“It’s the sort of question, at any rate,” he remarked rather feebly, “that would interest our friend Sir Thomas Browne. Do you remember how we read together that amazing passage in the Urn Burial?”
“‘But the iniquity of oblivion,’” quoted James in answer, “‘blindly scattereth her Poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the Pyramids? Herostratus lives that burnt the temple of Diana; he is almost lost that built it. Time has spared the epitaph of Hadrian’s Horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal durations; and Thersites is like to live as long as Agamemnon without the favour of the everlasting register.… Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion shares with memory a great part even of our living beings; we slightly remember our felicities and the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smart upon us. To weep into Stones are fables.’”
He pronounced these last words with a slow and emphatic intonation.
“Fables?” he repeated, resting his hand upon the rim of the font, and lowering his voice, so as not to be heard by the men outside. “He calls them fables because he has never worked as we do—day in and day out—among nothing else. The reason he says that to weep into Stones are fables is that his own life, down at that pleasant Norwich, was such a happy one. To weep into Stones! He means, of course, that when you have endured more than you can bear, you become a Stone. But that is no fable! Or if it was once, it isn’t so today. Mr. Taxater said the Stone-Age was over. In my opinion, Luke, the Stone-Age is only now beginning. The reason of that is, that whereas, in former times, Stone was moulded by men; now, men are moulded by Stone. We have receded, instead of advancing; and the iniquity of Time which turned animals into men, is now turning men back into the elements!”
Luke cursed bitterly in his heart the rhythmic incantations of the old Norwich doctor. He had been thinking of a very different passage from that which his brother recalled. To change the conversation he asked how James wished to spend their free afternoon.
Andersen’s tone changed in a moment, and he grew rational and direct. “I am going for a walk,” he said, “and I think perhaps, if you don’t mind, I’ll go alone. My brain feels clouded and oppressed. A long walk ought to clear it. I think it will clear it; don’t you?” This final question was added rather wistfully.
“I’m sure it will. Oh, it certainly will! I expect the sun has hit you a bit; or perhaps, as Mr. Taxater would say, your headache is a relative one, due to my dragging in such things as Urn Burial. But I don’t quite like your going alone, Daddy James.”
The elder brother smiled affectionately at him, but went on quietly with his work without replying.
When they had finished their mid-day meal they both loitered out into the field together, smoking and chatting. The afternoon promised to be as clear and beautiful as the morning, and Luke’s spirits rose high. He hoped his brother, at the last moment, would not have the heart to reject his company.