[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.The deacons were men of substance.Pillars of the church, millionaires, rich doctors, owners of utility companies.But though Malone went every Sunday to church, and though they were holy men, in his judgment, he felt strangely apart from them.Though he shook hands with Dr.Watson at the end of every church service, he felt no communication with him, or any of the other worshipers.Yet he had been born and reared in the First Baptist Church, and there was no other spiritual solace he could think of, for he was ashamed and timid to speak of death.So one November afternoon, shortly after his second stay at the hospital, he dressed up in his new tailored Oxford gray suit and went to the parsonage.Dr.Watson greeted him with some surprise."How well you are looking, Mr.Malone." Malone's body seemed to shrink in the new suit."I'm glad you've come.I always like to see my parishioners.What can I do for you today? Would you like a coke?""No thanks, Dr.Watson.I would like to talk.""Talk about what?"Malone's reply was muted and almost indistinct."About death.""Ramona," Dr.Watson bawled to the servant who quickly answered him, "serve Mr.Malone and me some cokes with lemon."As the cokes were served, Malone crossed and uncrossed his withered legs in their fine flannel pants.A flush of shame reddened his pale face."I mean," he said, "you are supposed to know about things like that.""Things like what?" Dr.Watson asked.Malone was brave, determined."About the soul, and what happens in the afterlife."In church, and after twenty years of experience, Dr.Watson could make glib sermons about the soul; but in his own home, with only one man asking, his glibness turned to embarrassment and he only said, "I don't know what you mean, Mr.Malone." "My brother died, Cab Bickerstaff died in this town, and Mr.Beard died all in the course of seven months.What happened to them after death?""We all have to die," said the plump, pale Dr.Watson."Other people never know when they are going to die.""All Christians should prepare for death." Dr.Watson thought the subject was getting morbid."But how do you prepare for death?""By righteous living.""What is righteous living?" Malone had never stolen, had seldom lied, and the one episode in his life that he knew was a mortal sin had happened years ago and lasted only one summer."Tell me, Dr.Watson," he asked, "what is eternal life?""To me," Dr.Watson said, "it is the extension of earthly life, but more intensified.Does that answer your question?"Malone thought of the drabness of his life and wondered how it could be more intensified.Was afterlife continual tedium and was that why he struggled so in order to hold onto life? He shivered although the parsonage was hot."Do you believe in heaven and hell?" Malone asked."I'm not a strict fundamentalist, but I believe that what a man does on earth predicates his eternal life.""But if a man does just the ordinary things, nothing good, nothing bad?""It's not up to man's judgment to decide what is good and what is bad.God sees the truth, and is our Saviour."These days Malone had often prayed, but what he was praying to he did not know.There seemed no sense in continuing the conversation, for he was getting no answer.Malone put the Coca-Cola glass carefully on the doily beside him and stood up."Well, thanks very much, Dr.Watson," he said bleakly."I'm glad you dropped in to talk with me.My home is always open to my parishioners who want to speak of spiritual things."In a daze of weariness and vacuity, Malone walked through the November twilight.A bright woodpecker pecked hollowly at a telephone pole.The afternoon was silent except for the woodpecker.It was strange that Malone, who loved singsong poetry, would think of those memorized lines: The greatest danger, that of losing one's own self, may pass off quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, that of an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc., is sure to be noticed.The incongruity of these ideas, fateful and ordinary as his own life, sounded like the brassy clamor of the city clock, uncadenced and flat.9THAT WINTER the Judge made a grave mistake about Sherman and Sherman made a still graver mistake about the Judge.Since both mistakes were phantasies which flowered as richly in the senile brain of the old man as they did in the heart of the thwarted boy, their human relationship was going very much amiss, choked as it were with the rank luxuriance of their separate dreams.So that the relationship which had begun with such joy and lucidity was, by the end of November, already tarnished.It was the old Judge who spoke first of his dream.One day with an air of secrecy and zest he opened his safety deposit box and handed Sherman a sheaf of papers."Read carefully, boy, for this may be my final contribution as a statesman to the South."Sherman read and was puzzled, less by the ornate and badly spelled manuscript than by the contents of what he read."Don't bother about the calligraphy or spelling," the Judge said airily."It's the trenchancy of ideas that matters." Sherman was reading about the Confederate money while the Judge looked on, glowing with pride and anticipated compliments.Sherman's delicately fluted nostrils widened and his lips fluttered but he said nothing.Passionately the old Judge began to speak.He described the history of devaluations of foreign monies and the rights of conquered nations to the redemption of their own currencies."In every civilized nation the currencies of defeated nations have been redeemed.devaluated, to be sure, but redeemed.Look at the franc, the mark, the lira and look at, by God, even the yen." This last redemption particularly infuriated the old man.Sherman's slate-blue eyes stared at the deeper blue eyes of the old Judge.At first bewildered by the talk of all the foreign money, he wondered if the Judge was drunk.But it was not yet twelve o'clock and the Judge never started his toddies until noon.But the old Judge was speaking passionately, drunk with his dream, and Sherman responded.Knowing nothing about what the Judge was discussing, Sherman responded to rhetoric, repetition and rhythm, to the language of passionate demagoguery, senseless and high flown, of which the old Judge was a past master.So Sherman's delicately fluted nostrils widened and he said nothing.The Judge, who had been hurt by his grandson's casual indifference to his dream, knew a spellbound listener when he had one and pressed on triumphantly.And Sherman, who seldom believed a word that Jester said, listened to the Judge's tirade, heedful and wondering.It happened that some time ago the Judge received a letter from Senator Tip Thomas in reply to the first petition letter that Sherman had written concerning Jester's admittance to West Point.The senator had replied with cumbersome courtesy that he would be glad to put his old friend and fellow statesman's grandson up at his first opportunity.Again the old Judge and Sherman had struggled with a letter to Senator Tip Thomas.This time with the same cumbersome courtesy the old Judge wrote of the dead Mrs.Thomas, as well as the living Mrs.Thomas.It always seemed a miracle to Sherman that the old Judge had actually been a congressman in the House of Representatives in Washington, D.C.The glory was reflected in Sherman, the genuine amanuensis who had his trays on the library table.When Senator Thomas replied, referring to past favors the Judge had shown him and promising that Jester would get an appointment at West Point—playing footsie with the old Judge—it seemed magical to Sherman.So magical that he even fought down his rebellious jealousy that his own letter to Washington had not been answered.The Judge, in spite of his oratory, was a great one for putting his own foot in his mouth, and soon, sure enough, his foot was in the middle of his mouth [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

listy-do-eda.opx.pl