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Life of John Sterling-Part37_Thomas Carlyle(1795-1881)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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There are servants yonder; it is all easy; come; both of you are bound

to come." And accordingly we went. I remember it as one of the



saddest dinners; though Sterling talked copiously, and our friends,

Theodore Parker one of them, were pleasant and distinguished men. All



was so haggard in one's memory, and half consciously in one's

anticipations; sad, as if one had been dining in a will, in the crypt



of a mausoleum. Our conversation was waste and logical, I forget

quite on what, not joyful and harmoniously effusive: Sterling's



silent sadness was painfullyapparent through the bright mask he had

bound himself to wear. Withal one could notice now, as on his last



visit, a certain sternness of mood, unknown in better days; as if

strange gorgon-faces of earnest Destiny were more and more rising



round him, and the time for sport were past. He looked always

hurried, abrupt, even beyond wont; and indeed was, I suppose,



overwhelmed in details of business.

One evening, I remember, he came down hither, designing to have a



freer talk with us. We were all sad enough; and strove rather to

avoid speaking of what might make us sadder. Before any true talk had



been got into, an interruption occurred, some unwelcome arrival;

Sterling abruptly rose; gave me the signal to rise; and we unpolitely



walked away, adjourning to his Hotel, which I recollect was in the

Strand, near Hungerford Market; some ancient comfortable



quaint-looking place, off the street; where, in a good warm queer old

room, the remainder of our colloquy was duly finished. We spoke of



Cromwell, among other things which I have now forgotten; on which

subject Sterling was trenchant, positive, and in some essential points



wrong,--as I said I would convince him some day. "Well, well!"

answered he, with a shake of the head.--We parted before long; bedtime



for invalids being come: he escorted me down certain carpeted

backstairs, and would not be forbidden: we took leave under the dim



skies;--and alas, little as I then dreamt of it, this, so far as I can

calculate, must have been the last time I ever saw him in the world.



Softly as a common evening, the last of the evenings had passed away,

and no other would come for me forevermore.



Through the summer he was occupied with fitting up his new residence,

selecting governesses, servants; earnestly endeavoring to set his



house in order, on the new footing it had now assumed. Extensive

improvements in his garden and grounds, in which he took due interest



to the last, were also going on. His Brother, and Mr. Maurice his

brother-in-law,--especially Mrs. Maurice the kind sister, faithfully



endeavoring to be as a mother to her poor little nieces,--were

occasionally with him. All hours available for labor on his literary



tasks, he employed, almost exclusively I believe, on _Coeur-de-Lion_;

with what energy, the progress he had made in that Work, and in the



art of Poetic composition generally, amid so many sore impediments,

best testifies. I perceive, his life in general lay heavier on him



than it had done before; his mood of mind is grown more

sombre;--indeed the very solitude of this Ventnor as a place, not to



speak of other solitudes, must have been new and depressing. But he

admits no hypochondria, now or ever; occasionally, though rarely, even



flashes of a kind of wild gayety break through. He works steadily at

his task, with all the strength left him; endures the past as he may,



and makes gallant front against the world. "I am going on quietly

here, rather than happily," writes he to his friend Newman; "sometimes



quite helpless, not from distinctillness, but from sad thoughts and a

ghastly dreaminess. The heart is gone out of my life. My children,



however, are doing well; and the place is cheerful and mild."

From Letters of this period I might select some melancholy enough; but



will prefer to give the following one (nearly the last I can give), as

indicative of a less usual temper:--



"_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq., Chelsea, London_.

"VENTNOR, 7th December, 1843.



"MY DEAR CARLYLE,--My Irish Newspaper was _not_ meant as a hint that I

wanted a Letter. It contained an absurd long Advertisement,--some






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