I knew nothing about all that: I had no modern
books - those we had were mostly about a hundred years old. My fight up
to this period was all on the old lines, and on this account I have
related it as briefly as possible; but it had to be told, since it
comes into the story of the development of my mind at that period. I
have no doubt that my sufferings through these religious experiences
were far greater than in the majority of cases, and this for the
special reason which I have already intimated.
CHAPTER XXIV
LOSS AND GAIN
The soul's loneliness - My mother and her death-A mother's love for her
son - Her character-Anecdotes-A mystery and a revelation - The autumnal
migration of birds - Moonlight vigils - My absent brother's return - He
introduces me to Darwin's works - A new philosophy of life - Conclusion.
The mournful truth that a man - every man-must die alone, had been
thrust sharply into my mind and kept there by the frequent violent
attacks of my malady I suffered at that time, every one of which
threatened to be the last. And this sense and apprehension of
loneliness at the moment of the severance of all earthly ties and
parting with light and life, was perhaps the cause of the idea or
notion which possessed me, that in all our most intimate thoughts and
reflections concerning our destiny and our deepest emotions, we are
and must be alone. Anyhow, in so far as these matters are concerned, I
never had nor desired a confidant. In this connection I recall the
last words spoken to me by my younger brother, the being I loved best
on earth at that time and the one I had been more intimate with than
with any other person I have ever known. This was after the dark days
and years had been overpass, when I had had long periods of fairly
good health and had known happiness in the solitary places I loved to
haunt, communing with wild nature, with wild birds for company.
He was with me in the ship in which I had taken my passage "home," as
I insisted on calling England, to his amusement, and when we had
grasped hands for the last time and had said our last good-bye, he
added this one more last word: "Of all the people I have ever known
you are the only one I don't know."
It was a word, I imagine, never spoken by a mother of a loved son, her
insight, born of her exceeding love, being so much greater than that
of the closest friend and brother. I never breathed a word of my
doubts and mental agonizing to my mother; I spoke to her only of my
bodily sufferings; yet she knew it all, and I knew that she knew. And
because she knew and understood the temper of my mind as well, she
never questioned, never probed, but invariably when alone with me she
would with infinite tenderness in her manner touch on spiritual things
and tell me of her own state, the consolations of her faith which gave
her peace and strength in all our reverses and anxieties.
I knew, too, that her concern at my state was the greater because it
was not her first experience of a trouble of this kind. My elder long-
absent brother had scarcely ceased to be a boy before throwing off all
belief in the Christian creed and congratulating himself on having got
rid of old wives' fables, as he scornfully expressed it. But never a
word did he say to her of this change, and without a word she knew it,
and when she spoke to us on the subject nearest to her heart and he
listened in respectful silence, she knew the thought and feeling - that
was in him-that he loved her above everybody but was free of her
creed.
He had been able to cast it off with a light heart because of his
perfect health, since in that condition death is not in the mind - the
mind refuses to admit the thought of it, so remote is it in that state
that we regard ourselves as practically immortal. And, untroubled by
that thought, the mind is clear and vigorous and unfettered. What, I
have asked myself, even when striving after faith, would faith in
another world have mattered to me if I had not been suddenly sentenced
to an early death, when the whole desire of my soul was life, nothing
but life - to live for ever!
Then my mother died. Her perfect health failed her suddenly, and her
decline was not long. But she suffered much, and on the last occasion
of my being with her at her bedside she told me that she was very
tired and had no fear of death, and would be glad to go but for the
thought of leaving me in such a precarious state of health and with a
mind distressed. Even then she put no questions to me, but only
expressed the hope that her prayers for me would be answered and that
at the last we should be together again.
I cannot say, as I might say in the case of any other relation or
friend, that I had lost her. A mother's love for the child of her body
differs essentially from all other affections, and burns with so clear
and steady a flame that it appears like the one unchangeable thing in
this earthly mutable life, so that when she is no longer present it is
still a light to our steps and a consolation.
