Altar Fire

Christopher Benson Arthur

Description

The British author Arthur Christopher Benson was never content to fall back on the typical narrative structure when it came to his novels, and The Altar Fire is definitely no exception. In a series of letters, it tells the tale of a successful novelist who falls on hard times in the aftermath of finishing a large fiction project. But in addition to cataloguing tragedies, this is also a story of redemption -- though the path the protagonist takes to get to a better place is unexpected.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776585236
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE ALTAR FIRE
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ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
 
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The Altar Fire First published in 1907 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-523-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-524-3 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface Introduction September 8, 1888 September 15, 1888 September 18, 1888 September 25, 1888 October 4, 1888 October 9, 1888 October 12, 1888 October 21, 1888 November 6, 1888 November 20, 1888 November 24, 1888 November 26, 1888 November 29, 1888 December 2, 1888 December 4, 1888 December 10, 1888 December 14, 1888 December 22, 1888 January 3, 1889 January 8, 1889 January 12, 1889 January 15, 1889 January 18, 1889 February 1, 1889 February 3, 1889 February 7, 1889 February 20, 1889 February 24, 1889 February 28, 1889 March 3, 1889 March 8, 1889 March 14, 1889 March 20, 1889 March 28, 1889 April 4, 1889 April 9, 1889 April 14, 1889 April 25, 1889 May 2, 1889 May 8, 1889 May 14, 1889 May 23, 1889 June 4, 1889 June 8, 1889 June 14, 1889 June 20, 1889 June 28, 1889 July 1, 1889 July 8, 1889 July 15, 1889 July 18, 1889 July 28, 1889 August 8, 1889 August 11, 1889 August 12, 1889 August 13, 1889 August 19, 1889 August 28, 1889 August 30, 1889 September 5, 1889 September 7, 1889 September 12, 1889 September 15, 1889 September 20, 1889 September 25, 1889 October 10, 1889 December 15, 1889 February 10, 1890 April 8, 1890 May 16, 1890 May 25, 1890 June 3, 1890 June 18, 1890 July 10, 1890 August 25, 1890 September 6, 1890 February 6, 1891 February 8, 1891 February 10, 1891 February 14, 1891 February 18, 1891 March 8, 1891 April 3, 1891 April 24, 1891 May 10, 1891 June 6, 1891 June 20, 1891 June 24, 1891 July 8, 1891 July 19, 1891 August 18, 1891 October 12, 1891
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Cecidit autem ignis Domini, et voravit holocaustum
Preface
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It will perhaps be said, and truly felt, that the following is a morbidbook. No doubt the subject is a morbid one, because the bookdeliberately gives a picture of a diseased spirit. But a pathologicaltreatise, dealing with cancer or paralysis, is not necessarily morbid,though it may be studied in a morbid mood. We have learnt of lateyears, to our gain and profit, to think and speak of bodily ailments asnatural phenomena, not to slur over them and hide them away in atticsand bedrooms. We no longer think of insanity as demoniacal possession,and we no longer immure people with diseased brains in the secludedapartments of lovely houses. But we still tend to think of thesufferings of the heart and soul as if they were unreal, imaginary,hypochondriacal things, which could be cured by a little resolution andby intercourse with cheerful society; and by this foolish and secretivereticence we lose both sympathy and help. Mrs. Proctor, the friend ofCarlyle and Lamb, a brilliant and somewhat stoical lady, is recorded tohave said to a youthful relative of a sickly habit, with sternemphasis, "Never tell people how you are! They don't want to know." Upto a certain point this is shrewd and wholesome advice. One doesundoubtedly keep some kinds of suffering in check by resolutelyminimising them. But there is a significance in suffering too. It isnot all a clumsy error, a well-meaning blunder. It is a deliberate partof the constitution of the world.
Why should we wish to conceal the fact that we have suffered, that wesuffer, that we are likely to suffer to the end? There are abundance ofpeople in like case; the very confession of the fact may help others toendure, because one of the darkest miseries of suffering is thehorrible sense of isolation that it brings. And if this book casts theleast ray upon the sad problem—a ray of the light that I have learnedto recognise is truly there—I shall be more than content. There is nomorbidity in suffering, or in confessing that one suffers. Morbidityonly begins when one acquiesces in suffering as being incurable andinevitable; and the motive of this book is to show that it is at oncecurative and curable, a very tender part of a wholly loving andFatherly design.
A. C. B.
Magdalene College, Cambridge,
July 14, 1907.
Introduction
