POWER: by Lydia Ross, M. D.
HIS hearers agreed that the pastor of their ultra-fashionable church had transcended himself that Sunday morning. This was no small praise, for his trained mind and wide experience, his analysis of men, his delicate wit, his eloquence, and the fervid poetry of his prayers made the congregation regard his ordinary efforts with patronizing pride. When he began with the beatitudes, in clear, resonant tones, his voice seemed to radiate a grateful calm through the softly lighted interior. Then he painted a graphic picture of the compensations of unselfish work and sacrifice, artistically coloring the whole theme with the glow of noble peace which comes to those who give themselves generously.
There was a responsive awakening in the cultured, ennuied minds of his high-bred audience which was like wine to the speaker. The interest which he had aroused reacted as a pungent mental stimulus. The very air seemed to scintillate with new thoughts which he swiftly grasped and clothed in vivid words.
My Lady Luxury, who had played the game of "slumming" for diversion, breathed a little deeper in her faultless gown. The commonplace creatures of work and weariness had never seemed quite the same kind of flesh and blood as the members of her exclusive set. The poor were interesting enough as authors' types or artists' models but she had not supposed they had any of the finer feelings. She assumed that the narrow ugliness of their lives could be no trial since they had never known anything else. How skilfully the minister was analysing things. After all, there was some comfort in religion when a man could preach like that. If the homely struggles of the weary, dulled mothers and fathers of poverty and toil had these compensating pleasures of sacrifice, they could not complain. It really was an indifferent matter, then, whether one gave alms or not, though of course, the fashionable charities ought to be sustained. She was not stirred to taste the higher sense of sacrifice so well described, but a complacent feeling of the fitness of things came over her. How absurd the less fortunate were to think this an unjust world. The toilers' backs were fitted to their burdens as hers was meant for soft purple and fine linen. This was not exactly what the minister was saying, but it suited her to regard him as the author of her translation.
The members of the pulpit committee in their pews secretly congratulated themselves upon their foresight in having selected this candidate. The demands of the position were exacting, but he was equal to them—even his physique fitted the pulpit admirably. His culture and learning were a credit to even this patrician parish, which believed in having the best that money could procure.
Down the central aisle was the clear-cut, immobile face of a financier whose opinions in the money world were never discounted. His keen eyes rested upon the speaker in admiration. Personally he played the game of gold so intensely he forgot to calculate what life meant to the individuals who composed "the market." He was rather hypnotized with his own success: but he recognized his peer in this man who ruled in his own world of thought. Why, he was making the game of life appear so vivid and real that the whole financial play grew dull and artificial beside it. The listener's quick eye noted the alert, interested faces around him. Ah, it were indeed a great thing so to play upon the minds of men and women as to win this tribute of silent, rapt attention. The eloquent voice aroused in him no impulse of envy or of aspiration; but his own ability inwardly saluted this master of words who could so paint the atmosphere with sound.
A gratified flush crept into the minister's face as he looked over the audience. Was this not ready proof of the compensations of work? He had put his mind's best effort into this sermon, and there was not one in the great church who was not touched, mentally.
That sense of the unreality of the market-place followed the financier after the artistic music had ended the service. Later in the day he wandered along the country roads in the spring sunshine, thinking of the sermon. How dramatic it all had been and how perfect a performance! It seemed a part of the fresh spring day as the inviting green fields melted into his reverie and he followed the path with careless strides.
The wind gently stirred the branches and a delicate shower of fragrant petals fell at his feet, while a strangely familiar odor filled the air with its long-forgotten charm. Apple blossoms! How sweet they were! With delicious subtlety the perfumed breath from the boughs filled him with its own ethereal magic. Nature was playing a glorious game of sound and color and form and fragrance. Deep in his slumbering heart something stirred and fluttered and sprang up at the first touch of this enchantment. The power in the fragile petals swept the sordid earth from under his feet. The dear old apple orchard of his boyhood was before him. Again he stood upon the threshold of joyous, strong, young life. The taste of sweet belief in an untried world was on his lips, the wine of high impulse tingling in every nerve. The harmony of life's song thrilled him into vibrant sympathy with its purity and beauty and his heart glowed with the faith which only youth knows.
Oh that he might crystallize the wondrous meaning of this perfumed vision of unfolding life into sound or color or form that would make the dreary world of men feel that this, this was the reality! His pulses throbbed with a longing for toil and struggle and sacrifice—no effort was too great, no price too much to pay, if only he might help to voice this living poetry. He would valiantly espouse this cause of beauty until mankind's glad belief should liberate the truth imprisoned in a selfish world. No lesser ambition should lure him from the task: this was the only thing worth while. Other champions might prove more able, and he might sadly fail; but oh, how he longed to lose himself in the glory of the attempt.
With uncovered head the financier stood disciple-wise among the trees. Long and deeply he drank of the redolent air, feasting his eyes upon the marvel of perfectly tinted petals and countless buds of promise still brighter in their tender curves. It was all too subtle for analysis, yet his heart recognized the meaning of the message so strangely sweet and strong. What revelation lay at the heart of this unfoldment, with its touch of the eternal spring which sleeps beneath all forms! Oh the power and inspiration and the rare, old-time enchantment of returning apple-blossoms!