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Wilfrid Cumbermede
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‘How very ill-bred you are—to say such wicked things, Charley!’ said Clara.
‘Am I? They are better unmentioned. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die! Only don’t allude to the unpleasant subject.’
He burst out singing: the verses were poor, but I will give them.
‘Let the sun shimmer!
Let the wind blow!
All is a notion—What
do we know?
Let the moon glimmer!
Let the stream flow!
All is but motion
To and fro!
‘Let the rose wither!
Let the stars glow!
Let the rain batter—
Drift sleet and snow!
Bring the tears hither!
Let the smiles go!
What does it matter?
To and fro!
‘To and fro ever,
Motion and show!
Nothing goes onward—
Hurry or no!
All is one river—
Seaward and so
Up again sunward—
To and fro!
‘Pendulum sweeping
High, and now low!
That star—tic, blot it!
Tac, let it go!
Time he is reaping
Hay for his mow;
That flower—he’s got it!
To and fro!
‘Such a scythe swinging,
Mighty and slow!
Ripping and slaying—
Hey nonny no!
Black Ribs is singing—
Chorus—Hey, ho!
What is he saying—
To and fro?
‘Singing and saying
“Grass is hay—ho!
Love is a longing;
Water is snow.”
Swinging and swaying,
Toll the bells go!
Dinging and donging
To and fro!’
‘Oh, Charley!’ said his sister, with suppressed agony, ‘what a wicked song!’
‘It is a wicked song,’ I said. ‘But I meant–it only represents an unbelieving, hopeless mood.’
‘You wrote it, then!’ she said, giving me—as it seemed, involuntarily—a look of reproach.
‘Yes, I did; but—’
‘Then I think you are very horrid,’ said Clara, interrupting.
‘Charley!’ I said, ‘you must not leave your sister to think so badly of me! You know why I wrote it—and what I meant.’
‘I wish I had written it myself,’ he returned. ‘I think it splendid. Anybody might envy you that song.’
‘But you know I didn’t mean it for a true one.’
‘Who knows whether it is true or false?’
‘I know,’ said Mary: ‘I know it is false.’
‘And I hope it,’ I adjoined.
‘Whatever put such horrid things into your head, Wilfrid?’ asked Clara.
‘Probably the fear lest they should be true. The verses came as I sat in a country church once, not long ago.’
‘In a church!’ exclaimed Mary.
‘Oh! he does go to church sometimes,’ said Charley, with a laugh.
‘How could you think of it in church?’ persisted Mary.
‘It’s more like the churchyard,’ said Clara.
‘It was in an old church in a certain desolate sea-forsaken town,’ I said. ‘The pendulum of the clock—a huge, long, heavy, slow thing—hangs far down into the church, and goes swing, swang over your head, three or four seconds to every swing. When you have heard the tic, your heart grows faint every time between—waiting for the tac, which seems as if it would never come.’
We were ascending the acclivity, and no one spoke again before we reached the top. There a wide landscape lay stretched before us. The mist was rapidly melting away before the gathering strength of the sun: as we stood and gazed we could see it vanishing. By slow degrees the colours of the Autumn woods dawned out of it. Close under us lay a great wave of gorgeous red—beeches, I think—in the midst of which, here and there, stood up, tall and straight and dark, the unchanging green of a fir-tree. The glow of a hectic death was over the landscape, melting away into the misty fringe of the far horizon. Overhead the sky was blue, with a clear thin blue that told of withdrawing suns and coming frosts.
‘For my part,’ I said, ‘I cannot believe that beyond this loveliness there lies no greater. Who knows, Charley, but death may be the first recognizable step of the progress of which you despair?’
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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Классная книга. Очень многое объясняет, что скрытое реально происходит в человеке