卿卿如晤-第四章

卿卿如晤 A Grief Observed

C. S. Lewis

1961

曾珍珍譯

第四章

(擁有曾珍珍的譯著，是很值得的 ─ Bill Lin)

這是我在家裡找到的第四本，也是最後一本，空白筆記簿。幾乎完全空白，只是後頭有幾頁年代久遠的算術練習題，J作的。我決定寫完這本，就把近日來的塗鴉作個結束。為了這件事去買新的筆記簿，我看，不必了。這本手記作為一種防禦，像安全活瓣一樣，在防止我的澈底崩潰上，已產生了些許果效。其他我所預期的目的，結果証明是出於一種誤解。我以為自己可以描述出一種状態，為喪妻的悲慟製作出一張地圖，然而，悲慟不是一種状態，而是一道過程。它所需要的不是地圖，而是一部歷史。而且，我若不在某一任意擇定的點上停筆，就没有理由不再繼續寫下去。每天都有一些新的事物值得紀錄。悼亡的悲情恰似一條狭長的山谷，一路蜿蜒、連綿。每一轉折都有可能展現另一全新的風景。然而，正如我已察覺到的，並非每一轉折都是這樣。有時使你驚訝的，正是相反的現象；呈現在眼前的正是你以為早在幾哩之前便已越過的那類原野。這時，你開始懷疑，這峡谷難道是一道環形的壕溝嗎？其實不是，重覆的只是部分景觀，整道過程並未重覆。

譬如，這便是一種新的境况，新的失喪。白天，我總是盡量散步，因為若不筋疲力竭地上床，簡直就是自討苦吃的傻瓜。今天，我舊地重遊，走了一趟相當長的越野漫步，是獨身時代最讓我心曠神怡的。這一回，大自然的風光明媚依舊，世界也不再像一條鄙陋的大街，如我幾天前所怨對的。相反的，每一處地平綫、每一座農莊、或每一簇樹叢，都向我招手，想把我喚回一種過往的喜樂裡，那在她未出現之前我已享受到的喜樂。然而，這樣的邀約却讓我毛骨悚然。它所邀請我進人的喜樂是種索然無味的喜樂。我發覺自己根本不想回頭沉緬於那種方式的喜樂。一想到竟然可能回到原來的光景，我不覺害怕起來，因為這種結局，在我看來，就是最糟糕的。在這樣的景况中，過去幾年的愛情和婚姻，一經回顧，彷怫只是一段迷人的插曲——像一段假期——短暫地介入我不断往前的人生，過後，又讓我恢復原状，與昔日没有兩樣。這段戀情于是乎變得好像不是真的——與我的過去格格不入，使我幾乎相信它是發生在别人身上，根本與我無關。果真如此，對我而言，她在我的生命裡等於又死了一次；比第一次更讓我難捨。什麼都行，就是不容許這樣的事發生。

你可知道，卿卿，當你離去時，帶走了多少東西？你甚至剥奪了我的過去，我倆從未分享過的東西。我錯了，竟然說残肢可以從被切除的疼痛中復原。我之所以被騙，是因為它使盡了各樣伎倆傷害我，我最多只能逐一地識破。

然而，還是有兩項大收獲——現在，我已有自知之明，不至於把它們稱作「永久性」的收獲。當我轉向神時，我的心所遇見的再也不是那道緊閉的門；轉向她，也不再是一片空茫，——也不再嘀咕她在我心中的形象有何問題。我的塗鴉顯示出我已有了些許進步，但與我所期望的仍有些許差距。也許，真正的情形是，這兩種改變都非可以輕易觀察得到的，因為没有突然的。驚人的、和情緒性的轉變。就像室内的逐漸暖和起來，或晨曦的瀉入，當你開始察覺時，它已持續一陣子了。

這些手記談到我自已。她和神。無論就次序或比重看，都與應有的情况恰恰相反。而且，我還特别留心，不管在哪一方面，都不讓自己掉人那可稱之為讚美的思考模式裡。然而，對我最有帮助的，應就是這種讚美的心態。讚美原是愛的一種表現，其中永遠不乏喜樂的成分。讚美要先後代序。先讚美將她賞賜給我的神，再讚美神所賞賜給我的她。在讚美中，我們豈不已多少享受到所讚美的，無論離它行多遠？的確，我應該多多讚美。現在，我已失去了以往可從她身上嘗到的佳美果實，而今陷在自己乖僻的幽峡裡，也遠離了那原可從神那裡嘗到的，不過，神的恩典若真是無止境的，將來有一天，或許還有機會吧。雖然這樣，透過讚美，此刻我猶能或多或少地享受到她；而且，也已約略享受到神了。這比虚無好太多了。

