somewhat at a loss. “Well—I just wanted to make it perfectly clear—” I waited for some reaction, but none came. “Then it’s understood,” I went on. “You’ll remain here with us until you find some work. Then you can set up some place on your own. Which ought to be lots of fun for a young fellow, I should think.”
I chattered on blithely, waxing, with each moment, more and more enthusiastic over Richard Atlee’s prospects, which I thought were reasonably good. Still he would say nothing to indicate his feelings one way or another.
“I don’t think it should take you very long,” I said, peering fatuously into that square black void, awaiting some response, some small clue to his feelings.
I waited. No answer came. “Well, then—” I started up again with a burst of tepid cheer. “You’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Can I bring you anything? Warm clothes? Books? Can I bring you more books?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, then—This was very pleasant,” I babbled on. “Just chatting this way and everything—Let’s do it again.” I gazed at the black square, hoping for some small word of encouragement. Nothing came.
“Well, then—I’ll say good night.”
“Good night,” came his reply—perfunctory and final. And that was that.
Then I did something strange. Instead of leaving, I turned and walked directly back to the square. “Richard, I want to ask you something.” I held my breath and waited until my voice grew calm. “Why did you write the word ‘GOD’ above the cellar door?” This time I didn’t have to prod him. He answered directly and without pause.
“To remind you.”
“To remind me of what?”
“That God loves all things.” It was blunt and swift. His voice boomed out of the square like a clap of thunder.
“I see,” I mumbled numbly. “I see.”
And in some curious way, I did. Had anyone else said it—given this time in history, given the essentially mocking spirit of our age—you might have laughed aloud in his face. Not so here. Mirth was the last thing I felt. It had all come out of him so earnestly and with such a naked, childish faith.
“Thank you, Richard,” I said feeling curiously baffled and contrite. “I’ve always tried to live in that spirit myself. From time to time I’ve failed, but I trust that I won’t fail you. Thank you,” I said again, and I imagine I said it several more times as well and started to back out, my eyes riveted to the floor, powerless to raise them to the level of the square again. In the next instant I turned and walked quickly back to the stairs. I flicked out the cellar switch and except for the stairway, still lit by a shaft of warm, orange light, a mantle of comforting darkness fell over the cellar.
As I mounted the stairs I felt strangely happy.
Chapter Five
“Do you think he’ll like it?” said Alice. She held up a sweater—a long-sleeved blue affair with white reindeers. It was a week before Christmas.
I examined it while lighting my pipe. “The arms are too long.”
“Oh, they’re not.”
“It’s twice his size.”
She made a sour face. “You don’t even know his size.”
“Why bother asking my opinion if you can’t accept it when it’s given?”
“I accept criticism very well,” she said with an expansive tolerance. “But not when it’s wrong. If you say this is twice his size, then you simply don’t know his size.”
“I think I probably know it better than you.”
“You do?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent more time with him, haven’t I?”
“That’s hardly a yardstick.” She half joked and mocked. “You barely know your own size shirt and socks, little less someone else’s.”
I unfolded my paper with a great flap and started to read.
“Well, how tall is he?” she persisted.
I was growing increasingly irritated. “One moment you completely discount my judgment, and in the next you ask for it again.”
“Well, guess. Just make a guess.”
I made a
I chattered on blithely, waxing, with each moment, more and more enthusiastic over Richard Atlee’s prospects, which I thought were reasonably good. Still he would say nothing to indicate his feelings one way or another.
“I don’t think it should take you very long,” I said, peering fatuously into that square black void, awaiting some response, some small clue to his feelings.
I waited. No answer came. “Well, then—” I started up again with a burst of tepid cheer. “You’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Can I bring you anything? Warm clothes? Books? Can I bring you more books?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, then—This was very pleasant,” I babbled on. “Just chatting this way and everything—Let’s do it again.” I gazed at the black square, hoping for some small word of encouragement. Nothing came.
“Well, then—I’ll say good night.”
“Good night,” came his reply—perfunctory and final. And that was that.
Then I did something strange. Instead of leaving, I turned and walked directly back to the square. “Richard, I want to ask you something.” I held my breath and waited until my voice grew calm. “Why did you write the word ‘GOD’ above the cellar door?” This time I didn’t have to prod him. He answered directly and without pause.
“To remind you.”
“To remind me of what?”
“That God loves all things.” It was blunt and swift. His voice boomed out of the square like a clap of thunder.
“I see,” I mumbled numbly. “I see.”
And in some curious way, I did. Had anyone else said it—given this time in history, given the essentially mocking spirit of our age—you might have laughed aloud in his face. Not so here. Mirth was the last thing I felt. It had all come out of him so earnestly and with such a naked, childish faith.
“Thank you, Richard,” I said feeling curiously baffled and contrite. “I’ve always tried to live in that spirit myself. From time to time I’ve failed, but I trust that I won’t fail you. Thank you,” I said again, and I imagine I said it several more times as well and started to back out, my eyes riveted to the floor, powerless to raise them to the level of the square again. In the next instant I turned and walked quickly back to the stairs. I flicked out the cellar switch and except for the stairway, still lit by a shaft of warm, orange light, a mantle of comforting darkness fell over the cellar.
As I mounted the stairs I felt strangely happy.
Chapter Five
“Do you think he’ll like it?” said Alice. She held up a sweater—a long-sleeved blue affair with white reindeers. It was a week before Christmas.
I examined it while lighting my pipe. “The arms are too long.”
“Oh, they’re not.”
“It’s twice his size.”
She made a sour face. “You don’t even know his size.”
“Why bother asking my opinion if you can’t accept it when it’s given?”
“I accept criticism very well,” she said with an expansive tolerance. “But not when it’s wrong. If you say this is twice his size, then you simply don’t know his size.”
“I think I probably know it better than you.”
“You do?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent more time with him, haven’t I?”
“That’s hardly a yardstick.” She half joked and mocked. “You barely know your own size shirt and socks, little less someone else’s.”
I unfolded my paper with a great flap and started to read.
“Well, how tall is he?” she persisted.
I was growing increasingly irritated. “One moment you completely discount my judgment, and in the next you ask for it again.”
“Well, guess. Just make a guess.”
I made a
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