Part 6 (1/2)

Do you hear them? Do you hear the children?”

”d.a.m.n the children!”

”Why?

What have THEY done? . . . Well, then, -- do it. . . . Do it now, and have it over.”

”Oh, you devil! . . . Oh, you. . . .”

”No, I'm not a devil, I'm a prophet -- One who sees the end already of so much that one end more Would have now the small importance of one other small illusion, Which in turn would have a welcome where the rest have gone before.

But if I were you, my fancy would look on a little farther For the glimpse of a release that may be somewhere still in sight.

Furthermore, you must remember those two hundred invitations For the dancing after dinner. We shall have to s.h.i.+ne tonight.

We shall dance, and be as happy as a pair of merry spectres, On the grave of all the lies that we shall never have to tell; We shall dance among the ruins of the tomb of our endurance, And I have not a doubt that we shall do it very well.

There! -- I'm glad you've put it back; for I don't like it.

Shut the drawer now.

No -- no -- don't cancel anything. I'll dance until I drop.

I can't walk yet, but I'm going to. . . . Go away somewhere, and leave me. . . .

Oh, you children! Oh, you children! . . . G.o.d, will they never stop!”

Tasker Norcross

”Whether all towns and all who live in them -- So long as they be somewhere in this world That we in our complacency call ours -- Are more or less the same, I leave to you.

I should say less. Whether or not, meanwhile, We've all two legs -- and as for that, we haven't -- There were three kinds of men where I was born: The good, the not so good, and Tasker Norcross.

Now there are two kinds.”

”Meaning, as I divine, Your friend is dead,” I ventured.

Ferguson, Who talked himself at last out of the world He censured, and is therefore silent now, Agreed indifferently: ”My friends are dead -- Or most of them.”

”Remember one that isn't,”

I said, protesting. ”Honor him for his ears; Treasure him also for his understanding.”

Ferguson sighed, and then talked on again: ”You have an overgrown alacrity For saying nothing much and hearing less; And I've a thankless wonder, at the start, How much it is to you that I shall tell What I have now to say of Tasker Norcross, And how much to the air that is around you.

But given a patience that is not averse To the slow tragedies of haunted men -- Horrors, in fact, if you've a skilful eye To know them at their firesides, or out walking, --”

”Horrors,” I said, ”are my necessity; And I would have them, for their best effect, Always out walking.”

Ferguson frowned at me: ”The wisest of us are not those who laugh Before they know. Most of us never know -- Or the long toil of our mortality Would not be done. Most of us never know -- And there you have a reason to believe In G.o.d, if you may have no other. Norcross, Or so I gather of his infirmity, Was given to know more than he should have known, And only G.o.d knows why. See for yourself An old house full of ghosts of ancestors, Who did their best, or worst, and having done it, Died honorably; and each with a distinction That hardly would have been for him that had it, Had honor failed him wholly as a friend.

Honor that is a friend begets a friend.

Whether or not we love him, still we have him; And we must live somehow by what we have, Or then we die. If you say chemistry, Then you must have your molecules in motion, And in their right abundance. Failing either, You have not long to dance. Failing a friend, A genius, or a madness, or a faith Larger than desperation, you are here For as much longer than you like as may be.

Imagining now, by way of an example, Myself a more or less remembered phantom -- Again, I should say less -- how many times A day should I come back to you? No answer.

Forgive me when I seem a little careless, But we must have examples, or be lucid Without them; and I question your adherence To such an undramatic narrative As this of mine, without the personal hook.”

”A time is given in Ecclesiastes For divers works,” I told him. ”Is there one For saying nothing in return for nothing?

If not, there should be.” I could feel his eyes, And they were like two cold inquiring points Of a sharp metal. When I looked again, To see them s.h.i.+ne, the cold that I had felt Was gone to make way for a smouldering Of lonely fire that I, as I knew then, Could never quench with kindness or with lies.

I should have done whatever there was to do For Ferguson, yet I could not have mourned In honesty for once around the clock The loss of him, for my sake or for his, Try as I might; nor would his ghost approve, Had I the power and the unthinking will To make him tread again without an aim The road that was behind him -- and without The faith, or friend, or genius, or the madness That he contended was imperative.

After a silence that had been too long, ”It may be quite as well we don't,” he said; ”As well, I mean, that we don't always say it.

You know best what I mean, and I suppose You might have said it better. What was that?

Incorrigible? Am I incorrigible?

Well, it's a word; and a word has its use, Or, like a man, it will soon have a grave.

It's a good word enough. Incorrigible, May be, for all I know, the word for Norcross.

See for yourself that house of his again That he called home: An old house, painted white, Square as a box, and chillier than a tomb To look at or to live in. There were trees -- Too many of them, if such a thing may be -- Before it and around it. Down in front There was a road, a railroad, and a river; Then there were hills behind it, and more trees.