III
And Then Came Spring!
The beauty of winter was fading as the thaws began their work, patches of bare ground appearing, patches of deep snow remaining in the gullies, remnants of drifts. Each day the scene became more desolate; mud and slush everywhere. But the child was not downhearted. Any kind of weather suited him, or rather he suited himself to any kind of weather, for he was adaptable by nature—which meant in this case abundant glowing health.
The hounds of spring may have been on winter’s traces; he knew nothing about that. His immediate interests lay in the rivulets which emerged at the lower end of the gully drifts. He wished to know just where these rivulets started. So he shoveled off the snow and broke off the underlying decaying ice until the desired point of information was reached. Then he would go immediately to another drift, and operate on that to see if the result tallied with the first. This work completely absorbed him. It gave him new and exciting sensations. Then, too, he would tramp over the sodden stubble of the fields, and plow along the muddy roads. He would hunt about eagerly to find by actual test which places were the soggiest, and just where the mud was deepest and stickiest. Then came rains upon rains. The snow vanished. Earth, fields, trees: All was bare. The child took this for granted.
He did not know, he did not suspect, because of the city life he had led, that out of this commonplace bare earth—indeed now hidden within it—was to arise a spectacle of entrancing beauty. The rains became showers, occasionally sparkling in the sunshine. The winds became mild breezes. There settled over all a calm, a peace, an atmospheric sense that caressed and encouraged. And thus came spring. The grass appeared as a delicate deepening influence of green. Did not the child soon find the earliest pussy-willows, the first crocuses in the garden? Did he not note the delicate filigree appearing as a mist on tree and shrub, and the tiny wild plants peeping through the damp leaves of autumn in his favorite woods? Did he not really see things moving? Was not the filigree becoming denser and more colorful? Was not the grass actually growing, and the tiny plants rising higher? Was not the garden becoming a stirring thing like the rest? The outburst of bloom upon peach tree, cherry and plum, evoked an equal outburst of ecstasy and acclaim, an equal joy of living. Was not something moving, were not all things moving as in a parade, a pageant? Was not the sunshine warm and glowing? Had not the splendor come upon him as upon one unprepared? He heard the murmur of honeybees, saw them burrowing into flowers, fussily seeking something and then away; and the deep droning of the bumblebee, the chirping of many insects, the croaking of crows, as in a flock so black, they flew heavily by, and the varied songs of many birds; riotously shaping, all, on one great tune with bees, insects, flowers and trees. Were not things moving? Was not something moving with great power? Was there to be no end to the sweet, clamorous joy of all living things, himself the center of all? Could he stand it any longer? Then of a sudden the apple orchards sang aloud! What made them thus burst forth? Was it that same power, silent amidst the clamor? Was it a something serene, sweet, loving, caressing, that seemed to awaken, to persuade, to urge; yea, to lure on to frenzy, to utmost exaltation, himself and the world about him, the new, the marvelous world of springtime in the open—a world that became a part of this child that went forth every day, a world befitting him and destined to abide with him through all his days? Oh, how glorious were the orchards in full bloom! What mountains of blossoms! What wide-flung spread of enravishing splendor! The child became overstrung. Yet his heart found relief from suffocation in his running about, his loud shouts of glorification and of awe, his innumerable running-returns to the house to say breathlessly, “Come Grandmama! Come see! Come see!” He wished to share his joy with all. These wonder-orchards were his, the fields, the woods, the birds were his; the sky, the sun, the clouds were his; they were his friends, and to this beauteous world he gave himself. For how could he know, that far, far from this scene of love, of pride and joy, men were slaughtering each other every day in tens, in hundreds and in thousands? True, at the appointed hour, he had run about the house shouting “Fort Donelson’s taken! Fort Donelson’s taken!” and equally true he had made monitors out of a bit of lath and the bung of a flour barrel, and with greater difficulties a Merrimac. He had sailed them in a washtub filled with water. Further, he had listened to some talk about the war between the North and the South. He heard some talk about “Rebels” and “Yanks.” Yet it was all vague, and distant beyond his hills. It was all indistinct. He knew nothing about war—he does now.
