The Vicar's Daughter - George MacDonald (read dune txt) 📗

off—would he? He’d use his tools like another man, anyhow.”

“All that we may be certain of. He came to us a man, to live a man’s life, and do a man’s work. But just think a moment. I will put the question again: Do you suppose you would have been able to distinguish his work from that of any other man?”

A silence followed. Jarvis was thinking. He and the blind man were of the few that can think. At last his face brightened.

“Well, grannie,” he said, “I think it would be very difficult in any thing easy, but very easy in any thing difficult.”

He laughed,—for he had not perceived the paradox before uttering it.

“Explain yourself, if you please, Mr. Jarvis. I am not sure that I understand you,” said Marion.

“I mean, that, in an easy job, which any fair workman could do well enough, it would not be easy to tell his work. But, where the job was difficult, it would be so much better done, that it would not be difficult to see the better hand in it.”

“I understand you, then, to indicate, that the chief distinction would lie in the quality of the work; that whatever he did, he would do in such a thorough manner, that over the whole of what he turned out, as you would say, the perfection of the work would be a striking characteristic. Is that it?”

“That is what I do mean, grannie.”

“And that is just the conclusion I had come to myself.”

“I should like to say just one word to it, grannie, so be you won’t cut up crusty,” said the blind man.

“If you are fair, I sha’n’t be crusty, Mr. Evans. At least, I hope not,” said Marion.

“Well, it’s this: Mr. Jarvis he say as how the jiner-work done by Jesus Christ would be better done than e’er another man’s,—tip-top fashion,—and there would lie the differ. Now, it do seem to me as I’ve got no call to come to that ‘ere conclusion. You been tellin’ on us, grannie, I donno how long now, as how Jesus Christ was the Son of God, and that he come to do the works of God,—down here like, afore our faces, that we might see God at work, by way of. Now, I ha’ nothin’ to say agin that: it may be, or it mayn’t be—I can’t tell. But if that be the way on it, then I don’t see how Mr. Jarvis can be right; the two don’t curryspond,—not by no means. For the works o’ God—there ain’t one on’em as I can see downright well managed—tip-top jiner’s work, as I may say; leastways,—Now stop a bit, grannie; don’t trip a man up, and then say as he fell over his own dog,—leastways, I don’t say about the moon an’ the stars an’ that; I dessay the sun he do get up the werry moment he’s called of a mornin’, an’ the moon when she ought to for her night-work,—I ain’t no ‘stronomer strawnry, and I ain’t heerd no complaints about them; but I do say as how, down here, we ha’ got most uncommon bad weather more’n at times; and the walnuts they turns out, every now an’ then, full o’ mere dirt; an’ the oranges awful. There ‘ain’t been a good crop o’ hay, they tells me, for many’s the year. An’ i’ furren parts, what wi’ earthquakes an’ wolcanies an’ lions an’ tigers, an’ savages as eats their wisiters, an’ chimley-pots blowin’ about, an’ ships goin’ down, an’ fathers o’ families choked an’ drownded an’ burnt i’ coal-pits by the hundred,—it do seem to me that if his jinerin’ hadn’t been tip-top, it would ha’ been but like the rest on it. There, grannie! Mind, I mean no offence; an’ I don’t doubt you ha’ got somethink i’ your weskit pocket as ‘ll turn it all topsy-turvy in a moment. Anyhow, I won’t purtend to nothink, and that’s how it look to me.”

“I admit,” said Marion, “that the objection is a reasonable one. But why do you put it, Mr. Evans, in such a triumphant way, as if you were rejoiced to think it admitted of no answer, and believed the world would be ever so much better off if the storms and the tigers had it all their own way, and there were no God to look after things.”

“Now, you ain’t fair to me, grannie. Not avin’ of my heyesight like the rest on ye, I may be a bit fond of a harguyment; but I tries to hit fair, and when I hears what ain’t logic, I can no more help comin’ down upon it than I can help breathin’ the air o’ heaven. And why shouldn’t I? There ain’t no law agin a harguyment. An’ more an’ over, it do seem to me as how you and Mr. Jarvis is wrong i’ it is harguyment.”

“If I was too sharp upon you, Mr. Evans, and I may have been,” said Marion, “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s granted, grannie.”

“I don’t mean, you know, that I give in to what you say,—not one bit.”

“I didn’t expect it of you. I’m a-waitin’ here for you to knock me down.”

“I don’t think a mere victory is worth the breath spent upon it,” said Marion. “But we should all be glad to get or give more light upon any subject, if it be by losing ever so many arguments. Allow me just to put a question or two to Mr. Jarvis, because he’s a joiner himself—and that’s a great comfort to me to-night: What would you say, Mr. Jarvis, of a master who planed the timber he used for scaffolding, and tied the crosspieces with ropes of silk?”

