Sunrise | Page 6

passionately toward him, "it is men like you, who have neither faith, nor hope, nor regret, who are wandering aimlessly in a nightmare of apathy and indolence and indifference, who ought to be the first to welcome the new light breaking in the sky. What is life worth to you? You have nothing to hope for--nothing to look forward to--nothing you can kill the aimless with. Why should you desire to-morrow? To-morrow will bring you nothing different from yesterday; you will do as you did yesterday and the day before yesterday. It is the life of a horse or an ox--not the life of a human being, with the sympathies and needs and aspirations of a man. What is the object of living at all?"
"I really don't know," said the other, simply.
But this pale hump-backed lad, with the fine nostrils, the sensitive mouth, the large forehead, and the beautiful eyes, was terribly in earnest. He forgot about his place at table. He kept walking up and down, occasionally addressing his friend directly, at other times glancing out at the dark river and the golden lines of the lamps. And he was an eloquent speaker, too. Debarred from most forms of physical exercise, he had been brought up in a world of ideas. When he went to Oxford, it was with some vague notion of subsequently entering the Church; but at Oxford he became speedily convinced that there was no Church left for him to enter. Then he fell back on ?stheticism--worshipped Carpaccio, adored Chopin, and turned his rooms at Merton into a museum of old tapestry, Roman brass-work, and Venetian glass. Then he dabbled a little in Comtism; but very soon he threw aside that gigantic make-believe at believing. Nevertheless, whatever was his whim of the moment, it was for him no whim at all, but a burning reality. And in this enthusiasm of his there was no room left for shyness. In fact, these two companions had been accustomed to talk frankly; they had long ago abandoned that self-consciousness which ordinarily restricts the conversation of young Englishmen to monosyllables. Brand was a good listener and his friend an eager, impetuous, enthusiastic speaker. The one could even recite verses to the other: what greater proof of confidence?
And on this occasion all this prayer of his was earnest and pathetic enough. He begged this old chum of his to throw aside his insular prejudices and judge for himself. What object had he in living at all, if life were merely a routine of food and sleep? In this selfish isolation, his living was only a process of going to the grave--only that each day would become more tedious and burdensome as he grew older. Why should he not examine, and inquire, and believe--if that was possible? The world was perishing for want of a new faith: the new faith was here.
At this phrase George Brand quickly raised his head. He was accustomed to these enthusiasms of his friend; but he had not yet seen him in the character of on apostle.
"You know it as well as I, Brand; the last great wave of religion has spent itself; and I suppose Matthew Arnold would have us wait for the mysterious East, the mother of religions, to send us another. Do you remember 'Obermann?'--
"'In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman noble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian Way;
"'He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crowned his head with flowers-- No easier nor no quicker passed The impracticable hours.
"'The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world. The Roman tempest swelled and swelled, And on her head was hurled.
"'The East bowed low before the blast, In patience, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again.'"
The lad had a sympathetic voice; and there was a curious, pathetic thrill in the tones of it as he went on to describe the result of that awful musing--the new-born joy awakening in the East--the victorious West veiling her eagles and snapping her sword before this strange new worship of the Child--
"And centuries came, and ran their course, And, unspent all that time, Still, still went forth that Child's dear force, And still was at its prime."
But now--in these later days around us!--
"Now he is dead! Far hence He lies In the lorn Syrian town; And on his grave, with shining eyes, The Syrian stars look down."
The great divine wave had spent itself. But were we to sit supinely by--this was what he asked, though not precisely in these consecutive words, for sometimes he walked to and fro in his eagerness, and sometimes he ate a bit of bread, or sat down opposite his friend for the purpose of better confronting him--to wait for that