On Nothing and Kindred Subjects (20 page)

When the Older Man had said this he sat silent for a few moments and
then added gravely, "But I must warn you that for such a career you
need an accumulated capital of at least £30,000."

The Young Man was not comforted by advice of this sort, and was
determined to make a kind of war upon the doctrine which seemed to
underlie it. He said in effect that if he could not be restored to
the pristine condition which he felt to be slipping from him he
would as lief stop living.

On hearing this second statement the Older Man became extremely
grave.

"Young Man," said he, "Young Man, consider well what you are saying!
The poet Shakespeare in his most remarkable effort, which, I need
hardly tell you, is the tragedy of
Hamlet, or the Prince of
Denmark,
has remarked that the thousand doors of death stand
open. I may be misquoting the words, and if I am I do so boldly and
without fear, for any fool with a book at his elbow can get the
words right and yet not understand their meaning. Let me assure you
that the doors of death are not so simply hinged, and that any
determination to force them involves the destruction of much more
than these light though divine memories of which you speak; they
involve, indeed, the destruction of the very soul which conceives
them. And let me assure you, not upon my own experience, but upon
that of those who have drowned themselves imperfectly, who have
enlisted in really dangerous wars, or who have fired revolvers at
themselves in a twisted fashion with their right hands, that, quite
apart from that evil to the soul of which I speak, the evil to the
mere body in such experiments is so considerable that a man would
rather go to the dentist than experience them…. You will forgive
me," he added earnestly, "for speaking in this gay manner upon an
important philosophical subject, but long hours of work at the
earning of my living force me to some relaxation towards the end of
the day, and I cannot restrain a frivolous spirit even in the
discussion of such fundamental things…. No, do not, as you put it,
'stop living.' It hurts, and no one has the least conception of
whether it is a remedy. What is more, the life in front of you will
prove, after a few years, as entertaining as the life which you are
rapidly leaving."

The Young Man caught on to this last phrase, and said, "What do you
mean by 'entertaining'?"

"I intend," said the Older Man, "to keep my advice to you in the
note to which I think such advice should be set. I will not burden
it with anything awful, nor weight an imperfect diction with
absolute verities in which I do indeed believe, but which would be
altogether out of place at this hour of the evening. I will not deny
that from eleven till one, and especially if one be delivering an
historical, or, better still, a theological lecture, one can without
loss of dignity allude to the permanent truth, the permanent beauty,
and the permanent security without which human life wreathes up like
mist and is at the best futile, at the worst tortured. But you must
remember that you have come to me suddenly with a most important
question, after dinner, that I have but just completed an essay upon
the economic effect of the development of the Manchurian coalfields,
and that (what is more important) all this talk began in a certain
key, and that to change one's key is among the most difficult of
creative actions…. No, Young Man, I shall not venture upon the
true reply to your question."

On hearing this answer the Young Man began to curse and to swear and
to say that he had looked everywhere for help and had never found
it; that he was minded to live his own life and to see what would
come of it; that he thought the Older Man knew nothing of what he
was talking about, but was wrapping it all up in words; that he had
clearly recognised in the Older Man's intolerable prolixity several
clichés or ready-made phrases; that he hoped on reaching the Older
Man's age he would not have been so utterly winnowed of all
substance as to talk so aimlessly; and finally that he prayed God
for a personal development more full of justice, of life, and of
stuff than that which the Older Man appeared to have suffered or
enjoyed.

On hearing these words the Older Man leapt to his feet (which was
not an easy thing for him to do) and as one overjoyed grasped the
Younger Man by the hand, though the latter very much resented such
antics on the part of Age.

"That is it! That is it!" cried the Older Man, looking now far too
old for his years. "If I have summoned up in you that spirit I have
not done ill! Get you forward in that mood and when you come to my
time of life you will be as rotund and hopeful a fellow as I am
myself."

But having heard these words the Young Man left him in disgust.

