the days of my life-第32部分

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　firmly　believe；　never　did；　never　even　contemplated；　a　mean　or　doubtful　act。　To　those　who　knew　him　and　have　lost　sight　of　him　there　remain　also　a　bright　and　chivalrous　example　and　the　memory　of　a　most　perfect　gentleman。
Unfortunately　for　myself；　a　connection　in　the　City　had　introduced　me　to　certain　Mexican　enterprises　in　which　he　was　concerned　that　in　due　course　absorbed　no　small　sum　out　of　my　hard　earnings。　Also　he　introduced　me　to　Jebb；　which　good　deed　I　set　against　the　matter　of　the　unlucky　investments。
Jebb　urged　me　to　e　to　Mexico　and　write　a　novel　about　Montezuma；　both　of　which　things　I　did　in　due　course；　also　as　a　bait　he　told　me　a　wonderful　and；　as　I　believe；　perfectly　true　tale　of　hidden　treasure　which　we　were　to　proceed　to　dig　up　together。　Of　this　treasure　I　will　write　hereafter。
Jebb　and　Mrs。　Jebb　returned　to　Mexico　during　the　year　1890；　where　my　wife　and　I　made　arrangements　to　visit　them　at　the　mencement　of　1891。
And　now　I　e　to　a　very　sad　and　terrible　event　that　pierced　me　with　a　sudden　thrust　which　has　left　my　heart　bleeding　to　this　day。　Yes；　still　it　bleeds；　nor　will　the　issue　of　its　blood　be　stayed　till；　as　he　passes　by；　I　touch　the　healing　robes　of　Death。　I　refer　to　the　death　of　my　only　son。
This　child　—　he　was　just　under　ten　when　he　died　—　possessed　a　nature　of　singular　sweetness；　so　sweet　that　its　very　existence　should　have　and　indeed　did　warn　me　of　what　fate　held　in　store　for　us。　So　far　as　my　experience　goes；　children　who　bring　with　them　to　the　earth　this　twilight　glow　of　the　bright　day　in　which　perchance　they　dwelt　elsewhere；　who　wear　upon　their　brows　this　visible　halo　of　an　unnatural　charm　and　goodness；　rarely　remain　to　bless　it　long。　That　which　sent　them　forth　soon　calls　them　back　again。　And　yet；　could　we　but　understand；　their　short　lives　may　not　lack　fruit。　Through　their　influence　on　others　they　may　still　work　on　the　world　they　left。
My　son　Rider　—　he　was　by　his　own　wish　called　Jock；　to　avoid　confusion　between　us　—　was　such　a　child　as　this。　I　can　never　remember　his　doing　what　he　should　not；　save　once　when　he　teased　his　little　sisters　by　refusing　to　allow　them　to　e　out　of　a　place　where　he　had　prisoned　them；　and　for　his　pains　had　the　only　scolding　I　ever　gave　him。　Yet　he　was　no　milksop　or　“mother’s　darling。”　He　bore　pain　well；　would　ride　any　horse　on　which　he　could　climb；　and　even　while　he　was　still　in　frocks　I　have　known　him　attack　with　his　little　fists　someone　who　made　pretence　to　strike　me。　He　was　an　imaginative　child。　One　example　will　suffice。　We　left　London　on　our　holiday：　it　was　the　year　in　which　I　ain。”　When　we　drove　from　the　station　to　the　farm　the　full　moon　shone　in　the　summer　sky。　“Look；　dad；”　he　said；　pointing　to　it；　“there　is　God’s　lamp！”
The　boy　was　beloved　by　everyone　who　knew　him；　and　in　turn　loved　all　about　him；　but　especially　his　mother　and　myself。　How　much　I；　to　whom　all　my　children　are　so　dear；　loved；　or　rather　love；　him　I　cannot　tell。　He　was　my　darling；　for　him　I　would　gladly　have　laid　down　my　life。
