Art

A vise

Google+ Pinterest LinkedIn Tumblr +

Vaguely, like a child repeating a dimly understood lesson, little Eve Edgarton repeated the phrases after him. “Oh, no, Father,” she said, “I surely am not blaming you–in my heart–for wanting to see me married and settled with–John Ellbertson. Good old John Ellbertson,” she corrected painstakingly. With his hand still holding her little chin like a vise, the man’s eyes narrowed to his further probing. “Eve,” he frowned, “I’m not as well as I used to be! I’ve got pains in my arms! And they’re not good pains! I shall live to be a thousand! But I–I might not! It’s a–rotten world, Eve,” he brooded, “and quite unnecessarily crowded–it seems to me–with essentially rotten people. Toward the starving and the crippled and the hideously distorted, the world, having no envy of them, shows always an amazing mercy; and Beauty, 9l0-007 braindump whatever its sorrows, can always retreat to the thick protecting wall of its own conceit. But as for the rest of us?” he grinned with a sudden convulsive twist of the eyebrow, “God help the unduly prosperous–and the merely plain! From the former–always, Envy, like a wolf, shall tear down every fresh talent, every fresh treasure, they lift to their aching backs. And from the latter–Brutal Neglect shall ravage away even the charm that they thought they had! “It’s a–a rotten world, Eve, I tell you,” he began all over again, a bit plaintively. “A rotten world! And the pains in my arms, I tell you, are not–nice! Distinctly not nice! Sometimes, Eve, you think I’m making faces at you! But, believe me, it isn’t faces that I’m making! It’s my–heart that I’m making at you! And believe me, the pain is not–nice!”

Share.

About Author

Leave A Reply