At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of rock, rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came suddenly upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with a small easel before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had his back towards us, so that we saw at once what he was painting.
“O, papa!” cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “We came over from the other side, and did not see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much.”
“Not in the least,” he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke.
I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had been making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay on the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the same direction now.
“Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?”
“Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember that most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage,” he answered.
I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark.
“Here is no common man,” I said to myself, and responded to him in something of a similar style.
“I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings themselves, as well as their works,” I said aloud.
The painter looked at me, and I looked at him.
“We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume,” he said.
“But,” I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his easel, “your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to nothing—perhaps I ought to say nothing at all—this picture must have long ago passed the chaotic stage.”
“It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it,” he returned. “I hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather pleasing, my own fancy at present.”
“Apparently,” I remarked, “you had the conical rock outside the hay for your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards it. How is that?”
“I will soon explain,” he answered. “The moment I saw this rock, it reminded me of Dante’s Purgatory.”
“Ah, you are a reader of Dante?” I said. “In the original, I hope.”
“Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going with that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never knew what intensity per se was till I began to read Dante.”
“That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture.”
“Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it suggest the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given of the place ab extra by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth canto of the Inferno. Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet it has certain mountain forms about it. I have put it at a much greater distance, you see, and have sought to make it look a solitary mountain in the midst of a great water. You will discover even now that the circles of the Purgatory are suggested without any approach, I think, to artificial structure; and there are occasional hints at figures, which you cannot definitely detach from the rocks—which, by the way, you must remember, were in one part full of sculptures. I have kept the mountain near enough, however, to indicate the great expanse of wild flowers on the top, which Matilda was so busy gathering. I want to indicate too the wind up there in the terrestrial paradise, ever and always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. Walton?”—for the young man, getting animated, began to talk as if we had known each other for some time—and here he repeated the purport of Dante’s words in English:
“An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow,
With no more strength than in a soft wind lies,
Smote peacefully against me on the brow.
By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise,
Did every one bend thitherward to where
The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise.”
“I thought you said you did not use translations?”
“I thought it possible that—Miss Walton (?)” interrogatively this—“might not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem pedantic.”
“She won’t lag far behind, I flatter myself,” I returned. “Whose translation do you quote?”
He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly:
“I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself.”
“It has the merit of being near the original at least,” I returned; “and that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can possess.”
“Then,” the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further remark upon his verses, “you see those white things in the air above?” Here he turned to Wynnie. “Miss Walton will remember—I think she was making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was—how the seagulls, or some such birds—only two or three of them—kept flitting about the top of it?”
“I remember quite well,” answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me.
“Yes,” I interposed; “my daughter, in describing what she had been attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For she said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to get loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, and risen in triumph into the air.”
Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, looked at Wynnie almost with a start.
“How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!” he said. “Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the free souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind of purgatory anyhow—is it not, Mr. Walton?”
“Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work is—whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious stones.”
“You see,” resumed the painter, “if anybody only glanced at my little picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon.”
“In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the things of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?”
“I am no theologian,” said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat coldly.
But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my way of it: here might be something new.
“If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be happy,” he said, turning again towards me.
But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish to make more marked than his own towards my last observation.
“You are very kind,” I said; “but Miss Walton does not presume to be an artist.”
I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie’s countenance. When I turned to Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make amends.
“We are just going to have some coffee,” I said, “for my servants, I see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Walton?”
“With much pleasure,” he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a fine-built, black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes notwithstanding, a rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But there was an air of suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, did not in the least interfere with the manliness of his countenance, or of its expression.
“But,” I said, “how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet know your name.”
I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied,
“My name is Percivale—Charles Percivale.”
“A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur’s Round Table?”
“I cannot count quite so far back,” he answered, “as that—not quite to the Conquest,” he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. “I do come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale.”
We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves towards the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and Wynnie lingering behind.
“O, do look here papa!” she cried, from some little distance.
We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and passing out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and not always, I do not know. But there they were—and such colours! deep rose and grassy green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, yet brilliant and intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were of a solid-looking burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on behind translucent crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth turning to see; and so I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on vanishing, one by one. Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and was nowhere.
We walked away again towards the rest of our party.
“Don’t you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones you ever saw, papa?”
“Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, God seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal.”
“And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?’ she said interrogatively.
“Many—perhaps most flowers are,” I granted. “And did you ever see such curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?”
“I think not—in the cirrhous clouds at least—the frozen ones. But what are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?”
“O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one of us should ask you some day.”
“No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or that by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have found out some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your catechism, Wynnie. Now for your puzzle!”
“It’s not a funny question, papa; it’s a very serious one. I can’t think why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful things wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be no more. Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?”
“In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we will not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the more material loveliness of which you have been speaking—though, in truth, no loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; it is, I think, because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all beautiful things vanish quickly.”
“I do not understand you, papa.”
“I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. Percivale will excuse me.”
“On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the answer.”
“Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something like them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to love the body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die continually, that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is full of beautiful things, but God has saved many men from loving the mere bodies of them, by making them poor; and more still by reminding them that if they be as rich as Croesus all their lives, they will be as poor as Diogenes—poorer, without even a tub—when this world, with all its pictures, scenery, books, and—alas for some Christians!—bibles even, shall have vanished away.”
“Why do you say alas, papa—if they are Christians especially?”
