YGDRASIL.
It was easy for little Louis to accept the story of the Christ-child as
a fairy tale; his life was so full of marvels this Christmas-tide. It
was a drop of bitterness, of course, that George had not been asked to
accompany him to Freddy’s Tree; but, to say the truth, George was not a
particularly refined or attractive-looking child. He was large for his
age, and heavily built; slow of speech and movement, with whitish hair,
pale blue eyes, and features inchoate, of a modelling seemingly
unfinished. There were not wanting signs and tokens that George might
develop into a fine man; but at the moment he was unattractive, and
Alice had not reached the point of choosing her guests on the broad
ground of a common humanity. Indeed she was not prevented, either by
common humanity or the further consideration of kinship, from reflecting
with a secret glee, which she was careful not to reveal to her husband,
that the presence of Louis, the shoemaker’s son, would only be condoned
by the remainder of her guests because he was still—only a baby.
For Alice had bidden, not only the Garyulies and the Joblillies, but
also the Grand Panjandrum himself with the little round button at top.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Henry Randolph, “you have a right to ask whom you
please to your own house, and the child is only a baby, too young to
presume, _at present_,” with awful emphasis; “but I am sorry to see you
infected by the levelling tendencies of the age. Do you not know that
even in heaven there are distinctions of rank?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Alice.
“Why, I’m sure we read of Thrones, Dominions, Principalities, and
Powers.”
“And I suppose the Thrones decline to call on the Dominions, and the
Principalities speak of the Powers as ‘that sort of people,’” said
Alice. “Jennie, if I believed as you do, I’d—well, I’d rather be a
heathen.”
“I hope you never may be a heathen, my dear”—
“Oh! come, you’re both right and both wrong. People who argue always
are,” interposed the hearty, jovial voice of Mr. Randolph. He was a
tall, fine-looking man, with clear brown eyes, remarkably keen, and
rather lacking in tenderness, but of a certain restless quickness as
they swept from one face to another. His features were regular, and his
manner genial, while his laugh was equal to that immortal one of
Scrooge’s nephew. Henry Randolph was a man of enormous popularity, and
so trusted by his friends that even the knowledge that he had availed
himself of the terms of his father’s will to keep back his sister’s
portion did not shake their faith. He must have such good reasons, they
said.
In truth, his reasons were of the very best. He was a man who speculated
largely, and for the most part successfully; but, just at the time of
Alice’s marriage, his losses had been so heavy that to resign the
control of such a large amount would have been to him financial ruin,
while, with it at his command, he could in a short time make good his
loss. The temptation to refuse his consent to the marriage, and thus
make the money legally his, was doubled by his real objection to Dr.
Richards as an irreligious man, whose views upon social and political
matters were also open to exception. He honestly wished his sister to
accompany the family abroad, as, even if her marriage were not thereby
definitely broken off, it would at least be deferred sufficiently long
to serve his purpose financially.
Now, of all this Frederick Richards was perfectly aware; that is, he
knew—as every one did—of the sudden collapse of the scheme which
crippled Mr. Randolph, and swallowed whole innumerable smaller fortunes,
and, through some murmur of the reeds such as betrayed King Midas’
secret, learned that Henry Randolph was a loser to a large amount. But
to Alice the doctor said nothing; only, when the family returned to
Micklegard, and the offer was made to let bygones be bygones, and
restore to Alice the fortune her father had left her, Dr. Richards
quietly refused.
Why?
It is hard to make his motives comprehensible to those who regard wealth
as the supreme good.
The grandfather of Henry and Alice Randolph had made his fortune by
means which, even in that day and generation, were regarded with scorn
and horror. He was a slave-trader; but his only daughter, surrounded by
luxury and educated at a Northern school, never suspected by what
iniquitous means her wealth was acquired. To her, her father had always
been the man he had become after his runaway marriage with the daughter
of an aristocratic family, and his purchase of an estate in the far
South,—handsome, jovial, and, to her, always tenderly indulgent. Her
marriage to a representative of one of the “old families” strengthened
her belief in herself as one of the chosen few for whose benefit the
world was made and ordered; and her husband did _not_ behold in the
pearls and rubies upon his bride’s fair neck the blood and tears of
suffering human beings, though somewhat distressfully aware of the not
over-creditable manner in which his father-in-law had “made his money.”
A convenient term this of “_making_ money,” by the by. One might call it
the great nineteenth-century _petitio principii_; for what a man makes
might certainly be considered as his by all social and moral laws, while
that which he merely acquires is suggestive of all sorts of confusing
possibilities. Yet, if he makes, of what does he make, and whence came
his material? Unless he makes also that, can he be said really to own
the thing finally produced?
