the days of my life-第36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！


ed　to　solemn　vows　I　should　recover　what　I　have　given）。　I　hope　you　will　accept　my　good　will。　Have　you　seen　Walsh　and　Fuller　and　de　Roebeck？　Remember　me　to　them；　and　also　particularly　to　Mr。　Norris。　Good…bye。　I　hope　you　will　not　forget　Auld　lang　syne　（nor　the　photograph）。　I　should　like　to　have　been　at　your　wedding　and　seen　your　bride。
Very　affectionately　yours；
Brother　Basil。
In　due　course　I　married；　but　before　alluding　to　that　matter　I　will　continue　and　finish　the　story　of　Brother　Basil。　At　the　end　of　our　honeymoon　my　wife　and　I　made　a　pilgrimage　to　Mount　St。　Bernard’s　Abbey。　This　I　did　both　because　I　wished　to　see　him　and　because　in　my　vanity　I　thought　that　if　we　could　e　face　to　face　I　might　be　able　by　my　personal　influence　to　induce　him　to　return　to　the　world。　I　confess　that　I　felt　afraid；　needlessly　afraid　as　it　proved；　of　facing　these　stern　and　silent　monks　on　an　errand　which　they　would　know　well　was　inimical　to　them。　Still　I　determined　on　the　attempt。
There　were　some　difficulties　about　the　journey　—　I　forget　their　exact　nature　—　but　at　length　we　arrived　without　being　expected。　I　stated　my　object　and；　somewhat　to　my　surprise；　was　admitted　with　my　wife。　I　was　almost　sure　that　a　young　woman　would　not　be　allowed　to　pass　those　portals。　On　the　contrary　we　were　most　courteously　received　by　an　extremely　charming　sub…prior；　a　thorough　man　of　the　world　and　a　gentleman　who　was　able　to　talk　to　us　of　many　lands　and　events。　He　said　that　Brother　Basil　should　be　sent　for；　and　after　a　while　I　heard　heavy　wooden　shoes　—　I　think　they　were　wooden　—　clumping　down　a　passage；　the　door　opened　and　there　appeared　the　Sheil　from　whom　I　had　parted　some　six　years　before。　He　was　clad　in　a　coarse　robe；　his　head　was　tonsured；　or　such　is　my　recollection；　his　face　was　pale；　and　it　seemed　to　me　as　though　the　work　in　that　scorching　weather　in　the　hot　harvest　field　from　which　he　had　been　summoned　had　exhausted　him。　At　first　he　could　hardly　speak；　which　was　not　wonderful　seeing　the　unexpected　nature　of　the　occasion　and　the　rule　of　silence　in　which　he　lived。　His　delight　at　our　visit　seemed　very　great。　After　some　talk；　greatly　daring；　I　asked　if　I　might　see　him　alone。　To　my　astonishment　the　request　was　granted　at　once。　We　went　out；　I　think　into　a　graveyard　—　or　it　may　have　been　the　garden；　though　certainly　I　saw　a　graveyard　with　its　nameless　little　wooden　crosses　—　leaving　my　wife　with　the　sub…prior。
Then　came　the　struggle。　I　argued　high　and　low；　I　implored；　and　was　utterly　worsted。　I　could　not　move　him　one　inch；　my　arguments　he　answered；　my　beseeching　he　put　aside　with　the　most　sweet　and　tender　gratitude。
“Many　have　scolded　and　lectured　me；”　he　said；　“you　are　the　first　who　ever　came　here　to　try　to　snatch　me　from　what　you　believe　to　be　an　intolerable　fate。”
That　was　the　substance　of　his　words；　mingled　with　thanks　and　blessings。
We　returned；　and　my　wife　and　I　were　shown　something　of　their　farm　and　of　the　school　where　the　monks　taught　children；　also　all　their　terrible　mode　of　life　was　exposed　to　us：　the　dormitories；　the　bare　board　on　which　they　took　their　scanty　vegetable　fare；　the　stern　rules　of　their　Order　—　nothing　was　kept　back。　I　remember　that　I　was　filled　with　admiration；　although　I　remained　in　moral　rebellion　against　this　terrific　system　which　turned　men　into　dumb　creatures　and　fed　their　bodies　with　the　bread　and　water　of　affliction　for　the　benefit　of　their　souls。　I　was　shown　a　prize　bull　they　had　which　was　in　the　charge　of　a　monk　who　had　been　a　Yorkshire　yeoman。　A　sign　was　made　to　him：　he　was　allowed　to　speak　to　me；　about　the　bull　but　nothing　else。　How　the　words　poured　from　those　silent　lips；　jumbled；　incoherent　at　first；　then　growing　clearer　as　the　habit　of　speech　returned　to　him。　The　broad　Yorkshire　accent　and　the　familiar　terms　of　farm　life　sounded　bizarre　in　those　surroundings　as　he　sang　the　praises　of　his　bull。
Another　sign　and　he　was　silent。　We　returned　and　were　served　with　a　bountiful　meal　and　most　hospitably　attended。　Then　came　the　farewell。　I　shook　Sheil’s　hand　and　looked　into　his　patient　eyes。　The　door　clanged　to　behind　us。　It　was　our　last　meeting　in　the　world。
