The Choir Invisible [79]
My father! He had his faults, but they were all the faults of a gentleman. And the faults of my brothers were the faults of gentlemen. I never saw my mother; but I know how genuine she was by the books she liked and her dresses and her jewels, and the manner in which she had things put away in the closets. One's childhood is everything! If I had not felt I was all there was in the world to speak for my father and my mother and my brothers! Ah, sometimes pride is the greatest of virtues!"
He bowed his head in assent.
With a swift transition she changed her voice and manner and the conversation: "That is enough about me. Have you thought that you will soon be talking to the greatest man in the world--you who love ideals?"
"I have not thought of it lately." "You will think of it soon! And that reminds me: why did you go away as you did the last time you were here--when I wanted to talk with you about the book?"
Her eyes questioned him imperiously. "I cannot tell you: that is one of the things you'd better not wish to understand.
She continued to look at him, and when she spoke, her voice was full of relief: "It was the first time you ever did anything that I could not understand: I could not read your face that day." "Can you read it now?" he asked, smiling at her sorrowfully. "Perfectly!"
"What do you read?"
"Everything that I have always liked you for most. Memories are a great deal to me. Ah, if you had ever done anything to spoil yours!" Do you think that if I loved a woman she would know it by looking at my face?" "You would tell her: that is your nature."
"Would I? Should I?"
"Why not?" There was silence. "Let me talk to you about the book," he cried suddenly. He closed his eyes and passed one hand several times slowly across his forehead; then facing her but with his arm resting on the back of the seat and his eyes shaded by his hand he began:
"You were right: it is a book I have needed. At first it appeared centuries old to me and far away: the greatest gorgeous picture I had ever seen of human life anywhere. I could never tell you of the regret with which it filled me not to have lived in those days--of the longing to have been at Camelot to have seen the King and to have served him; to have been friends with the best of the Knights; to have taken their vows; to have gone out with them to right what was wrong, to wrong nothing that was right."
The words were wrung from him with slow terrible effort, as though he were forcing himself to draw nearer and nearer some spot of supreme mental struggle. She listened, stilled, as she had never been by any words of his. At the same time she felt stifled--felt that she should have to cry out--that he could be so deeply moved and so self-controlled.
More slowly, with more composure, he went on. He was still turned toward her, his hand shading the upper part of his face:
"It was not until--not until--afterwards--that I got something more out of it than all that--got what I suppose you meant. . . . suppose you meant that the whole story was not far away from me but present here--its right and wrong--its temptation; that there was no vow a man could take then that a man must not take now; that every man still has his Camelot and his King, still has to prove his courage and his strength to all men . . . and that after he has proved these, he has--as his last, highest act of service in the world. . . to lay them all down, give them all up, for the sake of--of his spirit. You meant that I too, in my life, am to go in quest of the Grail: is it all that?"
The tears lay mute on her eyes. She rose quickly and walked away to the garden. He followed her. When they had entered it, he strolled beside her among the plants.
"You must see them once more," she said. Her tone was perfectly quiet and careless. Then she continued with animation: "Some day you will not know this garden. When we are richer, you will see what I shall do: with it, with the house, with everything! I do not live altogether on memories: I have hopes."
They came to the bench
He bowed his head in assent.
With a swift transition she changed her voice and manner and the conversation: "That is enough about me. Have you thought that you will soon be talking to the greatest man in the world--you who love ideals?"
"I have not thought of it lately." "You will think of it soon! And that reminds me: why did you go away as you did the last time you were here--when I wanted to talk with you about the book?"
Her eyes questioned him imperiously. "I cannot tell you: that is one of the things you'd better not wish to understand.
She continued to look at him, and when she spoke, her voice was full of relief: "It was the first time you ever did anything that I could not understand: I could not read your face that day." "Can you read it now?" he asked, smiling at her sorrowfully. "Perfectly!"
"What do you read?"
"Everything that I have always liked you for most. Memories are a great deal to me. Ah, if you had ever done anything to spoil yours!" Do you think that if I loved a woman she would know it by looking at my face?" "You would tell her: that is your nature."
"Would I? Should I?"
"Why not?" There was silence. "Let me talk to you about the book," he cried suddenly. He closed his eyes and passed one hand several times slowly across his forehead; then facing her but with his arm resting on the back of the seat and his eyes shaded by his hand he began:
"You were right: it is a book I have needed. At first it appeared centuries old to me and far away: the greatest gorgeous picture I had ever seen of human life anywhere. I could never tell you of the regret with which it filled me not to have lived in those days--of the longing to have been at Camelot to have seen the King and to have served him; to have been friends with the best of the Knights; to have taken their vows; to have gone out with them to right what was wrong, to wrong nothing that was right."
The words were wrung from him with slow terrible effort, as though he were forcing himself to draw nearer and nearer some spot of supreme mental struggle. She listened, stilled, as she had never been by any words of his. At the same time she felt stifled--felt that she should have to cry out--that he could be so deeply moved and so self-controlled.
More slowly, with more composure, he went on. He was still turned toward her, his hand shading the upper part of his face:
"It was not until--not until--afterwards--that I got something more out of it than all that--got what I suppose you meant. . . . suppose you meant that the whole story was not far away from me but present here--its right and wrong--its temptation; that there was no vow a man could take then that a man must not take now; that every man still has his Camelot and his King, still has to prove his courage and his strength to all men . . . and that after he has proved these, he has--as his last, highest act of service in the world. . . to lay them all down, give them all up, for the sake of--of his spirit. You meant that I too, in my life, am to go in quest of the Grail: is it all that?"
The tears lay mute on her eyes. She rose quickly and walked away to the garden. He followed her. When they had entered it, he strolled beside her among the plants.
"You must see them once more," she said. Her tone was perfectly quiet and careless. Then she continued with animation: "Some day you will not know this garden. When we are richer, you will see what I shall do: with it, with the house, with everything! I do not live altogether on memories: I have hopes."
They came to the bench