但是，我也許恩賜不足。我知道自己曾把她比擬成一把劍。這個比擬雖然差强人意，細究起來，却似不足涵括她所有的好，並且容易誤導。我應該將它平衡一下，用另一個比擬——「她同時也像座大花園，由無数的小花園層層環抱而成。牆圍著牆，樹籬繞着樹籬。愈往裡去，愈讓人覺其奧妙。芬芳，愈見其生機蓬勃、沛然丰茂。」。

然後，對她，對自己所賞悦的一切受造物，我理應稱美一句：「各以某種方式，憑其獨特的風貌，酷似著創造它的主宰。」。

就這樣，從花園上溯造園的大師，從劍上溯鑄劍的精匠，上溯賜予生命的生命源頭，上溯美化萬物的美的本体。

當我想到她是一把劍時，「她在神的手中」這句話便刹時活化起來。或許我與她一起度過的塵世生活原是鑄劍過程的一部分。現在，也許神正握著劍柄，打量著這把新造的武器，随後在空中揮舞起來，雷光閃閃——「真是一把正宗的耶路撒冷宝劍」。

昨晚的某一片刻可以用些比喻來形容，否則，不是語言所能訴說的。想像一個人陷在全然的黑暗中，他以為自己困在囚房或地牢裡。這時，傳來了一陣声响，他判断是遠處傳來的声响——半哩之外的海涛。林梢的風嘯、或牛群的哞叫。果真如此，就証明他並未困在牢房裡，而是自由的人，在空曠的野外。或者，這可能是一種較細微的声音——近旁的一陣咯咯的笑声。果真如此，黑暗中有個友伴就在他身旁。無論如何，這總是一道令人快慰的、友善的声音。我還不至於瘋狂到把這樣的經驗當作有何東西存在着的証據。它只不過等同於歡然躍入與一道理念有關的想像活動裡，過去，這道理念，對我而言，只是純粹概念化的理論——什麼理念呢？亦即我，或任何生命有限的凡人，在任何時刻裡，對於自己真正的處境，都可能產生全盤的誤解。

五種官覺，一種抽象得無可救藥的理性，片面取樣得幾可造成危害的記憶，一套先入為主的觀念，和無数的假設——多到讓人只能察驗其中的一小部分，遑論全盤加以反省。這樣的一種工具，你說，能觀照出多少事物的全貌？

如果可能，我決不會去攀爬一棵羽毛似的或佈滿荊棘的樹。近來，兩道迥異的思想變本加厲地壓向我的心頭。其一是，那永活的獸医遠比我們所能想像的更要嚴酷而不近人情，而可能施加在我們身上的手術，其疼痛的程度，也遠非人心所能預料。其二是，船到橋頭自然直。待塵埃落定，所有的問題都會消失。一切事態終將否極泰來。

她的每張照片若都走了樣，其實無所謂；我對她的記憶若不够完整，也無關緊要——不那麼重要。不管是紙上的或心上的，形象的本身並不重要，它的作用僅在引發聯想。從另一個無比高超的範疇舉個對等的例子吧，明天早晨，牧師會遞給我一片冷冷的，没有味道的小圓薄餅。這樣的一片薄餅絕對無法偽飾自已讓人以為它與透過它而與我合而為一的那位，有何相似之處。難道這個缺陷是不利的嗎？其實，從某方面看，恐怕是有益的。

我所要的是基督，而非與他相似的某樣東西。我所要的是她，而非她的拷貝。一張相當傳神的照片最後可能變成一道陷阱、一層阻礙。一種相當恐怖的東西。

肖像——無論是心頭外的圖画或雕像，或心中由想像構築而成的影像，其實都一樣，我想，必有它的用處，否則，不會這樣普受歡迎。然而，在我看來，它們具有相當明顯的危害性。至高神的肖像很容易變成「神聖」的肖像——被當作聖物崇拜。其實，我對神所持的信念絕非神聖不可侵犯的。相反地，它必須不断地被搗碎，而且是神自己把它搗碎的。他正是那位偉大的偶像破壞者。這種搗碎的行為，我們幾乎要說，正是顯示他存在的標記之一，不是嗎？道成肉身是至高無上的例子；它使前人對彌賽亞所持的觀念全盤毁滅。大部分人會被偶像破壞的情事「激怒」，那些不為之氣惱的人有福了。同樣的事也會發生在我們私下的禱告裡。

