Part 21 (1/2)
I wonder how many persons live in Jesse's body? On the surface he is the rugged whimsical stockman, lazy, with such powers in reserve as would equip a first-cla.s.s volcano. Sing to him and another Jesse emerges, an inarticulate poet, a craftless artist, an illiterate writer, pa.s.sionate lover of all things beautiful in art and nature. And beneath all that is Jesse of the Sabbath, in bleak righteousness and harsh respectability, scion of many Smiths, the G.o.d-fearing head of his house, who reads and expounds the Scriptures on Sunday evenings to sullen Billy, the morose widow, and my unworthy self. Hear him expound in the vindictive mood:--
”When I survey the pasture in these here back blocks of Genesis, I know we got to make allowances. These patriarchs is only sheepmen anyhow, and sheep herders is trash. They're not what we call white men, but Jews, which is a species of dago. When they get religion they're a sort Mormons, a low-lived breed, yet useful for throwing population quick into a lonesome country where they don't seem popular.
”Now here's Laban. He hasn't got religion, but keeps a trunk full of no-account G.o.ds, believed in by ignorant persons. Instead of attending to business, he trusts his foreman Jacob, so it serves him right if he's robbed. Yet the Lord ain't down on him quite so much as you'd think, for he's allowed to graze government land, with no taxes, mortgage, or railroads to rob the meat off his bones. Maybe the Lord's sort of sorry for the poor sheep-herding dago without no horses--the same being good for men's morals, though Jones did kick me out of the stable this very morning. Moreover, Laban lives in a scope of country where men is surely scarce, or he'd never give more'n one of his daughters to such a swine as Jacob. Laban tries to be white, so he'd get my vote at elections.
”You'd think that if the Lord could stand Jacob He must be plumb full of mercy--so there's hope for skunks. He's got so many millions of thoroughbred stud angels that even the best of men is low grade stock to Him. And regarding us mavericks, He has an eye on them as takes kindly to their feed. Yes, He claps His brand on them as know their work.
”So He sees Jacob is a sure glutton, and more, a great stockman, projucing an improved strain of ringstraked goats and sheep. And Jacob does his duty to his country, begetting twelve sons--mean as snakes but still the best he can raise. Yes, there's excuses for Jacob, and lynching ain't yet invented.
”Jacob throws dirt in old man Laban's face, then skins out for his own reservation. On this trail he's got to cross Esau's ranch--the first man he ever swindled. Just you watch him, abject as a yaller dawg, squirming and writhing and crawling to meet the only gentleman in that country.
You or me, Billy, would have kicked Jacob good and plenty, but we're only scrub cow-boys, and that's what the Bible instructs.
”The mean trash agrees to keep off Laban's gra.s.s; he puts up bribes to Esau; he plays his skin game on the folks at Succoth, which I explain because there's ladies present, and the only comfort is that the angel of the Lord has sized him up, being due to twist his tail in next Sunday's chapter. Now let us get through praying, quick as the Lord will let us, because them calves ain't had their b.u.t.termilk.”
When we knelt, the widow still sat rigid, and with her wooden leg scratched out upon the oil-cloth vague outlines of a gallows. Afterward she explained. ”Yer husband, Mrs. Smith, bad cess to him, is mighty proud av his spectacles, phwat he can't see through and all, and showing off his learning and pride av a Sunday.”
”But why draw gallows on the floor?”
”And why for should I not draw gallows on the flure, seeing he'll never drown? It's hung he'll be for a opprissing the fatherless and the widow, and burn he will afther for a Protestant. Yis,” she flashed round on her son, ”feed b.u.t.termilk to thim calves, and hould up yer head _alladh_, 'cause you inherit glory while he's frying!”
Away from the widow's hate and her son's vengeance, I led my man out under the stars. I gave him his cigar, that black explosive charged with deadly fumes, lighted him a sulphur match. It soothes his pa.s.sions, and the pasture scent makes him gentle, but when I fear my grizzly bear, and hardly dare to stroke, I lead him by the keen silver spring, across the hollow where our flowers would make a devil smile, and on through the wild rose tangle, to my cathedral pines. To-night he seemed suspicious, even there, biting off tags of the vindictive Psalms. Nor would he sit under the father tree until I sang to him.
”When Faith's low doorway leads into the church, Light from austere saints mellows dusty gloom, Sad music echoes in the stony heavens, And this bleak pavement masks a charnel h.e.l.l.
Yet in man's likeness G.o.d makes Pain divine And here Truth's dawn breaks upwards towards the Light.
Come to the hill-top: blackbird choristers Peal their clear anthem to the kneeling gorse; The old trees pray, their thirsty faces rapt, While congregations of great angel clouds Receive the holy Sacramental Light From G.o.d's high priest, the ministering Sun!”
”What do you want?” asked Jesse, all the rancor gone.
”Jesse, do you know that it's nearly a year since we married?”
”Ten months, Kate, and fourteen days. Do you think I don't reckon?”
I sat down on the root of the little governess tree, the humblest in the grove. ”In the Bible, dear, who was the son of Jesse?”
”David, of course.”
”Do you remember, dear: 'for I have provided a king among his sons'?”
He looked away across the thundrous misty depths of the canon, and the moonlight caught his profile as though it were etched in silver. ”A mighty valiant man,” he whispered, ”prudent in matters, and a man of war.”
”Jesse, I've got such a confession to make. When you settled Mr.
Trevor's estate--”
”His estates were debts, and we paid 'em. There ain't no need to fuss.”
”You paid the debts. You were hard driven to meet the interest on your mortgage.”
”That's paid off now. Besides we've a clear t.i.tle to our land, mother's gravestone's off my chest, we don't owe a cent in the world, and there's nary a worry left, except I'm sort of sorry for them poor robbers. Why fuss?”