Kavanagh

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  When she had left the room, the school-master resumed the conversation by saying,—

  “I do not like Lucy’s going out so much in the evening. I am afraid she will get into trouble. She is really very pretty.”

  Then there was another pause, after which he added,—

  “My dear wife, one thing puzzles me exceedingly.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It is to know what that man does with all the old boots he picks up about the village. I met him again this evening. He seemed to have as many feet as Briareus had hands. He is a kind of centipede.”

  “But what has that to do with Lucy?”

  “Nothing. It only occurred to me at the moment; and I never can imagine what he does with so many old boots.”

  III.

  When tea was over, Mr. Churchill walked to and fro in his study, as his custom was. And as he walked, he gazed with secret rapture at the books, which lined the walls, and thought how many bleeding hearts and aching heads had found consolation for themselves and imparted it to others, by writing those pages. The books seemed to him almost as living beings, so instinct were they with human thoughts and sympathies. It was as if the authors themselves were gazing at him from the walls, with countenances neither sorrowful nor glad, but full of calm indifference to fate, like those of the poets who appeared to Dante in his vision, walking together on the dolorous shore. And then he dreamed of fame, and thought that perhaps hereafter he might be in some degree, and to some one, what these men were to him; and in the enthusiasm of the moment he exclaimed aloud,—

  “Would you have me be like these, dear Mary?”

  “Like these what?” asked his wife, not comprehending him.

  “Like these great and good men,—like these scholars and poets,—the authors of all these books!”

  She pressed his hand and said, in a soft, but excited tone,—

  “O, yes! Like them, only perhaps better!”

  “Then I will write a Romance!”

  “Write it!” said his wife, like the angel. For she believed that then he would become famous for ever; and that all the vexed and busy world would stand still to hear him blow his little trumpet, whose sound was to rend the adamantine walls of time, and reach the ears of a far-off and startled posterity.

  IV.

  “I was thinking to-day,” said Mr. Churchill a few minutes afterwards, as he took some papers from a drawer scented with a quince, and arranged them on the study table, while his wife as usual seated herself opposite to him with her work in her hand,—“I was thinking to-day how dull and prosaic the study of mathematics is made in our school-books; as if the grand science of numbers had been discovered and perfected merely to further the purposes of trade.”

  “For my part,” answered his wife, “I do not see how you can make mathematics poetical. There is no poetry in them.”

  “Ah, that is a very great mistake! There is something divine in the science of numbers. Like God, it holds the sea in the hollow of its hand. It measures the earth; it weighs the stars; it illumines the universe; it is law, it is order, it is beauty. And yet we imagine—that is, most of us—that its highest end and culminating point is book-keeping by double entry. It is our way of teaching it that makes it so prosaic.”

  So saying, he arose, and went to one of his book-cases, from the shelf of which he took down a little old quarto volume, and laid it upon the table.

  “Now here,” he continued, “is a book of mathematics of quite a different stamp from ours.”

  “It looks very old. What is it?”

  “It is the Lilawati of Bhascara Acharya, translated from the Sanscrit.”

  “It is a pretty name. Pray what does it mean?”

  “Lilawati was the name of Bhascara’s daughter; and the book was written to perpetuate it. Here is an account of the whole matter.”

  He then opened the volume, and read as follows:—

  “It is said that the composing of Lilawati was occasioned by the following circumstance. Lilawati was the name of the author’s daughter, concerning whom it appeared, from the qualities of the Ascendant at her birth, that she was destined to pass her life unmarried, and to remain without children. The father ascertained a lucky hour for contracting her in marriage, that she might be firmly connected, and have children. It is said that, when that hour approached, he brought his daughter and his intended son near him. He left the hour-cup on the vessel of water, and kept in attendance a time-knowing astrologer, in order that, when the cup should subside in the water, those two precious jewels should be united. But as the intended arrangement was not according to destiny, it happened that the girl, from a curiosity natural to children, looked into the cup to observe the water coming in at the hole; when by chance a pearl separated from her bridal dress, fell into the cup, and, rolling down to the hole, stopped the influx of the water. So the astrologer waited in expectation of the promised hour. When the operation of the cup had thus been delayed beyond all moderate time, the father was in consternation, and examining, he found that a small pearl had stopped the course of the water, and the long-expected hour was passed. In short, the father, thus disappointed, said to his unfortunate daughter, I will write a book of your name, which shall remain to the latest times,—for a good name is a second life, and the groundwork of eternal existence.”

  As the school-master read, the eyes of his wife dilated and grew tender, and she said,—

  “What a beautiful story! When did it happen?”

  “Seven hundred years ago, among the Hindoos.”

  “Why not write a poem about it?”

  “Because it is already a poem of itself,—one of those things, of which the simplest statement is the best, and which lose by embellishment. The old Hindoo legend, brown with age, would not please me so well if decked in gay colors, and hung round with the tinkling bells of rhyme. Now hear how the book begins.”

