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The Altar of the Dead-Part6_HENRY JAMES(1843-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Over and over he called his roll, and it appeared to him compact



and complete. Where should he put in another, where, if there were

no other objection, would it stand in its place in the rank? He



reflected, with a want of sincerity of which he was quite

conscious, that it would be difficult to determine that place.



More and more, besides, face to face with his little legion, over

endless histories, handling the empty shells and playing with the



silence - more and more he could see that he had never introduced

an alien. He had had his great companions, his indulgences - there



were cases in which they had been immense; but what had his

devotion after all been if it hadn't been at bottom a respect? He



was, however, himself surprised at his stiffness; by the end of the

winter the responsibility of it was what was uppermost in his



thoughts. The refrain had grown old to them, that plea for just

one more. There came a day when, for simple exhaustion, if



symmetry should demand just one he was ready so far to meet

symmetry. Symmetry was harmony, and the idea of harmony began to



haunt him; he said to himself that harmony was of course

everything. He took, in fancy, his composition to pieces,



redistributing it into other lines, making other juxtapositions and

contrasts. He shifted this and that candle, he made the spaces



different, he effaced the disfigurement of a possible gap. There

were subtle and complex relations, a scheme of cross-reference, and



moments in which he seemed to catch a glimpse of the void so

sensible to the woman who wandered in exile or sat where he had



seen her with the portrait of Acton Hague. Finally, in this way,

he arrived at a conception of the total, the ideal, which left a



clear opportunity for just another figure. "Just one more - to

round it off; just one more, just one," continued to hum in his



head. There was a strange confusion in the thought, for he felt

the day to be near when he too should be one of the Others. What



in this event would the Others matter to him, since they only

mattered to the living? Even as one of the Dead what would his



altar matter to him, since his particular dream of keeping it up

had melted away? What had harmony to do with the case if his



lights were all to be quenched? What he had hoped for was an

instituted thing. He might perpetuate it on some other pretext,



but his special meaning would have dropped. This meaning was to

have lasted with the life of the one other person who understood



it.

In March he had an illness during which he spent a fortnight in



bed, and when he revived a little he was told of two things that

had happened. One was that a lady whose name was not known to the



servants (she left none) had been three times to ask about him; the

other was that in his sleep and on an occasion when his mind



evidently wandered he was heard to murmur again and again: "Just

one more - just one." As soon as he found himself able to go out,



and before the doctor in attendance had pronounced him so, he drove

to see the lady who had come to ask about him. She was not at



home; but this gave him the opportunity, before his strength should

fall again, to take his way to the church. He entered it alone; he



had declined, in a happy manner he possessed of being able to

decline effectively, the company of his servant or of a nurse. He



knew now perfectly what these good people thought; they had

discovered his clandestine connexion, the magnet that had drawn him



for so many years, and doubtless attached a significance of their




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