Intellectual “work” is misnamed; it is
a pleasure, a dissipation, and is its own highest
reward. The poorest paid architect, engineer,
general, author, sculptor, painter, lecturer, advocate,
legislator, actor, preacher, singer is constructively
in heaven when he is at work; and as for the musician
with the fiddle-bow in his hand who sits in the midst
of a great orchestra with the ebbing and flowing tides
of divine sound washing over him—why, certainly,
he is at work, if you wish to call it that, but lord,
it’s a sarcasm just the same. The law of
work does seem utterly unfair—but there
it is, and nothing can change it: the higher
the pay in enjoyment the worker gets out of it, the
higher shall be his pay in cash, also. And it’s
also the very law of those transparent swindles, transmissible
nobility and kingship.
THE SMALLPOX HUT
When we arrived at that hut at mid-afternoon, we saw
no signs of life about it. The field near by
had been denuded of its crop some time before, and
had a skinned look, so exhaustively had it been harvested
and gleaned. Fences, sheds, everything had a
ruined look, and were eloquent of poverty. No
animal was around anywhere, no living thing in sight.
The stillness was awful, it was like the stillness
of death. The cabin was a one-story one, whose
thatch was black with age, and ragged from lack of
repair.
The door stood a trifle ajar. We approached
it stealthily—on tiptoe and at half-breath—for
that is the way one’s feeling makes him do,
at such a time. The king knocked. We waited.
No answer. Knocked again. No answer.
I pushed the door softly open and looked in.
I made out some dim forms, and a woman started up from
the ground and stared at me, as one does who is wakened
from sleep. Presently she found her voice:
“Have mercy!” she pleaded. “All
is taken, nothing is left.”
“I have not come to take anything, poor woman.”
“You are not a priest?”
“No.”
“Nor come not from the lord of the manor?”
“No, I am a stranger.”
“Oh, then, for the fear of God, who visits with
misery and death such as be harmless, tarry not here,
but fly! This place is under his curse—and
his Church’s.”
“Let me come in and help you—you
are sick and in trouble.”
I was better used to the dim light now. I could
see her hollow eyes fixed upon me. I could see
how emaciated she was.
“I tell you the place is under the Church’s
ban. Save yourself —and go, before
some straggler see thee here, and report it.”
“Give yourself no trouble about me; I don’t
care anything for the Church’s curse.
Let me help you.”
“Now all good spirits—if there be
any such—bless thee for that word.
Would God I had a sup of water!—but hold,
hold, forget I said it, and fly; for there is that
here that even he that feareth not the Church must
fear: this disease whereof we die. Leave
us, thou brave, good stranger, and take with thee such
whole and sincere blessing as them that be accursed
can give.”