  Again he read;—

  “Salutation to the elephant-headed Being who infuses joy into the minds of his worshippers, who delivers from every difficulty those that call upon him, and whose feet are reverenced by the gods!—Reverence to Ganesa, who is beautiful as the pure purple lotos, and around whose neck the black curling snake winds itself in playful folds!”

  “That sounds rather mystical,” said his wife.

  “Yes, the book begins with a salutation to the Hindoo deities, as the old Spanish Chronicles begin in the name of God, and the Holy Virgin. And now see how poetical some of the examples are.”

  He then turned over the leaves slowly and read,—

  “Onethird of a collection of beautiful waterlilies is offered to Mahadev, one-fifth to Huri, one-sixth to the Sun, one-fourth to Devi, and six which remain are presented to the spiritual teacher. Required the whole number of waterlilies.”

  “That is very pretty,” said the wife, “and would put it into the boy’s heads to bring you pond-lilies.”

  “Here is a prettier one still. One-fifth of a hive of bees flew to the Kadamba flower; onethird flew to the Silandhara; three times the difference of these two numbers flew to an arbor; and one bee continued flying about, attracted on each side by the fragrant Ketaki and the Malati. What was the number of the bees?”

  “I am sure I should never be able to tell.”

  “Ten times the square root of a flock of geese—”

  Here Mrs. Churchill laughed aloud; but he continued very gravely,—

  “Ten times the square root of a flock of geese, seeing the clouds collect, flew to the Manus lake; one-eighth of the whole flew from the edge of the water amongst a multitude of waterlilies; and three couple were observed playing in the water. Tell me, my young girl with beautiful locks, what was the whole number of geese?”

  “Well, what was it?”

  “What should you think?”

  “About twenty.”

  “No, one hundred and forty-four. Now try another. The square root of half a number of bees, and also eight-ninths of the whole, alighted o
n the jasmines, and a female bee buzzed responsive to the hum of the male inclosed at night in a waterlily. O, beautiful damsel, tell me the number of bees.”

  “That is not there. You made it.”

  “No, indeed I did not. I wish I had made it. Look and see.”

  He showed her the book, and she read it herself. He then proposed some of the geometrical questions.

  “In a lake the bud of a waterlily was observed, one span above the water, and when moved by the gentle breeze, it sunk in the water at two cubits’ distance. Required the depth of the water.”

  “That is charming, but must be very difficult. I could not answer it.”

  “A tree one hundred cubits high is distant from a well two hundred cubits; from this tree one monkey descends and goes to the well; another monkey takes a leap upwards, and then descends by the hypothenuse; and both pass over an equal space. Required the height of the leap.”

  “I do not believe you can answer that question yourself, without looking into the book,” said the laughing wife, laying her hand over the solution. “Try it.”

  “With great pleasure, my dear child,” cried the confident school-master, taking a pencil and paper. After making a few figures and calculations, he answered,—

  “There, my young girl with beautiful locks, there is the answer,—forty cubits.”

  His wife removed her hand from the book, and then, clapping both in triumph, she exclaimed,—

  “No, you are wrong, you are wrong, my beautiful youth with a bee in your bonnet. It is fifty cubits!”

  “Then I must have made some mistake.”

  “Of course you did. Your monkey did not jump high enough.”

  She signalized his mortifying defeat as if it had been a victory, by showering kisses, like roses, upon his forehead and cheeks, as he passed beneath the triumphal arch-way of her arms, trying in vain to articulate,—

  “My dearest Lilawati, what is the whole number of the geese?”

  V.

  After extricating himself from this pleasing dilemma, he said,—

  “But I am now going to write. I must really begin in sober earnest, or I shall never get any thing finished. And you know I have so many things to do, so many books to write, that really I do not know where to begin. I think I will take up the Romance first.”

  “It will not make much difference, if you only begin!”

  “That is true. I will not lose a moment.”

  “Did you answer Mr. Cartwright’s letter about the cottage bedstead?”

  “Dear me, no! I forgot it entirely. That must be done first, or he will make it all wrong.”

  “And the young lady who sent you the poetry to look over and criticize?”

  “No; I have not had a single moment’s leisure. And there is Mr. Hanson, who wants to know about the cooking-range. Confound it! there is always something interfering with my Romance. However, I will despatch those matters very speedily.”

  And he began to write with great haste. For a while nothing was heard but the scratching of his pen. Then he said, probably in connection with the cooking-range,—

  “One of the most convenient things in house-keeping is a ham. It is always ready, and always welcome. You can eat it with any thing and without any thing. It reminds me always of the great wild boar Scrimner, in the Northern Mythology, who is killed every day for the gods to feast on in Valhalla, and comes to life again every night.”

  “In that case, I should think the gods would have the night-mare,” said his wife.

  “Perhaps they do.”

  And then another long silence, broken only by the skating of the swift pen over the sheet. Presently Mrs. Churchill said,—as if following out her own train of thought, while she ceased plying her needle to bite off the thread, which ladies will sometimes do in spite of all that is said against it,—

  “A man came here to-day, calling himself the agent of an extensive house in the needle trade. He left this sample, and said the drill of the eye was superior to any other, and they are warranted not to cut the thread. He puts them at the wholesale price; and if I do not like the sizes, he offers to exchange them for others, either sharps or betweens.”