It　is　strange；　but　when　I　went　to　Mexico　I　knew；　almost　without　doubt；　that　in　this　world　he　and　I　would　never　see　each　other　more。　Only　I　thought　it　was　I　who　was　doomed　to　die。　Otherwise　it　is　plain　that　I　should　never　have　started　on　that　journey。　With　this　surety　in　my　heart　—　it　was　with　me　for　weeks　before　we　sailed　—　the　parting　was　bitter　indeed。　The　boy　was　to　stay　with　friends；　the　Gosses。　I　bade　him　good…bye　and　tore　myself　away。　I　returned　after　some　hours。　A　chance；　I　forget　what；　had　prevented　the　servant；　a　tall　dark　woman　whose　name　is　lost　to　me；　from　starting　with　him　to　Delamere　Crescent　till　later　than　was　expected。　He　was　still　in　my　study　—　about　to　go。　Once　more　I　went　through　that　agony　of　a　separation　which　I　knew　to　be　the　last。　With　a　cheerful　face　I　kissed　him　—　I　remember　how　he　flung　his　arms　about　my　neck　—　in　a　cheerful　voice　I　blessed　him　and　bade　him　farewell；　promising　to　write。　Then　he　went　through　the　door　and　it　was　finished。　I　think　I　wept。
I　said　nothing　of　this　secret　foreknowledge　of　mine；　nor　did　I　attempt　to　turn　from　the　road　that　I　had　chosen　because　I　was　aware　of　what　awaited　me　thereon。　Only　I　made　every　possible　preparation　for　my　death　—　even　to　sealing　up　all　important　papers　in　a　despatch…box　and　depositing　them　in　Messrs。　Gosling’s　Bank；　where　I　knew　they　would　be　at　once　available。
But　alas！　my　spirit　saw　imperfectly。　Or　perhaps　knowing　only　that　Death　stood　between　us；　I　jumped　to　the　conclusion　that　it　was　on　me　of　an　older　generation　that　his　hand　would　fall；　on　me　who　was　about　to　undertake　a　journey　which　I　guessed　to　be　dangerous；　including　as　it　did　a　visit　to　the　ruins　of　Palenque；　whither　at　the　time　few　travellers　ventured。　It　never　occurred　to　me　that　he　was　waiting　for　my　son。
About　six　weeks　later　—　for　I　may　as　well　tell　the　story　out　and　be　done　with　it　—　that　hand　fell。　My　presentiments　had　returned　to　me　with　terrible　strength　and　persistence。　One　Sunday　morning　in　the　Jebbs’　house　in　Mexico　City；　as　we　were　preparing　to　go　to　church；　they　were　fulfilled。　Mrs。　Jebb　called　us　to　their　bedroom。　She　had　a　paper　in　her　hand。　“Something　is　wrong　with　one　of　your　children；”　she　said　brokenly。　“Which？”　I　asked；　aware　that　this　meant　death；　no　less；　and　waited。　“Jock；”　was　the　reply；　and　the　dreadful　telegram；　our　first　intimation　of　his　illness；　was　read。　It　said　that　he　had　“passed　away　peacefully”　some　few　hours　before。　There　were　no　details　or　explanations。
Then　in　truth　I　descended　into　hell。　Of　the　suffering　of　the　poor　mother　I　will　not　speak。　They　belong　to　her　alone。
I　can　see　the　room　now。　Jebb　weeping　by　the　unmade　bed；　the　used　basins　—　all；　all。　And　in　the　midst　of　it　myself　—　with　a　broken　heart！　Were　I　a　living　man　when　these　words　are　read　—　why；　it　would　be　wrong　that　I　should　rend　the　veil；　I　who　never　speak　of　this　matter；　who　never　even　let　that　dear　name　pass　my　lips。　But　they　will　not　be　read　till　I；　too；　am　gone　and　have　learned　whatever　there　is　to　know。　Perhaps　also　the　tale　has　its　lessons。　At　any　rate　it　is　a　page　in　my　history　that　cannot　be　omitted；　though　it　be　torn　from　the　living　heart　and；　some　may　think；　too　sad　to　dwell　on。
This　morning；　not　an　hour　since；　I　stood　by　my　son’s　grave　and　read　what　I　had　carved　upon　his　cross：　“I　shall　go　to　him。”　Now　that　I　am　growing　old　these　words　are　full　of　fort　and　meaning　to　me。　Soon；　after　all　these　long　years　of　separation；　I　shall　go　to　him　and　put　my　faith　to　proof。　If　it　be　true；　as　I　believe；　then　surely　my　spirit　will　find　his　spirit；　though　it　must　search　from　world　to　world。　If；　with　all　earth’s　suffering　millions；　I　am　deluded；　then　let　the　same　everlasting　darkness　be　our　bed　and　canopy。
