THE PARISH TRILOGY - Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, The Seaboard Parish & The Vicar's Daughter. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
to me either."
"Well, before we say another word," said Mr Stoddart, "I must just say one word about this report of my unsociable disposition.—I encourage it; but am very glad to see you, notwithstanding.—Do sit down."
I obeyed, and waited for the rest of his word.
"I was so bored with visits after I came, visits which were to me utterly uninteresting, that I was only too glad when the unusual nature of some of my pursuits gave rise to the rumour that I was mad. The more people say I am mad, the better pleased I am, so long as they are satisfied with my own mode of shutting myself up, and do not attempt to carry out any fancies of their own in regard to my personal freedom."
Upon this followed some desultory conversation, during which I took some observations of the room. Like the outer room, it was full of books from floor to ceiling. But the ceiling was divided into compartments, harmoniously coloured.
"What a number of books you have!" I observed.
"Not a great many," he answered. "But I think there is hardly one of them with which I have not some kind of personal acquaintance. I think I could almost find you any one you wanted in the dark, or in the twilight at least, which would allow me to distinguish whether the top edge was gilt, red, marbled, or uncut. I have bound a couple of hundred or so of them myself. I don't think you could tell the work from a tradesman's. I'll give you a guinea for the poor-box if you pick out three of my binding consecutively."
I accepted the challenge; for although I could not bind a book, I considered myself to have a keen eye for the outside finish. After looking over the backs of a great many, I took one down, examined a little further, and presented it.
"You are right. Now try again."
Again I was successful, although I doubted.
"And now for the last," he said.
Once more I was right.
"There is your guinea," said he, a little mortified.
"No," I answered. "I do not feel at liberty to take it, because, to tell the truth, the last was a mere guess, nothing more."
Mr Stoddart looked relieved.
"You are more honest than most of your profession," he said. "But I am far more pleased to offer you the guinea upon the smallest doubt of your having won it."
"I have no claim upon it."
"What! Couldn't you swallow a small scruple like that for the sake of the poor even? Well, I don't believe YOU could.—Oblige me by taking this guinea for some one or other of your poor people. But I AM glad you weren't sure of that last book. I am indeed."
I took the guinea, and put it in my purse.
"But," he resumed, "you won't do, Mr Walton. You're not fit for your profession. You won't tell a lie for God's sake. You won't dodge about a little to keep all right between Jove and his weary parishioners. You won't cheat a little for the sake of the poor! You wouldn't even bamboozle a little at a bazaar!"
"I should not like to boast of my principles," I answered; "for the moment one does so, they become as the apples of Sodom. But assuredly I would not favour a fiction to keep a world out of hell. The hell that a lie would keep any man out of is doubtless the very best place for him to go to. It is truth, yes, The Truth that saves the world."
"You are right, I daresay. You are more sure about it than I am though."
"Let us agree where we can," I said, "first of all; and that will make us able to disagree, where we must, without quarrelling."
"Good," he said—"Would you like to see my work shop?"
"Very much, indeed," I answered, heartily.
"Do you take any pleasure in applied mechanics?"
"I used to do so as a boy. But of course I have little time now for anything of the sort."
"Ah! of course."
He pushed a compartment of books. It yielded, and we entered a small closet. In another moment I found myself leaving the floor, and in yet a moment we were on the floor of an upper room.
"What a nice way of getting up-stairs!" I said.
"There is no other way of getting to this room," answered Mr Stoddart. "I built it myself; and there was no room for stairs. This is my shop. In my library I only read my favourite books. Here I read anything I want to read; write anything I want to write; bind my books; invent machines; and amuse myself generally. Take a chair."
I obeyed, and began to look about me.
The room had many books in detached book-cases. There were various benches against the walls between,—one a bookbinder's; another a carpenter's; a third had a turning-lathe; a fourth had an iron vice fixed on it, and was evidently used for working in metal. Besides these, for it was a large room, there were several tables with chemical apparatus upon them, Florence-flasks, retorts, sand-baths, and such like; while in a corner stood a furnace.
"What an accumulation of ways and means you have about you!" I said; "and all, apparently, to different ends."
"All to the same end, if my object were understood."
"I presume I must ask no questions as to that object?"
"It would take time to explain. I have theories of education. I think a man has to educate himself into harmony. Therefore he must open every possible window by which the influences of the All may come in upon him. I do not think any man complete without a perfect development of his mechanical faculties, for instance, and I encourage them to develop themselves into such windows."
"I do not object to your theory, provided you do not put it forward as a perfect scheme of human life. If you did, I should have some questions to ask you about it, lest I should misunderstand you."
He smiled what I took for a self-satisfied smile. There was nothing offensive in it, but it left me without anything to reply to. No embarrassment followed, however, for a rustling motion in the room the same instant attracted my attention, and I saw, to my surprise, and I must confess, a little to my confusion, Miss Oldcastle. She was seated in a corner, reading from a quarto lying upon her knees.
"Oh! you didn't know my niece was here? To tell the truth, I forgot her when I brought you up, else I would have introduced you."
"That is not necessary, uncle," said Miss Oldcastle, closing her book.
I was by her instantly. She slipped the quarto from her knee, and took my offered hand.
"Are you fond of old books?" I said, not having anything better to say.
"Some old books," she answered.
"May I ask what book you were reading?"
"I will answer you—under protest," she said, with a smile.
"I withdraw the question at once," I returned.
"I will answer it notwithstanding. It is a volume of Jacob Behmen."
"Do you understand him?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"Well, I have made but little attempt," I answered. "Indeed, it was only as I passed through London last that I bought his works; and I am sorry to find that one of the plates is missing from my copy."
"Which plate is it? It is not very easy, I understand, to procure a perfect copy. One of my uncle's copies has no two volumes bound alike. Each must have belonged to a different set."
"I can't tell you what the plate is. But there are only three of those very curious unfolding ones in my third volume, and there should be four."
"I do not think so. Indeed, I am sure you are wrong."
"I am glad to hear it—though to be glad that the world does not possess what I thought I only was deprived of, is selfishness, cover it over as one may with the fiction of a perfect copy."
"I don't know," she returned, without any response