Sunrise | Page 6

day: '_Ne si pasce di fresche
ruggiade, ma di sangue di membra di re_.' Isn't it charming? It sounds
quite idyllic, even in English: '_Not for you the nourishment of
freshening dews, but the blood of the limbs of kings_!' The pretty little
stabber--is she fierce?"
"Brand, you are too bad!" said the other, throwing down his knife and
fork, and getting up from the table. "You believe in neither man,
woman, God, nor devil!"

"Would you mind handing over that claret jug?"
"Why," he said, turning 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
æstheticism--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