Complete Works of Bram Stoker (341 page)

Remember, again, I say, that I never interfered in the slightest way in any of your adventures.  I wanted you to “dree your own weird,” as the Scotch say; and I wanted to know of it  —  that was all.  Now, as I hold you fully equipped for greater enterprise, I want to set your feet on the road and to provide you with the most potent weapon  —  beyond personal qualities  —  for the winning of great honour  —  a gain, my dear nephew, which, I am right sure, does and will appeal to you as it has ever done to me.  I have worked for it for more than fifty years; but now that the time has come when the torch is slipping from my old hands, I look to you, my dearest kinsman, to lift it and carry it on.

The little nation of the Blue Mountains has from the first appealed to me.  It is poor and proud and brave.  Its people are well worth winning, and I would advise you to throw in your lot with them.  You may find them hard to win, for when peoples, like individuals, are poor and proud, these qualities are apt to react on each other to an endless degree.  These men are untamable, and no one can ever succeed with them unless he is with them in all-in-all, and is a leader recognised.  But if you can win them they are loyal to death.  If you are ambitious  —  and I know you are  —  there may be a field for you in such a country.  With your qualifications, fortified by the fortune which I am happy enough to be able to leave you, you may dare much and go far.  Should I be alive when you return from your exploration in Northern South America, I may have the happiness of helping you to this or any other ambition, and I shall deem it a privilege to share it with you; but time is going on.  I am in my seventy-second year . . . the years of man are three-score and ten  —  I suppose you understand; I do . . . Let me point out this: For ambitious projects the great nationalities are impossible to a stranger  —  and in our own we are limited by loyalty (and common-sense).  It is only in a small nation that great ambitions can be achieved.  If you share my own views and wishes, the Blue Mountains is your ground.  I hoped at one time that I might yet become a Voivode  —  even a great one.  But age has dulled my personal ambitions as it has cramped my powers.  I no longer dream of such honour for myself, though I do look on it as a possibility for you if you care for it.  Through my Will you will have a great position and a great estate, and though you may have to yield up the latter in accordance with my wish, as already expressed in this letter, the very doing so will give you an even greater hold than this possession in the hearts of the mountaineers, should they ever come to know it.  Should it be that at the time you inherit from me the Voivode Vissarion should not be alive, it may serve or aid you to know that in such case you would be absolved from any conditions of mine, though I trust you would in that, as in all other matters, hold obligation enforced by your own honour as to my wishes.  Therefore the matter stands thus: If Vissarion lives, you will relinquish the estates.  Should such not be the case, you will act as you believe that I would wish you to.  In either case the mountaineers should not know from you in any way of the secret contracts between Vissarion and myself.  Enlightenment of the many should (if ever) come from others than yourself.  And unless such take place, you would leave the estates without any
quid pro quo
whatever.  This you need not mind, for the fortune you will inherit will leave you free and able to purchase other estates in the Blue Mountains or elsewhere that you may select in the world.

If others attack, attack them, and quicker and harder than they can, if such be a possibility.  Should it ever be that you inherit the Castle of Vissarion on the Spear of Ivan, remember that I had it secretly fortified and armed against attack.  There are not only massive grilles, but doors of chilled bronze where such be needed.  My adherent Rooke, who has faithfully served me for nearly forty years, and has gone on my behalf on many perilous expeditions, will, I trust, serve you in the same way.  Treat him well for my sake, if not for your own.  I have left him provision for a life of ease; but he would rather take a part in dangerous enterprises.  He is silent as the grave and as bold as a lion.  He knows every detail of the fortification and of the secret means of defence.  A word in your ear  —  he was once a pirate.  He was then in his extreme youth, and long since changed his ways in this respect; but from this fact you can understand his nature.  You will find him useful should occasion ever arise.  Should you accept the conditions of my letter, you are to make the Blue Mountains  —  in part, at least  —  your home, living there a part of the year, if only for a week, as in England men of many estates share the time amongst them.  To this you are not bound, and no one shall have power to compel you or interfere with you.  I only express a hope.  But one thing I do more than hope  —  I desire, if you will honour my wishes, that, come what may, you are to keep your British nationality, unless by special arrangement with and consent of the Privy Council.  Such arrangement to be formally made by my friend, Edward Bingham Trent, or whomsoever he may appoint by deed or will to act in the matter, and made in such a way that no act save that alone of Parliament in all its estates, and endorsed by the King, may or can prevail against it.

