J. C. Snaith

“ The boy’s father met this entreaty with a gesture that seemed to pierce the old man like a sword.
“Where is it?” he cried. “You will not deny one who is old the last of his hopes!”
The boy’s father had the mien of a corpse.
“It is unwritten, master,” he said, in a voice that seemed to be no louder than the croak of a frog. “When after twenty years of devout preparation I took up the pen, I found that Nature had denied the strength to my right hand.”
The old man recoiled from the gaze of the boy’s father with a cry of dismay. ”

“ As the unhappy Dodson clasped the frail broken form in his strong arms, he seemed to learn quite suddenly why those once so lustrous eyes had the hard glare of stone.
“Oh, Luney, Luney!” he cried in a kind of wail as the truth revealed itself, “do not tell me that you have been blind all these days and that I have not known it!”
“A man’s blindness is no affliction,” said the dying poet, “if only he be secure in his friends. The sight of his eyes is as nothing in comparison with that which is given to his right hand. My great labours are near to their fruition, and I have a friend. ”

“ Below these were a thousand formulas which had proved disconcerting to man. Still, however, as in the sodden and shadow-fraught chimera beyond the shutters, even here darkness did not reign inviolate. There were tiny lamps on this shelf and that: like those in the street without the power to offer more than a flicker of light, yet able to suggest that the blackest night is susceptible of challenge. A candle shone here and there in the gloom, faint yet invincible, like a will-o’-the-wisp that hops about the mounds in a cemetery.
Opening out of the shop was a little inner room. ”

“ For are not the conditions fulfilled by which our dynasty shall cease? A thousand years, my father, has it striven to affirm itself; and it is written that in the magic hour it shall achieve its apotheosis, it shall be effaced, in obedience to Universal Law. Yet be of good courage, O my father, for it perishes only to achieve re-embodiment in an ampler notation. In the hour this little treatise upon human life is wrought, the archives of our dynasty are as seed scattered broadcast upon [327] the four winds for the service of all the peoples in the world. ”

“ The face of the old man was like that of a corpse.
“Do I not know it, my beloved?” he said. “Was it not these loins that imbued this horror in thy tender veins? Yet Fate has spoken; only one thing remains unto us.”
“What is this thing, my father?”
[229] “We can but pray for a miracle to happen.”
“Ah, my father,” said the young man in a hoarse, croaking whisper, “miracles do not happen.”
“The modern authors have declared it thus in their books,” said the white-haired man, his father, “but in the Book of the Ages is it not recorded otherwise?” ”

“ When this generation, which is so restless, so brilliant, so full of vitality, seems to tell me that I am but a survival of a phase which now is nought, I say to it, ‘So be it, my children, but where is the William Jordan among [14] you? I would have you show me his peer before I yield.’”
The boy, whose nature was like the strings of some miraculous instrument which are not only susceptible to the slightest human touch, but are also responsive to the delicate waves in the air, knew that some strange emotion was overwhelming his father, although none could have perceived it but himself. ”

“ The countenance of each was remarkable. The eyes of the man were those which age does not darken; yet his cheeks were gaunt, and the lines of his frame seemed to be prematurely old; but the ample forehead and every feature was suffused with the luminosity by which a high intelligence reflects itself. The face of the boy, pale, gentle and mobile, was too rare to describe. His eyes, vivid in hue and very deeply set, were bright with a kind of veiled lustre; his form was of elfin slightness; his hands looked as frail as gossamer. ”

“ As he framed this sinister question he peered into his father’s eyes with a look of entreaty, as though he besought him not to answer in the manner that he feared to be inevitable.
“You have spoken truly, Achilles,” said his father gently.
The words of his father seemed to embody a sentence of death. His father perceived in what manner he was stricken.
“You see, beloved one,” he said, holding the slight frame against his bosom, “nothing whatever can be obtained in this world which for a term we are doomed to inhabit, except by the medium of pieces of silver. ”

“ There was a long pause, a crucifying silence, in which the poet, his aged father, and the unhappy reader confronted one another in passive bewilderment.
The poet seemed to devour the face of his friend with his sightless eyes.
“W-what shall I tell him?” said Dodson to the old man in the extremity of anguish.
“Speak only the truth,” said the old man. “Let nought be concealed. Nature who has vouchsafed to him all things, will preserve the first of her sons from the stroke of joy.” ”

“ Yet you know, old boy—if I must tell the truth—I never quite thought you had it about you to write a really good novel. But you never know, old boy, do you? Some of the smartest writing chaps of the day don’t at all look the part. Yet I don’t quite know, old boy—you won’t mind my saying it—whether you have had quite enough experience of life. I’ve heard Murtle say that a chap wants enormous experience of life to write a really good novel. I’ve heard him say to Octavius that he couldn’t possibly have done what he has unless he had dined out every night in good society for twenty years. ”

“ Even that which made his father’s eyes so radiant could not release his mind from the thrall of an indescribable torment which made it bleed. Better a thousand times to have lain in the streets of the great city, better a thousand times that his father and himself had been trampled lifeless by the relentless hordes of street-persons, than that he should have hardened his heart for the consummation of such a miracle as that. ”

“ Words have never come to me so easily as they have to-night; and as for my mind, I am sure it has never been half so bright. You seem to make me feel, old boy, that every word you use has a kind of inner meaning; and I understand enough of the meaning inside to know that there is still another meaning inside of that. I don’t know where you have been, or what you have done, but I am sure the change that has taken place in you is very wonderful.”
“The Giver of all good has at last given the light to your eyes and mine,” said William Jordan. ”