Spring passed slowly on, things were surely moving. The petals had fallen, and tiny round things appeared in their places. Trees were coming to full foliage, their branches swaying, leaves fluttering in the breeze. Plowing, harrowing and seeding were over. He had been given a tiny patch in the main garden to be all his own, and with toy tools he worked the soil and planted flower seeds. He became impatient when certain nasturtium seeds failed to show above the surface, so he dug them up with his fingers, only to be astonished that they had really put forth roots. He pressed them back into the earth. To his sorrow that was the end of them. For a first attempt however he did pretty well.
He learned little by little. He was now abundantly freckled, and in a measure toothless. His heavy thatch of black hair seemed to have known no brush. His hands were soiled, his clothes were dirty. Hatless, barefooted, his short pants rolled above his knees, and unkempt with activity, he was effectively masked as a son of the soil. To the passerby, he was a stout, stocky, miniature ruffian, let loose upon a helpless world. The more discerning noted two fine eyes, clear and bright. He saw all things just as they were. The time had not arrived for him to penetrate the surface. Exceedingly emotional—though unaware of it—the responses of his heart, the momentary fleeting trances, the sudden dreaming within a dream, perturbed him.
He wished to know about these; he wished to know what it was that enthralled him time after time. And in this he failed also; he could not interpret—few can. For that which perturbed him lay far deeper than his thoughts—a living mystic presence within the selfsame open that was his. Per contra, he was generally regarded as a practical little fellow who liked to work. Casually speaking the family was “without the pale.” The father had some nondescript notions, without form, and void. He was attracted by the artistic, especially by the painter’s art. He was well posted as to the names and works of contemporaries, and was a fairly good judge of landscape and still-life; also he admired a fine orchestra. He had tried church after church seeking what he wanted. What he wanted was not priest or preacher, but a thinker and orator. At last he found, in Theodore Parker, the satisfaction of his quest. Going alone, he attended regularly. From this it may be inferred that he leaned toward Unitarianism. Nothing of the sort—he leaned toward oratory. If Unitarianism went with it, well and good. It was of no moment. He praised Parker highly.
Mother had a fixed idea that existence was continuous in a series of expanding becomings, life after life, in a spiral ascending and ever ascending until perfection should be reached in a bodiless state of bliss. This ethereal belief, opened to view the beauty and purity of her heart. Moreover, she read with avidity Renan’s Vie de Jesu.
Grandpa looked upon religion as a curious and amusing human weakness—as conclusive evidence of universal stupidity. Grandma alone was devout. Quietly she believed in her God; in the compassion of His Son, in the wondrous love He bore—a love freely given to the outcast—a love so great, so tender, so merciful, that for its sake he yielded up in agony His earthly being, the supreme sacrifice, to the end that all men might be blessed thereby; that, as His mortality passed, His supernal love might be revealed to men throughout all time; that His divine being ascended through the firmament to join the Father in Glory on the throne of Heaven. These things she firmly believed. They were the atmosphere of her inner life, the incentive of her daily deeds. She believed in doctrine—and it may be in dogma. She held the scriptures of the Hebrews to be sacrosanct—as verily inspired of God. She did not seek to proselyte. She was satisfied to abide in her faith, undisturbed and undisturbing. Perhaps this is why her grandson loved her so. Innocent of creed, of doctrine and dogma, he loved her because she was good, he loved her because she was true, he loved her because to his adoring eyes she was beautiful. Such was Grandmama.
