The Crown of Wild Olive
takes courage._)
LUCILLA. Oh! but surely, sir, we cannot make our hearts clean?
L. Not easily, Lucilla; so you had better keep them so when they are.
LUCILLA. When they are! But, sir--
L. Well?
LUCILLA. Sir--surely--are we not told that they are all evil?
L. Wait a little, Lucilla; that is difficult ground you are getting
upon; and we must keep to our crystals, till at least we understand what
_their_ good and evil consist in; they may help us afterwards to some
useful hints about our own. I said that their goodness consisted chiefly
in purity of substance, and perfectness of form: but those are rather
the _effects_ of their goodness, than the goodness itself. The inherent
virtues of the crystals, resulting in these outer conditions, might
really seem to be best described in the words we should use respecting
living creatures--'force of heart' and steadiness of purpose.' There
seem to be in some crystals, from the beginning, an unconquerable purity
of vital power, and strength of crystal spirit. Whatever dead substance,
unacceptant of this energy, comes in their way, is either rejected, or
forced to take some beautiful subordinate form; the purity of the
crystal remains unsullied, and every atom of it bright with coherent
energy. Then the second condition is, that from the beginning of its
whole structure, a fine crystal seems to have determined that it will be
of a certain size and of a certain shape; it persists in this plan, and
completes it. Here is a perfect crystal of quartz for you. It is of an
unusual form, and one which it might seem very difficult to build--a
pyramid with convex sides, composed of other minor pyramids. But there
is not a flaw in its contour throughout; not one of its myriads of
component sides but is as bright as a jeweller's facetted work (and far
finer, if you saw it close). The crystal points are as sharp as
javelins; their edges will cut glass with a touch. Anything more
resolute, consummate, determinate in form, cannot be conceived. Here, on
the other hand, is a crystal of the same substance, in a perfectly
simple type of form--a plain six-sided prism; but from its base to its
point,--and it is nine inches long,--it has never for one instant made
up its mind what thickness it will have. It seems to have begun by
making itself as thick as it thought possible with the quantity of
material at command. Still not being as thick as it would like to be, it
has clumsily glued on more substance at one of its sides. Then it has
thinned itself, in a panic of economy; then puffed itself out again;
then starved one side to enlarge another; then warped itself quite out
of its first line. Opaque, rough-surfaced, jagged on the edge, distorted
in the spine, it exhibits a quite human image of decrepitude and
dishonour; but the worst of all the signs of its decay and helplessness,
is that half-way up, a parasite crystal, smaller, but just as sickly,
has rooted itself in the side of the larger one, eating out a cavity
round its root, and then growing backwards, or downwards, contrary to
the direction of the main crystal. Yet I cannot trace the least
difference in purity of substance between the first most noble stone,
and this ignoble and dissolute one. The impurity of the last is in its
will, or want of will.
MARY. Oh, if we could but understand the meaning of it all!
L. We can understand all that is good for us. It is just as true for us,
as for the crystal, that the nobleness of life depends on its
consistency,--clearness of purpose,--quiet and ceaseless energy. All
doubt, and repenting, and botching, and retouching, and wondering what
it will be best to do next, are vice, as well as misery.
MARY (_much wondering_). But must not one repent when one does wrong,
and hesitate when one can't see one's way?
L. You have no business at all to do wrong; nor to get into any way that
you cannot see. Your intelligence should always be far in advance of
your act. Whenever you do not know what you are about, you are sure to
be doing wrong.
KATHLEEN. Oh, dear, but I never know what I am about!
L. Very true, Katie, but it is a great deal to know, if you know that.
And you find that you have done wrong afterwards; and perhaps some day
you may begin to know, or at least, think, what you are about.
ISABEL. But surely people can't do very wrong if they don't know, can
they? I mean, they can't be very naughty. They can be wrong, like
Kathleen or me, when we make mistakes; but not wrong in the dreadful
way. I can't express what I mean; but there are two sorts of wrong are
there not?
L. Yes, Isabel; but you will find that the great difference is between
kind and unkind wrongs, not between meant and unmeant wrong. Very few
people really mean to do wrong,--in a deep sense, none. They only don't
know what they are about. Cain did not mean to do wrong when he killed
Abel.
(ISABEL _draws a deep breath, and opens her eyes very
wide._)
L. No, Isabel; and there are countless Cains among us now, who kill
their brothers by the score a day, not only for less provocation than
Cain had, but for _no_ provocation,--and merely for what they can make
of their bones,--yet do not think they are doing wrong in the least.
Then sometimes you have the business reversed, as over in America these
last years, where you have seen Abel resolutely killing Cain, and not
thinking he is doing wrong. The great difficulty is always to open
people's eyes: to touch their feelings, and break their hearts, is easy;
the difficult thing is to break their heads. What does it matter, as
long as they remain stupid, whether you change their feelings or not?
You cannot be always at their elbow to tell them what is right: and they
may just do as wrong as before, or worse; and their best intentions
merely make the road smooth for them,--you know where, children. For it
is not the place itself that is paved with them, as people say so often.
You can't pave the bottomless pit; but you may the road to it.
MAY. Well, but if people do as well as they can see how, surely that is
the right for them, isn't it?