  To this remark the abstracted school-master vouchsafed no reply. He found his half-dozen letters not so easily answered, particularly that to the poetical young lady, and worked away busily at them. Finally they were finished and sealed; and he looked up to his wife. She turned her eyes dreamily upon him. Slumber was hanging in their blue orbs, like snow in the heavens, ready to fall. It was quite late, and he said to her,—

  “I am too tired, my charming Lilawati, and you too sleepy, to sit here any longer to-night. And, as I do not wish to begin my Romance without having you at my side, so that I can read detached passages to you as I write, I will put it off till to-morrow or the next day.”

  He watched his wife as she went up stairs with the light. It was a picture always new and always beautiful, and like a painting of Gherardo della Notte. As he followed her, he paused to look at the stars. The beauty of the heavens made his soul overflow.

  “How absolute,” he exclaimed, “how absolute and omnipotent is the silence of the night! And yet the stillness seems almost audible! From all the measureless depths of air around us comes a half-sound, a half-whisper, as if we could hear the crumbling and falling away of earth and all created things, in the great miracle of nature, decay and reproduction, ever beginning, never ending,—the gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great hour-glass of Time!”

  In the night, Mr. Churchill had a singular dream. He thought himself in school, where he was reading Latin to his pupils. Suddenly all the genitive cases of the first declension began to make faces at him, and to laugh immoderately; and when he tried to lay hold of them, they jumped down into the ablative, and the circumflex accent assumed the form of a great moustache. Then the little village school-house was transformed into a vast and endless school-house of the world, stretching forward, form after form, through all the generations of coming time; and on all the forms sat young men and old, reading and transcribing his Romance, which now in his dream was completed, and smiling and passing it onward from one to another, till at last the clock in the corner struck twelve, and the weights ran down with a strange, angry whirr, and the school broke up; and the school-master awoke to find this vision of fame only a dream, out of which his alarm-clock had aroused him at an untimely hour.

  VI.

  Meanwhile, a different scene was taking place at the parsonage. Mr. Pendexter had retired to his study to finish his farewell sermon. Silence reigned through the house. Sunday had already commenced there. The week ended with the setting of the sun, and the evening and the morning were the first day.

  The clergyman was interrupted in his labors by the old sexton, who called as usual for the key of the church. He was gently rebuked for coming so late, and excused himself by saying that his wife was worse.

  “Poor woman!” said Mr. Pendexter; “has she her mind?”

  “Yes,” answered the sexton, “as much as ever.”

  “She has been ill a long time,” continued the clergyman. “We have had prayers for her a great many Sundays.”

  “It is very true, sir,” replied the sexton, mournfully; “I have given you a great deal of trouble. But you need not pray for her any more. It is of no use.”

  Mr. Pendexter’s mind was in too fervid a state to notice the extreme and hopeless humility of his old parishioner, and the unintentional allusion to the inefficacy of his prayers. He pressed the old man’s hand warmly, and said, with much emotion,—

  “To-morrow is the last time that I shall preach in this parish, where I have preached for twenty-five years. But it is not the last time I shall pray for you and your family.”

  The sexton retired also much moved; and the clergyman again resumed his task. His heart glowed and burned within him. Often his face flushed and his eyes filled with tears, so that he could not go on. Often he rose and paced the chamber
to and fro, and wiped away the large drops that stood on his red and feverish forehead.

  At length the sermon was finished. He rose and looked out of the window. Slowly the clock struck twelve. He had not heard it strike before, since six. The moonlight silvered the distant hills, and lay, white almost as snow, on the frosty roofs of the village. Not a light could be seen at any window.

  “Ungrateful people! Could you not watch with me one hour?” exclaimed he, in that excited and bitter moment; as if he had thought that on that solemn night the whole parish would have watched, while he was writing his farewell discourse. He pressed his hot brow against the window-pane to allay its fever; and across the tremulous wavelets of the river the tranquil moon sent towards him a silvery shaft of light, like an angelic salutation. And the consoling thought came to him, that not only this river, but all rivers and lakes, and the great sea itself, were flashing with this heavenly light, though he beheld it as a single ray only; and that what to him were the dark waves were the dark providences of God, luminous to others, and even to himself should he change his position.

  VII.

  The morning came; the dear, delicious, silent Sunday; to the weary workman, both of brain and hand, the beloved day of rest. When the first bell rang, like a brazen mortar, it seemed from its gloomy fortress to bombard the village with bursting shells of sound, that exploded over the houses, shattering the ears of all the parishioners and shaking the consciences of many.

  Mr. Pendexter was to preach his farewell sermon. The church was crowded, and only one person came late. It was a modest, meek girl, who stole silently up one of the side aisles,— not so silently, however, but that the pew-door creaked a little as she opened it; and straightway a hundred heads were turned in that direction, although it was in the midst of the prayer. Old Mrs. Fairfield did not turn round, but she and her daughter looked at each other, and their bonnets made a parenthesis in the prayer, within which one asked what that was, and the other replied,—