一切事物的真相都具有偶像破壞的特質。你的塵世的愛人，即使在今生裡，豈非也經常超然獨立於你對她所持的理念之上？這恰好正是你所要的。你要她，乃是包括她一切的頑抗、過失以及讓你錯愕不已的種種表現，換句話說，她那率真的，由不得你左右的本樣。正是這樣的她，而非任何的肖像或記憶，才是我們仍應戀戀不捨的，雖然所愛的她已經亡故了。

不過，如今，這樣的她已非人用想像所能搆著的了。在這點上，她和所有已亡故的人，與神頗有相似之處。也是從這角度看，依戀她變得有點近乎依戀神。在這兩件事裡，我都必須向著事物的真相張開愛的双臂（眼睛在這裡是派不上用場了），穿過——越過——一切瞬息萬變的，由思想、激情或想像構築出來的幻象。絕對不能坐下來沈緬於幻象的本身，把它當作神來膜拜，她來愛。

不是我對神所持的理念，而是神的本身。不是我對她所持的理念，而是她本人。是的，也非我對鄰舍所持的理念，而是鄰舍本人。對還活著的人——與自己住在同一屋頂下的人，我們豈不常犯這樣的錯誤？講話和應對時，不是針對這人的本我，而是我們心中為這人所勾勒的圖画——其實頂多只是幾筆模糊的輪廓。他的表現必須與這幅圖画大相逕庭了，我們才會對實况稍加註意。在現實生活中——這是它與小說截然不同的地方之—，如果我們就近觀察，他的說話和舉止幾乎從未真正「性格一致」過。換句話說，從未吻合我們所認為的他的性格。他的手中永遠握有一張你我無法知道的牌。

我認為自己是這樣待人的，所憑的理由是我發現别人經常，極其明顯地，這樣對待我。我們都以為自己完全摸清了對方的底細。

這會兒我可能又，再一次地，用紙片搭盖起房子來了。若真是這樣，祂必定會再一次地把它拆毁。除非我終於被判無望而這棄絕，永遠沉淪在地獄裡搭盖紙的城堡，「在死人當中逍遙」。

例如，這會兒我溜回神這邊，是否只因知道若有任何通往她的途径，必得經過神這裡？然而，我當然十分清楚，神是不能被當作途径利用的。追尋神的人若不把祂當作終點，而是途径，非作為目的，而是手段，那麼，就根本不在追尋祂。這就是那些市面流行的「彼岸團圓圖」發生錯誤的地方。問題不在圖中那些幼稚的、非常世俗化的描繪，而在於把抵達真正的目標時才能連帶獲得的東西，當作目標的本身。

主啊，你真的設定這樣的條件嗎？我可以與她重逢嗎？唯當我學會愛你到極致，甚至不在乎是否能與她重逢時，我才能再與她相會？思量一下，主啊，對我們而言，這像怎麼一回事。别人會怎樣看我呢？假如我對孩子們說：「現在不能吃太妃糖，不過，當你們長大了，不再真正需要太妃糖了，那時，要多少，就能有多少。」。

如果我知道與她永隔和被她永遠遺忘，能給她的存在增加更多的喜樂和光彩，我當然會說：「那麼，開槍吧！」正如，在人間，若不見她的面便能治愈她的癌症，我會妥善安排，不再與她見面。我非得這樣作不可。任何有品德的人都會這樣作。但這是另一回事，我目前的處境並非這樣。

當我把這些問題攤在神面前時，並未得到任何答案，不過，却是一種非常特殊的「没有答案」。不是拴緊的門，比較像一種默默不語的，但絕非無動於衷的凝視。好似祂摇著頭，不是拒絕，而是把問題揮開，意味著：「安心吧，孩子；你不懂得的事多著呢。」。

人可能提出連神都回答不來的問題嗎？太容易了，我這麼想。所有荒謬的問題都是無法回答的。一哩有多少小時？黄是方的或圓的？也許我們提出的問題－－那些偉大的神學和形上學問題——有一半正是這樣的問題。

