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第7章

memories and portraits-第7章

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upon him from the shelves; but the grave…digger numbers his graves。  

He would indeed be something different from human if his solitary 

open…air and tragic labours left not a broad mark upon his mind。  

There; in his tranquil aisle; apart from city clamour; among the 

cats and robins and the ancient effigies and legends of the tomb; 

he waits the continual passage of his contemporaries; falling like 

minute drops into eternity。  As they fall; he counts them; and this 

enumeration; which was at first perhaps appalling to his soul; in 

the process of years and by the kindly influence of habit grows to 

be his pride and pleasure。  There are many common stories telling 

how he piques himself on crowded cemeteries。  But I will rather 

tell of the old grave…digger of Monkton; to whose unsuffering 

bedside the minister was summoned。  He dwelt in a cottage built 

into the wall of the church…yard; and through a bull's…eye pane 

above his bed he could see; as he lay dying; the rank grasses and 

the upright and recumbent stones。  Dr。 Laurie was; I think; a 

Moderate: 'tis certain; at least; that he took a very Roman view of 

deathbed dispositions; for he told the old man that he had lived 

beyond man's natural years; that his life had been easy and 

reputable; that his family had all grown up and been a credit to 

his care; and that it now behoved him unregretfully to gird his 

loins and follow the majority。  The grave…digger heard him out; 

then he raised himself upon one elbow; and with the other hand 

pointed through the window to the scene of his life…long labours。  

〃Doctor;〃 he said; 〃I ha'e laid three hunner and fower…score in 

that kirkyaird; an it had been His wull;〃 indicating Heaven; 〃I 

would ha'e likit weel to ha'e made out the fower hunner。〃  But it 

was not to be; this tragedian of the fifth act had now another part 

to play; and the time had come when others were to gird and carry 

him。





II





I would fain strike a note that should be more heroical; but the 

ground of all youth's suffering; solitude; hysteria; and haunting 

of the grave; is nothing else than naked; ignorant selfishness。  It 

is himself that he sees dead; those are his virtues that are 

forgotten; his is the vague epitaph。  Pity him but the more; if 

pity be your cue; for where a man is all pride; vanity; and 

personal aspiration; he goes through fire unshielded。  In every 

part and corner of our life; to lose oneself is to be gainer; to 

forget oneself is to be happy; and this poor; laughable and tragic 

fool has not yet learned the rudiments; himself; giant Prometheus; 

is still ironed on the peaks of Caucasus。  But by…and…by his truant 

interests will leave that tortured body; slip abroad and gather 

flowers。  Then shall death appear before him in an altered guise; 

no longer as a doom peculiar to himself; whether fate's crowning 

injustice or his own last vengeance upon those who fail to value 

him; but now as a power that wounds him far more tenderly; not 

without solemn compensations; taking and giving; bereaving and yet 

storing up。



The first step for all is to learn to the dregs our own ignoble 

fallibility。  When we have fallen through storey after storey of 

our vanity and aspiration; and sit rueful among the ruins; then it 

is that we begin to measure the stature of our friends: how they 

stand between us and our own contempt; believing in our best; how; 

linking us with others; and still spreading wide the influential 

circle; they weave us in and in with the fabric of contemporary 

life; and to what petty size they dwarf the virtues and the vices 

that appeared gigantic in our youth。  So that at the last; when 

such a pin falls out … when there vanishes in the least breath of 

time one of those rich magazines of life on which we drew for our 

supply … when he who had first dawned upon us as a face among the 

faces of the city; and; still growing; came to bulk on our regard 

with those clear features of the loved and living man; falls in a 

breath to memory and shadow; there falls along with him a whole 

wing of the palace of our life。





III





One such face I now remember; one such blank some half…a…dozen of 

us labour to dissemble。  In his youth he was most beautiful in 

person; most serene and genial by disposition; full of racy words 

and quaint thoughts。  Laughter attended on his coming。  He had the 

air of a great gentleman; jovial and royal with his equals; and to 

the poorest student gentle and attentive。  Power seemed to reside 

in him exhaustless; we saw him stoop to play with us; but held him 

marked for higher destinies; we loved his notice; and I have rarely 

had my pride more gratified than when he sat at my father's table; 

my acknowledged friend。  So he walked among us; both hands full of 

gifts; carrying with nonchalance the seeds of a most influential 

life。



The powers and the ground of friendship is a mystery; but; looking 

back; I can discern that; in part; we loved the thing he was; for 

some shadow of what he was to be。  For with all his beauty; power; 

breeding; urbanity and mirth; there was in those days something 

soulless in our friend。  He would astonish us by sallies; witty; 

innocent and inhumane; and by a misapplied Johnsonian pleasantry; 

demolish honest sentiment。  I can still see and hear him; as he 

went his way along the lamplit streets; LA CI DAREM LA MANO on his 

lips; a noble figure of a youth; but following vanity and 

incredulous of good; and sure enough; somewhere on the high seas of 

life; with his health; his hopes; his patrimony and his self…

respect; miserably went down。



From this disaster; like a spent swimmer; he came desperately 

ashore; bankrupt of money and consideration; creeping to the family 

he had deserted; with broken wing; never more to rise。  But in his 

face there was a light of knowledge that was new to it。  Of the 

wounds of his body he was never healed; died of them gradually; 

with clear…eyed resignation; of his wounded pride; we knew only 

from his silence。  He returned to that city where he had lorded it 

in his ambitious youth; lived there alone; seeing few; striving to 

retrieve the irretrievable; at times still grappling with that 

mortal frailty that had brought him down; still joying in his 

friend's successes; his laugh still ready but with kindlier music; 

and over all his thoughts the shadow of that unalterable law which 

he had disavowed and which had brought him low。  Lastly; when his 

bodily evils had quite disabled him; he lay a great while dying; 

still without complaint; still finding interests; to his last step 

gentle; urbane and with the will to smile。



The tale of this great failure is; to those who remained true to 

him; the tale of a success。  In his youth he took thought for no 

one but himself; when he came ashore again; his whole armada lost; 

he seemed to think of none but others。  Such was his tenderness for 

others; such his instinct of fine courtesy and pride; that of that 

impure passion of remorse he never breathed a syllable; even regret 

was rare with him; and pointed with a jest。  You would not have 

dreamed; if you had known him then; that this was that great 

failure; that beacon to young men; over whose fall a whole society 

had hissed and pointed fingers。  Often have we gone to him; red…hot 

with our own hopeful sorrows; railing on the rose…leaves in our 

princely bed of life; and he would patiently give ear and wisely 

counsel; and it was only upon some return of our own thoughts that 

we were reminded what manner of man this was to whom we 

disembosomed: a man; by his own fault; ruined; shut out of the 

garden of his gifts; his whole city of hope both ploughed and 

salted; silently awaiting the deliverer。  Then something took us by 

the throat; and to see him there; so gentle; patient; brave and 

pious; oppressed but not cast down; sorrow was so 

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