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Authors: Barbara Klein Moss
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enough, I began to fall.” His voice had taken on a dismal, ringing tone. He made a fist and tolled the progress of his undoing into the palm of his other hand. “ Primus , into worship of my own powers. Secundus , into a state I called love, with a young woman I knew to be far beyond me. Tertius , when she spurned me, into the deepest darkness I’ve yet known. The fall from grace doesn’t happen all at once, you know. That privilege is reserved for the angels.”
Gideon suspected that a stately graded descent might be more to the parson’s taste than a long tumble; it was difficult to picture him, even in extremity, plummeting heels over head, limbs askew.
“It pains me to think of you sinking so low, sir,” he said. “I hope you won’t mind my asking how you . . . recovered yourself.” He had neatly avoided the word “saved,” though the symmetry of the sermon to come was already obvious. The tripartite fall could only mean that the Holy Trinity was waiting on the front line, prepared to retrieve the fallen soldier. But Reverend Hedge surprised him again.
“That, too, came in stages. The first step was making a chest for my father. A small one, to hold his pipes.” Hedge reached for the tray and ran his fingers through the Hebrew letters, sifting them. He flipped one into his palm—a Lamed , Gideon noted—and palpated it with his thumb. “I’d done nothing for months. The torpor of my mind was such that study was impossible; I’d taken leave from the College and come home, and spent the better part of each day lying on a couch with a cloth over my eyes. My poor mother and father must have plotted between them to contrive some project to divert me. I still remember how timidly they approached me, asking if I felt well enough to consider the vexing problem of the stray pipes . . .”
He smiled, his face softening at the recollection. “I doubt that I will ever lift anything heavier than that first piece of wood. The task seemed gargantuan, but it drew me out of myself and back into the world. Reflect on it, Mr. Birdsall—I had thought to stretch my mind to the far reaches of the cosmos, and now my whole being was concentrated on a little box! You will say it is a diminution. Yet I can tell you that this box was the opposite of Pandora’s, for all my blessings came out of it. My good wife—perhaps not so fair of form as my first love, but far better suited to the rigors of the clerical life. My family. My calling itself. And this, the humble but useful work of my hands.” He swept out both his arms in a gesture meant to encompass not only the study, but the house, the garden, the orchard, the spreading field. “How great is our God, and how infinite His mercies!”
“Indeed,” said Gideon. “An inspiring story.” The Reverend’s cautionary tale had caused his mood to plunge as swiftly as one of Hedge’s falling angels. What was a man of vision to aspire to, then? Growing a superior squash? Making a chair? “But I think you will agree, sir,” he said, “that the fault is not with language, which was God’s gift to us in Eden. I hope you haven’t forsaken poetry altogether.”
“‘Forsaken’ is the wrong word. Rather, I’ve diverted the stream.” Hedge sounded suddenly weary. Sharpness had crept into his voice. “I’m told my sermons are more varied and numerous than those produced by any of my colleagues. My lectures you are familiar with. My correspondence alone is of such volume that I often pray to the Lord for patience.” He took up his glass and twisted the stem between two fingers. “I do undertake the occasional poem of a sacred nature—eulogies and moral lessons and the like. Only last month, I was moved to commemorate the hanging of a local blacksmith, a drunkard who murdered his wife; I printed copies of the verse for my congregation, with an illustration of the sad event, and the demand was such that I exhausted my supply. But I’m a better man when I confine myself
Gideon suspected that a stately graded descent might be more to the parson’s taste than a long tumble; it was difficult to picture him, even in extremity, plummeting heels over head, limbs askew.
“It pains me to think of you sinking so low, sir,” he said. “I hope you won’t mind my asking how you . . . recovered yourself.” He had neatly avoided the word “saved,” though the symmetry of the sermon to come was already obvious. The tripartite fall could only mean that the Holy Trinity was waiting on the front line, prepared to retrieve the fallen soldier. But Reverend Hedge surprised him again.
“That, too, came in stages. The first step was making a chest for my father. A small one, to hold his pipes.” Hedge reached for the tray and ran his fingers through the Hebrew letters, sifting them. He flipped one into his palm—a Lamed , Gideon noted—and palpated it with his thumb. “I’d done nothing for months. The torpor of my mind was such that study was impossible; I’d taken leave from the College and come home, and spent the better part of each day lying on a couch with a cloth over my eyes. My poor mother and father must have plotted between them to contrive some project to divert me. I still remember how timidly they approached me, asking if I felt well enough to consider the vexing problem of the stray pipes . . .”
He smiled, his face softening at the recollection. “I doubt that I will ever lift anything heavier than that first piece of wood. The task seemed gargantuan, but it drew me out of myself and back into the world. Reflect on it, Mr. Birdsall—I had thought to stretch my mind to the far reaches of the cosmos, and now my whole being was concentrated on a little box! You will say it is a diminution. Yet I can tell you that this box was the opposite of Pandora’s, for all my blessings came out of it. My good wife—perhaps not so fair of form as my first love, but far better suited to the rigors of the clerical life. My family. My calling itself. And this, the humble but useful work of my hands.” He swept out both his arms in a gesture meant to encompass not only the study, but the house, the garden, the orchard, the spreading field. “How great is our God, and how infinite His mercies!”
“Indeed,” said Gideon. “An inspiring story.” The Reverend’s cautionary tale had caused his mood to plunge as swiftly as one of Hedge’s falling angels. What was a man of vision to aspire to, then? Growing a superior squash? Making a chair? “But I think you will agree, sir,” he said, “that the fault is not with language, which was God’s gift to us in Eden. I hope you haven’t forsaken poetry altogether.”
“‘Forsaken’ is the wrong word. Rather, I’ve diverted the stream.” Hedge sounded suddenly weary. Sharpness had crept into his voice. “I’m told my sermons are more varied and numerous than those produced by any of my colleagues. My lectures you are familiar with. My correspondence alone is of such volume that I often pray to the Lord for patience.” He took up his glass and twisted the stem between two fingers. “I do undertake the occasional poem of a sacred nature—eulogies and moral lessons and the like. Only last month, I was moved to commemorate the hanging of a local blacksmith, a drunkard who murdered his wife; I printed copies of the verse for my congregation, with an illustration of the sad event, and the demand was such that I exhausted my supply. But I’m a better man when I confine myself
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