CONCERNING THE GRAMMAR OF A GODDESS
A broad, white road led between grassy banks topped by hedgerows and
trees whose wide-flung, rusting leafage cast a pleasant shade, while
high in the sunny air a lark carolled faint and sweet against the
blue. From the distant woods stole a wind languorous and fragrant of
dewy earth, of herb and flower, a wind soft as a caress yet vital and
full of promise (as it were) so that as I breathed of it, hope and
strength were renewed in me with an assurance of future achievement.
Filled thus with an ecstasy unknown till now, I stopped suddenly to
look above and round about, glad-eyed; and thus presently my eager
gaze came upon my companion who had paused also, her eyes upraised to
watch the flight of a mounting lark. Beholding her in this graceful
posture, so vivid with life and youthful strength, all slim
shapeliness from wind-kissed hair to buckled shoe, she seemed the
spirit, nay the very embodiment, of this fair midsummer morning.
"O Diana!" I exclaimed. "Is it not good to be alive?"
"The lark seems to think so," she answered, her gaze still uplifted.
"Yet I wonder if he is truly happy, or sings only because 'tis his
nature?"
"Because he's happy, of course!" I answered. "Who wouldn't be happy on
such a morning?"
"Well, I ain't, for one!"
"Not happy, Diana--but why?"
"Because!"
"Because of what?"
"Oh, never mind! Let's go on."
"Won't you tell me?"
"No. Let's go on."
"May I not share your sorrows, Diana?" I enquired, and laid my hand on
her arm; but she shook me off, though not before I had seen her eyes
were suffused with tears. Therefore I caught and held her hand so that
she stopped, facing me, and thus I saw her tears were falling and she
not troubling to hide or wipe them away.
"Can't you let me alone?" she sobbed.
"Why, Diana!" I exclaimed. "O child, don't weep; true friends must
share sorrow as well as joy! So, if we are to be friends, tell me what
is troubling you."
"Yonder!" said she, pointing to the blue distance before us. "'Tis the
beyond--'tis the Future as do fright me."
"But I thought you feared nothing, Diana?"
"Only myself!" she cried, throwing out her arms in a sudden wild
gesture. "There be a devil inside o' me sometimes--a devil as even old
Azor was afeard of an' most o' the men--"
"Then I think this must be rather a good devil, Diana."
"Ah no--no!" she cried. "'Tis a devil as drives me to wild thoughts
an' ways--things as do shame me. 'Tis very fierce and strong!"
"Still, I do not think I fear this devil--or ever should, Diana."
"You? But you calls yourself a coward!"
"To be sure I did, and very properly, because I was greatly afraid of
a ruffian with a bludgeon and fled accordingly. But I do not fear
devils in the least."
"Because you don't know--"
"There you are quite wrong!" said I, patting the hand I still held and
noting its strength and shapeliness. "For, and apprehend me, Diana, we
all, each one of us, possess a devil large or small, and my own is
uncomfortably big and strong occasionally, and very difficult to
overcome. But this is what devils are for--"
"You're flamming me!" she cried angrily and snatched her hand away.
"A very unpleasing word! Pray what does it signify?"
"You're gammoning--"
"That is rather worse--"
"You're making game o' me!"
"On the contrary, I'm very serious! Don't you see, Diana, that all
demons and devils are a means to our ultimate good?"
"No, I don't! How can they be?"
"In this manner: every devil, be he an evil thought, passion, hate or
revenge, a desire to do harm, to lie, to steal, to kill or to run away
like a coward--these are all demons to be fought with and overcome,
and the oftener we vanquish them, the stronger and better we grow,
until at last you--or I--may become something very near an angel."
"I could never be an angel!" she retorted sullenly. "And what's more,
I don't want--"
"You do," said I, "indeed you do, I'm sure, or why should you so hate
this devil of yours and fear the beyond? And there is an angel inside
you, Diana; I have seen it peep at me through your eyes--"
"Now I think you're talking foolish!" said she petulantly.
