Amongst other distractions which Tom tried at one crisis of his life,
was reading. For three or four days running, he really worked hard—very
hard, if we were to reckon by the number of hours he spent in his
own rooms over his books with his oak sported—hard, even though we
should only reckon by results. For, though scarcely an hour passed
that he was not balancing on the hind legs of his chair with a vacant
look in his eyes, and thinking of anything but Greek roots or Latin
constructions, yet on the whole he managed to get through a good deal,
and one evening, for the first time since his quarrel with Hardy, felt
a sensation of real comfort—it hardly amounted to pleasure—as he closed
his Sophocles some hour or so after hall, having just finished the last
of the Greek plays which he meant to take in for his first examination.
He leaned back in his chair and sat for a few minutes, letting his
thoughts follow their own bent. They soon took to going wrong, and
he jumped up in fear lest he should be drifting back into the black
stormy sea, in the trough of which he had been laboring so lately, and
which he felt he was by no means clear of yet. At first he caught up
his cap and gown as though he were going out. There was a wine party
at one of his acquaintance’s rooms; or, he could go and smoke a cigar
in the pool-room, or at any one of the dozen other places. On second
thoughts, however, he threw his academicals back on to the sofa, and
went to his bookcase. The reading had paid so well that evening that he
resolved to go on with it. He had no particular object in selecting one
book more than another, and so took down carelessly the first that came
to hand.
It happened to be a volume of Plato, and opened of its own accord in
the “Apology.” He glanced at a few lines. What a flood of memories
they called up! This was almost the last book he had read at school;
and teacher, and friends, and lofty oak-shelved library stood out
before him at once. Then the blunders that he himself and others had
made rushed through his mind, and he almost burst into a laugh as he
wheeled his chair round to the window, and began reading where he had
opened, encouraging every thought of the old times when he first read
that marvellous defence, and throwing himself back into them with all
his might. And still, as he read, forgotten words of wise comment, and
strange thoughts of wonder and longing, came back to him. The great
truth which he had been led to the brink of in those early days rose
in all its awe and all its attractiveness before him. He leant back in
his chair, and gave himself up to his thought; and how strangely that
thought bore on the struggle which had been raging in him of late; how
an answer seemed to be trembling to come out of it to all the cries,
now defiant, now plaintive, which had gone out of his heart in this
time of trouble! For his thought was of that spirit, distinct from
himself, and yet communing with his inmost soul, always dwelling in
him, knowing him better than he knew himself, never misleading him,
always leading him to light and truth, of which the old philosopher
spoke. “The old heathen, Socrates, did actually believe that—there can
be no question about it;” he thought, “Has not the testimony of the
best men through these two thousand years borne witness that he was
right—that he did not believe a lie! That was what we were told. Surely
I don’t mistake! Were we not told, too, or did I dream it, that what
was true for him is true for every man—for me? That there is a spirit
dwelling in me, striving with me, ready to lead me into all truth if I
will submit to his guidance?
“Ah! submit, submit, there’s the rub! Give yourself up to his guidance!
Throw up the reins, and say you’ve made a mess of it. Well, why not?
Haven’t I made a mess of it? Am I fit to hold the reins?
“Not I,”—he got up and began walking about his rooms—“I give it up.”
“Give it up!” he went on presently; “yes, but to whom? Not to the
dæmon, spirit, whatever it was, who took up his abode in the old
Athenian—at least, so he said, and so I believe. No, no! Two thousand
years and all that they have seen have not passed over the world to
leave us just where he was left. We want no dæmons or spirits. And yet
the old heathen was guided right, and what can a man want more? and who
ever wanted guidance more than I now—here—in this room—at this minute?
I give up the reins; who will take them?” And so there came on him one
of those seasons when a man’s thoughts cannot be followed in words. A
sense of awe came upon him, and over him, and wrapped him round; awe at
a presence of which he was becoming suddenly conscious, into which he
seemed to have wandered, and yet which he felt must have been there,
around him, in his own heart and soul, though he knew it not. There was
hope and longing in his heart mingling with the fear of that presence,
but withal the old reckless and daring feeling which he knew so well,
still bubbling up untamed, untamable it seemed to him.