WHAT I have told you so far concerns a growth chiefly of my inner life that was almost a new birth. My outer life, of event and action, was sufficiently1 described in those monthly letters you had from me during the ten years, broken by three periods of long-leave at home, I spent in that sinister2 and afflicted3 land. This record, however, deals principally with the essential facts of my life, the inner; the outer events and actions are of importance only in so far as they interpret these, since that which a man feels and thinks alone is real, and thought and feeling, of course, precede all action.
I have told you of the Thrill, of its genesis and development; and I chose an obvious and rather banal4 instance, first of all to make myself quite clear, and, secondly5, because the majority were of so delicate a nature as to render their description extremely difficult. The point is that the emotion was, for me, a new one. I may honestly describe it as a birth.
I must now tell you that it first stirred in me some five years after I left England, and that during those years I had felt nothing but what most other men feel out here. Whether its sudden birth was due to the violent country, or to some process of gradual preparation that had been going forward in me secretly all that time, I cannot tell. No proof, at any rate, offered itself of either. It came suddenly. I do know, however, that from its first occurrence it has strengthened and developed until it has now become a dominating influence of a distinctly personal kind.
My character has been affected6, perhaps improved. You have mentioned on several occasions that you noted7 in my letters a new tenderness, a new kindness towards my fellow-creatures, less of criticism and more of sympathy, a new love; the “birth of my poetic8 sense” you also spoke9 of once; and I myself have long been aware of a thousand fresh impulses towards charity and tolerance10 that had, hitherto, at any rate, lain inactive in my being.
I need not flatter myself complacently11, yet a change there is, and it may be an improvement. Whether big or small, however, I am sure of one thing: I ascribe it entirely12 to this sharper and more extended sensitiveness to Beauty, this new and exquisite13 receptiveness that has established itself as a motive-power in my life. I have changed the poet’s line, using prose of course: There is beauty everywhere and therefore joy.
And I will explain briefly14, too, how it is that this copybook maxim15 is now for me a practical reality. For at first, with my growing perception, I was distressed16 at what seemed to me the lavish17 waste, the reckless, spendthrift beauty, not in nature merely but in human nature, that passed unrecognized and unacknowledged. The loss seemed so extravagant18. Not only that a million flowers waste their sweetness on the desert air, but that such prodigal19 stores of human love and tenderness remain unemployed20, their rich harvest all ungathered — because, misdirected and misunderstood, they find no receptacle into which they may discharge.
It has now come to me, though only by & slow and almost imperceptible advance, that these stores of apparently21 unremunerative beauty, this harvest so thickly sown about the world, unused, ungathered — prepare yourself, please, for an imaginative leap — ore used, are gathered, are employed. By Whom?
I can only answer: By some one who is pleased; and probably by many such. How, why, and wherefore — I catch your crowd of questions in advance — we need not seek exactly to discover, although the answer of no uncertain kind, I hear within the stillness of a heart that has learned to beat to a deeper, sweeter rhythm than before.
Those who loved beauty and lived it in their lives, follow that same ideal with increasing power and passion afterwards — and for ever.
The shutter22 of black iron we call Death hides the truth with terror and resentment23; but what if that shutter were, after all, transparent24?
A glorious dream, I hear you cry. Now listen to my answer. It is, for me, a definite assurance and belief, because — I know.
Long before you have reached this point you will, I know, have reached also the conclusion (with a sigh) that I am embarked25 upon some commonplace experience of ghostly return, or, at least, of posthumous26 communication. Perhaps I wrong you here, but in any case I would at once correct the inference, if it has been drawn27. You remember our adventures with the seance-mongers years ago?... I have not changed my view so far as their evidential value is concerned. Be sure of that.
The dead, I am of opinion, do not return; for, while individuals may claim startling experiences that seem to them of an authentic28 and convincing kind, there has been no instance that can persuade us all — in the sense that thunderstorm convinces us all. Such individual experiences I have always likened to the auto-suggestion of those few who believe the advertisements of the hair-restorers — you will forgive the unpoetic simile29 for the sake of its exactitude — as against the verdict of the world that a genuine discovery of such a remedy would leave no single doubter in Europe or America, nor even in the London Clubs! Yet each time I read the cunning article (I have less hair than when I ran away from Sandhurst that exciting July night and met you in the Strand30!), and look upon the picture of the man, John Henry Smith, “before and after using,” I admit the birth of an unreasonable31 belief that there may be something in it after all.
Of such indubitable proof, however, there is, alas32, as yet no sign.