既然我這麼想了，對我而言，眼前似乎再也没有任何牽涉到實際行為的問題了。兩大誡命我是知道的，最好守住它們。說真的，她的死已經結束了所有實際上的問題。當她還活著時，我可以，在實際的行為上，把她擺在神的前面；換言之，可以作她所要的，而非神所要的事；如果其中有衝突的話。而今剩下的，不是關於我能作什麽事的問題，乃是情感、動機和這一類的事情有什麼份量的問題。這是我給自己設立的問題。我毫不相信這是神為我設立的。

得嗜神的佳美果實；與亡妻團圓。這兩件事浮現在我的腦際，無異於筹碼，亦即空白支票。我對於前者所持的理念——如果可以稱之為理念的話——是把塵世中獲得的極其少数而短暫的經驗加以擴大推衍而得的，本就具有打賭的性質。這些經驗也許並不如我所以為的那樣有價值，甚至比一些被我漠視的其他經驗還更没價值。我對第二件事的理念也是一種推衍。這兩者中任一者的實現——空白支票的兑現——可能會把我對這兩者所持的理念炸成碎片（尤其是我對兩者之間的關係所存的理念）。

一端是心靈神秘的結合，另一端是肉体的復活。我實在想不出有什麼意象、公式或甚至感覺能把這兩者聯合起來——真的連點鬼影都没有。但事物的真相，神容許我們了解的，却辦得到——再說一遍，就是那能把各樣偶像摧毁掉的事物真相。將來天堂會為我們的問題提供答案，但絕非藉著彰顯表面看來互相矛盾的概念（之間其實存有微妙的和諧）。相反地，這些概念將被連根廢除——那時，我們便知道，原來，未曾有過任何問題。

而且，再提一遍，就是那個除了將它形容為黑暗中咯咯的笑声之外，我無法多作描述的印象。感覺上，似乎某種能瓦解人心，叫人放棄敵對態度的單純，便是真正的解答。

人們常說死人看得見活人，而且，我們推想，不管合不合理，倘若他們看得見活人的話，一定比從前看得更透徹。那她生前稱為，而此刻仍被我堅持著的「我的愛情」，她現在可完全看透了裡頭有多少浮沫和虚華吧。是又怎麽樣？遠遠地瞧一瞧吧，卿卿。就算能遮掩，我也不願。我倆從未把對方理想化，總盡量不向對方隱瞞什麽。我身上大部分腐朽的地方，你早就知道。如果你現在又看到更糟糕的，我會坦然接受。你亦然。責備、解釋、揶揄、赦免，這正是愛的奇迹之一。它給予兩人——尤其是女人——一種能力，使她能看透愛情的蠱惑，却還能繼續為它着迷。

在某種程度上，像神一樣知心、明察。神的愛和他的洞察人心是密不可分的，與神的自己也本為一体。我們幾乎可以說，他之所以能洞察人心是因他的愛，所以，即使看透了，也還能愛。

有時，主，人忍不住要說，如果你希望我們的動作存留像野地的百合花一樣，朝脆替我們創造像它那樣的生理結構吧。然而，我推想，人是你的一項輝煌的實驗；或者不是，不是實驗，因為你不需要測知什麼。應該說是你的一項輝煌的嘗試。你創造出一個同時也是靈的生物，因而產生了一個可怕的矛盾語辞——「属靈的動物」。你揀選了一種靈長類的動物，一種全身佈滿未稍神經的獸類，它有個胃需要填滿，又需與異性支配才能繁殖。然後，對著這個動物，你說：「去吧，就憑著這些，去活出神的樣子來。」　　

幾章以前，我曾說過，即使獲得了有關她仍繼續存在着的証據，我也不會相信的。「說比做容易多了。」甚至現在，我也不會將任何那類的東西當作証據。不過，昨晚的一個經驗—非因它能証明什麼，而是它的「本質」—它的所是，值得記錄下來。說來難以叫人相信，它竟然未帶給我任何情緒上的波動。印象中，只覺得她的心與我的心瞬間面面相覷。心，而不是一般所謂的「靈魂」；更無所謂「驚心動魄」—絲毫不像情人間興高采烈的團圓，比較像接到她的一通電話或一通電報交待了一些事務的安排。並未傳達任何「信息」，只讓我感受到她的知心和關注。無憂無喜，甚至也没有愛，一般所謂的愛；也没有非愛。我從未在任何心情下想像過死者會是這樣的——嗯，這樣的務實。不過，這本是「心有靈犀一點通」，一種不必透過感官或情緒傳達的体已、知心。

如果這是從我的無意識蹦出來的，那麼，我的無意識必定是個非常有趣的領域，遠超過精神分析學家．要我預期的。舉個例吧，與我的意識領域相比，它顯然解人多了，並非那麼鴻蒙未化。

