GILDERMAN, when he left the club, found that he was in that peculiar
psychological state that comes upon one now and then--a state in which
one feels that one has not altogether determined to do a certain
thing and yet finds one's self in the very act of doing it. As it had
been the day before, so now he found himself possessed by a strange
impulsion that drove him forward as though not of his own volition. He
walked briskly down towards the depot, but it did not seem to him that
he even yet had made up his mind to embark upon the undertaking. Even
when he found himself in the depot looking up at the time-clocks, and
saw that the next train left in ten minutes--even when he had bought
his ticket, it did not seem to him that he had actually determined
to do what he was about to do. Such times of almost involuntary
progression towards some object comes now and then to every man. It is
as though there was some inner will-force that subjected the outer
actions, urging them forward to carry the intention through to its
conclusion. Gilderman's mind did not actually resist the impulse that
led him to go down to Brookfield. He yielded himself to going, but, at
the same time, he did not yield a full and complete concurrence to that
inner motive that impelled him to go. The cause of inspiration, though
he did not know it, was very profound. It seemed to him that he simply
allowed himself to drift as circumstances directed.
When he reached the end of his journey, he found on inquiring at the
station that He whom he sought was no longer there, but that He had
gone down towards the city that morning. The station-master, who
had a little leisure between the trains, told him that he could get
a conveyance at the Walton House. There was, he said, a very good
livery-stable connected with the hotel. He walked down to the end of
the platform with Gilderman and pointed out to him the direction he was
to take, and then he stood for a while looking after the young Roman as
he walked away across the bridge and down the road.
It was the same direction which Gilderman had taken the day before.
Everything seemed strangely familiar to him. There was the bridge and
the stream below it, and the open field and the distant row of frame
houses. As he passed the tobacco-shop, the woman with whom he had
spoken yesterday was standing in the doorway. She looked hard at him as
he passed, and Gilderman felt a certain awkward consciousness that she
recognized him.
Just beyond the tobacco-shop he turned up a side street towards the
hotel. He remembered now having seen it the day before. There were men
standing on the rather ramshackle porch in front of the hotel, and
they, too, stared hard at Gilderman as he went by. Again, as upon the
day before, Gilderman recognized how distinctly out of place he was and
how curious the hotel loungers must be regarding him. He was glad when
he found himself in the open stable-yard out of their sight.
A man, evidently the innkeeper--a short, stocky, gray-haired man--was
standing watching one of the boys bathe the leg of an evidently lame
horse. He looked up as Gilderman approached, but he did not move to
meet him. Gilderman walked directly up to him and told him what he
wanted.
A team? Oh yes, he could have a team. He sized Gilderman up without
at all knowing who he really was. Of course he would want something
toppy. Then he called to a colored man to go tell Bob to put the
little gray to the dog-cart. He held an unlighted cigar between his
lips, and he rolled it every now and then from one side of his mouth
to the other, looking rather curiously at Gilderman. "I suppose you're
a newspaper reporter?" he said, after giving Gilderman's person a
sweeping look.
"No," said Gilderman, "I'm not." He volunteered nothing further, and
there was that in his brief denial that did not encourage further
question. Every now and then the innkeeper looked curiously at him, but
he ventured no further inquiry. There was an indescribable remoteness
about the young Roman that repelled, without effort and without
offence, any approach at familiarity.
Then they brought the gray horse out of the stable and began to hitch
it to the dog-cart. It was, indeed, a neat, toppy little animal, and
Gilderman looked upon it with pleasure. The innkeeper went over to see
that all was right, pulling here and there at a strap or buckle, and
Gilderman, taking out his cigar-case, lit a cigar. The gray sky was
beginning to break up into patches of blue, and suddenly the sun shone
out and down upon his back. It was very warm. Then the driver jumped to
his seat and wheeled the team out into the stable-yard, and Gilderman
mounted lightly to the place beside him.
As the horse trotted briskly away down the road Gilderman saw, on
a distant hill, a far-away view of the cemetery where he had been
the day before. How strange that he should see it so soon again. It
looked empty and deserted now. Then presently they had left it behind
and were out into the open country. They drove for somewhat over two
miles without seeing any sign of Him whom Gilderman sought. There they
reached a little rise of ground just outside of a village, and, looking
down the stretch of road, they could see that a crowd was gathered
about a big stuccoed building, which Gilderman recognized as an inn.
"That's Him down yonder," said the driver, breaking the long silence.
The dog-cart was rattling briskly down the incline road, and suddenly
Gilderman found that his heart was beating very quickly. He wondered,
passively, why it beat so, and why he should feel so strange a qualm of
nervousness. He was not accustomed to such emotions, and there seemed
to be no reason for it now.