"Perhaps so," I nodded, "but 'foolish' is an adjective which in this
instance should be an adverb and which we will proceed to make so by
the suffix 'ly.' Thus instead of saying, I talk 'foolish,' you must
say I talk 'foolishly'--"
"So you do!" quoth she.
"Then I will talk grammar instead, Diana. Pray give me your most
careful attention. Yonder is a tree, which is a noun common; the tree
is shady, which is an adjective qualifying the noun 'tree,' and casts
its shade obliquely, which is an adverb governing the qualifying verb
'casts.'" Thus, as we walked, I proceeded to give her a definition of
the various parts of speech with their relation one to another, and
found her to be, on the whole, very quick and of a retentive memory.
Encouraged thus, I plunged into my subject whole-heartedly and was
discussing the difference between transitive and intransitive verbs
when she checked me in full career by asking:
"Have you a father and mother?"
"Good heaven!" I exclaimed. "What has this to do with grammar?"
"Well, but have you?" she persisted.
"No," answered I; "they died before I can remember."
"So did mine!" she nodded. "But you have friends?"
"Yes."
"Many?"
"Three," I answered. "To be particular, one aunt and two uncles."
"Rich folk, ain't they?"
"Well, yes, I suppose they are. And allow me to point out that the
word 'ain't' is becoming obsolete in polite conversation, giving place
to 'are not' or to 'is not' as the case may be. Now, returning to our
grammar--" And forthwith I began to decline for her benefit verbs
regular and irregular, together with their tenses; I parsed and
analysed simple sentences, explaining the just relation of Subject,
Object and Predicate, while she watched me grave-eyed and listened to
my grammatical _dicta_ with an attention that I found highly
gratifying. Thus I dilated upon the beauties of our language, its
wealth of metaphor and adjectival possibilities, its intricacies and
pitfalls, until the sun was high and my throat parched.
"There, Diana," I concluded, "here endeth our first lesson for the
present. I trust you have not found me too discursive?"
"Well," said she, knitting her black brows thoughtfully, "I'm not
sure. It all sounds very--wonderful, but I don't understand a word of
it."
"Great heaven!" I ejaculated. "Why could you not say so before?"
"I didn't like to interrupt you."
"Here I have been talking for a good hour--"
"Two hours," she nodded; "indeed, you're a wonderful talker!"
"But all to no purpose it seems!" said I ruefully.
"No," she answered, "it has helped to pass the time and I knows that a
noun is a tree."
"Oh, indeed!" quoth I. "And what more have you learned?"
"That if you add to a verb it's an adverb, though both are much of a
muchness, and an adjective is not like either, though they all has
summat to do with a tree we passed a long time ago."
At this I gasped and sinking down in a shady spot, fanned myself
feebly with my hat.
"My poor child," said I mournfully, "my poor--"
"I'm not your child!" she retorted. "And as for poor--what o' this?"
and she shook the bag at her girdle until the coins within it chinked.
"This is most distressing!" said I, shaking my head.
"What is?"
"A noun is not a tree--"
"You says it was--"
"I told you a tree was a noun--which is a very different thing."
"If a tree's a noun, a noun's a tree--or should be, and if 'tain't,
then grammar's foolish and I don't want none of it--"
"That sentence is execrable grammar, Diana, because two negatives make
a positive hence when you say 'you don't want none,' it really means
that you do want some--"
"I don't care!" she said in her sullen fashion.
"But you must--"
"Well, I shan't!"
"Don't be a naughty child, Diana! Please come and sit down."
"I hates your grammar--"
"The sun is very hot, Diana, so come and sit down here by me and let
us talk like the true friends I hope we are."
With a petulant gesture she obeyed; so there we sat side by side, our
backs to the broad bole of the great tree, a branch of which, drooping
low, made for us a green bower, as it were. And here, sitting thus
side by side, we continued our discussion on this wise:
DIANA (sullenly). However, I don't want any more o' your grammar; I
gets along well enough without it--
MYSELF (interrupting). But then I want you to do much more than just
get along, Diana.
