The Choir Invisible [45]
house cat. I'll think of the cat; you think of some woman; and we'll see what we come to."
"I'll not do it," said John. "She's too noble."
"Just for fun!"
"There's no fun in comparing a woman to a cat."
"There is if she doesn't know it. Come, begin!" And the parson laid one long forefinger on one long little finger and waited for the first specification. "Fineness," said John, thinking of a certain woman.
"Fondness for a nap," said the parson, thinking of a certain cat.
"Grace," said John. "Inability to express thanks," said the parson.
"A beautiful form," said John."A desire to be stroked," said the parson. "Sympathy," said John. "Oh, no!" said the parson; "no cat has any sympathy. A dog has: a man is more of a dog." "Noble-mindedness," said John.
"That will not do either," said the parson. "Cats are not noble-minded; it's preposterous!"
"Perfect case of manner," said John.
"Perfect indifference of manner," said the parson."
"No vanity," said John. "No sense of humour," said the parson.
"Plenty of wit," said John.
"You keep on thinking too much about some woman," remonstrated the parson, slightly exasperated.
"Fastidiousness," said John.
"Soft hands and beautiful nails," said the parson, nodding encouragingly.
"A gentle footstep," said John with a softened look coming into his eyes. "A quiet presence."
"Beautiful taste in music," said John.
"Oh! dreadful!" said the parson. "What on earth are you thinking about?"
"The love of rugs and cushions," said John, groping desperately. "The love of a lap," said the parson fluently.
"The love of playing with its victim," said John, thinking of another woman.
"Capital!" cried the parson. "That's the truest thing we've said. We'll not spoil it by another word;" but he searched John's face covertly to see whether this talk had beguiled him.
All this satire meant nothing sour, or bitter, or ignoble with the parson. It was merely the low, far-off play of the northern lights of his mind, irradiating the long polar night of his bachelorhood. But even on the polar night the sun rises--a little way; and the time came when he married--as one might expect to find the flame of a volcano hidden away in a mountain of Iceland spar.
Toward the end of his illness, John lay one night inside his door, looking soberly, sorrowfully out into the moonlight. A chair sat outside, and the parson walked quietly up the green hill and took it. Then he laid his hat on the grass; and passed his delicate hands slowly backward over his long fine straight hair, on which the moonbeams at once fell with a luster as upon still water or the finest satin.
They talked awhile of the best things in life, as they commonly did. At length the parson said in his unworldly way:
"I have one thing against Aristotle: he said the effect of the flute was bad and exciting. He was no true Greek. John, have you ever thought how much of life can be expressed in terms of music? To me every civilization has given out its distinct musical quality; the ages have their peculiar tones; each century its key, its scale. For generations in Greece you can hear nothing but the pipes; during other generations nothing but the lyre. Think of the long, long time among the Romans when your ear is reached by the trumpet alone.
"Then again whole events in history come down to me with the effect of an orchestra, playing in the distance; single lives sometimes like a great solo. As for the people I know or have known, some have to me the sound of brass, some the sound of wood, some the sound of strings. Only--so few, so very, very few yield the perfect music of their kind. The brass is a little too loud; the wood a little too muffled; the strings--some of the strings are invariably broken. I know a big man who is nothing but a big drum; and I know another whose whole existence has been a jig on a fiddle; and I know a shrill little fellow who is a fife; and I know a brassy girl who is a pair of cymbals; and once--once," repeated the parson whimsically, "I knew an old maid who was
"I'll not do it," said John. "She's too noble."
"Just for fun!"
"There's no fun in comparing a woman to a cat."
"There is if she doesn't know it. Come, begin!" And the parson laid one long forefinger on one long little finger and waited for the first specification. "Fineness," said John, thinking of a certain woman.
"Fondness for a nap," said the parson, thinking of a certain cat.
"Grace," said John. "Inability to express thanks," said the parson.
"A beautiful form," said John."A desire to be stroked," said the parson. "Sympathy," said John. "Oh, no!" said the parson; "no cat has any sympathy. A dog has: a man is more of a dog." "Noble-mindedness," said John.
"That will not do either," said the parson. "Cats are not noble-minded; it's preposterous!"
"Perfect case of manner," said John.
"Perfect indifference of manner," said the parson."
"No vanity," said John. "No sense of humour," said the parson.
"Plenty of wit," said John.
"You keep on thinking too much about some woman," remonstrated the parson, slightly exasperated.
"Fastidiousness," said John.
"Soft hands and beautiful nails," said the parson, nodding encouragingly.
"A gentle footstep," said John with a softened look coming into his eyes. "A quiet presence."
"Beautiful taste in music," said John.
"Oh! dreadful!" said the parson. "What on earth are you thinking about?"
"The love of rugs and cushions," said John, groping desperately. "The love of a lap," said the parson fluently.
"The love of playing with its victim," said John, thinking of another woman.
"Capital!" cried the parson. "That's the truest thing we've said. We'll not spoil it by another word;" but he searched John's face covertly to see whether this talk had beguiled him.
All this satire meant nothing sour, or bitter, or ignoble with the parson. It was merely the low, far-off play of the northern lights of his mind, irradiating the long polar night of his bachelorhood. But even on the polar night the sun rises--a little way; and the time came when he married--as one might expect to find the flame of a volcano hidden away in a mountain of Iceland spar.
Toward the end of his illness, John lay one night inside his door, looking soberly, sorrowfully out into the moonlight. A chair sat outside, and the parson walked quietly up the green hill and took it. Then he laid his hat on the grass; and passed his delicate hands slowly backward over his long fine straight hair, on which the moonbeams at once fell with a luster as upon still water or the finest satin.
They talked awhile of the best things in life, as they commonly did. At length the parson said in his unworldly way:
"I have one thing against Aristotle: he said the effect of the flute was bad and exciting. He was no true Greek. John, have you ever thought how much of life can be expressed in terms of music? To me every civilization has given out its distinct musical quality; the ages have their peculiar tones; each century its key, its scale. For generations in Greece you can hear nothing but the pipes; during other generations nothing but the lyre. Think of the long, long time among the Romans when your ear is reached by the trumpet alone.
"Then again whole events in history come down to me with the effect of an orchestra, playing in the distance; single lives sometimes like a great solo. As for the people I know or have known, some have to me the sound of brass, some the sound of wood, some the sound of strings. Only--so few, so very, very few yield the perfect music of their kind. The brass is a little too loud; the wood a little too muffled; the strings--some of the strings are invariably broken. I know a big man who is nothing but a big drum; and I know another whose whole existence has been a jig on a fiddle; and I know a shrill little fellow who is a fife; and I know a brassy girl who is a pair of cymbals; and once--once," repeated the parson whimsically, "I knew an old maid who was