On　my　return　from　Mexico　I　wrote　a　romance　called　“Montezuma’s　Daughter。”　In　this　tale　the　teller　loses　his　children；　and　I　put　into　his　mouth　what　myself　I　felt。　Here　are　the　words：　I　cannot　better　them　after　all　these　years；　and　they　are　as　true　to　me　now　as　they　were　then。
Ah！　we　think　much　of　the　sorrows　of　our　youth；　and　should　a　sweetheart　give　us　the　go…by；　we　fill　the　world　with　moans　and　swear　that　it　holds　no　fort　for　us。　But　when　we　bend　our　heads　before　the　shrouded　shape　of　some　lost　child；　then　it　is　that　for　the　first　time　we　learn　how　terrible　grief　can　be。　Time；　they　tell　us；　will　bring　consolation；　but　it　is　false；　for　such　sorrow　time　has　no　salves。　I　say　it　who　am　old　—　as　they　are　so　shall　they　be。　There　is　no　hope　but　faith；　there　is　no　fort　save　in　the　truth　that　love　which　might　have　withered　on　the　earth　grows　fastest　in　the　tomb；　to　flower　gloriously　in　heaven；　that　no　love　indeed　can　be　perfect　till　God　sanctifies　and　pletes　it　with　His　seal　of　death。
I　wrote　just　now　that；　for　reasons　I　hope　to　set　out　later　in　this　book；　I　believed　my　faith；　which　amongst　other　things　promises　reunion　of　the　death…divided；　to　be　a　true　faith。　Indeed；　if　it　be　otherwise；　what　a　hell　is　this　in　which　we　live。　Thrusting　from　the　memory　all　other　trials　and　sorrows；　not　for　any　finite　earthly　life　that　could　be　promised　me　would　I　endure　again　from　year　to　year　the　agony　I　have　suffered　on　the　one　count　of　this　bereavement；　which　is　after　all；　so　mon　and　everyday　a　thing。　If　ever；　in　some　dread　hour；　faith　in　all　its　forms　should　be　proved　a　dream　and　mockery；　surely　in　the　same　hour　will　sound　the　death…knell　of　all　that　is　best　in　the　educated　world。　Brutes　which　guess　of　nothing　better　can　live　happy　till　the　butcher　finds　them：　men　who　believe　can　endure　till　God　consoles　or　calls　them。　But　will　the　much…developed　man　whose　heart…strings；　like　those　of　the　Aeolian　harp；　must　thrill　and　sob　in　every　wind　of　pain　—　will　he　continue　to　endure　if　once　he　is　assured　that　beneath　the　precipice　from　which　he　will　presently　be　hurled　there　is　—　Nothing？　Knowing　all　they　must　be　called　upon　to　suffer　at　the　best；　will　he　breed　children；　perhaps　to　see　them　thrown　from　the　stark　cliff　before　his　eyes　and　there　to　cease　to　be　for　ever？　（The　case　of　France；　where　I　believe　faith　grows　very　weak；　seems　to　give　answer　to　this　question。　Yesterday　I　read　that　in　that　country　during　1911　the　deaths　exceeded　the　births　by　over　thirty　thousand。　My　conviction　is　that；　unless　faith　returns　to　her　in　some　form；　as　a　nation　France　is　doomed。　She　will　fall　as　Rome　fell；　and　from　the　same　cause。）
In　short；　I　hold　that　God　and　a　belief　in　a　future　life　where　there　is　no　more　pain　and　tears　are　wiped　from　off　all　faces　are　necessities　to　civilised　and　thoughtful　man；　and　that　without　them；　slowly　perhaps；　but　surely；　he　will　cease　to　be。　He　will　mit　suicide　when　Fortune　frowns；　as　did　the　Roman　who　had　outgrown　his　gods；　he　will　refuse　to　propagate　his　kind；　as　do　the　French。　Why　should　he　breed　them　to　be　the　bread　of　Death？
