Part 18 (1/2)
”I don't know. That's a sum I haven't figured out yet. But what would you like me to read to you?”
”Anything you like. I fear you will not consider my stock of books very interesting.”
”Have they all to do with science and mechanics, and that sort of thing?”
”No, not all.”
She rose from her chair and went to a table on which several volumes lay, and began to read their t.i.tles. ”Principles of Western Civilisation,” ”The Earth's Beginning,” ”Facts and Comments,” ”Education and Empire,” ”Philosophy and Life.”
”Ah! here is a story book I expect. 'The Buried Temple,' by Maurice Maeterlinck,” and she picked up the book and began to turn over the pages, then with a faint sigh she laid it down again.
”Would you rather I talked to you?” she questioned, turning her face toward him with a smile.
”I think I would,” he replied. ”I am not much in the mood for philosophy to-day.”
”But why vex your brains with philosophy at all? What you need when you are ill is a real, good story. The next time I come to see you I'll bring a book along with me.”
”What will you bring?”
”I don't know yet. Do you like poetry?”
”When it is poetry.”
”Are you sure you know it when you see it?” and she laughed good humouredly.
”Well, I would not like to dogmatise on that point,” he answered.
”You've read Whittier, of course?”
”No.”
”Oh, I'm sorry for you. Whittier is great. I like him heaps better than your Browning.”
”Why?”
”Because I understand him better. I expect poetry is like beauty, in the eye of the beholder, don't you think so? Now if poetry don't touch me, don't thrill me, why, whatever it may be to other people it isn't poetry to me. Do I make myself plain?”
”Quite plain.”
”Now Whittier just says what I feel, but what I haven't the power to express; just sums up in great, n.o.ble words the holiest emotions I have ever known.”
”Yes.”
”Then Whittier is a man of faith and vision, as all poets must be if they are to be great. I like Browning for that. He sees clear. He doesn't merely hope, he believes. He not only 'faintly trusts the larger hope,' he builds on the rock. A man who has no faith is like a bird with a broken wing. Don't you think so?”
”But what do you mean by faith?” he asked, uneasily.
”Ah, now you want to puzzle me,” she said, with a smile.
”Oh, no I don't,” he replied, quickly. ”I only want to get your meaning clearly.”