不管從哪裡來的，這經驗已經在我的心中進行了一種近乎春季大掃除的工作。死去了的人可以像這樣子的—一種純粹心智的存亡。類似我這樣的經驗，希腊的哲學家不會感到驚訝的。人死後若有什麼遺留下來，他會預期應就像這樣—在這之前，我總覺得這是最枯燥、最冰冷的觀念，由於其中情感蕩然，讓我對它退避三舍。但在這次的接觸裡，（不管是實質的或表面的），它並没有造成這類的反應。在情緒不起絲毫波動的情况下，完全進人「心有靈犀一點通」的境界，你整個人因此振奮起來，重新出發。這樣的心有靈犀一點通就是愛嗎？在今生裡，它總是與情感相随；並非因為它的本身就是情感，或需要伴随而生的情感，而是因為人本身的獸類靈魂。神經系統，和想像特質，需用這樣的方式來回應？果真如此，我對事物的感應需要經常磨拭的，不知有多少！眾多心智的聚集和交融並非一定是冰冷、單調和讓人不舒服的。另一方面，也不像人們用［属靈的」、「奧秘的」、或「神聖的」這類字眼所意味的。這樣的境界，我若曾驚鴻一瞥，它應是—哦，我幾乎被自己必須使用的形容詞嚇着了—活潑的？興奮的？敏銳的？靈活的？昂揚的？蘇醒的？在這一切之上，具体的。全然的可靠、穩固。死去了的人所存在的境界裡，没有荒謬的東西。

當我用心智這字眼時，它裡頭還包括了意志。傾心關註是一種意志的行為。付諸行動的知心是意志的至極表現。那前來與我相會的，充滿了決心。

在她臨終之前，我說：「若使你能，若容許的話，當我也躺在臨終的床上，請回來看我。」「一言為定。」她說，「天堂要大張旗鼓才能留住我；至於地獄嘛，看我把它搗得唏哩嘩啦，爛成一堆。」她知道自己使用的是神話的語言，甚至還帶點詼諧的成分。她的眼瞳亮了一下，有一個清淚。但是，那道像閃電般掠過她全人，比任何情感深邃的意志，没有一丁點神話或玩笑的意味。

但是，絕不可因我對純粹的心智或許是什麼樣子已稍可避免全盤的誤解，便把它扯遠了。另外還涉及一個問題，無論它意味著什麼，就是肉体的復活。這是我們完全了解不來的。上好的往往便是我們了解得最少的。

人們不是曾經争論過嗎？最後見神面的這件事，比較是心智的或愛的活動？這大概又是一道荒謬的問題。

把死去了的人召喚回來，假如辦得到的話，是件多麼傷天害理的事。她對牧師，而非對我說：「我已跟神和好。」說着，她微微笑了，但不是對我，「然後，轉身回到永世的源頭」（註）。

註：語出但丁「神曲」天堂篇第31章，描寫碧兒翠霞（Beatrice），但丁的「最愛」，死後的幽魂引領詩人進入天堂至境，任務完成之後，嫣然一笑，與之告别，回到她的永世歸宿。

CHAPTER FOUR

This is the fourth—and the last—empty MS. book I can find in the house; at least nearly empty, for there are some pages of very ancient arithmetic at the end by J. I resolve to let this limit my jottings. I will not start buying books for the purpose. In so far as this record was a defence against total collapse, a safety-valve, it has done some good. The other end I had in view turns out to have been based on a misunderstanding. I thought I could describe a state; make a map of sorrow. Sorrow, however, turns out to be not a state but a process. It needs not a map but a history, and if I don’t stop writing that history at some quite arbitrary point, there’s no reason why I should ever stop. There is something new to be chronicled every day. Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape. As I’ve already noted, not every bend does. Sometimes the surprise is the opposite one; you are presented with exactly the same sort of country you thought you had left behind miles ago. That is when you wonder whether the valley isn’t a circular trench. But it isn’t. There are partial recurrences, but the sequence doesn’t repeat.