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I had intended to allow the records that follow—the records of apilgrimage sorely beset and hampered by sorrow and distress—to speakfor themselves. Let me only say that one who makes public a record sointimate and outspoken incurs, as a rule, a certain responsibility. Hehas to consider in the first place, or at least he cannot helpinstinctively considering, what the wishes of the writer would havebeen on the subject. I do not mean that one who has to decide such apoint is bound to be entirely guided by that. He must weigh thepossible value of the record to other spirits against what he thinksthat the writer himself would have personally desired. A far moreimportant consideration is what living people who play a part in suchrecords feel about their publication. But I cannot help thinking thatour whole standard in such matters is a very false and conventionalone. Supposing, for instance, that a very sacred and intimate record,say, two hundred years old, were to be found among some family papers,it is inconceivable that any one would object to its publication on theground that the writer of it, or the people mentioned in it, would nothave wished it to see the light. We show how weak our faith really isin the continuance of personal identity after death, by allowing thelapse of time to affect the question at all; just as we should considerit a horrible profanation to exhume and exhibit the body of a man whohad been buried a few years ago, while we approve of the action ofarchaeologists who explore Egyptian sepulchres, subscribe to theiroperations, and should consider a man a mere sentimentalist whosuggested that the mummies exhibited in museums ought to be sent backfor interment in their original tombs. We think vaguely that a man whodied a few years ago would in some way be outraged if his body were tobe publicly displayed, while we do not for an instant regard thepossible feelings of delicate and highly-born Egyptian ladies, on whoseseemly sepulture such anxious and tender care was expended so manycenturies ago.
But in this case there is no such responsibility. None of the personsconcerned have any objection to the publication of these records, andas for the writer himself he was entirely free from any desire for afastidious seclusion. His life was a secluded one enough, and he feltstrongly that a man has a right to his own personal privacy. But hisown words sufficiently prove, if proof were needed, that he felt thatto deny the right of others to participate in thoughts and experiences,which might uplift or help a mourner or a sufferer, was a selfish formof individualism with which he had no sympathy whatever. He felt, and Ihave heard him say, that one has no right to withhold from others anyreflections which can console and sustain, and he held it to be thesupreme duty of a man to ease, if he could, the burden of another. Heknew that there is no sympathy in the world so effective as the sharingof similar experiences, as the power of assuring a sufferer thatanother has indeed trodden the same dark path and emerged into thelight of Heaven. I will even venture to say that he deliberatelyintended that his records should be so used, for purposes ofalleviation and consolation, and the bequest that he made of his papersto myself, entrusting them to my absolute discretion, makes it clear tome that I have divined his wishes in the matter. I think, indeed, thathis only doubt was a natural diffidence as to whether the record hadsufficient importance to justify its publication. In any case, my ownduty in the matter is to me absolutely clear.
But I think that it will be as well for me to sketch a brief outline ofmy friend's life and character. I would have preferred to have donethis, if it had been possible, by allowing him to speak for himself.But the earlier Diaries which exist are nothing but the briefestchronicle of events. He put his earlier confessions into his books, buthe was in many ways more interesting than his books, and so I will tryand draw a portrait of him as he appeared to one of his earliestfriends. I knew him first as an undergraduate, and our friendship wasunbroken after that. The Diary, written as it is under the shadow of aseries of calamities, gives an impression of almost wilful sadnesswhich is far from the truth. The requisite contrast can only beattained by representing him as he appeared to those who knew him.
He was the son of a moderately wealthy country solicitor, and wasbrought up on normal lines. His mother died while he was a boy. He hadone brother, younger than himself, and a sister who was younger still.He went to a leading public school, where he was in no waydistinguished either in work or athletics. I gathered, when I firstknew him, that he had been regarded as a clever, quiet, good-natured,simple-minded boy, with a considerable charm of manner, but decidedlyretiring. He was not expected to distinguish himself in any way, and hedid not seem to have any particular ambitions. I went up to Cambridgeat the same time as he, and we formed a very close friendship. We hadkindred tastes, and we did not concern ourselves very much with thesocial life of the place. We read, walked, talked, played games, idled,and amused ourselves together. I was more attached to him, I think,than he was to me; indeed, I do not think that he cared at that time toform particularly