Such　are　the　conclusions　at　which　I　have　arrived　after　many　years　of　reflection　which　began　at　the　time　of　my　great　grief。　They　may　be　right　or　they　may　be　wrong；　that　the　future　history　of　the　white　races　will　reveal。　At　least　I　believe　in　them。　Nor　do　I　believe　alone。　But　yesterday　I　was　speaking　on　these　matters　to　a　bishop　of　the　English　Church；　a　very　able　and　enlightened　man。　I　found　that　my　views　were　his　views；　and　my　conclusions　his　conclusions。　Also　he　thought；　as　I　do；　that　many　of　our　present　troubles；　industrial　and　other；　arise　from　the　loss　of　faith　among　men。　The　feast　of　Life；　such　as　it　is；　is　spread　before　their　eyes。　They　would　help　themselves　to　the　meagre　and　bitter　fare　they　see；　and　who　can　wonder？　“Let　us　eat　and　drink；　for　tomorrow　we　die。”
To　return　to　the　sorrow　which　gave　rise　to　these　reflections。　I　staggered　from　the　room；　I　wrote　a　cable　directing　that　the　burial　should　take　place　by　the　chancel　door　of　Ditchingham　Church；　where　now　he　lies。　Afterwards　I　took　up　a　Bible　and　opened　it　at　hazard。　The　words　that　my　eyes　fell　on　were　“Suffer　little　children　to　e　unto　me；　and　forbid　them　not。”　The　strange　chance　seemed　to　cheer　me　a　little。　That　afternoon　I　went　for　a　walk　in　the　great　avenue。　Never　shall　I　forget　that　walk　among　the　gay　and　fashionable　Mexicans。　I　did　not　know　till　then　what　a　man　can　endure　and　live。
Now　I　have　e　to　understand　that　this　woe　has　two　sides。　If　he　had　lived　who　knows　what　might　have　chanced　to　him？　And　the　holy　love　which　was　between　us；　might　it　not　have　faded　after　the　fashion　of　this　world？　As　things　are　it　remains　an　unchangeable；　perfect；　and　eternal　thing。　Further；　notwithstanding　all；　I　am　glad　that　he　lived　with　us　for　those　few　years。　His　sufferings　were　short；　his　little　life　was　happy　while　it　endured；　he　　the　world；　and；　lastly；　I　believe　that　the　soul　which　has　been；　is　and　will　be。22
21　My　son　died　suddenly　of　a　perforating　ulcer　after　an　attack　of　measles。　Perhaps　surgery　could　have　saved　him　today。　—　H。　R。　H。
As　for　myself；　I　was　crushed；　my　nerves　broke　down　entirely；　and　the　rest　of　the　Mexican　visit；　with　its　rough　journeyings；　is　to　me　a　kind　of　nightmare。　Not　for　many　years　did　I　shake　off　the　effects　of　the　shock；　indeed　I　have　never　done　so　altogether。　It　has　left　me　with　a　heritage　of　apprehensions；　not　for　myself　personally　—　I　am　content　to　take　what　es　—　but　for　others。　My　health　gave　out。　I　left　London；　which　I　could　no　longer　bear；　and　hid　myself　away　here　in　the　country。　The　other　day　I　found　a　letter　of　this　period；　sent　to　me　as　an　enclosure　on　some　matter；　in　which　the　writer　speaks　of　me　as　being　“quite　unapproachable　since　the　death　of　his　only　son。”　So；　indeed；　I　think　I　was。　Moreover；　at　this　time　the　influenza　attacked　me　again　and　again；　and　left　me　very　weak。
We　did　not　e　home　at　once　—　what　was　the　good　of　returning　to　the　desolated　home？　Our　boy　had　died　in　a　strange　house　and　been　brought　to　Ditchingham　for　burial。　What　was　the　good　of　returning　home？　So　there；　far　away；　in　due　course　letters　reached　us　with　these　dreadful　details　and　heart…piercing　messages　of　farewell。