DIANA. How much more?
MYSELF. Well, I want you to live to the utmost of your capacity, to
make the very best of yourself and your life, to become the wonderful
woman you may be if only you will. And this you can never do without a
knowledge of grammar and deportment.
DIANA. And why d'ye want me to do--to be all this?
MYSELF. Because it is a duty you owe to the world and your own
womanhood. If we all strove to do our best, the world would become a
better place for everybody, at once.
DIANA (passionately). Oh, 'tis easy for you to talk so fine; you've
got friends--rich friends t' help you! But who have I got--
MYSELF. Well, Diana, his name, as I told you before, is Peregrine.
DIANA. You?
MYSELF. Precisely--
DIANA. d'ye mean--what do you mean?
MYSELF. That I will be your true friend always--to help you so long as
you need--if you will have me. My friends shall be your
friends--especially my aunt Julia, who is the noblest and best of
women--
DIANA (ungraciously). A _Kooshti para rati_--a true
_rawni_--a grand lady, I s'pose?
MYSELF. She is a truly great lady.
DIANA. And wears silk gowns that rustle, I s'pose?
MYSELF (mystified). I believe her gowns do rustle--but what in the
world--?
DIANA. Then I should hate her!
MYSELF. But why? In the name of reason why under heaven should--?
DIANA. Just because!
MYSELF. Pray be more explicit. Why should you hate one whom--?
DIANA. Because she'd rustle her fine silks at me and look through me
and try to make me feel I was only small beer.
MYSELF. 'Small beer' is an extremely unpleasing phrase, Diana.
DIANA. But it tells ye what I mean. I sees grand ladies afore to-day
and I don't want any of 'em to rustle at me! I won't have their pity
and I don't want their help--I likes the silent places and my little
_churi_ best.
MYSELF. My aunt Julia is a very noble woman, as good as she is
beautiful, a woman whom all respect and honour--
DIANA. Well, I hates her already.
MYSELF. That is exceedingly unreasonable! How can you hate one you
have never seen?
DIANA. Easily.
MYSELF. But in heaven's name, why?
DIANA. Because I do!
MYSELF. That is no answer! (Here she scowled at me.) Pray be sensible,
Diana! (Here she kicked viciously at a tuft of grass.) Indeed you make
it very difficult for me to help you.
"I don't want your help either!" she retorted angrily.
"No matter!" quoth I, folding my arms. "My mind is quite made up."
"So is mine!" and speaking, she would have risen, but I caught a fold
of her petticoat. "Let go!" she cried.
"Sit still, Diana, and listen to me!"
"Let me go!"
"Not until you have heard all I wish to say--" As I spoke, with a
movement incredibly quick, she flashed out her knife.
"What, Diana," said I, staring into her fierce eyes, "do you think
that is necessary with me? Would you harm your friend, child?" The
fierce eyes drooped and, averting her head, she sat mute and still. "I
am going to help you," I continued, "because in spite of any or every
demon, I know you are sweet and pure and good."
"How--d'ye know this?" she questioned.
"I know it, I am sure of it--oh, well--because!"
"That's no answer!" said she in her turn.
"Still, I think you know what I mean. But, and this is very sure,
Diana, because I respect you, I would have the world respect you. And
therefore I am going to help you however I may. So that is settled
once for all."
"Suppose I--runs away?"
"I shall have to find you, of course."
"Then you--don't want to be rid o' me--so much?"
"Certainly not!"
"But you offered me your gold watch to--"
"True!" I admitted, a little put out. "But I--I did not know or
understand you--then."
"And do you now?"
"I think so--or at least enough to know that you can also help me if
you will--"
"How could I help you?" she questioned wistfully.
"You might perhaps teach me to be--less of a coward--more like
yourself--"
"Like me?" she repeated, wondering.