“I say alas only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean such as are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving themselves any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the anise and cummin, and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These worship the body of the truth, and forget the soul of it. If the flowers were not perishable, we should cease to contemplate their beauty, either blinded by the passion for hoarding the bodies of them, or dulled by the hebetude of commonplaceness that the constant presence of them would occasion. To compare great things with small, the flowers wither, the bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets pass, for the very same holy reason, in the degree of its application to them, for which the Lord withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to his Father—that the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things, might come to them and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the Father be revealed. The flower is not its loveliness, and its loveliness we must love, else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy children, who gather and gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a mere desire of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but the same in kind, however harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice of the miser. Therefore God, that we may always have them, and ever learn to love their beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the beneficent winter that we may think about what we have lost, and welcome them when they come again with greater tenderness and love, with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts to understand, the spirit that dwells in them. We cannot do without the ‘winter of our discontent.’ Shakspere surely saw that when he makes Titania say, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream:
‘The human mortals want their winter here’—
namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter the line seem to have been capable of understanding its import.”
“I think I understand you a little,” answered Wynnie. Then, changing her tone, “I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn’t I?”
“Yes, my child; but with this difference—I found the answer to meet my own necessities, not yours.”
“And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it.”
“Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you give away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right to offer any spiritual dish to his neighbour.”
Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had presented him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects by a somewhat stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation into a farewell, and, either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having changed his mind, withdrew, a little to my disappointment, for, notwithstanding his lack of response where some things he said would have led me to expect it, I had begun to feel much interested in him.
He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her digging, with an eager look on her sunny face.
“Hasn’t he got nice boots, papa?”
“Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I never saw his boots.”
“I did, then,” returned the child; “and I never saw such nice boots.”
“I accept the statement willingly,” I replied; and we heard no more of the boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I see himself again for some days—not in fact till next Sunday—though why he should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, especially when I knew him better.
CHAPTER III. THE BLACKSMITH
The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. It was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the first to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the village, I soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have no doubt, could shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any greater delicacy of touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I heard of a young smith who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of miles distant, but still within the parish. In the afternoon I set out to find him. To my surprise, he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking man, with a huge frame, which appeared worn rather than naturally thin, and large eyes that looked at the anvil as if it was the horizon of the world. He had got a horse-shoe in his tongs when I entered. Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the hearth, and the sparks that flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his person, the place looked very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze of the almost noontide sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through which I had come, and which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the smith by the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was dark.
“Good-morning,” I said. “It is a good thing to find a man by his work. I heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the glow of your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire.”
He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly as if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip.
“I don’t know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in weather like this,” he answered.
“If I did not,” I returned, “that would be the fault of my weakness, and would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine thing to work in fire.”
“Well, you may be right,” he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next let the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his head for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. “It does not much matter to me,” he went on, “if I only get through my work and have done with it. No man shall say I shirked what I’d got to do. And then when it’s over there won’t be a word to say agen me, or—”
He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying in a somewhat dreary patch, if the word dreary can be truly used with respect to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor.
“I hope you are not ill,” I said.
He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam one of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and put it on the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it in the fire, and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. “This man will do for my work,” I said to myself; “though I should not wonder from the look of him if it was the last piece of work he ever did under the New Jerusalem.” The smith’s words broke in on my meditations.
“When I was a little boy,” he said, “I once wanted to stay at home from school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. I told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped her at her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in the afternoon the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he asked me what was the matter with me, and my mother answered for me that I had a bad head, and he looked at me; and as my head was quite well by this time, I could not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, I suppose, sir, for I can’t account for what he said any other way; and he turned to me, and he said to me, solemn-like, ‘Is your head bad enough to send you to the Lord Jesus to make you whole?’ I could not speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I suppose, for I was but ten years old. So he followed it up, as they say: ‘Then you ought to be at school,’ says he. I said nothing, because I couldn’t. But never since then have I given in as long as I could stand. And I can stand now, and lift my hammer, too,” he said, as he took the horse-shoe from the forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of coruscating iron.
“You are just the man I want,” I said. “I’ve got a job for you, down to Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts.”
“What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha’ thought the church was all spick and span by this time.”
“I see you know who I am,” I said.
“Of course I do,” he answered. “I don’t go to church myself, being brought up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is known the next day all over it.”
“You won’t mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?” I asked.
“Not I, sir. If I’ve read right, it’s the fault of the Church that we don’t pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn’t go out of ourselves. At least, if all they say is true, which I can’t be sure of, you know, in this world.”
“You are quite right there though,” I answered. “And in doing so, the Church had the worst of it—as all that judge and punish their neighbours have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of which is to be laid to the charge of the Church. For there is not one clergyman I know—mind, I say, that I know—who would have made such a cruel speech to a boy as that the Methodist parson made to you.”
“But it did me good, sir?”
“Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did not make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your strength—I don’t mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all that could be wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not some danger of your leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon unprovided for? Is there not some danger of your having worked as if God were a hard master?—of your having worked fiercely, indignantly, as if he wronged you by not caring for you, not understanding you?”
He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether he felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then tell. I thought it best to conclude the interview with business.
“I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you are just the man to do it to my mind,” I said.
“What is it, sir?” he asked, in a friendly manner enough.
“If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about it,” I returned.
“As you please, sir. When do you want me?”
“The first hour you can come.”
“To-morrow morning?”
“If you feel inclined.”
“For that matter, I’d rather go to bed.”
“Come to me instead: it’s light work.”
“I will, sir—at ten o’clock.”
“If you please.”
And so it was arranged.