Part 39 (1/2)
”You see I am so stupid, Mr. Dale; I never knew I was so stupid till I married. But I am very glad you are come. You can get on some learned subject together, and then he will not miss so much his--”
”His what?” asked Riccabocca, inquisitively.
”His country. Do you think that I cannot sometimes read your thoughts?”
”Very often. But you did not read them just then. The tongue touches where the tooth aches, but the best dentist cannot guess at the tooth unless one open one's mouth.--Basta! Can we offer you some wine of our own making, Mr. Dale?--it is pure.”
”I 'd rather have some tea,” quoth the parson, hastily. Mrs. Riccabocca, too pleased to be in her natural element of domestic use, hurried into the house to prepare our national beverage. And the parson, sliding into her chair, said,--
”But you are dejected then? Fie! If there's a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness.”
”I don't dispute it,” said Riccabocca, with a heavy sigh. ”But though it is said by some Greek, who, I think, is quoted by your favourite Seneca, that a wise man carries his country with him at the soles of his feet, he can't carry also the suns.h.i.+ne over his head.”
”I tell you what it is,” said the parson, bluntly; ”you would have a much keener sense of happiness if you had much less esteem for philosophy.”
”Cospetto!” said the doctor, rousing himself. ”Just explain, will you?”
”Does not the search after wisdom induce desires not satisfied in this small circle to which your life is confined? It is not so much your country for which you yearn, as it is for s.p.a.ce to your intellect, employment for your thoughts, career for your aspirations.”
”You have guessed at the tooth which aches,” said Riccabocca, with admiration.
”Easy to do that,” answered the parson. ”Our wisdom teeth come last and give us the most pain; and if you would just starve the mind a little, and nourish the heart more, you would be less of a philosopher and more of a--” The parson had the word ”Christian” at the tip of his tongue; he suppressed a word that, so spoken, would have been exceedingly irritating, and subst.i.tuted, with elegant ant.i.thesis, ”and more of a happy man!”
”I do all I can with my heart,” quoth the doctor.
”Not you! For a man with such a heart as yours should never feel the want of the suns.h.i.+ne. My friend, we live in an age of over mental cultivation. We neglect too much the simple healthful outer life, in which there is so much positive joy. In turning to the world within us, we grow blind to this beautiful world without; in studying ourselves as men, we almost forget to look up to heaven, and warm to the smile of G.o.d.”
The philosopher mechanically shrugged his shoulders, as he always did when another man moralized,--especially if the moralizer were a priest; but there was no irony in his smile, as he answered thoughtfully,--
”There is some truth in what you say. I own that we live too much as if we were all brain. Knowledge has its penalties and pains, as well as its prizes.”
”That is just what I want you to say to Leonard.”
”How have you settled the object of your journey?”
”I will tell you as we walk down to him after tea. At present, I am rather too much occupied with you.”
”Me? The tree is formed--try only to bend the young twig!”
”Trees are trees, and twigs twigs,” said the parson, dogmatically; ”but man is always growing till he falls into the grave. I think I have heard you say that you once had a narrow escape of a prison?”
”Very narrow.”
”Just suppose that you were now in that prison, and that a fairy conjured up the prospect of this quiet home in a safe land; that you saw the orange-trees in flower, felt the evening breeze on your cheek; beheld your child gay or sad, as you smiled or knit your brow; that within this phantom home was a woman, not, indeed, all your young romance might have dreamed of, but faithful and true, every beat of her heart all your own,--would you not cry from the depth of your dungeon, 'O fairy! such a change were a paradise!' Ungrateful man! you want interchange for your mind, and your heart should suffice for all!”
Riccabocca was touched and silent.
”Come hither, my child,” said Mr. Dale, turning round to Violante, who stood still among the flowers, out of hearing, but with watchful eyes.
”Come hither,” he said, opening his arms.