"You are so strong, Diana, so brave and fearless and I--ran away like
the coward I am--left you alone to face--"
Here, once more overcome by memory of my shame, I covered my face; but
now, all at once, perceiving my abasement and bitter remorse, moved by
a sweet impulse she clasped her arm about my stooping shoulders and
sought earnestly to comfort me.
"There, there," she murmured, her voice very soft and sweet, "never
grieve so, Peregrine--you're no coward! When a coward runs away, he
keeps running in the same direction; a coward don't come back to be
beaten black and blue--see your poor face!"
"You laughed at it this morning!" said I, striving to steady my voice.
"Yes, I know I did, but only--only because!" she answered gently. "But
you ain't--I mean are not--a coward; you fought your best--"
"But to no purpose!" I added bitterly. "Nature has shaped me in such
puny mould, I'm so miserably weak--" Here the arm tightened and,
conscious thus of all the throbbing strength and vitality of her, I
felt my own weakness the more. "Oh, I'm a miserable, undersized rat!"
I groaned.
"Hush!" she whispered, as if I had shocked her. "'Tisn't size or
strength as wins a fight, Peregrine; 'tis quickness an' knowing
how--but most of all being game-plucked. The next time a man hits ye,
stand away and hit back; there's nothing will keep a man from hitting
you like hitting him often and hard."
"It seems that my uncles were right, after all!" said I. "Hard knocks
are sometimes more efficacious than the best-reasoned arguments. You
have seen many fights, I suppose, Diana?"
"Lots!"
"I wish you could teach me how it is done!"
"Why, so I will, Peregrine--stand up! Now," she admonished, as we
faced each other, "put up your hands--so!" Hereupon I imitated her
posture. "Now," she continued, "I'm going to hit you in the face!"
which she immediately did, though lightly and with her open hand. "Now
hit me if you can, Peregrine."
But though I tried my best, she was so wonderfully quick and light
upon her feet that I smote but empty air or my blows were parried,
while her hands flashed, now here, now there, to pat and tap my face
as often as she would. So we sparred together until, flushed and
laughing and breathless, we paused by common consent.
And thus I had my first lesson in the Noble Art.
"You do be very light o' your feet!" said she as we sat side by side
beneath the tree again, "and much quicker than I thought, Peregrine!"
"I--I'm glad--very glad you think so!" I answered vastly elated by
this praise.
"Yes, if you had proper teaching, you might be able to take your part
against most o' them."
Now at this I became filled with such a glow of pleasure as amazed me
by its intensity, such indeed as no praise from tutors or even my
loved aunt Julia had ever inspired.
"Though to be sure," she added, "'t would all depend on whether you
was game-plucked. No, size don't always count; why, Jessamy Todd
ain't--is not--much bigger than you."
"And who is he?"
"Lord, haven't you heard? Why, Jessamy was one of the greatest,
fiercest fighters that ever was, they say! But he had the ill-luck to
kill a man and turned religious."
"Do you know him?"
"Very well. I've heard him preach often."
"Preach?" said I.
"Yes, Jessamy never fights now--unless he has to--goes about
preaching. And he preaches as well as he used to fight, and sings as
well as he preaches."
"I should like to meet Jessamy Todd," said I.
"Well, so you will, if you pad the hoof long enough. But now, what
o'clock is it?"
"Half-past twelve," I answered, consulting my watch. "Yet surely it
can't be so late?"
"But it is--look at the sun! And don't you feel 't is dinner time?
There's a little tavern down the lane yonder--let's go and eat."
"Not unless I pay for it--"
"With no money?"
"Here is my watch!"
"Don't be foolish!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet. "Get up and
come along, do! No, stay where you are; things will taste sweeter out
here--they always do. Only don't go trying to run off or any such
foolishness--just stay where you are an' wait for me."
"But--"
"I won't be long--so promise!"
"I promise!"
Waiting for no more, she sped away all lithe and vigorous grace; when
she was out of sight, I lay upon my back, staring up at the rustling
canopy above, became lost in thought, wondering, among other things,
if I could ever possibly attain unto that mysterious virtue she had
called 'game-plucked' and just precisely what it might be.