Here, for instance, is a new phase, a new loss. I do all the walking I can, for I’d be a fool to go to bed not tired. Today I have been revisiting old haunts, taking one of the long rambles that made me so happy in my bachelor days. And this time the face of nature was not emptied of its beauty and the world didn’t look (as I complained some days ago) like a mean street. On the contrary, every horizon, every stile or clump of trees, summoned me into a past kind of happiness, my pre-H. happiness. But the invitation seemed to me horrible. The happiness into which it invited me was insipid. I find that I don’t want to go back again and be happy in that way. It frightens me to think that a mere going back should even be possible. For this fate would seem to me the worst of all, to reach a state in which my years of love and marriage should appear in retrospect a charming episode—like a holiday—that had briefly interrupted my interminable life and returned me to normal, unchanged. And then it would come to seem unreal—something so foreign to the usual texture of my history that I could almost believe it had happened to someone else. Thus H. would die to me a second time; a worse bereavement than the first. Anything but that.

Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left? You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared. I was wrong to say the stump was recovering from the pain of the amputation. I was deceived because it has so many ways to hurt me that I discover them only one by one.

Still, there are the two enormous gains—I know myself too well now to call them ‘lasting.’ Turned to God, my mind no longer meets that locked door; turned to H., it no longer meets that vacuum—nor all that fuss about my mental image of her. My jottings show something of the process, but not so much as I’d hoped. Perhaps both changes were really not observable. There was no sudden, striking, and emotional transition. Like the warming of a room or the coming of daylight. When you first notice them they have already been going on for some time.

The notes have been about myself, and about H., and about God. In that order. The order and the proportions exactly what they ought not to have been. And I see that I have nowhere fallen into that mode of thinking about either which we call praising them. Yet that would have been best for me. Praise is the mode of love which always has some element of joy in it. Praise in due order; of Him as the giver, of her as the gift. Don’t we in praise somehow enjoy what we praise, however far we are from it? I must do more of this. I have lost the fruition I once had of H. And I am far, far away in the valley of my unlikeness, from the fruition which, if His mercies are infinite, I may some time have of God. But by praising I can still, in some degree, enjoy her, and already, in some degree, enjoy Him. Better than nothing.

But perhaps I lack the gift. I see I’ve described H. as being like a sword. That’s true as far as it goes. But utterly inadequate by itself, and misleading. I ought to have balanced it. I ought to have said, ‘But also like a garden. Like a nest of gardens, wall within wall, hedge within hedge, more secret, more full of fragrant and fertile life, the further you entered.’

And then, of her, and of every created thing I praise, I should say, ‘In some way, in its unique way, like Him who made it.’

Thus up from the garden to the Gardener, from the sword to the Smith. To the life-giving Life and the Beauty that makes beautiful.

‘She is in God’s hands.’ That gains a new energy when I think of her as a sword. Perhaps the earthly life I shared with her was only part of the tempering. Now perhaps He grasps the hilt; weighs the new weapon; makes lightnings with it in the air. ‘A right Jerusalem blade.’

One moment last night can be described in similes; otherwise it won’t go into language at all. Imagine a man in total darkness. He thinks he is in a cellar or dungeon. Then there comes a sound. He thinks it might be a sound from far off—waves or wind-blown trees or cattle half a mile away. And if so, it proves he’s not in a cellar, but free, in the open air. Or it may be a much smaller sound close at hand—a chuckle of laughter. And if so, there is a friend just beside him in the dark. Either way, a good, good sound. I’m not mad enough to take such an experience as evidence for anything. It is simply the leaping into imaginative activity of an idea which I would always have theoretically admitted—the idea that I, or any mortal at any time, may be utterly mistaken as to the situation he is really in.

Five senses; an incurably abstract intellect; a haphazardly selective memory; a set of preconceptions and assumptions so numerous that I can never examine more than a minority of them—never become even conscious of them all. How much of total reality can such an apparatus let through?

I will not, if I can help it, shin up either the feathery or the prickly tree. Two widely different convictions press more and more on my mind. One is that the Eternal Vet is even more inexorable and the possible operations even more painful than our severest imaginings can forbode. But the other, that ‘all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’

It doesn’t matter that all the photographs of H. are bad. It doesn’t matter—not much—if my memory of her is imperfect. Images, whether on paper or in the mind, are not important for themselves. Merely links. Take a parallel from an infinitely higher sphere. Tomorrow morning a priest will give me a little round, thin, cold, tasteless wafer. Is it a disadvantage—is it not in some ways an advantage—that it can’t pretend the least resemblance to that with which it unites me?

I need Christ, not something that resembles Him. I want H., not something that is like her. A really good photograph might become in the end a snare, a horror, and an obstacle.