My last word to you is, Be bold and honest, and fear not.  Most things  —  even kingship  — 
somewhere
may now and again be won by the sword.  A brave heart and a strong arm may go far.  But whatever is so won cannot be held merely by the sword.  Justice alone can hold in the long run.  Where men trust they will follow, and the rank and file of people want to follow, not to lead.  If it be your fortune to lead, be bold.  Be wary, if you will; exercise any other faculties that may aid or guard.  Shrink from nothing.  Avoid nothing that is honourable in itself.  Take responsibility when such presents itself.  What others shrink from, accept.  That is to be great in what world, little or big, you move.  Fear nothing, no matter of what kind danger may be or whence it come.  The only real way to meet danger is to despise it  —  except with your brains.  Meet it in the gate, not the hall.

My kinsman, the name of my race and your own, worthily mingled in your own person, now rests with you!

Letter from Rupert Sent Leger
, 32
Bodmin Street
,
Victoria
,
S.W.
,
to Miss Janet MacKelpie
,
Croom
,
Ross-shire
.

January
3, 1907.

My dearest Aunt Janet,

You will, I know, be rejoiced to hear of the great good-fortune which has come to me through the Will of Uncle Roger.  Perhaps Sir Colin will have written to you, as he is one of the executors, and there is a bequest to you, so I must not spoil his pleasure of telling you of that part himself.  Unfortunately, I am not free to speak fully of my own legacy yet, but I want you to know that at worst I am to receive an amount many times more than I ever dreamt of possessing through any possible stroke of fortune.  So soon as I can leave London  —  where, of course, I must remain until things are settled  —  I am coming up to Croom to see you, and I hope I shall by then be able to let you know so much that you will be able to guess at the extraordinary change that has come to my circumstances.  It is all like an impossible dream: there is nothing like it in the “Arabian Nights.”  However, the details must wait, I am pledged to secrecy for the present.  And you must be pledged too.  You won’t mind, dear, will you?  What I want to do at present is merely to tell you of my own good-fortune, and that I shall be going presently to live for a while at Vissarion.  Won’t you come with me, Aunt Janet?  We shall talk more of this when I come to Croom; but I want you to keep the subject in your mind.

Your loving
Rupert.

From Rupert Sent Leger’s Journal
.

January
4, 1907.

Things have been humming about me so fast that I have had hardly time to think.  But some of the things have been so important, and have so changed my entire outlook on life, that it may be well to keep some personal record of them.  I may some day want to remember some detail  —  perhaps the sequence of events, or something like that  —  and it may be useful.  It ought to be, if there is any justice in things, for it will be an awful swot to write it when I have so many things to think of now.  Aunt Janet, I suppose, will like to keep it locked up for me, as she does with all my journals and papers.  That is one good thing about Aunt Janet amongst many: she has no curiosity, or else she has some other quality which keeps her from prying as other women would.  It would seem that she has not so much as opened the cover of one of my journals ever in her life, and that she would not without my permission.  So this can in time go to her also.