All which would have appeared to Henry Randolph very empty and
unprofitable speculation,—mere sound, signifying nothing. Certainly, if
one had accused him of insensibility to such suffering as he did not
actually see, there are few of us who could afford to cast a stone at
him; and he would have said of himself that to cases of real distress
his heart and purse were always open; yet, to Frederick Richards’s mind,
an invisible, semi-tangible hardness, under the manufacturer’s generous,
cordial exterior, was always accounted for and excused by his
grandfather’s occupation. That his own Alice had, as he firmly believed,
escaped such a core to her loving heart (like the earth’s inmost
hypothetical solid centre), was a freak of heredity for which he did not
profess to be able to account. Yet, even Alice did not entirely concur
in her husband’s opinion about the fortune, as was indeed most natural.
She yielded to his feeling upon the matter; but her own was by no means
what it would have been had the fruit of speculation been “lifted”
bodily from a bank vault, or the slave-trader’s chattels been of pure
Caucasian parentage. Also the money would have been in many ways a
convenience, and, in case of “anything happening” to herself or the
doctor, would have given her an ease of mind in regard to Freddy, which
she was by no means able to derive from the thought of an overruling
Providence.
What Henry Randolph thought of his brother-in-law, we had better not
inquire; what he said was this,—
“Well, it’s his own affair; and if he can afford to despise such a sum
of money, he is better off than I am,” which in a sense was true, since
Dr. Richards had as much as he wanted.
The amount in question, however, was carefully “left” to Alice in her
brother’s will, he being, according to his lights, a just man, whenever
speculation would allow him; and, meanwhile, the two families were on
studiously cordial terms, and were assembled on Christmas Eve to hail
the lighting of the tree Ygdrasil.
It was Dr. Richards who told the story before the doors were opened,
with Freddy in his arm-chair beside him, Frank and Harry Randolph on the
floor at his feet, Louis in the place of honor on his knee, and Pinkie
leaning forward from her father’s arms to listen. Pinkie, alias Rosalie,
alias Pink Rosebud, was a wilful little maiden not three years old. She
had the dark clear skin, brown eyes, and chestnut curls of the
Randolphs, and bore indeed so strong a resemblance to Freddy, that her
brilliant color and strong, active limbs sent many a pang to his
parents’ hearts. But there was no envy in the pain, and the child was
well-nigh as dear to both as if she had been their own.
The boys were comparatively very unimportant members of the Randolph
household. Mrs. Randolph was what is called an excellent mother, and
brought up her boys very strictly, and without petting or indulgence.
Therefore they were best described collectively, at least in her
presence, where there was little to distinguish them, except that Frank
had taken a line of his own in being fair and blue-eyed. For the rest,
both were painfully shy, silent, and awkward, though well-looking and
well-dressed.
Little Louis, on the other hand, was perhaps too young to be shy, or
perhaps had lived too freely and happily with his father to dread the
criticism of his elders. At all events, as he sat on the doctor’s kind
knee, and heard of the dragon Nidhug and the beautiful Nornas, and the
golden and silver fruit of the great world-tree, there was nothing in
his sparkling eyes, nothing in his sweet, childish face and neat,
becoming dress, to indicate that the Nornas had been otherwise than
kindly disposed at his birth.
Freddy and he had taken to each other at once.
“Can’t you walk one bit?”
“Haven’t you any mamma at all?” they had asked; and then the fair, rosy
face and the pale, dark one had met and kissed each other.
After the gifts had been distributed and compared, there was singing of
Christmas carols; for all the Randolphs had fine musical and artistic
talent, and the boys forgot themselves and their mother’s presence more
readily in music than in any other employment or amusement. Harry,
indeed, was the leading soprano of the choir to which both belonged; and
as all gathered around the piano, where Alice presided, they were a
perfect picture of a happy, united, and religious family. And these are
some of the words that they sang:—
“It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold.
‘Peace on the earth, good-will to men,
From Heaven’s all-gracious King,’
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
But with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long,
Beneath the angel strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man at war with man hears not
The love-song that they bring;
Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.
And ye, beneath life’s crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing.
Oh, rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!
For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When Peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.”
“What a tissue of rotten lies Christianity is!” thought Dr. Richards
(who could not sing), leaning in his favorite attitude upon the
mantel-piece, and listening to Henry Randolph’s fine bass, as it bore up
the flute-like notes of his son. “There is Randolph, now, by a turn of
his pen to-morrow will make ‘life’s crushing load’ heavier, maybe, to
hundreds, and his own pockets heavier at the same time, and then will
square accounts with his conscience by giving fifty dollars to some
charity. Faugh!”