And so with the other matter — the dead do not “return.” My story, therefore, be comforted, has no individual instance to record. It may, on the other hand, be held to involve a thread of what might be called — at a stretch — posthumous communication, yet a thread so tenuous33 that the question of personal direction behind it need hardly be considered at all. For let me confess at once that, the habit of the “thrill” once established, I was not long in asking myself point blank this definite question: Dared I trace its origin to my own unfruitful experience of some years before? — and, discovering no shred34 of evidence, I found this positive answer: Honestly I could not.
That “somebody was pleased” each time Beauty offered a wisdom I accepted, became an unanswerable conviction I could not argue about; but that the guidance — waking a responsive emotion in myself of love — was referable to any particular name I could not, by any stretch of desire or imagination, bring myself to believe.
Marion, I must emphasise35, had been gone from me five years at least before the new emotion gave the smallest hint of its new birth; and my feeling, once the first keen shame and remorse36 subsided37 — I confess to the dishonouring38 truth — was one of looking back upon a painful problem that had found an unexpected solution. It was chiefly relief, although a sad relief, I felt.... And with the absorbing work of the next following years (I took up my appointment within six months of her death) her memory, already swiftly fading, entered an oblivion whence rarely, and at long intervals39 only, it emerged at all. In the ordinary meaning of the phrase, I had forgotten her. You will see, therefore, that there was no desire in me to revive an unhappy memory, least of all to establish any fancied communication with one before whose generous love I had felt myself dishonoured40, if not actually disgraced. Even the remorse and regret had long since failed to disturb my peace of mind, causing me no anxiety, much less pain. Sic transit41 was the epitaph, if any. Acute sensation I had none at all. This, then, plainly argues against the slightest predisposition on my part to imagine that the loving guidance so strangely given owned a personal origin I could recognize. That it involved a “personal emotion” is quite another matter.
The more remarkable42, therefore, is the statement truth now compels me to confess to you — namely, that this origin is recognizable, and that I have traced in part the name it owns to. My next sentence you divine already; you at once suspect the name I mean. I hear you say to yourself with a smile —“So, after all...!”
Please, wait a moment, and listen closely now; for, in reply to your suspicion, I can give neither full affirmation or full denial. Yet an answer of a certain kind is ready: I have stated my firm conviction that the dead do not return; I do not modify it one iota43; but I mentioned a moment ago another conviction that is mine because I know. So now let me supplement these two statements with a third: the dead, though they do not return, are active; and those who lived beauty in their lives are — benevolently44 active.
This may prepare you for a further assurance, yet one less easy to express intelligibly45. Be patient while I make the difficult attempt.
The origin of the wisdom that now seeks to shape and guide my life through Beauty is, indeed, not Marion, but a power that stands behind her, and through which, with which, the energy of her being acts. It stood behind her while she lived. It stands behind not only her, but equally behind all those peerless, exquisite manifestations46 of self-less love that give bountifully of their best without hope or expectation of reward in kind. No human love of this description, though it find no object to receive it, nor one single flower that “wastes” its sweetness on the desert air, but acknowledges this inexhaustible and spendthrift source. Its evidence lies strewn so thick, so prodigally47, about our world, that not one among us, whatever his surroundings and conditions, but sooner or later must encounter at least one marvellous instance of its uplifting presence. Some at once acknowledge the exquisite flash and are aware; others remain blind and deaf, till some experience, probably of pain, shall have prepared and sensitized their receptive quality. To all, however, one day, comes the magical appeal. As in my own case, there was apparently some kind of preparation before I grew conscious of that hunger for beauty which, awakening48 intuition, opened the heart to truth and so to wisdom. It then came softly, delicately, whispering like the dawn, yet rich with a promise I could, at first, not easily fathom49, though as sure of fulfilment as that promise of day that steals upon the world when night is passing.
I have tried to tell you something of this mystery. I cannot add to that. I was lifted, as it were, towards some region or some state of being, wherein I was momentarily aware of a vaster outlook upon life, of a deeper insight into the troubles of my fellow-creatures, where, indeed, there burst upon me a comprehension of life’s pains and difficulties so complete that I may best describe it as that full understanding which involves also full forgiveness, and that sympathy which is love, God’s love.
This exaltation passed, of course, with the passing of the thrill that made it possible; it was truly instantaneous; a point of ecstasy50, perhaps, in some category not of time at all, but of some state of consciousness that lifted me above, outside of, self. But it was real, as a thunderstorm is real. For, with this glimpse of beauty that I call the “thrill,” I touched, for an instant so brief that it seemed timeless in the sense of having no duration, a pinnacle51 of joy, of vision, beyond anything attainable52 by desire or by. intellect alone. I stood aware of power, wisdom, love; and more, this power, wisdom, love were mine to draw upon and use, not in some future heaven, but here and now.
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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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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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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dishonouring
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| 使（人、家族等）丧失名誉（dishonour的现在分词形式） | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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45
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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48
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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49
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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51
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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52
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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