beatrice died I'll probably have a little money, but very darn little. I can forgive mother almost everything except the fact that in a sudden burst of religiosity toward the end, she left half of what remained to be spent in stained-glass windows and seminary endowments. Mr. Barton, my lawyer, writes me that my thousands are mostly in street railways and that the said Street R.R. s are losing money because of the five-cent fares. Imagine a salary list that gives $350 a month to a man that can't read and write!—yet I believe in it, even though I've seen what was once a sizable fortune melt away between speculation42, extravagance, the democratic administration, and the income tax—modern, that's me all over, Mabel.
At any rate we'll have really knock-out rooms—you can get a job on some fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc43 Company or whatever it is that his people own—he's looking over my shoulder and he says it's a brass44 company, but I don't think it matters much, do you? There's probably as much corruption in zinc-made money as brass-made money. As for the well-known Amory, he would write immortal45 literature if he were sure enough about anything to risk telling any one else about it. There is no more dangerous gift to posterity46 than a few cleverly turned platitudes47.
Tom, why don't you become a Catholic? Of course to be a good one you'd have to give up those violent intrigues48 you used to tell me about, but you'd write better poetry if you were linked up to tall golden candlesticks and long, even chants, and even if the American priests are rather burgeois, as Beatrice used to say, still you need only go to the sporty churches, and I'll introduce you to Monsignor Darcy who really is a wonder.
Kerry's death was a blow, so was Jesse's to a certain extent. And I have a great curiosity to know what queer corner of the world has swallowed Burne. Do you suppose he's in prison under some false name? I confess that the war instead of making me orthodox, which is the correct reaction, has made me a passionate49 agnostic. The Catholic Church has had its wings clipped so often lately that its part was timidly negligible, and they haven't any good writers any more. I'm sick of Chesterton.
I've only discovered one soldier who passed through the much-advertised spiritual crisis, like this fellow, Donald Hankey, and the one I knew was already studying for the ministry50, so he was ripe for it. I honestly think that's all pretty much rot, though it seemed to give sentimental51 comfort to those at home; and may make fathers and mothers appreciate their children. This crisis-inspired religion is rather valueless and fleeting52 at best. I think four men have discovered Paris to one that discovered God.
But us—you and me and Alec—oh, we'll get a Jap butler and dress for dinner and have wine on the table and lead a contemplative, emotionless life until we decide to use machine-guns with the property owners—or throw bombs with the Bolshevik God! Tom, I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.
The place at Lake Geneva is now for rent but when I land I'm going West to see Mr. Barton and get some details. Write me care of the Blackstone, Chicago.
S'ever, dear Boswell,
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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ovations
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| n.热烈欢迎( ovation的名词复数 ) | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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13
bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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14
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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15
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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17
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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21
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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22
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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middle-aged
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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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26
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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32
embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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35
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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36
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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37
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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43
zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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47
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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48
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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49
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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50
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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51
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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52
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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