FullReads

He hesitated a little, and then said, doggedly “On one condition.”

“And that is?”

“Keene must explain. He must answer my question.”

“Do you accept?” I asked Keene.

“Yes and no!” he replied. “No! to answering Graham’s question. He is not the person to ask it. I wonder that he does not see the impropriety, the absurdity of his meddling at all in this affair. Besides, he could not understand my answer even if he believed it. But to the explanation, I say, Yes! I will give it, not to Graham, but to you. I make you this proposition. To-morrow is Sunday. We shall be excused from service if we tell the master that we have important business to settle together. You shall come with me on one of my long walks. I will tell you all about them. Then you can be the judge whether there is any harm in them.”

“Does that satisfy you?” I said to Graham.

“Yes,” he answered, “that seems fair enough. I am content to leave it in that way for the present. And to make it still more fair, I want to take back what I said awhile ago, and to ask Keene’s pardon for it.”

“Not at all,” said Keene, quickly, “it was said in haste, I bear no grudge. You simply did not understand, that is all.”

So we turned to go down the hill, and as we turned, Dorothy met us, coming out of the shadows.

“What are you men doing here?” she asked. “I heard your voices from below. What were you talking about?”

“We were talking,” said Keene, “my dear Dorothy, we were talking–about walking–yes, that was it–about walking, and about views. The conversation was quite warm, almost a debate. Now, you know all the view-points in this region. Which do you call the best, the most satisfying, the finest prospect? But I know what you will say: the view from the little knoll in front of Hilltop. For there, when you are tired of looking far away, you can turn around and see the old school, and the linden-trees, and the garden.”

“Yes,” she answered gravely, “that is really the view that I love best. I would give up all the others rather than lose that.”

III

There was a softness in the November air that brought back memories of summer, and a few belated daisies were blooming in the old clearing, as Keene and I passed by the ruins of the farm-house again, early on Sunday morning. He had been talking ever since we started, pouring out his praise of knowledge, wide, clear, universal knowledge, as the best of life’s joys, the greatest of life’s achievements. The practical life was a blind, dull routine. Most men were toiling at tasks which they did not like, by rules which they did not understand. They never looked beyond the edge of their work. The philosophical life was a spider’s web–filmy threads of theory spun out of the inner consciousness–it touched the world only at certain chosen points of attachment. There was nothing firm, nothing substantial in it. You could look through it like a veil and see the real world lying beyond. But the theorist could see only the web which he had spun. Knowing did not come by speculating, theorising. Knowing came by seeing. Vision was the only real knowledge. To see the world, the whole world, as it is, to look behind the scenes, to read human life like a book, that was the glorious thing–most satisfying, divine.

Thus he had talked as we climbed the hill. Now, as we came by the place where we had first met, a new eagerness sounded in his voice.

“Ever since that day I have inclined to tell you something more about myself. I felt sure you would understand. I am planning to write a book–a book of knowledge, in the true sense–a great book about human life. Not a history, not a theory, but a real view of life, its hidden motives, its secret relations. How different they are from what men dream and imagine and play that they are! How much darker, how much smaller, and therefore how much more interesting and wonderful. No one has yet written–perhaps because no one has yet conceived–such a book as I have in mind. I might call it a ‘Bionopsis.'”