And　now　I　have　done　with　this　terrible　episode　and　will　get　me　to　my　tale　again。　The　wound　has　been　seared　by　time　—　few；　perhaps　none；　would　guess　that　it　existed；　but　it　will　never　heal。　I　think　I　may　say　that　from　then　till　now　no　day　has　passed；　and　often　no　hour；　when　the　thought　of　my　lost　boy　has　not　been　present　with　me。　I　can　only　bow　the　head　and　murmur；　“God’s　will　be　done！”
I　remember　reading　in　one　of　R。　L。　Stevenson’s　published　letters；　written　after　he　had　helped　to　nurse　a　sick　child；　that　nothing　would　induce　him　to　bee　a　father；　for　fear；　I　gathered；　lest　one　day　he　might　be　called　upon　to　nurse　his　own　sick　child。　I　can　well　understand　the　effect　of　the　experience　on　a　highly　sensitive　nature；　and；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　he　died　childless。　Yet；　as　I　read；　I　wondered　what　he　would　have　felt　had　such　a　lightning　shaft　as　fell　upon　my　head　from　heaven　smitten　and　shattered　him。
Perhaps；　being　frail；　he　would　have　died。　But　I　was　tougher；　and　lived　on。　More：　I　went　among　murderers　and　escaped；　I　wandered　into　the　fever　lands；　and　never　took　it；　the　brute　I　rode　fell　in　a　flooded　river；　and　I　did　not　drown；　I　was　in　peril　on　the　sea；　and　came　safe　to　shore。　It　was　decreed　that　I　should　live　on。
On　our　arrival　in　New　York　on　our　way　to　Mexico；　on　January　10；　1891；　I　was　seized　upon　by　numbers　of　reporters。　Now　the　single　reporter　may　be　dealt　with；　preferably　by　making　him　talk　about　himself；　which　is　a　subject　far　more　interesting　to　him　than　you　are；　or　he　may　be　persuaded　to　tell　you　about　the　last　person　or　subject　upon　which　he　has　had　to　report。　Thus；　on　a　subsequent　occasion；　a　reporter　came　on　board　the　ship　to　see　me　before　she　reached　her　berth。　Early　as　it　was　in　the　morning；　he　had　already　been　about　his　paper’s　business；　attending　the　electrocution　of　two　men　in　a　prison！　The　sight　had　impressed　even　his　hardy　nerves　sufficiently　to　make　him　talk　a　great　deal　about　it；　describing　all　its　details。　Therefore　I　was　called　upon　to　furnish　him　with　but　little　information　about　myself；　though　probably　this　was　not　a　fact　that　weighed　on　him　when　it　came　to　the　writing　of　the　interview。
Another　man；　who　caught　me　in　a　railway　train；　grew　so　interested　in　talking　of　his　own　affairs　that　he　never　noticed　that　the　train　had　started　till　it　iles　an　hour。　Then　with　a　yell　he　rushed　down　the　carriage　and　leapt　out　into　the　night。　I　have　always　wondered　whether　he　was　killed　or　only　broke　his　leg。
There　is　nothing　that　an　American　reporter　will　not　do　to　attain　his　ends。　For　instance；　I　have　known　them　to　break　into　my　room　at　midnight　when　I　was　in　bed。
Once；　when　I　was　in　America　as　a　missioner；　the　reporter　of　a　great　paper　did　his　best　to　make　me　express　opinions　on　some　important　matter　connected　with　the　internal　policy　of　the　United　States。　Naturally　I　declined；　but　this　did　not　prevent　my　alleged　vie　appearing　everywhere。　Then　followed　leading　articles　in　some　of　the　best　papers　gravely　lecturing　me　and　pointing　out　how　improper　it　was　that　one　who　had　been　received　with　so　much　courtesy；　and　who　occupied　a　diplomatic　position；　should　publicly　intervene　in　the　domestic　affairs　of　the　country　to　which　he　had　been　sent　by　his　Government。　A　famous　ic　journal；　also；　published　a　cartoon　of　me　in　a　pulpit　engaged　in　lecturing　the　American　people。
