Home Again. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
of compressed life, of latent power. Through the night, where she now sat, her eyes were too dark to appear; they sank into it, and were as the unseen soul of the dark; while her mouth, rather large and exquisitely shaped, with the curve of a strong bow, seemed as often as she smiled to make a pale window in the blackness. Her hair came rather low down the steep of her forehead, and, with the strength of her chin, made her face look rounder than seemed fitting.
They sat for a time as silent as the night that infolded them. They were not lovers, though they loved each other, perhaps, more than either knew. They were watching to see the moon rise at the head of the valley on one of whose high sloping sides they sat.
The moon kept her tryst, and revealed a loveliness beyond what the day had to show. She looked upon a wide valley, that gleamed with the windings of a river. She brightened the river, and dimmed in the houses and cottages the lights with which the opposite hill sparkled like a celestial map. Lovelily she did her work in the heavens, her poor mirror-work—all she was fit for now, affording fit room, atmosphere, and medium to young imaginations, unable yet to spread their wings in the sunlight, and believe what lies hid in the light of the workaday world. Nor was what she showed the less true for what lay unshown in shrouded antagonism. The vulgar cry for the real would bury in deepest grave every eternal fact. It is the cry, “Not this man, but Barabbas!” The day would reveal a river stained with loathsome refuse, and rich gardens on hill-sides mantled in sooty smoke and evil-smelling vapors, sent up from a valley where men, like gnomes, toiled and caused to toil too eagerly. What would one think of a housekeeper so intent upon saving that she could waste no time on beauty or cleanliness? How many who would storm if they came home to an untidy house, feel no shadow of uneasiness that they have all day been defiling the house of the Father, nor at night lifted hand to cleanse it! Such men regard him as a fool, whose joy a foul river can poison; yet, as soon as they have by pollution gathered and saved their god, they make haste to depart from the spot they have ruined! Oh, for an invasion of indignant ghosts, to drive from the old places the generation that dishonors the ancient Earth! The sun shows all their disfiguring, but the friendly night comes at length to hide her disgrace; and that well hidden, slowly descends the brooding moon to unveil her beauty.
For there was a thriving town full of awful chimneys in the valley, and the clouds that rose from it ascended above the Colmans’ farm to the great moor which stretched miles and miles beyond it. In the autumn sun its low forest of heather burned purple; in the pale winter it lay white under snow and frost; but through all the year winds would blow across it the dull smell of the smoke from below. Had such a fume risen to the earthly paradise, Dante would have imagined his purgatory sinking into hell. On all this inferno the night had sunk like a foretaste of cleansing death. The fires lay smoldering like poor, hopeless devils, fain to sleep. The world was merged in a tidal wave from the ocean of hope, and seemed to heave a restful sigh under its cooling renovation.
CHAPTER III. A PENNYWORTH OF THINKING
“A penny for your thought, Walter!” said the girl, after a long silence, in which the night seemed at length to clasp her too close.
“Your penny, then! I was thinking how wild and sweet the dark wind would be blowing up there among the ringing bells of the heather.”
“You shall have the penny. I will pay you with your own coin. I keep all the pennies I win of you. What do you do with those you win of me?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I take them because you insist on paying your bets, but—”
“Debts, you mean, Walter! You know I never bet, even in fun! I hate taking things for nothing! I wouldn’t do it!”
“Then what are you making me do now?”
“Take a penny for the thought I bought of you for a penny. That’s fair trade, not gambling. And your thought to-night is well worth a penny. I felt the very wind on the moor for a moment!”
“I’m afraid I sha’n’t get a penny a thought in London!”
“Then you are going to London, Walter?”
“Yes, indeed! What else! What is a man to do here?”
“What is a man to do there?”
“Make his way in the world.”
“But, Walter, please let me understand! indeed I don’t want to be disagreeable! What do you wish to make your way to?”
“To such a position as—”
Here he stopped unsure.
“You mean to fame, and honor, and riches, don’t you, Walter?” ventured Molly.
“No—not riches. Did you ever hear of a poet and riches in the same breath?”
“Oh, yes, I have!—though somehow they don’t seem to go together comfortably. If a poet is rich, he ought to show he couldn’t help it.”
“Suppose he was made a lord, where would he then be without money?”
“If to be a lord one must be rich, he ought never to wish to be a lord. But you do not want to be either lord or millionaire, Walter, do you?”
“I hope I know better!”
“Where does the way you speak of lead then, Walter? To fame?”
“If it did, what would you have to say against it? Even Milton calls it ‘That last infirmity of noble mind!’”
“But he calls it an infirmity, and such a bad infirmity, apparently, that it is the hardest of all to get rid of!”
The fact was that Walter wanted to be—thought he was a poet, but was far from certain—feared indeed it might not be so, therefore desired greatly the verdict of men in his favor, if but for his own satisfaction. Fame was precious to him as determining, he thought, his position in the world of letters—his kingdom of heaven. Well read, he had not used his reading practically enough to perceive that the praise of one generation may be the contempt of another, perhaps of the very next, so that the repute of his time could assure him of nothing. He did not know the worthlessness of the opinion that either grants or withholds fame.
He looked through the dark at his cousin, thinking, “What sets her talking of such things? How can a girl understand a man with his career before him!”
She read him through the night and his silence.
“I know what you are thinking, Walter!” she said. “You are thinking women can’t think. But I should be ashamed not to have common sense, and I can not see the sense of doing anything for a praise that can help nothing and settle nothing.”
“Why then should all men have the desire for it?”
“That they may get rid of it Why have all men vanity? Where would the world be on the way to now, if Jesus Christ had sought the praise of men?”
“But He has it!”
“Not much of it yet, I suspect. He does not care for the praise that comes before obedience!—that’s what I have heard your father say.”
“I never heard him!”
“I have heard him say it often. What could Jesus care for the praise of one whose object in life was the praise of men!”
Walter had not lived so as to destroy the reverence of his childhood. He believed himself to have high ideals. He felt that a man must be upright, or lose his life. So strongly did he feel it, that he imagined himself therefore upright, incapable of a dishonest or mean thing. He had never done, never could, he thought, do anything unfair. But to what Molly said, he had no answer. What he half thought in his silence, was something like this: that Jesus Christ was not the type of manhood, but a man by himself, who came to do a certain work; that it was both absurd and irreverent to talk as if other men had to do as He did, to think and feel like Him; that He was so high above the world He could not care for its fame, while to mere man its praises must be dear. Nor did Walter make any right distinction between the approbation of understanding men, who know the thing they praise, and the empty voice of the unwise many.
In a word, Walter thought, without knowing he did, that Jesus