Forgive me, I grieve that all this seems a
cruel waste to me--all these years of your life."
"Is your life not a waste?" I asked before I could check the words.
"No," Isabel replied calmly, in no way offended. "After all there is a
feeling in my heart for Uncle Tom such as you might have felt for
Pinturicchio. What does one derive from love? There are riches in
admiration, gratitude, sympathy, filial tenderness, in desire for
devotion; yes, even in pity; in the bestowal of comforting hands; in
solace given in hours of fatigue and illness; in care for declining
vitality. All these expressions I have. And now, my friend, I would be a
help to you. I would give you eyes to understand your past; and a vision
to choose a better future. If you have ever been Dionysius, which you
have not, you are yet an unawakened soul. I would have you become
Orpheus, attended by the Muses of all this loveliness with which we are
surrounded here. By contrast it makes me think of America, so vast but
so without a soul. By soul I do not mean that energy which enforces
righteousness, the dream of the fanatic, the ideal of the law
fabricator; but the soul of high freedoms, delights, nobilities. For
there is just as much difference between those things as there is
between Douglas and Pinturicchio. All of this goes without saying, of
course; but I am thinking of the application of these things to you.
Pages:
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384