The driver drew up sharply in front of the inn, and close to the crowd
gathered in front of it. The building was a square, ugly, yellow
thing, streaked and blotched with the beating of the weather. Here
and there the stucco had broken away, showing the bricks beneath. A
large sign ran along the whole front of the building. It, too, was
weather-beaten, the letters partly obliterated.
The crowd gathered and centred about the corner of the building,
where there was a platform, and beyond it a stable-yard and some open
sheds. Almost instantly Gilderman had seen the face of Him whom he
sought. It was raised a little above the heads of the crowd, for He
was sitting resting on the corner of the open platform that ran along
the length of the hotel front. He was surrounded by His immediate
disciples. The crowd stood about Him, partly in the road, partly upon
the open porch. Some women and two or three men, apparently belonging
to the house, were leaning out of the windows above looking down and
talking together. There was a ceaseless buzz of talk--a ceaseless
restlessness pervading the crowd. The central figure appeared to be
altogether unconscious of it. He must by this time have grown used to
being surrounded by such numbers of people. He seemed to be entirely
oblivious of everything, and sat perfectly motionless, gazing remotely
and abstractedly over the heads of the people. His pale eyes appeared
blank and unseeing. His dress and shoes looked dusty and travel-worn.
Suddenly a light came into his eyes, and He turned directly towards
Gilderman. It seemed to Gilderman almost as though the face smiled--it
looked recognition. He and the young man of great possessions remained
looking at each other for a little space. Then Gilderman did not know
whether the Man had or had not spoken, but he felt distinctly that
he had been summoned as though by a spoken word. He advanced, hardly
knowing what he was doing, and the crowd, seeing that he wished to
speak, made way for him. He pushed forward and almost instantly found
himself face to face with the Other. The profound and solemn eyes
were gazing calmly and steadily at him. Gilderman had no hesitation
as to what he desired to say. The gloomy feeling of the morning, his
disappointment and distresses, came very keenly back into his mind as
he stood there. The mundane circumstances of his life--his ever-present
sense of power and of place--melted for the moment like wax before the
flames. The young Roman stood before the poor carpenter as an entity
before the Supreme. "Tell me," he said, "what shall I do to earn
eternal life?"
"If you would enter into life," said the Voice, "keep the
Commandments."
"Which Commandments shall I keep?" asked the young man.
"You know the Commandments," said the Other. "Thou shalt do no murder.
Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not
bear false witness. Honor thy father and thy mother. Love thy neighbor
as thyself."
Gilderman thought for a moment. He felt a sudden flash of joy and
satisfaction. Why had he not thought of it before. Yes, that was true,
that was the way to be happy--to keep the Commandments--to consider
the happiness of others, and not to desire all for himself. How simple
it was. It seemed to him as though he had always known it. If he could
only do that, then, indeed, he would be always happy, and life would,
indeed, be worth living. Then the current of his thoughts suddenly
changed their course. But was it true? After all, he had kept the
Commandments--he recognized that he had; and yet he was not happy. He
did not do violence to any man. He did not commit social vice. He did
not defraud any man. He was not prone to gossip of people and to say
ill of them behind their backs. He had been a good son to his father
and mother, and he had been good to his wife's father and mother. It
seemed to him that he loved his neighbor as himself--that he did not
try to get the better of any man, nor seek to defraud any man. Yes,
he had obeyed all these things, and yet, in spite of that, he was not
happy. He was not happy at this moment. Then he said to the Man: "I
have kept all these Commandments from my youth up. What else is there I
lack?"
He knew that there was something that he lacked, but he could not tell
what it was. The Other was still looking steadily at him. "If you would
be perfect," He said, "go and sell all that you have and give it to the
poor, and then you shall have treasures in heaven. Then come and follow
Me."
Some of the people began laughing. Gilderman knew that they were
laughing at him, but he did not care. He stood perfectly still, with
his mind turned inward. _What the Man had said was true._ He saw it
all, as in a light of surpassing brightness. He was unhappy, not
because of the things he lacked, but because he had so much. He saw it
all as clear as day. It is the lack of things that produces happiness,
not superabundance. A rich man, such as he, could never be happy. If
he would be really happy, he must give up all. But could he give up
all? Alas! he could give up nothing. God had laid the weight of a great
abundance upon him, and he could not lay it aside. He could not give
up that which he possessed, even for the sake of heavenly happiness
and peace. He felt a feeling of great despair, and he wondered why he
should feel it. Even yet, though he stood face to face with the Son of
Man, he did not know that it was the divine truth searching the remoter
recesses of his soul.
He turned slowly and sorrowfully away. As he made his way back through
the crowd he heard the Voice saying to those who stood about: "I tell
you this for truth, that it is impossible for a rich man to enter the
kingdom of heaven. I say this to you, that it is easier for a camel to
go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom
of God."