father and son-第12章

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of　the　Bible。　For　her；　and　for　my　Father；　nothing　was　symbolic；　nothing　allegorical　or　allusive　in　any　part　of　Scripture；　except　what　was；　in　so　many　words；　proffered　as　a　parable　or　a　picture。　Pushing　this　to　its　extreme　limit；　and　allowing　nothing　for　the　changes　of　scene　or　time　or　race；　my　parents　read　injunctions　to　the　Corinthian　converts　without　any　suspicion　that　what　was　apposite　in　dealing　with　half…breed　Achaian　colonists　of　the　first　century　might　not　exactly　apply　to　respectable　English　men　and　women　of　the　nineteenth。　They　took　it；　text　by　text；　as　if　no　sort　of　difference　existed　between　the　surroundings　of　Trimalchion's　feast　and　those　of　a　City　dinner。　Both　my　parents；　I　think；　were　devoid　of　sympathetic　imagination；　in　my　Father；　I　am　sure；　it　was　singularly　absent。　Hence；　although　their　faith　was　so　strenuous　that　many　persons　might　have　called　it　fanatical；　there　was　no　mysticism　about　them。　They　went　rather　to　the　opposite　extreme；　to　the　cultivation　of　a　rigid　and　iconoclastic　literalness。

This　was　curiously　exemplified　in　the　very　lively　interest　which　they　both　took　in　what　is　called　'the　interpretation　of　prophecy'；　and　particularly　in　unwrapping　the　dark　sayings　bound　up　in　the　Book　of　Revelation。　In　their　impartial　survey　of　the　Bible；　they　came　to　this　collection　of　solemn　and　splendid　visions；　sinister　and　obscure；　and　they　had　no　intention　of　allowing　these　to　be　merely　stimulating　to　the　fancy；　or　vaguely　doctrinal　in　symbol。　When　they　read　of　seals　broken　and　of　vials　poured　forth；　of　the　star　which　was　called　Wormwood　that　fell　from　Heaven；　and　of　men　whose　hair　was　as　the　hair　of　women　and　their　teeth　as　the　teeth　of　lions；　they　did　not　admit　for　a　moment　that　these　vivid　mental　pictures　were　of　a　poetic　character；　but　they　regarded　them　as　positive　statements；　in　guarded　language；　describing　events　which　were　to　happen；　and　could　be　recognized　when　they　did　happen。　It　was　the　explanation；　the　perfectly　prosaic　and　positive　explanation；　of　all　these　wonders　which　drew　them　to　study　the　Habershons　and　the　Newtons　whose　books　they　so　much　enjoyed。　They　were　helped　by　these　guides　to　recognize　in　wild　Oriental　visions　direct　statements　regarding　Napoleon　III　and　Pope　Pius　IX　and　the　King　of　Piedmont；　historic　figures　which　they　conceived　as　foreshadowed；　in　language　which　admitted　of　plain　interpretation；　under　the　names　of　denizens　of　Babylon　and　companions　of　the　Wild　Beast。

My　Father　was　in　the　habit　of　saying；　in　later　years；　that　no　small　element　in　his　wedded　happiness　had　been　the　fact　that　my　Mother　and　he　were　of　one　mind　in　the　interpretation　of　Sacred　Prophecy。　Looking　back；　it　appears　to　me　that　this　unusual　mental　exercise　was　almost　their　only　relaxation；　and　that　in　their　economy　it　took　the　place　which　is　taken；　in　profaner　families；　by　cards　or　the　piano。　It　was　a　distraction；　it　took　them　completely　out　of　themselves。　During　those　melancholy　weeks　at　Pimlico；　I　read　aloud　another　work　of　the　same　nature　as　those　of　Habershon　and　Jukes；　the　Horae　Apocalyptícae　of　a　Mr　Elliott。　This　was　written；　I　think；　in　a　less　disagreeable　style；　and　certainly　it　was　less　opaquely　obscure　to　me。　My　recollection　distinctly　is　that　when　my　Mother　could　endure　nothing　else；　the　arguments　of　this　book　took　her　thoughts　away　from　her　pain　and　lifted　her　spirits。　Elliott　saw　'the　queenly　arrogance　of　Popery'　everywhere；　and　believed　that　the　very　last　days　of　Babylon　the　Great　were　came。　Lest　I　say　what　may　be　thought　extravagant；　let　me　quote　what　my　Father　wrote　in　his　diary　at　the　time　of　my　Mother's　death。　He　said　that　the　thought　that　Rome　was　doomed　（as　seemed　not　impossible　in　1857）　so　affected　my　Mother　that　it　'irradiated'　her　dying　hours　with　an　assurance　that　was　like　'the　light　of　the　Morning　Star；　the　harbinger　of　the　rising　sun'。

