The Seaboard Parish, Complete. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
But if we brought her up just as our own, would that, the facts being as they are, be to do as well for her as for our own?”
“I doubt it; for other people would not choose to receive her as we have done.”
“That is true. She would be continually reminded of her origin. Not that that in itself would be any evil; but as they would do it by excluding or neglecting her, or, still worse, by taking liberties with her, it would be a great pain. But keeping that out of view, would it be good for herself, knowing what she will know, to be thus brought up? Would it not be kinder to bring her up in a way that would make it easier for her to relieve the gratitude which I trust she will feel, not for our sakes—I hope we are above doing anything for the sake of the gratitude which will be given for it, and which is so often far beyond the worth of the thing done—”
“Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning,”
said Ethel.
“Ah! you understand that now, my Ethel!”
“Yes, thank you, I do.”
“But we must wish for gratitude for others’ sake, though we may be willing to go without it for our own. Indeed, gratitude is often just as painful as Wordsworth there represents it. It makes us so ashamed; makes us think how much more we might have done; how lovely a thing it is to give in return for such common gifts as ours; how needy the man or woman must be in whom a trifle awakes so much emotion.”
“Yes; but we must not in justice think that it is merely that our little doing seems great to them: it is the kindness shown them therein, for which, often, they are more grateful than for the gift, though they can’t show the difference in their thanks.”
“And, indeed, are not aware of it themselves, though it is so. And yet, the same remarks hold good about the kindness as about the gift. But to return to Theodora. If we put her in a way of life that would be recognisant of whence she came, and how she had been brought thence, might it not be better for her? Would it not be building on the truth? Would she not be happier for it?”
“You are putting general propositions, while all the time you have something particular and definite in your own mind; and that is not fair to my place in the conference,” said Ethel. “In fact, you think you are trying to approach me wisely, in order to persuade, I will not say wheedle, me into something. It’s a good thing you have the harmlessness of the dove, Harry, for you’ve got the other thing.”
“Well, then, I will be as plain as ever I can be, only premising that what you call the cunning of the serpent—”
“Wisdom, Harry, not cunning.”
“Is only that I like to give my arguments before my proposition. But here it is—bare and defenceless, only—let me warn you—with a whole battery behind it: it is, to bring up little Theodora as a servant to Constance.”
My wife laughed.
“Well,” she said, “for one who says so much about not thinking of the morrow, you do look rather far forward.”
“Not with any anxiety, however, if only I know that I am doing right.”
“But just think: the child is about three months old.”
“Well; Connie will be none the worse that she is being trained for her. I don’t say that she is to commence her duties at once.”
“But Connie may be at the head of a house of her own long before that.”
“The training won’t be lost to the child though. But I much fear, my love, that Connie will never be herself again. There is no sign of it. And Turner does not give much hope.”
“O Harry, Harry, don’t say so! I can’t bear it. To think of the darling child lying like that all her life!”
“It is sad, indeed; but no such awful misfortune surely, Ethel. Haven’t you seen, as well as I, that the growth of that child’s nature since her accident has been marvellous? Ten times rather would I have her lying there such as she is, than have her well and strong and silly, with her bonnets inside instead of outside her head.”
“Yes, but she needn’t have been like that. Wynnie never will.”
“Well, but God does all things not only well, but best, absolutely best. But just think what it would be in any circumstances to have a maid that had begun to wait upon her from the first days that she was able to toddle after something to fetch it for her.”
“Won’t it be like making a slave of her?”
“Won’t it be like giving her a divine freedom from the first? The lack of service is the ruin of humanity.”
“But we can’t train her then like one of our own.”
“Why not? Could we not give her all the love and all the teaching?”
“Because it would not be fair to give her the education of a lady, and then make a servant of her.”
“You forget that the service would be part of her training from the first; and she would know no change of position in it. When we tell her that she was found in the shrubbery, we will add that we think God sent her to take care of Constance. I do not believe myself that you can have perfect service except from a lady. Do not forget the true notion of service as the essence of Christianity, yea, of divinity. It is not education that unfits for service: it is the want of it.”
“Well, I know that the reading girls I have had, have, as a rule, served me worse than the rest.”
“Would you have called one of those girls educated? Or even if they had been educated, as any of them might well have been, better than nine-tenths of the girls that go to boarding-schools, you must remember that they had never been taught service—the highest accomplishment of all. To that everything aids, when any true feeling of it is there. But for service of this high sort, the education must begin with the beginning of the dawn of will. How often have you wished that you had servants who would believe in you, and serve you with the same truth with which you regarded them! The servants born in a man’s house in the old times were more like his children than his servants. Here is a chance for you, as it were of a servant born in your own house. Connie loves the child: the child will love Connie, and find her delight in serving her like a little cherub. Not one of the maids to whom you have referred had ever been taught to think service other than an unavoidable necessity, the end of life being to serve yourself, not to serve others; and hence most of them would escape from it by any marriage almost that they had a chance of making. I don’t say all servants are like that; but I do think that most of them are. I know very well that most mistresses are as much to blame for this result as the servants are; but we are not talking about them. Servants nowadays despise work, and yet are forced to do it—a most degrading condition to be in. But they would not be in any better condition if delivered from the work. The lady who despises work is in as bad a condition as they are. The only way to set them free is to get them to regard service not only as their duty, but as therefore honourable, and besides and beyond this, in its own nature divine. In America, the very name of servant is repudiated as inconsistent with human dignity. There is no dignity but of service. How different the whole notion of training is now from what it was in the middle ages! Service was honourable then. No doubt we have made progress as a whole, but in some things we have degenerated sadly. The first thing taught then was how to serve. No man could rise to the honour of knighthood without service. A nobleman’s son even had to wait on his father, or to go into the family of another nobleman, and wait upon him as a page, standing behind his chair at dinner. This was an honour. No notion of degradation was in it. It was a necessary step to higher honour. And what was the next higher honour? To be set free from service? No. To serve in the harder service of the field; to be a squire to some noble knight; to tend his horse, to clean his armour, to see that every rivet was sound, every buckle true, every strap strong; to ride behind him, and carry his spear, and if more than one attacked him, to rush to his aid. This service was the more honourable because it was harder, and was the next step to higher honour yet. And what was this higher honour? That of