I dined last night with Mr. Trent, by his special desire.  The dinner was in his own rooms.  Dinner sent in from the hotel.  He would not have any waiters at all, but made them send in the dinner all at once, and we helped ourselves.  As we were quite alone, we could talk freely, and we got over a lot of ground while we were dining.  He began to tell me about Uncle Roger.  I was glad of that, for, of course, I wanted to know all I could of him, and the fact was I had seen very little of him.  Of course, when I was a small kid he was often in our house, for he was very fond of mother, and she of him.  But I fancy that a small boy was rather a nuisance to him.  And then I was at school, and he was away in the East.  And then poor mother died while he was living in the Blue Mountains, and I never saw him again.  When I wrote to him about Aunt Janet he answered me very kindly but he was so very just in the matter that I got afraid of him.  And after that I ran away, and have been roaming ever since; so there was never a chance of our meeting.  But that letter of his has opened my eyes.  To think of him following me that way all over the world, waiting to hold out a helping hand if I should want it, I only wish I had known, or even suspected, the sort of man he was, and how he cared for me, and I would sometimes have come back to see him, if I had to come half round the world.  Well, all I can do now is to carry out his wishes; that will be my expiation for my neglect.  He knew what he wanted exactly, and I suppose I shall come in time to know it all and understand it, too.

I was thinking something like this when Mr. Trent began to talk, so that all he said fitted exactly into my own thought.  The two men were evidently great friends  —  I should have gathered that, anyhow, from the Will  —  and the letters  —  so I was not surprised when Mr. Trent told me that they had been to school together, Uncle Roger being a senior when he was a junior; and had then and ever after shared each other’s confidence.  Mr. Trent, I gathered, had from the very first been in love with my mother, even when she was a little girl; but he was poor and shy, and did not like to speak.  When he had made up his mind to do so, he found that she had by then met my father, and could not help seeing that they loved each other.  So he was silent.  He told me he had never said a word about it to anyone  —  not even to my Uncle Roger, though he knew from one thing and another, though he never spoke of it, that he would like it.  I could not help seeing that the dear old man regarded me in a sort of parental way  —  I have heard of such romantic attachments being transferred to the later generation.  I was not displeased with it; on the contrary, I liked him better for it.  I love my mother so much  —  I always think of her in the present  —  that I cannot think of her as dead.  There is a tie between anyone else who loved her and myself.  I tried to let Mr. Trent see that I liked him, and it pleased him so much that I could see his liking for me growing greater.  Before we parted he told me that he was going to give up business.  He must have understood how disappointed I was  —  for how could I ever get along at all without him?  —  for he said, as he laid a hand quite affectionately, I thought  —  on my shoulder:

“I shall have one client, though, whose business I always hope to keep, and for whom I shall be always whilst I live glad to act  —  if he will have me.”  I did not care to speak as I took his hand.  He squeezed mine, too, and said very earnestly:

“I served your uncle’s interests to the very best of my ability for nearly fifty years.  He had full confidence in me, and I was proud of his trust.  I can honestly say, Rupert  —  you won’t mind me using that familiarity, will you?  —  that, though the interests which I guarded were so vast that without abusing my trust I could often have used my knowledge to my personal advantage, I never once, in little matters or big, abused that trust  —  no, not even rubbed the bloom off it.  And now that he has remembered me in his Will so generously that I need work no more, it will be a very genuine pleasure and pride to me to carry out as well as I can the wishes that I partly knew, and now realise more fully towards you, his nephew.”

In the long chat which we had, and which lasted till midnight, he told me many very interesting things about Uncle Roger.  When, in the course of conversation, he mentioned that the fortune Uncle Roger left must be well over a hundred millions, I was so surprised that I said out loud  —  I did not mean to ask a question:

“How on earth could a man beginning with nothing realise such a gigantic fortune?”

“By all honest ways,” he answered, “and his clever human insight.  He knew one half of the world, and so kept abreast of all public and national movements that he knew the critical moment to advance money required.  He was always generous, and always on the side of freedom.  There are nations at this moment only now entering on the consolidation of their liberty, who owe all to him, who knew when and how to help.  No wonder that in some lands they will drink to his memory on great occasions as they used to drink his health.”

“As you and I shall do now, sir!” I said, as I filled my glass and stood up.  We drank it in bumpers.  We did not say a word, either of us; but the old gentleman held out his hand, and I took it.  And so, holding hands, we drank in silence.  It made me feel quite choky; and I could see that he, too, was moved.

From E. B. Trent’s Memoranda
.