The Hidden Servants and Other Very Old Stories. Alexander Francesca

Чтение книги онлайн.

      And now one wish in his heart remained:

      He longed to know what his soul had gained,

      And how he had grown in the Master's grace,

      Since first he came to that lonely place.

      This wish was haunting him night and day,

      He never could drive the thought away.

      Until at length in the beech-tree's shade

      He knelt, and with all his soul he prayed

      That God would grant him to know and see

      A man, if such in the world might be,

      Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown

      To the self-same measure as his own;

      Whose treasure on the celestial shore

      Could neither be less than his nor more.

      He prayed with faith, and his prayer was heard;

      He hardly came to the closing word

      Before he felt there was some one there!

      He looked, and saw in the sun-lit air

      An angel, floating on wings of white;

      Nor did he wonder at such a sight:

      For angels often had come to cheer

      His soul, and he thought them always near.

      Happy and humble, he bowed his head,

      And listened, while thus the angel said:

      "Go to the nearest town, and there,

      To-morrow, will be in the market square

      A mountebank, playing his tricks for show:

      He is the man thou hast prayed to know;

      His soul, as seen by the light divine,

      Is neither better nor worse than thine.

      His treasure on the celestial shore

      Is neither less than thine own nor more."

      Next day, in the dim and early morn,

      By a slippery path that the sheep had worn,

      The hermit went from his loved abode

      To the farms below, and the beaten road.

      The reapers, out in the field that day,

      Who saw him passing, did often say,

      What a mournful look the old man had!

      And his very voice was changed and sad.

      Troubled he was, and much perplexed;

      With endless doubting his mind was vexed.

      What – He? A mountebank? Both the same?

      What could it mean to his soul but shame?

      Had his forty years been vainly spent?

      And then, alas! as he onward went,

      There came an evil and bitter thought, —

      Had he been serving the Lord for nought?

      But in his fear he began to pray,

      And the black temptation passed away.

      Perhaps the mountebank yet might prove

      To have a soul in the Master's love.

      He almost felt that it must be so,

      In spite of a life that seemed so low.

      Perhaps he was forced such life to take,

      It might be, even for conscience' sake;

      Some cruel master the order gave,

      Perhaps, for scorn of a pious slave.

      Or, stay – there were saints in ancient days,

      Who had such terror of human praise

      That, but to gain the contempt they prized,

      They did such things as are most despised;

      Feigned even madness; and more than one,

      Accused of sins he had never done,

      Had willingly borne disgrace and blame,

      Nor said a word for his own good name!

      In thoughts like these had the day gone by;

      The sun was now in the western sky:

      The road, grown level and hot and wide,

      With dusty hedges on either side,

      Had led him close to the city gate,

      Where he must enter to learn his fate.

      Now fear did over his hope prevail:

      He almost wished in his search to fail,

      And find no mountebank there at all!

      For then his vision he well might call

      A dream that came of its own accord,

      Instead of a message from the Lord!

      A few more minutes, and then he knew

      That all which the angel said was true!

      A mountebank, in the market square,

      Was making the people laugh and stare.

      With antics more befitting an ape

      Than any creature in human shape!

      The hermit took his place with the rest,

      Not heeding the crowd that round him pressed,

      And earnestly set his eyes to scan

      The face of the poor, unsaintly man.

      Alas, there was little written there

      Of inward peace or of answered prayer!

      For all the paint, and the droll grimace,

      'T was a haggard, anxious, weary face.

      The mountebank saw, with vague surprise,

      The patient, sorrowful, searching eyes,

      Whose look, so solemn, and kindly too,

      Seemed piercing all his disguises through.

      They made him restless, he knew not why:

      He could not play; it was vain to try!

      His face grew sober, his movements slow;

      And, soon as might be, he closed the show.

      He saw that the hermit lingered on,

      When all the rest of the crowd were gone.

      Then over his gaudy clothes he drew

      A ragged mantle of faded hue;

      And he himself was the first to speak:

      "Good Father, is it for me you seek?"

      "My son, I have sought you all the day;

      Would you come with me a little way,

      Into some quiet corner near,

      Where no one our words can overhear?"

      Not far away, in a lonely street,

      By a garden wall they found a seat.

      It now was late, and the sun had set,

      Though a golden glory lingered yet,

      And the moon looked pale in it overhead.

      They sat them down, and the hermit said:

      "My son, to me was a vision sent,

      And as yet I know not what it meant;

      But I think that you, and you alone,

      Are able to make its meaning known.

      Answer СКАЧАТЬ