Part 31 (1/2)

SILAS: We've got the same kind of minds-the beasts and me.

GRANDMOTHER: Silas, I wish you wouldn't talk like that-and with Felix just home from Harvard College.

SILAS: Same kind of minds-except that mine goes on a little farther.

GRANDMOTHER: Well I'm glad to hear you say that.

SILAS: Well, there we sat-you an' me-middle of a starry night, out beside your barn. And I guess it came over you kind of funny you should be there with me-way off the Mississippi, tryin' to save a sick horse. Seemed to-bring your life to life again. You told me what you studied in that fine old university you loved-the Vienna,-and why you became a revolutionist. The old dreams took hold o' you and you talked-way you used to, I suppose. The years, o' course, had rubbed some of it off. Your face as you went on about the vision-you called it, vision of what life could be. I knew that night there was things I never got wind of. When I went away-knew I ought to go home to bed-hayin' at daybreak. 'Go to bed?' I said to myself. 'Strike this dead when you've never had it before, may never have it again?' I climbed the hill. Blackhawk was there.

GRANDMOTHER: Why, he was dead.

SILAS: He was there-on his own old hill, with me and the stars. And I said to him-

GRANDMOTHER: Silas!

SILAS: Says I to him, 'Yes-that's true; it's more yours than mine, you had it first and loved it best. But it's neither yours nor mine,-though both yours and mine. Not my hill, not your hill, but-hill of vision', said I to him. 'Here shall come visions of a better world than was ever seen by you or me, old Indian chief.' Oh, I was drunk, plum drunk.

GRANDMOTHER: I should think you was. And what about the next day's hay?

SILAS: A day in the hayfield is a day's hayin'-but a night on the hill-

FELIX: We don't have them often, do we, Uncle Silas?

SILAS: I wouldn't 'a' had that one but for your father, Felix. Thank G.o.d they drove you out o' Hungary! And it's all so dog-gone queer. Ain't it queer how things blow from mind to mind-like seeds. Lord A'mighty-you don't know where they'll take hold.

(Children's voices off.)

GRANDMOTHER: There come those children up from the creek-soppin' wet, I warrant. Well, I don't know how children ever get raised. But we raise more of 'em than we used to. I buried three-first ten years I was here. Needn't 'a' happened-if we'd known what we know now, and if we hadn't been alone. (With all her strength.) I don't know what you mean-the hill's not yours!

SILAS: It's the future's, mother-so's we can know more than we know now.

GRANDMOTHER: We know it now. 'Twas then we didn't know it. I worked for that hill! And I tell you to leave it to your own children.

SILAS: There's other land for my own children. This is for all the children.

GRANDMOTHER: What's all the children to you?

SILAS: (derisively) Oh, mother-what a thing for you to say! You who were never too tired to give up your own bed so the stranger could have a better bed.

GRANDMOTHER: That was different. They was folks on their way.

FEJEVARY: So are we.

(SILAS turns to him with quick appreciation.)

GRANDMOTHER: That's just talk. We're settled now. Children of other old settlers are getting rich. I should think you'd want yours to.

SILAS: I want other things more. I want to pay my debts 'fore I'm too old to know they're debts.

GRANDMOTHER: (momentarily startled) Debts? Huh! More talk. You don't owe any man.