Images, I must suppose, have their use or they would not have been so popular. (It makes little difference whether they are pictures and statues outside the mind or imaginative constructions within it.) To me, however, their danger is more obvious. Images of the Holy easily become holy images—sacrosanct. My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of His presence? The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins. And most are ‘offended’ by the iconoclasm; and blessed are those who are not. But the same thing happens in our private prayers.

All reality is iconoclastic. The earthly beloved, even in this life, incessantly triumphs over your mere idea of her. And you want her to; you want her with all her resistances, all her faults, all her unexpectedness. That is, in her foursquare and independent reality. And this, not any image or memory, is what we are to love still, after she is dead.

But ‘this’ is not now imaginable. In that respect H. and all the dead are like God. In that respect loving her has become, in its measure, like loving Him. In both cases I must stretch out the arms and hands of love—its eyes cannot here be used—to the reality, through—across—all the changeful phantasmagoria of my thoughts, passions, and imaginings. I mustn’t sit down content with the phantasmagoria itself and worship that for Him, or love that for her.

Not my idea of God, but God. Not my idea of H., but H. Yes, and also not my idea of my neighbor, but my neighbor. For don’t we often make this mistake as regards people who are still alive—who are with us in the same room? Talking and acting not to the man himself but to the picture—almost the précis—we’ve made of him in our own minds? And he has to depart from it pretty widely before we even notice the fact. In real life—that’s one way it differs from novels—his words and acts are, if we observe closely, hardly ever quite ‘in character,’ that is, in what we call his character. There’s always a card in his hand we didn’t know about.

My reason for assuming that I do this to other people is the fact that so often I find them obviously doing it to me. We all think we’ve got one another taped.

And all this time I may, once more, be building with cards. And if I am He will once more knock the building flat. He will knock it down as often as proves necessary. Unless I have to be finally given up as hopeless, and left building pasteboard palaces in Hell forever; ‘free among the dead.’

Am I, for instance, just sidling back to God because I know that if there’s any road to H., it runs through Him? But then of course I know perfectly well that He can’t be used as a road. If you’re approaching Him not as the goal but as a road, not as the end but as a means, you’re not really approaching Him at all. That’s what was really wrong with all those popular pictures of happy reunions ‘on the further shore’; not the simple-minded and very earthly images, but the fact that they make an End of what we can get only as a by-product of the true End.

Lord, are these your real terms? Can I meet H. again only if I learn to love you so much that I don’t care whether I meet her or not? Consider, Lord, how it looks to us. What would anyone think of me if I said to the boys, ‘No toffee now. But when you’ve grown up and don’t really want toffee you shall have as much of it as you choose’?

If I knew that to be eternally divided from H. and eternally forgotten by her would add a greater joy and splendor to her being, of course I’d say, ‘Fire ahead.’ Just as if, on earth, I could have cured her cancer by never seeing her again, I’d have arranged never to see her again. I’d have had to. Any decent person would. But that’s quite different. That’s not the situation I’m in.

When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of ‘No answer.’ It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, ‘Peace, child; you don’t understand.’

Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? Probably half the questions we ask—half our great theological and metaphysical problems—are like that.

And now that I come to think of it, there’s no practical problem before me at all. I know the two great commandments, and I’d better get on with them. Indeed, H.’s death has ended the practical problem. While she was alive I could, in practice, have put her before God; that is, could have done what she wanted instead of what He wanted; if there’d been a conflict. What’s left is not a problem about anything I could do. It’s all about weights of feelings and motives and that sort of thing. It’s a problem I’m setting myself. I don’t believe God set it me at all.

The fruition of God. Reunion with the dead. These can’t figure in my thinking except as counters. Blank cheques. My idea—if you can call it an idea—of the first is a huge, risky extrapolation from a very few and short experiences here on earth. Probably not such valuable experiences as I think. Perhaps even of less value than others that I take no account of. My idea of the second is also an extrapolation. The reality of either—the cashing of either cheque—would probably blow all one’s ideas about both (how much more one’s ideas about their relations to each other) into smithereens.

The mystical union on the one hand. The resurrection of the body, on the other. I can’t reach the ghost of an image, a formula, or even a feeling, that combines them. But the reality, we are given to understand, does. Reality the iconoclast once more. Heaven will solve our problems, but not, I think, by showing us subtle reconciliations between all our apparently contradictory notions. The notions will all be knocked from under our feet. We shall see that there never was any problem.

And, more than once, that impression which I can’t describe except by saying that it’s like the sound of a chuckle in the darkness. The sense that some shattering and disarming simplicity is the real answer.