L. No, May, not a bit of it; right is right, and wrong is wrong. It is
only the fool who does wrong, and says he 'did it for the best.' And if
there's one sort of person in the world that the Bible speaks harder of
than another, it is fools. Their particular and chief way of saying
'There is no God' is this, of declaring that whatever their 'public
opinion' may be, is right: and that God's opinion is of no consequence.
MAY. But surely nobody can always know what is right?
L. Yes, you always can, for to-day; and if you do what you see of it
to-day, you will see more of it, and more clearly, to-morrow. Here, for
instance, you children are at school, and have to learn French, and
arithmetic, and music, and several other such things. That is your
'right' for the present; the 'right' for us, your teachers, is to see
that you learn as much as you can, without spoiling your dinner, your
sleep, or your play; and that what you do learn, you learn well. You all
know when you learn with a will, and when you dawdle. There's no doubt
of conscience about that, I suppose?
VIOLET. No; but if one wants to read an amusing book, instead of
learning one's lesson?
L. You don't call that a 'question,' seriously, Violet? You are then
merely deciding whether you will resolutely do wrong or not.
MARY. But, in after life, how many fearful difficulties may arise,
however one tries to know or to do what is right!
L. You are much too sensible a girl, Mary, to have felt that, whatever
you may have seen. A great many of young ladies' difficulties arise from
their falling in love with a wrong person: but they have no business to
let themselves fall in love, till they know he is the right one.
DORA. How many thousands ought he to have a year?
L. (_disdaining reply_). There are, of course, certain crises of fortune
when one has to take care of oneself, and mind shrewdly what one is
about. There is never any real doubt about the path, but you may have to
walk very slowly.
MARY. And if one is forced to do a wrong thing by some one who has
authority over you?
L. My dear, no one can be forced to do a wrong thing, for the guilt is
in the will: but you may any day be forced to do a fatal thing, as you
might be forced to take poison; the remarkable law of nature in such
cases being, that it is always unfortunate _you_ who are poisoned, and
not the person who gives you the dose. It is a very strange law, but it
_is_ a law. Nature merely sees to the carrying out of the normal
operation of arsenic. She never troubles herself to ask who gave it you.
So also you may be starved to death, morally as well as physically, by
other people's faults. You are, on the whole, very good children sitting
here to-day;--do you think that your goodness comes all by your own
contriving? or that you are gentle and kind because your dispositions
are naturally more angelic than those of the poor girls who are playing,
with wild eyes, on the dustheaps in the alleys of our great towns; and
who will one day fill their prisons,--or, better, their graves? Heaven
only knows where they, and we who have cast them there, shall stand at
last. But the main judgment question will be, I suppose, for all of us,
'Did you keep a good heart through it?' What you were, others may answer
for;--what you tried to be, you must answer for, yourself. Was the heart
pure and true--tell us that?
And so we come back to your sorrowful question, Lucilla, which I put
aside a little ago. You would be afraid to answer that your heart _was_
pure and true, would not you?
LUCILLA. Yes, indeed, sir.
L. Because you have been taught that it is all evil--'only evil
continually.' Somehow, often as people say that, they never seem, to me,
to believe it? Do you really believe it?
LUCILLA. Yes, sir; I hope so.
L. That you have an entirely bad heart?
LUCILLA (_a little uncomfortable at the substitution of the monosyllable
for the dissyllable, nevertheless persisting in her orthodoxy_). Yes,
sir.
L. Florrie, I am sure you are tired; I never like you to stay when you
are tired; but, you know, you must not play with the kitten while we're
talking.
FLORRIE. Oh! but I'm not tired; and I'm only nursing her. She'll be
asleep in my lap directly.
L. Stop! that puts me in mind of something I had to show you, about
minerals that are like hair. I want a hair out of Tittie's tail.
FLORRIE (_quite rude, in her surprise, even to the point of repeating
expressions_). Out of Tittie's tail!
L. Yes; a brown one: Lucilla, you can get at the tip of it nicely, under
Florrie's arm; just pull one out for me.
LUCILLA. Oh! but, sir, it will hurt her so!
L. Never mind; she can't scratch you while Florrie is holding her. Now
that I think of it, you had better pull out two.
LUCILLA. But then she may scratch Florrie! and it will hurt her so, sir!
if you only want brown hairs, wouldn't two of mine do?
L. Would you really rather pull out your own than Tittie's?
LUCILLA. Oh, of course, if mine will do.
L. But that's very wicked, Lucilla!
LUCILLA. Wicked, sir?
L. Yes; if your heart was not so bad, you would much rather pull all the
cat's hairs out, than one of your own.
LUCILLA. Oh! but sir, I didn't mean bad, like that.
L. I believe, if the truth were told, Lucilla, you would like to tie a
kettle to Tittie's tail, and hunt her round the playground.
LUCILLA. Indeed, I should not, sir.
L. That's not true, Lucilla; you know it cannot be.
LUCILLA. Sir?
L. Certainly it is not;--how can you possibly speak any truth out of
such a heart as you have? It is wholly deceitful.
LUCILLA. Oh! no, no; I don't mean that way; I don't mean that it makes