Otherwise Grandmama was the responsible head of a family consisting of herself, her husband, her son and her grandson. She was methodical, orderly, knew the true meaning of thrift, entered every item promptly in the account books, struck the monthly balance, had a fine mind for figures, and withal she was prudently generous. Her main business was to give private lessons in French to certain brahmins and their offspring in that curious city called Boston. In her leisure moments, she knitted, knitted, knitted; gloves, mittens, scarves, socks, stockings, shawls; she knitted in silk, in wool, in cotton; she knitted with wooden needles and with steel needles; sometimes she used two needles, sometimes three. Frequently in night’s still hours, she read in her Bible. Her precise hour of retiring was always 1 a.m. She had her coffee served in bed, and arose precisely at 10 a.m. Grandpa’s hours were reverse. At or about 8 o’clock in the evening he would lay down his long-stemmed clay pipe, yawn, chirrup a bit, drag himself from his comfortable chair, kiss everyone goodnight and make his exit. His grandson, following soon after, passed the open door at the head of the stairs. He always looked in, and always saw grandpa stretched full length in bed, reading by the light of a student lamp some book on astronomy. The child did not intrude. He knew full well that however much Grandpa ridiculed so many things, he never poked fun at the solar system. In this domain, and the star-laden firmament, he lived his real life. This was his grand passion. All else was trivial. The vastness awed him; the brilliance inspired him; he kept close track of the movements of the planets. He read endlessly about the moon and the vast, fiery sun, and the earth’s spiral path.
But it was in Autumn, when the full train of the Pleiades, the Hyades, Orion and Canis Major had cleared the horizon and stood forth in all their conjoined majestically-moving glory, that Grandpa went forth in the early hours of night to make vigils with the stars, to venerate, to adore this panoply of constellations, to be wholly lost within the splendor of the sky. Here was the man—all else was husk. What communion he held within the stillness of night, within his own stillest hour, no man shall know. Now and then he would, bit by bit, endeavor to impart a little of his knowledge. But he knew well enough his grandson was not of age. Still, the boy learned to recognize and name several of the constellations as well as some of the larger stars and planets. One evening they were walking together along the garden path. The crescent moon was smiling just above the treetops to the westward. They had been silent, thus far, when Grandpa of a sudden asked, “Louis, have you ever seen the penumbra of the moon?” When the meaning of penumbra had been asked and answered, when the child had grasped the idea that it was the rest of the moon next to the crescent, he said, “Yes, Grandpa, I see it.”
“What is it like?”
“It is curved at the edge and flat the rest of the way. It is pale blue, like a fog. It is beautiful.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Grandpa, “how I envy your young eyes! I have never seen it. I have tried with opera glasses, but still could not see it. It must be wonderful—and I shall never see it. Ah, my dear boy, little do you know what treasures your sharp eyes may bring to you. You see things that I cannot see and shall never see. When you are older you will know what I mean.”
The child was startled. He did not know his Grandpa was nearsighted. True, he had noticed that when Grandpa read in bed, he held the book very close to his eyes. He had noticed that some people wore spectacles, that his Grandma wore spectacles in the evening. But Grandpa didn’t wear spectacles at all. Why then could he not see the penumbra of the moon? It was all strange, very strange to him; it was anything but strange to Grandpa—it was a sorrow. To that eager mind, burdened with reluctant eyes, it was a calamity that he could not see and would never see the penumbra of the moon.
Grandma on the other hand was not imaginative. In place of this divine power she had well-defined, solidly settled ideas concerning decorum, breeding, formal and informal social intercourse, and a certain consciousness that Mrs. Grundy resided as definitely in South Reading as elsewhere. Upon her arrival there, one of her first activities was to seek out a church, attendance upon which would at one and the same time insure to her unquestioned respectability, and, as nearly as possible, coincide with her individual views of doctrine. Indeed Grandmama was conservative of the social order of her day. She seemed oblivious to hypocrisy and cant. She was devoid of them. In this instance, she differed diametrically with her daughter Andrienne, who railed bitterly at that cloak of respectability which to her view camouflaged the sins of the world. Candor and sincerity were her ideals of character and conduct. There was but limited choice in the village and Grandmama soon fixed upon the Baptist Church as her selection. She began regular attendance. The child had now reached the age at which she deemed it proper that he, also, should attend divine service. Thus another new world was to arise above the limited horizon of his experience.