“ On the clock in the little room the hands made their tardy circuit: midnight passed; one o’clock; two o’clock; three o’clock. Throughout these hours the man remained thus, not heeding that all about him was darkness; for the lamp and the fire had burned themselves out long ago.
Near to the hour of four a ghostly figure, pale but luminous, crept into the silence of the room. It was the boy, clad in a white gown and bearing a lighted candle. He touched the kneeling figure softly.
“My father,” he breathed; “how you tremble, my father, and how cold you are!” ”

“ I ask you to take it away and print it immediately, and spread it broadcast among all the streets of the great city; and when all the street-persons have looked on what a lost soul in Hades has fashioned out of blood and tears, in order that they may find new sustenance, this weak and frail implement which has revealed the will of the Most High, shall return again to Earth, his mother, and weary with his great labours, she shall take him gently upon her breasts.”
The blind poet uttered these strange words with a noble simplicity which yet filled his friend with dismay. ”

“ At these times the blind poet, ever sitting by the hearth, would listen, breathing deep, with head uplifted, and with strange emotions flitting across his inexpressibly beautiful face. And then when through sheer weariness the voice of the aged man had ceased to utter the wonderful music, he himself, in his rich and rare tones, would take up the theme; and he would speak the lines of ineffable majesty with a justice so delicate that his aged father needed no longer to look at the manuscript, but was able to verify the printed page by the poet’s voice. ”

“ Yet as we crouch by the fire on these cold winter evenings, is it not well to wrap ourselves in the vision of all the undeveloped glories in our midst? Is it not well for our minds to behold a William Jordan brooding in his garret among all these millions of people who will never learn his name? For thirty years have I been seeking that [16] treatise by which he is to establish Reason on its only possible basis.”
“Ah, dear master, philosophy is an anodyne for subtle minds,” said the boy’s father. ”

“ I have lost a stone in weight; I can’t eat my meals; I can’t sleep at night. Old man, this business is killing James Dodson by inches; but I suppose he must keep it up to the bitter end.”
“Yes,” said the old man faintly, “the truth must be concealed from the dying Achilles that the great world out of doors has rejected his labours. Yet it is meet that we ourselves should continue in our homage to this mighty one, for we do but anticipate the verdict of ages unborn.” ”

“ Sword in his right hand in the fruitless search for that which will reconcile him to his partial vision, with the nobly pitiful irony of its conclusion that in the present stage of the Warrior’s development the reconciliation must be sought by compromise—this epic had in its austere mingling together of those elements of tragedy which purge man’s nature with the healing and co-ordinating properties which reconcile diverse and conflicting factors of experience with the primal belief of Man Himself, a universal power which had been given to no other poet in the modern or the ancient world. ”

“ He sat down as before on the bottom step, and in simple faith proceeded to await the arrival of a second dray drawn by a great horse.
As thus he sat with an exalted patience for that which he knew must come to pass, yet with his limbs trembling so that he could not hold his knees from knocking together, the clock of the cathedral across the street boomed the hour of six. Its august echoes reverberated in his spirit; they filled it with awe; the sense of a remote yet noble kinship overwhelmed him as he sat. He looked across the street with dim eyes ”

“ They knelt together.
“Thou dost not rejoice as do I, O my father!” said the boy, searching the eyes of the white-haired man. “These pieces of silver do not seem to bring you gladness. And yet I have shouted my joy. To-night I know the pangs of happiness that Hannibal and Cæsar and Alexander felt. To-night I am fit to woo the priestess of Delphi.”
“We lose the Promethean fire as age falls about us,” said his father. “We do not dance nor pipe, neither do we sing. But I salute thee, Achilles. ”

“ The face of the boy grew like death. “To-morrow then, my father,” he said in a faint and small voice, “Achilles will adventure forth to this school which is in the streets of the great city, that he too may learn this secret. He should have known that one like himself should not only have great learning, wisdom and constancy, but also a noble valour.” ”

“ And those worthy street-persons, Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker, will not their eyes glow with a proud joy when they learn it also?”
Jimmy Dodson did not dare to look upon the rapt gaze of the sightless poet.
“Ye-es, old boy,” he said miserably, “ye-es, old boy, I suppose they will.”
“Their eyes will dazzle,” said the poet, “when they behold that which has been wrought for them and theirs, and for ages unborn. A man-child has been wrought out of the soul of Man. Once more the cycle has completed itself. Fact and Speculation, Reason and Imagination stand together in a more intimate relation. ”

“ You have a touch of the magic; you are a born evangelist; you go into regions where none can follow.”
“Nature has spoken,” said William Jordan softly. “At dawn I obey her decree.”
“No, no, no!” cried his comrade, “your work lies here. You were born for this. Nature formed you to labour for your kind; and you must labour for them all your days.”
“You speak truly,” said William Jordan, “but then my labours are not yet begun.”
“Are not these your labours?” cried his fellow-worker. “Can you not wield your power upon those whom we others know not how to approach? ”

“ The sense of his destiny had been restored to him. He was again Achilles. Shuddering in every vein, he staggered through the mire of the roadway to the precincts of the national Valhalla, in which reposed the souls of heroes.
As in the days of his childhood he crept into this great cathedral. Again were his temples pressed to the chill flags; again he panted like a hunted deer. As he lay prostrate upon the stones of the sanctuary, a voice, lurking amid the dim columns, addressed him. “Zeus,” it said, “will give us immortal ones the strength to fulfil our destiny.” ”