The Older Man, considering all these things as he looked into the
fire when he was alone, earnestly desired that he could have told
the Young Man the exact truth, have printed it, and have produced a
proper Gospel. But considering the mountains of impossibility that
lay in the way of such public action, he sighed deeply and took to
the more indirect method. He turned to his work and continued to
perform his own duty before God and for the help of mankind. This,
on that evening, was for him a review upon the interpretation of the
word
haga
in the Domesday Inquest. This kept him up till a
quarter past one, and as he had to take a train to Newcastle at
eight next morning it is probable that much will be forgiven him
when things are cleared.

  
C'est ma Jeunesse qui s'en va.
    Adieu! la tres gente compagne—
  Oncques ne suis moins gai pour ça
  (C'est ma Jeunesse qui s'en va)
  Et lon-lon-laire, et lon-lon-là
    Peut-etre perd's; peut-etre gagne.
  C'est ma Jeunesse qui s'en va.

(From the Author's MSS. In the library of the Abbey of Theleme.)

Host: Well, Youth, I see you are about to leave me, and since it is
in the terms of your service by no means to exceed a certain period
in my house, I must make up my mind to bid you farewell.

Youth: Indeed, I would stay if I could; but the matter lies as you
know in other hands, and I may not stay.

Host: I trust, dear Youth, that you have found all comfortable while
you were my guest, that the air has suited you and the company?

Youth: I thank you, I have never enjoyed a visit more; you may say
that I have been most unusually happy.

Host: Then let me ring for the servant who shall bring down your
things.

Youth: I thank you civilly! I have brought them down already—see,
they are here. I have but two, one very large bag and this other
small one.

Host: Why, you have not locked the small one! See it gapes!

Youth (
somewhat embarrassed
): My dear Host … to tell the
truth … I usually put it off till the end of my visits … but the
truth … to tell the truth, my luggage is of two kinds.

Host: I do not see why that need so greatly confuse you.

Youth (
still more embarrassed
): But you see—the fact is—I
stay with people so long that—well, that very often they forget
which things are mine and which belong to the house … And—well,
the truth is that I have to take away with me a number of things
which … which, in a word, you may possibly have thought your own.

Host (
coldly
): Oh!

Youth (
eagerly
): Pray do not think the worse of me—you know
how strict are my orders.

Host (
sadly
): Yes, I know; you will plead that Master of
yours, and no doubt you are right…. But tell me, Youth, what are
those things?

Youth: They fill this big bag. But I am not so ungracious as you
think. See, in this little bag, which I have purposely left open,
are a number of things properly mine, yet of which I am allowed to
make gifts to those with whom I lingered—you shall choose among
them, or if you will, you shall have them all.

Host: Well, first tell me what you have packed in the big bag and
mean to take away.

Youth: I will open it and let you see. (
He unlocks it and pulls
the things out
.) I fear they are familiar to you.

Host: Oh! Youth! Youth! Must you take away all of these? Why, you
are taking away, as it were, my very self! Here is the love of
women, as deep and changeable as an opal; and here is carelessness
that looks like a shower of pearls. And here I see—Oh! Youth, for
shame!—you are taking away that silken stuff which used to wrap up
the whole and which you once told me had no name, but which lent to
everything it held plenitude and satisfaction. Without it surely
pleasures are not all themselves. Leave me that at least.

Youth: No, I must take it, for it is not yours, though from courtesy
I forbore to tell you so till now. These also go: Facility, the
ointment; Sleep, the drug; Full Laughter, that tolerated all
follies. It was the only musical thing in the house. And I must
take—yes, I fear I must take Verse.

HOST: Then there is nothing left!

YOUTH: Oh! yes! See this little open bag which you may choose from!
Feel it!

HOST (
lifting it
): Certainly it is very heavy, but it rattles
and is uncertain.

YOUTH: That is because it is made up of divers things having no
similarity; and you may take all or leave all, or choose as you
will. Here (
holding up a clout
) is Ambition: Will you have
that?…

HOST (
doubtfully
): I cannot tell…. It has been mine and yet
… without those other things….