Among the treasures of barn and pasture, there was a certain and only horse named Billy. He was an object at the time technically known as a “family horse—safe for any lady to drive.” Billy was a sallow plug, who, as a finality, had resigned himself to a life of servitude, but not of service. Within the barn was housed what was mentioned familiarly as the “carryall.” It was a family carriage, having an enclosed body. It was a neat solid affair, well built, well finished and upholstered, and with good lines. It was of the essence of respectability, even as Billy was of the lower classes. Billy’s harness was all that could be desired, and on Sundays Billy was groomed to the extent of his limited adaptability to the exactions of high life. Billy, harness, and carryall, made a rather interesting combination, even though Billy, as fate would have it, was as a fly in an ointment. The combination, however, is explainable. Grandma was timid, or at least apprehensive, and very cautious. She wished to be sole guardian of her physical safety, to the extent, even, that she permitted no one but herself to drive. Her husband was too nearsighted and absentminded, her son too reckless, her grandson, too young. Hence her determination to take matters into her own hands. The idea of a glossy, dignified, high-stepper to match the aristocratic carryall could therefore not be entertained by her. It involved risk, possibly disaster. So Billy was selected as a compromise between the desired tone and the much more desired security. That is, as a deletion of a certain, or uncertain percentage of village respectability, for South Reading was of ancient settlement.
Grandma would not countenance a checkrein for Billy; she maintained that it was cruel. The normal center of Billy’s head, in consequence, was nearer the earth he feebly loved than the heaven Grandma hoped to reach with Billy’s material aid. There was a whip, in its socket, to be sure, but Grandma would not strike a dumb beast. When Grandma wished to start, or, on frequent occasions, to accelerate Billy’s pace—if such it might be called—she waved the lines with both hands and chirped encouragement—never becoming aggressive—and satisfied that she had a horse “safe for any lady to drive.” But just here appearances became deceptive; for Billy, soon after his transfer in exchange for legal tender, revealed a defect in character. He was given to unlooked-for fits of insanity. From a turbid dodder, he would suddenly break into a runaway. This was alarming; yet there seemed a method in the madness. Like a clock, with mainspring breaking, and the works rattling fiercely toward a silence soon reached, even so were Billy’s runaways. Their distance-limit seldom exceeded one hundred yards. So, after prudent observation of his antics, and with due allowance for the fact that he did not run away every time, Billy was reinstated as a family horse, safe for any lady to drive, provided she were familiar with his mannerisms. Such was now the case.
Of a Sunday morning, fair to look upon, in early summer, all prepared and ready, Billy and carryall connected into a material totality, the family set forth, following the dusty road to the village, without mishap. Upon arrival at the church, a white-painted wooden structure in imitation of stone, pretentious, and ugly—as if indoctrinated with sin—so much talked about within—Billy was hitched to the general railing and the family entered, after Louis had sufficiently patted Billy’s nose. Climbing a wide flight of stairs to the second floor, all entered a large, dim, barren room, and reached the family pew. Louis immediately felt a pang of disappointment. There was nothing here to recall an echo of the spring song he had shared in the open. He thought there should be. Looking about at the congregation, he was astonished at the array of solemn faces: Why solemn? And the whispering silence: Why whispering? What was to follow? What was to happen? He enquired, and was hushed. He awaited. The service began; he followed it eagerly to the end, noting every detail.
He greatly admired the way the minister shouted, waved his arms terrifically, pounded the big Bible magnificently, and then, with voice scarcely exceeding a whisper, pointed at the congregation in dire warning of what would surely befall them if they did not do so-and-so or believe such and such. He roared of Hell so horribly that the boy shivered and quaked. Of Heaven he spoke with hysterical sweetness—a mush of syrupy words. He had painted the same word-pictures year after year; worked himself to the same high pitches and depths. His listeners, now thrilled, relaxed, expanded, held these sermons, these prayers, these hymns as precious; for the man looming in the pulpit was of their world. He gave pith, point and skilled direction to those collective aspirations and fears, which otherwise would have lacked symmetry and power. The sermons invariably ended with a tirade against the Papists. This epilogue appealed to all as a most satisfying finale. After the closing words of benediction the congregation remained for a while outside the church, gathered in groups, the men swapping lies and horses, the womenfolk exchanging idiosyncrasies. All declared their satisfaction with the sermon. This was the routine. Then they went home.