A　letter　written　by　him　a　few　days　later　shows　something　of　the　state　of　mind　excited　in　him　by　our　visit。　It　is　dated　September　8；　1880；　over　thirty…one　years　ago。
I　had　intended　asking　you　about　the　photographs　you　promised；　but　duly　forgot　them；　I　hope　you　will　not　do　so。　There　were　other　things　too　which　I　had　intended　saying；　but　I　suppose　the　flurry　of　first　meeting　obfuscated　my　memory。　It　takes　time　to　get　into　one’s　old　swing；　and　I　generally　feel　awkward　at　first　meeting　with　people　I　have　known　well　after　a　long　absence；　there　are　so　many　things　to　say；　so　many　memories；　that　one　does　not　know　where　to　begin；　and　flies　from　one　thing　to　another　in　a　most　unsatisfactory　way。　What　made　it　worse　in　our　case　was　that　we　were　both　in　new　circumstances；　and　that　you　had　not　bee　reconciled　to　mine。　I　feel　ashamed　at　all　the　trouble　and　expense　you　have　been　at　to　e　and　see　me；　I　wish　I　could　show　my　gratitude　better　than　by　words；　but　it　is　hard　to　see　in　what　I　could　be　of　use　to　you；　if　however　there　is　ever　anything　I　could　do；　and　you　let　me　know；　I　will。　Perhaps　when　you　e　back　again；　if　you　have　not　had　enough　of　it；　if　you　will　e　and　see　me　we　will　arrange　things　much　better。
I　wish　you　and　your　wife　all　happiness；　I　think　I　said　it　was　a　poor　affection　which　only　wished　for　its　object　happiness　for　fifty　years　or　so　of　this　life；　and　what　I　wish　is　that　we　may　all　go　home　together　and　be　together　always。　Remember　me　to　Walsh　and　to　poor　Norris。
I　remain；　affectionately　yours；
Brother　Basil。
Where　would　a　letter　find　you　in　Africa？
Something　less　than　two　years　have　gone　by　and　I　find　another　letter　in　answer　to　one　of　mine　written　on　my　second　return　from　South　Africa　owing　to　events　which　I　hope　to　describe　in　due　course。　It　is　dated　Mount　St。　Bernard’s　Abbey；　June　4；　1882。
I　was　glad　to　get　a　letter　from　you　of　the　old　length　if　in　a　new　vein。　I　am　sorry　you　have　been　obliged　to　leave　Africa；　though　I　confess　I　think　your　new　profession　＇that　of　the　Bar。　—　H。　R。　H。＇　more　in　your　line　than　developing　ostrich　plumes。　I　suppose　at　the　Cape　there　is　only　a　step　between　law　and　politics。　I　wish　you　all　success　and　prosperity。　Many　thanks　for　your　interest　in　me；　I　still　continue　content　in　my　position；　and　I　look　forward　to　making　my　final　vows　about　this　time　next　year。　I　am　satisfied　that　this　is　a　high　vocation　and　that　I　personally　am　called　to　it。　I　should　like　to　know　how　you　account　for　the　fact　that　I；　being　what　I　am；　not　given　to　virtue　nor　enthusiasm；　should　have　conceived　the　idea　of　ing　to　such　a　place；　that　I　should　have　executed　it；　not　without　sacrifice；　that　I　should　have　persevered　in　it；　and　that　now　after　four　years’　trial　I　should　have　no　greater　hope　than　to　pass　the　rest　of　my　life　here。　It　is　a　marvel　even　to　myself；　there　is　but　one　explanation　—　the　inprehensible　mercy　of　God。　You　may　prefer　the　vocation　of　St。　Paul　to　that　of　St。　John　Baptist；　but　it　is　safer　to　remend　both。　Anyhow　it　is　more　modest　not　to　condemn　a　way　of　life　which　has　been　followed　by　so　many；　so　great；　so　holy　men　now　these　fourteen　centuries。　There　is　no　country　that　owes　more　to　St。　Benedict　and　his　rule　than　England。　No　one　that　I　am　aware　of　says　that　it　is　necessary　for　everyone　to　bee　a　monk　in　order　to　be　saved；　but　some　are　called；　and　if　they　are　faithful　they　will　have　an　easier　and　better　salvation。　Everyone　who　believes　the　truth　faith　and　keeps　the　mandments　is　safe。　All　this　is　the　penny　Catechism　（I　wish　you　would　buy　one）；　for　as　yet　my　theological　science　extends　little　further。
One　reason　why　people　have　a　difficulty　in　understanding　such　a　life　as　ours　is　that　they　forget　original　sin。　They　say；　God　created　the　good　things　of　life　in　order　to　be　used；　etc。　But　we　are　fallen　and　corrupt；　and　things　no　longer　have　the　effect　upon　us　that　God　intended　in　creating　them；　they　were　to　have　raised　by　their　use　our　minds　and　hearts　to　God；　and　of　course　it　would　have　been　absurd　for　the　unfallen　Adam　to　practise　asceticism。　But　now　unfortunately　our　natures　drag　us　down；　and　usually　the　more　a　man　enjoys　good　things　in　life　the　less　he　thinks　of