YOUTH (
cheerfully
): Very well, I will leave it. You shall
decide on it a few years hence. Then, here is the perfume Pride.
Will you have that?

HOST: No; I will have none of it. It is false and corrupt, and only
yesterday I was for throwing it out of window to sweeten the air in
my room.

YOUTH: So far you have chosen well; now pray choose more.

HOST: I will have this—and this—and this. I will take Health
(
takes it out of the bag
), not that it is of much use to me
without those other things, but I have grown used to it. Then I will
take this (
takes out a plain steel purse and chain
), which is
the tradition of my family, and which I desire to leave to my son. I
must have it cleaned. Then I will take this (
pulls out a trinket
),
which is the Sense of Form and Colour. I am told it is of less value
later on, but it is a pleasant ornament … And so, Youth, goodbye.

Youth (
with a mysterious smile
): Wait—I have something else
for you (
he feels in his ticket pocket
); no less a thing
(
he feels again in his watch pocket
) than (
he looks a trifle anxious
and feels in his waistcoat pockets
) a promise from my Master, signed
and sealed, to give you back all I take and more in Immortality! (
He
feels in his handkerchief pocket.
)

Host: Oh! Youth!

Youth (
still feeling
): Do not thank me! It is my Master you
should thank. (
Frowns
.) Dear me! I hope I have not lost it!
(
Feels in his trousers pockets.
)

Host (
loudly
): Lost it?

Youth (
pettishly
): I did not say I had lost it! I said I
hoped I had not … (
feels in his great-coat pocket, and pulls
out an envelope
). Ah! Here it is! (
His face clouds over
.)
No, that is the message to Mrs. George, telling her the time has
come to get a wig … (
Hopelessly
): Do you know I am afraid I
have lost it! I am really very sorry—I cannot wait. (
He goes
off
.)

I knew a man once who made a great case of Death, saying that he
esteemed a country according to its regard for the conception of
Death, and according to the respect which it paid to that
conception. He also said that he considered individuals by much the
same standard, but that he did not judge them so strictly in the
matter, because (said he) great masses of men are more permanently
concerned with great issues; whereas private citizens are disturbed
by little particular things which interfere with their little
particular lives, and so distract them from the general end.

This was upon a river called Boutonne, in Vendée, and at the time I
did not understand what he meant because as yet I had had no
experience of these things. But this man to whom I spoke had had
three kinds of experience; first, he had himself been very probably
the occasion of Death in others, for he had been a soldier in a war
of conquest where the Europeans were few and the Barbarians many!
secondly, he had been himself very often wounded, and more than once
all but killed; thirdly, he was at the time he told me this thing an
old man who must in any case soon come to that experience or
catastrophe of which he spoke.

He was an innkeeper, the father of two daughters, and his inn was by
the side of the river, but the road ran between. His face was more
anxiously earnest than is commonly the face of a French peasant, as
though he had suffered more than do ordinarily that very prosperous,
very virile, and very self-governing race of men. He had also about
him what many men show who have come sharply against the great
realities, that is, a sort of diffidence in talking of ordinary
things. I could see that in the matters of his household he allowed
himself to be led by women. Meanwhile he continued to talk to me
over the table upon this business of Death, and as he talked he
showed that desire to persuade which is in itself the strongest
motive of interest in any human discourse.

He said to me that those who affected to despise the consideration
of Death knew nothing of it; that they had never seen it close and
might be compared to men who spoke of battles when they had only
read books about battles, or who spoke of sea-sickness though they
had never seen the sea. This last metaphor he used with some pride,
for he had crossed the Mediterranean from Provence to Africa some
five or six times, and had upon each occasion suffered horribly;
for, of course, his garrison had been upon the edge of the desert,
and he had been a soldier beyond the Atlas. He told me that those
who affected to neglect or to despise Death were worse than children
talking of grown-up things, and were more like prigs talking of
physical things of which they knew nothing.