Needless　to　say；　I　was　extremely　annoyed；　but　of　redress　I　could　obtain　none。　Contradiction　where　the　country　is　so　vast　and　newspapers　are　so　many　is　hopeless。　However；　when　I　was　leaving　New　York　another　representative　of　the　same　great　paper　came　to　interview　me　on　the　steamer；　and　to　him　I　expressed　my　feelings。　He　listened；　then　replied；　with　a　somewhat　sickly　smile；　“Very　annoying；　Mr。　Haggard；　but　I　guess　it　would　be　scarcely　loyal　of　me　to　give　our　man　away；　would　it？”
Nothing　could　exceed　the　kindness　with　which　we　were　received　in　the　United　States　—　even　the　reporters　were　kind　till　it　came　to　cold　print。　Really　I　think　that　Americans　are　the　most　hospitable　people　in　the　world。　I　will　go　further　and　say　that　nobody　is　so　nice　or　sympathetic　or　broad…minded　or　desirous　of　all　good　as　a　really　first…class　American；　man　or　woman。　I　remember　that　on　the　occasion　of　this　visit　we　were　quite　glad　to　escape　from　New　York；　where　literally　we　were　being　killed　with　kindness。　To　feast　with　some　hospitable　host　at　every　meal；　from　breakfast　till　a　midnight　supper；　after　a　week　or　so　bees　more　than　the　human　frame　can　bear。
From　New　York　we　went　to　the　beautiful　city　of　New　Orleans；　where　also　we　were　widely　entertained。　One　dinner…party　I　shall　never　forget。　Upon　each　napkin　lay　a　little　poem　anent　something　I　had　written。　For　instance；　here　is　one　which　evidently　refers　to　“The　World’s　Desire”：
Upon　thy　breast　the　“bleeding　Star”　of　love；
？Etherealised；　and　freed　from　serpent　taint；
Is　all　afire；　O　burnished　dove！
？For　whom　men　fail　and　faint！
Moreover　in　the　middle　of　dinner　someone　—　I　think　it　was　our　hostess　—　rose　and　read　a　poem　at　me。　Though　very　kindly　meant；　it　was　really　most　embarrassing；　especially　as　I　had　no　poem　ready　with　which　to　reply。
In　New　Orleans；　amongst　other　places　of　much　interest；　I　was　shown　a　park　in　which　duels　used　to　be　fought　in　the　early　days；　and　a　graveyard　where；　because　of　the　water　in　the　soil；　the　dead　are　buried　in　niches　in　the　surrounding　walls。
Leaving　that　most　hospitable　city；　we　travelled　on　to　El　Paso；　then　quite　a　small　town　on　the　Mexican　border。　I　remember　that　on　the　train　I　fell　into　conversation　with　a　gentleman　who；　much　to　my　astonishment；　informed　me　that　in　the　future　we　should　telegraph　through　the　air　without　the　use　of　any　connecting　wires；　and　furnished　me　with　the　details　of　how　this　would　be　done。　At　the　time　I　confess　it　occurred　to　me　that　he　was　amusing　himself　by　gammoning　a　stranger　who　was　known　to　write　romances。　Now；　however；　I　see　that　at　the　mencement　of　the　year　1891　there　was　at　any　rate　one　person　who　was　very　well　acquainted　with　the　system　of　wireless　telegraphy　which　is　now　identified　with　the　name　of　Mr。　Marconi；　then　a　lad　of　sixteen　years　of　age。
There　were　at　this　time　two　railway　lines　running　from　the　States　to　Mexico　City；　and　I　recollect　that　we　hesitated　long　by　which　of　them　we　should　travel。　Our　choice　was　fortunate；　since　the　train　which　left　on　the　same　day　by　the　other　line　met　with　many　adventures。　Amongst　other　things　it　was　twice　thrown　off　the　rails　by　intelligent　Mexicans　actuated　either　by　spite　or　the　hope　of　plunder；　and　some　of　its　occupants　were　killed。　Mexico；　even　in　th