Pulvis Et Umbra

( Originally Published 1922 )

O sadder message comes to a writer in the course of a year than the news of some friendly though unknown reader's death. Often you learn it only through the return of the magazine, with the single word "Deceased" written across the wrapper. It is a word to give one pause, however en-grossing the present occupation. Here was a man or woman who, though personally unknown to you, was yet, it may be, in spiritual touch with you—perhaps the best friendship of all. For him or her you wrote your thoughts—since all writing is to an unseen but not unfamiliar audience for him or her you told the story of your own mind and heart, sure of a kindly understanding and sympathy—without this assurance, believe me, there would be little enough writing in the world. Every writer's message is conditioned—I would almost say dictated—by this invisible but closely judging auditory. You get to know what your readers expect, and this in the main you try to give them, though often failing the mark. So the act of writing is a kind of tacit covenant and cooperation between the writer and his public. Indeed, it is not I but you who hold the pen; or rather it is I who hold it but you who speak through it and through me.

This relation being understood, it is but natural that a writer should feel a sense of grief and loss on hearing of the death of some-one who held him to this communion of thought and spirit. I am not sure that this grief would be more genuine had he personally known the lost one—our finest friendships, like the old classic divinities, veil themselves in a cloud. We wear ourselves out trying to maintain the common friendships of the house and street, and it is like matching faces with Proteus : in the end we become indifferent—or wise.

But here was one whom you never saw—who lived half the length of the continent from you, or perhaps in the next town—no matter, you two had never met in the body. Your word did, however, come to him and called forth a genial response; he let you know that so far as you went he set foot with you. Thencefor ward, you marched the more boldly, getting grace and courage and authority from this one's silent friendship and approval. You figured him as one who stood afar off—too far for you to see his face—and waved you a cheery salute; your soul hailed a fellow pilgrim. Now comes the word that he can go no further with you—rather, indeed, that he has outstripped your laggard pace and gone for-ward on the great Journey. You learn of his departure in the chance way I have mentioned —not being a friend in the conventional sense, the family do not think to send you any mes-sage or mourning card. You have but to feel that you are poorer by a friendship of the soul than you were yesterday; that you are going on, in a sense, alone and unsupported, for this friend was a host; that you are not to look ever again for his written word of praise, which brought such gladness to your heart, or his delicate counsel that often helped you to a clearer vision of things. The silent compact is dissolved. . . .

Life is a blessing, and death is no less.

That which we call the common lot is the rarest lot. Love and loss and grief are for all.

Of two men, one who loves and one who has loved and lost, the second is the richer: God has given him the better part—he holds both of earth and Heaven.

The love that has known no loss is wholly selfish and human. Death alone sanctifies.

Who has not lain down at night saying unto himself, "Now is the solemn hour when my own shall come back to me",—has not sounded the shoreless sea of love.

I believe in life and I believe not less profoundly in death.

I believe in a resurrection and a restoration —we can not lose our own.

No man has ever yet found tongue to tell the things that death has taught him. No man dare reveal them fully—'tis a covenant with Silence.

A power that strikes us to our knees with infinite sorrow and a yearning that would reach beyond the grave, must be a Power Benign.

Life divides and estranges: Death reunites and reconciles: Blessed be Death!

"Your friend is dead!" they told me, but I did not believe nor understand.

Then they led me to a darkened room, hushed and solemn amid the roar of New York, where I saw him lying in a strange yet beautiful serenity.

No disfigurement of his manly comeliness; no trace of a struggle that had convulsed the watchers with pain only less than his.

Roses on his manly breast—roses rich and lush as the young life that had sunk into a sleep so sudden, so unlooked for.

Nothing to shock, nothing to appal in this wordless greeting to the friends of his heart. As ever in life, his personality took and held us in its strong toil of grace—yes, more than ever held us now closely his own.

Could this indeed be death?

Ah, many a time had I hastened with joyous anticipation to meet him, but never had we kept a tryst like this.

I clasped that hand whose touch so often had thrilled me with its kindness—oh, hand so strong and gentle of my best-loved friend ! It was not cold as I feared it would be, and surely a pulse answered to mine—he knew, oh, yes! he knew that I was there.

I kissed his calm forehead and felt no chill of death—no terror at the heart. He seemed but to lie in a breathless sleep that yet held a profound consciousness of our presence.

Still, they said he was dead,—he so tranquil, almost smiling and inscrutably attentive !—and the grief of women challenged my own tears to flow.

Yet, with my emotions tense as a bow drawn to the head, I could not weep; so was I held by this wonder and majesty they called death. And it seemed that he did not ask my tears in the ineffable peace of our last meeting,—no, not my tears. But there was a gathering up of the heart which I had never known before, a bringing together by Memory, the faithful warder, of all that had made or ministered to our friendship,—kind looks and tones, trifles light as air mingled with graver matters, a country walk, a sea voyage, books that we had read together, snatches of talk, mutual pleasures, mutual interests, a hundred proofs of brotherly affection and sympathy,—so Memory ran searching the years till the sum of my love and my loss lay before me.

Did he know?—did he feel? Scarcely I dared to ask myself when the Silence breathed Yes! . . .

Here at my elbow is the telephone into which I could summon his pleasant voice at will. It was but now we were talking and making happy plans together—I had no plans without him.

Then there was a blank, and a strange voice, vibrant with pain, called me up and said. . . .

Oh, God !—it can not be true ! He a giant in his youth and strength; he with his vast enjoyment of life, every nerve and muscle of him trained to the fullest energy; he struck down, without a note of warning, in the vigor of his triumphant manhood, while the old, the sickly and the imperfect live on?—No, no—this were not death, but sacrifice.

Why, it was but yesterday I felt the vital grasp of his hand; listened to his brave talk, so genial a reflex of his mind and spirit; basked in the brightness of his frank smile,—debtor as ever I was to his flowing kindness; drank the cordial of his living presence, and took no thought of fate.

And now they tell me he is dead—that from our account of life, this long sum of days and hours so dreary without him, he is gone for-ever ! Over and over must I say this, or hear the dull refrain from others; yet the truth will not press home.

For, in spite of the dread certainty, I am not always without hope of seeing him again in the pleasant ways of life where often we met together; where never we parted but with a joyous promise soon to meet again.

This hope would be stronger, I now feel, had I not looked upon him in that strange peacefulness that was yet so compelling; and sometimes I wish they had not led me there.

So hard is it to break with the dear habit of life—so reluctant the heart to believe that the silver cord has been loosed which bound it to another.

Oh, my lost friend! . . .

The watchers told me that they had never seen so brave a struggle for life. Time and again he grappled with the Destroyer, like the strong athlete he was—yes, and often it seemed that his dauntless heart would prevail. But alas! the fates willed otherwise.

Then at last, when hope was gone, as he read in the tearful eyes of those about him, he threw up his right hand with a lamentable gesture, saying,-"That's all!"

Not all, brave and true heart, for love can not lose its own, and thy defeat was still a victory. Thou livest now more than ever in the memory of those who gave thee love for love, <> yet ever lacked of thy abounding measure; to them shalt thou ever appear as when thou didst fall asleep in the glory of thy youth and strength; age can not lay its cold hand upon thee, and thy beloved, dying old mayhap, shall again find thee young.