in shape or in color. And I cannot understand why He should make the difference. Nor how Eden can have looked, crammed with such—” he sought the word for a moment “ — such diversity.”
“Surely every rose is the same,” the vicar replied. “It differs only in color. And a daisy is a daisy wherever it grows.”
John shook his head. “You wouldn’t say that if you had looked as closely as I. To be sure they have their families, a rose is still a rose, but there are hundreds of different kinds of roses,” he explained. “Every county has a different sport. They have different shapes of petals, they have different numbers of petals, they have different preferences as to light and shade. Some are scented, they tell me, and some are not. And sometimes I think I see them being made. Making themselves while I watch, almost.”
“What d’you mean?”
“When they throw a sport, when from one main stem you can see another grow different, and if you take the different one you can breed another from it — God didn’t make that, surely? I made it.”
The vicar shook his head but John went on. “And daisies are not the same wherever they grow. I have seen a Kent daisy different from a Sussex daisy and a French daisy which was bigger and tipped with pink. I don’t know how many daisies there are. A man would have to travel the whole world over with his eyes on his boots all the way to be sure. Why should such a thing be? Why should God make hundreds of the same thing?”
The vicar glanced around for rescue but nobody was looking his way. “God in His wisdom gave us a world filled with variety,” he began.
He was relieved to see that Tradescant was not arguing. This was not a man who was quarrelsome in his cups. This was a man urgently in quest of a truth. The vicar had an odd sense of a man in search of his destiny. Tradescant was concentrating, passionately concentrating, with a deep line engraved between his brows as he listened to the vicar’s answer. “It was God’s great wisdom to give us many things of great beauty. We cannot question His choice to give us many things which are only a little different, one from another, if you tell me that is how they are.”
Slowly John shook his head. “I don’t mean to question my God,” he said humbly. “Any more than I would question my lord. It just seems odd to me. And God did not make all things at once in Eden, and give them to us. I know that cannot be, though I read it in the Bible, because I see them changing from season to season.”
The vicar nodded, quick to move on. “That is no more than a craftsman making a table, I suppose. It is using the skills which God has given you and the materials which He has provided to make something new.”
John hesitated. “But if I made a new daisy, say, or a new tulip, and a man came along and saw it growing in a garden, he would think it was the work of God and praise Him. But he would be wrong. It would have been my work.”
“Yours and God’s,” the vicar said smoothly. “For God made the parent tulip from which you made one of another color. Undoubtedly it is God’s purpose to give us many things of beauty, many things which are rare and different and strange. And it is our duty to thank Him and praise Him for them.”
John nodded at the mention of duty. “It would be a man’s duty to gather the varieties?” he asked.
The vicar drank a little wedding ale. “It could be,” he said judiciously. “Why would a man want to collect varieties?”
“To the glory of God,” John said simply. “If it is God’s purpose that we should know His greatness by the many varieties of plants that are in the world now, and that can be made, then it is to the glory of God to make sure that men know of His abundancy.”
The vicar thought for a moment, fearful of heresy. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “It must be God’s will that we know of His abundancy, to help us to praise Him.”
“So a man making a
“Surely every rose is the same,” the vicar replied. “It differs only in color. And a daisy is a daisy wherever it grows.”
John shook his head. “You wouldn’t say that if you had looked as closely as I. To be sure they have their families, a rose is still a rose, but there are hundreds of different kinds of roses,” he explained. “Every county has a different sport. They have different shapes of petals, they have different numbers of petals, they have different preferences as to light and shade. Some are scented, they tell me, and some are not. And sometimes I think I see them being made. Making themselves while I watch, almost.”
“What d’you mean?”
“When they throw a sport, when from one main stem you can see another grow different, and if you take the different one you can breed another from it — God didn’t make that, surely? I made it.”
The vicar shook his head but John went on. “And daisies are not the same wherever they grow. I have seen a Kent daisy different from a Sussex daisy and a French daisy which was bigger and tipped with pink. I don’t know how many daisies there are. A man would have to travel the whole world over with his eyes on his boots all the way to be sure. Why should such a thing be? Why should God make hundreds of the same thing?”
The vicar glanced around for rescue but nobody was looking his way. “God in His wisdom gave us a world filled with variety,” he began.
He was relieved to see that Tradescant was not arguing. This was not a man who was quarrelsome in his cups. This was a man urgently in quest of a truth. The vicar had an odd sense of a man in search of his destiny. Tradescant was concentrating, passionately concentrating, with a deep line engraved between his brows as he listened to the vicar’s answer. “It was God’s great wisdom to give us many things of great beauty. We cannot question His choice to give us many things which are only a little different, one from another, if you tell me that is how they are.”
Slowly John shook his head. “I don’t mean to question my God,” he said humbly. “Any more than I would question my lord. It just seems odd to me. And God did not make all things at once in Eden, and give them to us. I know that cannot be, though I read it in the Bible, because I see them changing from season to season.”
The vicar nodded, quick to move on. “That is no more than a craftsman making a table, I suppose. It is using the skills which God has given you and the materials which He has provided to make something new.”
John hesitated. “But if I made a new daisy, say, or a new tulip, and a man came along and saw it growing in a garden, he would think it was the work of God and praise Him. But he would be wrong. It would have been my work.”
“Yours and God’s,” the vicar said smoothly. “For God made the parent tulip from which you made one of another color. Undoubtedly it is God’s purpose to give us many things of beauty, many things which are rare and different and strange. And it is our duty to thank Him and praise Him for them.”
John nodded at the mention of duty. “It would be a man’s duty to gather the varieties?” he asked.
The vicar drank a little wedding ale. “It could be,” he said judiciously. “Why would a man want to collect varieties?”
“To the glory of God,” John said simply. “If it is God’s purpose that we should know His greatness by the many varieties of plants that are in the world now, and that can be made, then it is to the glory of God to make sure that men know of His abundancy.”
The vicar thought for a moment, fearful of heresy. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “It must be God’s will that we know of His abundancy, to help us to praise Him.”
“So a man making a
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