It is often thought that the dead see us. And we assume, whether reasonably or not, that if they see us at all they see us more clearly than before. Does H. now see exactly how much froth or tinsel there was in what she called, and I call, my love? So be it. Look your hardest, dear. I wouldn’t hide if I could. We didn’t idealize each other. We tried to keep no secrets. You knew most of the rotten places in me already. If you now see anything worse, I can take it. So can you. Rebuke, explain, mock, forgive. For this is one of the miracles of love; it gives—to both, but perhaps especially to the woman—a power of seeing through its own enchantments and yet not being disenchanted.

To see, in some measure, like God. His love and His knowledge are not distinct from one another, nor from Him. We could almost say He sees because He loves, and therefore loves although He sees.

Sometimes, Lord, one is tempted to say that if you wanted us to behave like the lilies of the field you might have given us an organization more like theirs. But that, I suppose, is just your grand experiment. Or no; not an experiment, for you have no need to find things out. Rather your grand enterprise. To make an organism which is also a spirit; to make that terrible oxymoron, a ‘spiritual animal.’ To take a poor primate, a beast with nerve-endings all over it, a creature with a stomach that wants to be filled, a breeding animal that wants its mate, and say, ‘Now get on with it. Become a god.’

I said, several notebooks ago, that even if I got what seemed like an assurance of H.’s presence, I wouldn’t believe it. Easier said than done. Even now, though, I won’t treat anything of that sort as evidence. It’s the quality of last night’s experience—not what it proves but what it was—that makes it worth putting down. It was quite incredibly unemotional. Just the impression of her mind momentarily facing my own. Mind, not ‘soul’ as we tend to think of soul. Certainly the reverse of what is called ‘soulful.’ Not at all like a rapturous reunion of lovers. Much more like getting a telephone call or a wire from her about some practical arrangement. Not that there was any ‘message’—just intelligence and attention. No sense of joy or sorrow. No love even, in our ordinary sense. No un-love. I had never in any mood imagined the dead as being so—well, so business-like. Yet there was an extreme and cheerful intimacy. An intimacy that had not passed through the senses or the emotions at all.

If this was a throw-up from my unconscious, then my unconscious must be a far more interesting region than the depth psychologists have led me to expect. For one thing, it is apparently much less primitive than my consciousness.

Wherever it came from, it has made a sort of spring cleaning in my mind. The dead could be like that; sheer intellects. A Greek philosopher wouldn’t have been surprised at an experience like mine. He would have expected that if anything of us remained after death it would be just that. Up to now this always seemed to me a most arid and chilling idea. The absence of emotion repelled me. But in this contact (whether real or apparent) it didn’t do anything of the sort. One didn’t need emotion. The intimacy was complete—sharply bracing and restorative too—without it. Can that intimacy be love itself—always in this life attended with emotion, not because it is itself an emotion, or needs an attendant emotion, but because our animal souls, our nervous systems, our imaginations, have to respond to it in that way? If so, how many preconceptions I must scrap! A society, a communion, of pure intelligences would not be cold, drab, and comfortless. On the other hand it wouldn’t be very like what people usually mean when they use such words as spiritual, or mystical, or holy. It would, if I have had a glimpse, be—well, I’m almost scared at the adjectives I’d have to use. Brisk? cheerful? keen? alert? intense? wide-awake? Above all, solid. Utterly reliable. Firm. There is no nonsense about the dead.

When I say ‘intellect’ I include will. Attention is an act of will. Intelligence in action is will par excellence. What seemed to meet me was full of resolution.

Once very near the end I said, ‘If you can—if it is allowed—come to me when I too am on my death bed.’ ‘Allowed!’ she said. ‘Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I’d break it into bits.’ She knew she was speaking a kind of mythological language, with even an element of comedy in it. There was a twinkle as well as a tear in her eye. But there was no myth and no joke about the will, deeper than any feeling, that flashed through her.

But I mustn’t, because I have come to misunderstand a little less completely what a pure intelligence might be, lean over too far. There is also, whatever it means, the resurrection of the body. We cannot understand. The best is perhaps what we understand least.

Didn’t people dispute once whether the final vision of God was more an act of intelligence or of love? That is probably another of the nonsense questions.

How wicked it would be, if we could, to call the dead back! She said not to me but to the chaplain, ‘I am at peace with God.’ She smiled, but not at me. Poi si tornò all’ eterna fontana.