“I should say he was a fool, grannie,—not only for losin’ of his money and his labor, but for weakenin’ of his scaffoldin’,—summat like the old throne-maker i’ that chapter, I should say.”

“What’s the object of a scaffold, Mr. Jarvis?”

“To get at something else by means of,—say build a house.”

“Then, so long as the house was going up all right, the probability is there wouldn’t be much amiss with the scaffold?”

“Certainly, provided it stood till it was taken down.”

“And now, Mr. Evans,” she said next, turning to the blind man, “I am going to take the liberty of putting a question or two to you.”

“All right, grannie. Fire away.”

“Will you tell me, then, what the object of this world is?”

“Well, most people makes it their object to get money, and make theirselves comfortable.”

“But you don’t think that is what the world was made for?”

“Oh! as to that, how should I know, grannie? And not knowin’, I won’t say.”

“If you saw a scaffold,” said Marion, turning again to Jarvis, “would you be in danger of mistaking it for a permanent erection?”

“Nobody wouldn’t be such a fool,” he answered. “The look of it would tell you that.”

“You wouldn’t complain, then, if it should be a little out of the square, and if there should be no windows in it?”

Jarvis only laughed.

“Mr. Evans,” Marion went on, turning again to the blind man, “do you think the design of this world was to make men comfortable?”

“If it was, it don’t seem to ha’ succeeded,” answered Evans.

“And you complain of that—don’t you?”

“Well, yes, rather,”—said the blind man, adding, no doubt, as he recalled the former part of the evening’s talk,—“for harguyment, ye know, grannie.”

“You think, perhaps, that God, having gone so far to make this world a pleasant and comfortable place to live in, might have gone farther and made it quite pleasant and comfortable for everybody?”

“Whoever could make it at all could ha’ done that, grannie.”

“Then, as he hasn’t done it, the probability is he didn’t mean to do it?”

“Of course. That’s what I complain of.”

“Then he meant to do something else?”

“It looks like it.”

“The whole affair has an unfinished look, you think?”

“I just do.”

“What if it were not meant to stand, then? What if it were meant only for a temporary assistance in carrying out something finished and lasting, and of unspeakably more importance? Suppose God were building a palace for you, and had set up a scaffold, upon which he wanted you to help him; would it be reasonable in you to complain that you didn’t find the scaffold at all a comfortable place to live in?—that it was draughty and cold? This World is that scaffold; and if you were busy carrying stones and mortar for the palace, you would be glad of all the cold to cool the glow of your labor.”

“I’m sure I work hard enough when I get a job as my heyesight will enable me to do,” said Evans, missing the spirit of her figure.

“Yes: I believe you do. But what will all the labor of a workman who does not fall in with the design of the builder come to? You may say you don’t understand the design: will you say also that you are under no obligation to put so much faith in the builder, who is said to be your God and Father, as to do the thing he tells you? Instead of working away at the palace, like men, will you go on tacking bits of matting and old carpet about the corners of the scaffold to keep the wind off, while that same wind keeps tearing them away and scattering them? You keep trying to live in a scaffold, which not all you could do to all eternity would make a house of. You see what I mean, Mr. Evans?”

“Well, not ezackly,” replied the blind man.

“I mean that God wants to build you a house whereof the walls shall be goodness: you want a house whereof the walls shall be comfort. But God knows that such walls cannot be built,—that that kind of stone crumbles away in the foolish workman’s hands. He would make you comfortable; but neither is that his first object, nor can it be gained without the first, which is to make you good. He loves you so much that he would infinitely rather have you good and uncomfortable, for then he could take you to his heart as his own children, than comfortable and not good, for then he could not come near you, or give you any thing he counted worth having for himself or worth giving to you.”

“So,” said Jarvis, “you’ve just brought us round, grannie, to the same thing as before.”

“I believe so,” returned Marion. “It comes to this, that when God would build a palace for himself to dwell in with his children, he does not want his scaffold so constructed that they shall be able to make a house of it for themselves, and live like apes instead of angels.”

“But if God can do any thing he please,” said Evans, “he might as well make us good, and there would be an end of it.”

“That is just what he is doing,” returned Marion. “Perhaps, by giving them perfect health, and every thing they wanted, with absolute good temper, and making them very fond of each other besides, God might have provided himself a people he would have had no difficulty in governing, and amongst whom, in consequence, there would have been no crime and no struggle or suffering. But I have known a dog with more goodness than that would come to. We cannot be good without having consented to be made good. God shows us the good and the bad; urges us to be good; wakes good thoughts and desires in us; helps our spirit with his Spirit, our thought with his thought: but we must yield;