But at this moment an exclamation from Mrs. Randolph interrupted him.
Louis and Pinkie, while the singing was under way, had got together into
a corner, where they were discovered to be embracing one another in a
very pretty baby fashion.
“But I tisses F’eddy,” observed Pinkie.
“It is very different,” remarked Mrs. Randolph. “Freddy is your cousin;
but this little boy is no relation, and is besides in quite a different
state of life.”
“Fut is state of life?” asked Pinkie. “Is it tause he tan yun ayound and
F’eddy tant?”
“You’ll understand when you are older, dear,” said her mother; but
whether Pinkie would have been satisfied with this answer was rendered
forever doubtful by the announcement of the carriage.
“Good-by, child,” said the great lady, patting Louis’ golden head; “I
wish you every good fortune that is proper for you to have. I was your
mother’s best friend, if she had only known it, and would have saved her
from the misery that afterwards, in the righteous Providence of God,
overtook her.”
“What is misery?” asked little Louis, wistfully; “is it dying? My papa
says she died ’cause we was poor, and the millionnaires wouldn’t ’vide.
Are you a millionnaire, and would you ’vide?”
“Quite a promising young Socialist,” observed Mr. Randolph. “His father
must be a dangerous man.”
But Louis did not hear him; he was listening eagerly to the lady.
“My dear, life and death are the gift of God. Your mother broke his
laws, and he punished her”—
“Jennie! Jennie! don’t speak so to the child.”
“He should hear it from some one, Alice, and there is no one else likely
to tell him. Heaven knows how kindly I feel towards poor Dora, but I
dare not palliate her sin. ‘Be not unequally yoked together with
unbelievers’ are the words of Scripture, and poor Dora has paid the
penalty for disregarding them; happier so than if she had seen her sin
visited upon _others_.”
“Jennie, my dear Jennie, indeed the horses will catch their death; you
forget how cold it is,” cried her husband, in an agony.
Doctor Richards saw them gravely to the door, then returned to the
parlor, where Alice, with white lips, was restlessly putting chairs in
place, and tidying books and ornaments; and Louis was standing where he
had been left, with flushed face and clinched baby hands.
“If God killed my mamma,” said Louis, as the doctor entered, “then I
hate God!”
“Hush, Louis,” said the doctor. “I must take you home, little boy. After
all, Alice, it don’t do to mix—states of life.”
“It would, if people were human,” she said in a stifled voice.
“Ah!” he said; “but some people are only—millionnaires.”
“Is God a millionnaire?” asked Louis, as they drove away.
“Mrs. Randolph thinks so,” said the doctor; “but there’s no such person,
Louis, it’s all a myth—that is, a fairy-tale.”
“I fink everyfing is a fairy-tale,” said Louis to himself with a sigh of
relief; “and I’m glad about it, too; for it’s nice to be a Christ-child,
but I don’t want to be God and kill people.”
When Dr. Richards returned he found Alice waiting for him in his study.
Freddy, she said, had dropped asleep at once, after the evening’s
fatigue.
“I am glad,” said the doctor; “I feared the excitement might keep him
awake.”
“Yes,” she said, and then, suddenly, all the storm within her broke
forth.
“Fred,” she cried, “help me! Is there a God? and is he so cruel? Would
he punish my child for his mother’s sin?”
“My dear,” he said very gently, “why ask me? you know my opinion on
these matters. And you have no very high esteem for Mrs. Randolph that
her words should have such weight.”
“It is my own conscience!” she cried wildly. “Fred, I will tell you even
though it will give you pain. It has rung in my ears night and day, ‘The
sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children.’”
“Poor little girl,” he said tenderly, stroking her hair. “I hoped at
least, Alice, that your religion made you happier.”
“My religion! mine! Oh! what _is_ my religion! I feel like little Louis,
Fred, that I hate”—
“Hush!” he said, “you will be sorry presently, when this excitement has
passed away. Go to bed, like a good girl, and forget it all.”
“If I only could!” she sighed; “but I won’t pray, Fred; I can’t, to a
God of punishment.”
He did not reply, except by a kiss, but, when the door had closed behind
her, smiled a little bitterly.
“The mystery of pain,” he thought, “she said we should solve it
together, hoping all the while to convert me, as I knew very well. And
her solution is, a God of punishment!”
He turned up his reading-lamp and took up the latest medical treatise,
which, though it recommended very harsh remedies, he did not decline to
believe in.
Dr. Richards was a devotee of physical science, not a philologist, and
it therefore did not occur to him that, etymologically, Punishment is
much the same word as Purification.