After　our　return　to　Islington；　there　was　a　complete　change　in　my　relation　to　my　Mother。　At　Pimlico；　I　had　been　all…important；　her　only　companion；　her　friend；　her　confidant。　But　now　that　she　was　at　home　again；　people　and　things　combined　to　separate　me　from　her。　Now；　and　for　the　first　time　in　my　life；　I　no　longer　slept　in　her　room；　no　longer　sank　to　sleep　under　her　kiss；　no　longer　saw　her　mild　eyes　smile　on　me　with　the　earliest　sunshine。　Twice　a　day；　after　breakfast　and　before　I　went　to　rest；　I　was　brought　to　her　bedside；　but　we　were　never　alone；　other　people；　sometimes　strange　people；　were　there。　We　had　no　cosy　talk；　often　she　was　too　weak　to　do　more　than　pat　my　hand；　her　loud　and　almost　constant　cough　terrified　and　harassed　me。　I　felt；　as　I　stood；　awkwardly　and　shyly；　by　her　high　bed；　that　I　had　shrunken　into　a　very　small　and　insignificant　figure；　that　she　was　floating　out　of　my　reach；　that　all　things；　but　I　knew　not　what　nor　how；　were　corning　to　an　end。　She　herself　was　not　herself；　her　head；　that　used　to　be　held　so　erect；　now　rolled　or　sank　upon　the　pillow；　the　sparkle　was　all　extinguished　from　those　bright；　dear　eyes。　I　could　not　understand　it；　I　meditated　long；　long　upon　it　all　in　my　infantile　darkness；　in　the　garret；　or　in　the　little　slip　of　a　cold　room　where　my　bed　was　now　placed；　and　a　great；　blind　anger　against　I　knew　not　what　awakened　in　my　soul。

The　two　retreats　which　I　have　mentioned　were　now　all　that　were　left　to　me。　In　the　back…parlour　someone　from　outside　gave　me　occasional　lessons　of　a　desultory　character。　The　breakfast…room　was　often　haunted　by　visitors；　unknown　to　me　by　face　or　name；　ladies；　who　used　to　pity　me　and　even　to　pet　me；　until　I　became　nimble　in　escaping　from　their　caresses。　Everything　seemed　to　be　unfixed；　uncertain；　it　was　like　being　on　the　platform　of　a　railway…station　waiting　for　a　train。　In　all　this　time；　the　agitated；　nervous　presence　of　my　Father；　whose　pale　face　was　permanently　drawn　with　anxiety；　added　to　my　perturbation；　and　I　became　miserable；　stupid　as　if　I　had　lost　my　way　in　a　cold　fog。

Had　I　been　older　and　more　intelligent；　of　course；　it　might　have　been　of　him　and　not　of　myself　that　I　should　have　been　thinking。　As　I　now　look　back　upon　that　tragic　time；　it　is　for　him　that　my　heart　bleeds；for　them　both；　so　singularly　fitted　as　they　were　to　support　and　cheer　one　another　in　an　existence　which　their　own　innate　and　cultivated　characteristics　had　made　little　hospitable　to　other　sources　of　comfort。　This　is　not　to　be　dwelt　on　here。　But　what　must　be　recorded　was　the　extraordinary　tranquillity；　the　serene　and　sensible　resignation；　with　which　at　length　my　parents　faced　the　awful　hour。　Language　cannot　utter　what　they　suffered；　but　there　was　no　rebellion；　no　repining；　in　their　case　even　an　atheist　might　admit　that　the　overpowering　miracle　of　grace　was　mightily　efficient。

It　seems　almost　cruel　to　the　memory　of　their　opinions　that　the　only　words　which　rise　to　my　mind；　the　only　ones　which　seem　in　the　least　degree　adequate　to　describe　the　attitude　of　my　parents；　had　fallen　from　the　pen　of　one　whom；　in　their　want　of　imaginative　sympathy；　they　had　regarded　as　anathema。　But　John　Henry　Newman　might　have　come　from　the　contemplation　of　my　Mother's　death…bed　when　he　wrote：　'All　the　trouble　which　the　world　inflicts　upon　us；　and　which　flesh　cannot　but　feel；sorrow；　pain；　care；　bereavement；these　avail　not　to　disturb　the　tranquillity　and　the　intensity　with　which　faith　gazes　at　the　Divine　Majesty。'　It　was　'tranquillity'；　it　was　not　the　rapture　of　the　mystic。　Almost　in　the　last　hour　of　her　life；　urged　to　confess　her　'joy'　in　the　Lord；　my　Mother；　rigidly　honest；　meticulous　in　self…analysis；　as　ever；　replied：　'I　have　peace；　but　not　joy。　It　would　not　do　to　go　into　eternity　with　a　lie　in　my　mouth。'

When　the　very　end　approached；　and　her　mind　was　growing　clouded；　she　gathered　her　strength　together　to　say　to　my　Father；　'I　shall　walk　with　Him　in　white。　Won't　you　take　your　lamb　and　walk　with　me？'　Confused　with　sorrow　and　alarm；　my　Father　failed　to　understand　her　meaning。　She　became　agitated；　and　she　repeated　two　or　three　times：　'Take　our　lamb；　and　walk　with　me！'　Then　my　Father　comprehended；　and　pressed　me　forward；　her　hand　fell　softly　upon　mine　and　she　seemed　content。　Thus　was　my　dedication；　that　had　begun　in　my　cradle；　sealed　with　the　most　solemn；　the　most　poignant　and　irresistible　insistence；　at　the　death…bed　of　the　holiest　and　purest　of　women。