Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

the violin across his knees, and, after a pause, his voice rose in one of the sweetest songs ever woven from words. And such a voice!⁠—rich, soft, transcendent, yet suggesting ungauged resources of enchantment unconsciously held in reserve. I sat entranced as verse after verse flowed slowly on, every syllable clear and distinct as in speech; the subtle tyranny of vocal harmony admitting no intruding thought beyond a regretful sense that the song must end.

But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, Jean,
And joy’s a-comin’ fast, Jean,
The joy that’s aye to last,
I’ the land o’ the leal.

A’ our freens are gane, Jean,
We’ve lang been left alane, Jean.
We’ll a’ meet again
I’ the land o’ the leal.

“How happy Jean Armour must have been to be with poor Burns, while this cold world seemed to slip away from his feet, and leave him to rest with his forgiving Saviour,” murmured the boundary man, laying his violin on the table, whilst he gazed absently into the expiring fire. “That song was composed by Burns, on his deathbed. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is one of the most beautiful songs in the language,” I replied; “but Burns is not the author. The song was composed by a woman⁠—Baroness Nairne. It is not for men to write in that strain. As for Jean Armour⁠—well, she had a good deal to forgive, too.”

“Ah! do you think a woman loves less because she has much to forgive?” returned Alf sadly, and then added, with sudden interest, “But what difference do you notice between the poetry of men and women? What is the mark of women’s work?”

“Sincerity,” I replied. “Notwithstanding Mrs. Hemans, and others, you will find that, as a rule, men’s poetry is superior to women’s, not only in vigour, but in grace. This is not strange, for grace is, after all, a display of force, an aspect of strength. But in the quality of sincerity, woman is a good first. Take an illustration, while I think of it: Compare the verses of my ancestor, Collins, ‘On the Grave of Thompson,’ with Eliza Cook’s verses, ‘On the Grave of Good’⁠—”

“But Collins was never married,” interposed Alf.

“True,” I replied pleasantly. “But our family is aristocratic, and a baton-sinister only sets us off. However, in the two poems I was speaking of, the subject matter is similar; the pieces are about the same length and the writers have adopted the same iambic octosyllable, with alternate rhymes. Now, my ancestor’s poem is not excelled in grace by anything within the range of our literature; but there’s nothing else in it whatever. Eliza Cook’s versification is, in a measure, forced and imperfect, her language occasionally homely and rugged, but the strong beating of a sincere, sympathetic heart is audible in every line.”

“But your ancestor is the most artificial writer of an artificial school, and Eliza Cook is the most spontaneous writer of a spontaneous school,” replied Alf, with the contradictive impulse which amusingly accompanied his teachableness. “Of course,” he added deprecatingly, “I wouldn’t presume to criticise such a poet as Collins; but you said, yourself⁠—”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said I generously. “However, though your argument blunts the force of my illustration, it doesn’t weaken my contention. You’ll find the distinction I’ve pointed-out hold good in a greater or less degree throughout literature; you’ll find examples by the thousand, and of course, exceptions by the dozen. But sing again, Alf, please. Every minute you’re silent, is a minute wasted. Sing anything you like⁠—only sing.”

“I wanted to have a talk,” remonstrated Alf. “You were speaking of the difference between men and women in their literary work. I believe you’re right, though it never struck me before. Now there’s another question that might be worth comparing notes upon. Your remark just brought it into my mind. Here it is”⁠—he hesitated a moment, then went on, with a certain constraint in his voice; the constraint we are apt to feel when forced to plump out the word “love,” in its narrower sense⁠—“When women love, they don’t know why they love; they just love because they do⁠—so they say, and we’re bound to believe them. But when we love women, why do we love them? Being more logical, we ought to know. Do we love a woman for her beauty?⁠—or for her virtues?⁠—or for her accomplishments?⁠—or for what? I fancy, if we understood ourselves, we should be able to say we loved her for some particular quality; and the others are⁠—as you might say⁠—Oh, you know! What quality is it, then, that we love a woman for? There’s a problem for you!”

“I can solve it with mathematical certainty, Alf⁠—that is to say, in such a manner as to convey the impossibility of the solution being otherwise than according to my finding. When I’m allowed to work out these things in my own circuitous way⁠—which is seldom the case⁠—there are few questions in moral or psychological philosophy which the commission of my years and art can to no issue of true honour bring. But you have to sing six songs first. I’ll leave the choice of them to yourself.”

“Very well,” replied Alf readily. “I’ll sing the songs as they come to my mind. Remember your promise, now.”

Then, rich, soft, and sweet, rose that exquisite voice in easy volume, flooding with new and vivid meaning old familiar verses. Here was my opportunity. I was interested in this boundary man, and resolved to know his history. Rejecting Alf Jones as an assumed name, Nomenology would be at fault here; yet knowing already, by a kind of incommunicable intuition, that he was a Sydney-sider, and had been in some way connected with the drapery-business, I expected to have my knowledge so supplemented by the character of his songs, that⁠—counting reasonably on a little further information, to be gathered before my departure⁠—I should be able to work out his biography at least as correctly as biographies are generally worked out.

For the esoteric side of his history, I counted much on his spontaneous choice of songs.