To the child, however, as a first violent experience, the total effect was one of confusion, perturbation, and perplexity. One particular point puzzled him most: Why did the minister, when he prayed, clasp his hands closely together and so continue to hold them? Why did he close his eyes? Why did he bow his head and at times turn sightless face upward toward the ceiling? Why did he speak in whining tones? Why was he now so familiar with God, and then so groveling? Why did he not shout his prayers as he had shouted and roared through his sermon? Why did he not stand erect with flashing eyes, wave his arms, clinch his fists and pound the big Bible, and walk first this way and then that way, and otherwise conduct himself like a man? He seemed afraid of something. What could it be? What was there to be afraid of? And then this matter of the Papists. Why so bitter, why so violent, why so cruel as to wish these people, whoever they were, to be burned throughout all eternity in the flames of awful hell? And the minister had said he was sure they would be. The boy asked at home what Papists were. Grandma said they were Catholics. Grandpa said they were imbeciles. Then he asked what were Catholics, and Grandma said, simply, they were not Protestants. And what were Protestants? And Grandma said, as simply, but with a touch of detail, that they were not Catholics, to which Grandpa added that they, also, were imbeciles. But at the end of the next sermon the minister explained it all. He declared in his wrath that they, the Papists, were pagans, heathen, infidels, idolators, worshippers of saints, low beasts, vile savages, ignorant, depraved, the very scum and slime of earth whom God in his mercy had segregated from the elect, in this world, in order that he might damn them totally to Hell in the next.
The minister made it quite clear that no Papist could by any chance enter the Kingdom of Heaven, and equally clear that a good, strict Baptist could and surely would. As to other denominations, he felt dubious, indeed plainly doubtful, almost certain. Still, he said, grace was infinite, and the wisdom of the Father beyond the grasp of mortal man. On the other hand, he acknowledged himself a sinner, and frequently proclaimed, as with a sort of pride, that his entire congregation, individually and collectively, were miserable sinners; and they agreed. He told them, moreover, the wages of sin was death. He told them also, with unction, of the bloody source whence came the wages of purity in redemption. The child appealed to Grandpa, who said the minister was an idiot full of wind and nonsense. The child suffered. Nothing in this new world agreed with his own world. It was all upside down, all distorted, cruel and sugary. It was not like his beautiful springtime, it was not even like his beautiful winter. There was no laughter, no joy as he knew these things. He appealed to Grandma, but his questions were too persistently direct, too embarrassing to her placidity. She explained perfunctorily; he got no satisfaction there.
He began to think perhaps Grandpa was right. After more sermons, and prayers, and denunciations, he began to feel distinctly that his world, his life, which he had frankly felt to be one, was being torn in two. Instinctively he revolted. He would not have the beauty of life torn from him and destroyed. These things he did not say; he felt them powerfully. A tragedy was approaching. He was about to lose what he loved, what he held precious in life; he was about to lose his own life as he knew or felt life. He rebelled. He lost confidence in the minister. He no longer believed what was said. More than that he soon disbelieved everything that was said. He was regaining his freedom. The services increasingly irritated him; he asked to be transferred to the Sunday School. He would at least see children there. The Old Testament amused and pleased him with its interesting stories. He could almost live them over. But when it came to the crucifixion he rebelled again in spirit, this time so ardently that it was thought prudent at home to release him from Sunday School and Church alike. His rumination now was to the effect that fortune might perhaps also separate him from the schoolhouse, standing white and bare on the hillside.