Where is Love?
Written for Gil.
It was February, and the weather was beautiful. Harbert sat outside with the dictionary of dialects, which Cyrus Smith had put him to studying, attempting to concentrate upon it. However, as anyone knows who has ever tried to read a book which is less than captivating when having a pressing idea in one's mind and plenty of people to whom to speak about it all around, it is quite a difficult thing to concentrate, and after several moments, Harbert put it down with an exclamation, and stood up, brushing sand off his trousers.
For a long time, he had been thinking about something which he wanted very badly to understand. Cyrus Smith had taught him, of course, formulas for making chemicals, and shown him the proper way in which to use a wooden stick to tell the time; and at college he had learnt the Latin names of thousands of animals and plants, besides learning mathematics and literature and all the other things that people learnt. When he thought about this new question which he wanted answered, he thought about it in an orderly way, classifying it among all the other unasked questions he had and resolved to understand it logically.
His first idea was to ask Cyrus Smith. Picking up his book, he went off in search of him, and finally found him on the beach with his trousers rolled up just below his knees, measuring the depth of the water with a pole and attempting to find out at how many feet in those little black slimy snailshells--which, for once, Harbert was content just to think of as 'those little black slimy snailshells', instead of their proper names--stopped living.
Harbert sat down on the beach with his feet out in front of him, squishing the sand between his toes.
"Mr. Cyrus?"
"Yes, Harbert?"
"Why are you doing that?"
"My dear boy, I am simply trying to understand the creatures better. I want to know why they don't live in the deeper part of the ocean, and to do that I need to know exactly where they do stop accumulating." Cyrus Smith picked up a rock covered with the little shells, which Harbert thought were called periwinkles. "It's a scientific experiment."
"Oh," said Harbert, turning his head to look at the glistening shells before Cyrus Smith lovingly replaced the rock. "I have a question for you, Mr. Cyrus."
"And what is that?"
"Where is love?"
"Well! That's not a hard question. Love, my boy, is in learning. A man is never happier than when he's gaining knowledge, when he's changing the world. When you can stand before a crowd of other men and tell them something that none of them ever knew before, that's joy, and that joy can only be attained through study and trial and learning, and that's where love lies.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Harbert said, and Cyrus Smith shook his head.
"Love is wherever one learns something. It's in a museum of science, or a lecture; it's in that book I gave you to read. Why, it's right here on this beach, where I'm studying these shells! It's everywhere there's knowledge to be found, you see, Master Harbert."
"Thanks," said Harbert, getting up off the beach. "I'm going to find Neb. Do you know where he is?"
"The kitchen, I believe. By the way, have you finished your reading yet?"
"Not quite yet, but I shall. Thank you, Mr. Cyrus!"
"Of course."
Then Harbert strolled back up to Granite House with his feet brushing pleasantly against the short, spiky, dry grass that grew up between the beach and the house. He went up the elevator, and into the kitchen, where Neb was bent over the oven, roasting a jacamar and singing in African to himself as he worked. Harbert came over and sat down on the wooden stool that was out.
"Hello, Neb," he said.
"Master Harbert!" returned Neb, grinning so that his bright white teeth showed. "It's good to see you."
"And you! Listen--Neb--can you answer a question for me?"
"If I can, I will." Neb ran one of his thin, lanky hands through his hair and retied his white handkerchief over it.
"Where is love?"
Neb smiled, which showed his teeth again, but not in quite the same frightening way as before. He looked less like a friendly demon standing by his glowing stove and more like a man. "Here. Where Mr. Cyrus is, that's where love is."
"Why?" asked Harbert, confused.
"When I was a little child, Master Harbert, my mamma told me a story about a servant-boy who loved his master so much that he followed him anywhere he went. I'm Mr. Cyrus' servant-boy, and I go anywhere he does, and I'm pleased to be anywhere he is, and that's why love's right here."
"What would you do if Mr. Cyrus died, Neb? What did you think you were going to do when we couldn't find him that first day?" Harbert asked curiously, thinking that his feet were a little too hot when he was as close to the fire as he was.
"There wouldn't be any love any more, Master Harbert. I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I expect I'd go silent like Joop and hide myself away in here."
Harbert was struck with a great pity, which he felt rather guilty for having. He did not think he ought to be pitying Neb, who said those words with a quiet, calm conviction, who was unquestioning devoted; and he nodded, and stood up. "Thank you. Do you know where Ayrton is?"
"He's down looking after the animals, just like usual."
"Thank you! Good-bye, Neb."
Neb smiled a second time and bent over the oven again, and the last thing Harbert saw was the coals glowing hotly and lighting up Neb's face so that he again looked a demon. But, Harbert realised, Neb only looked a rather gentle, morose kind of demon, and there was nothing wrong with it; and he headed down towards the corral.
Ayrton was grooming the daaws meticulously, with a couple of brushes, and a bucket of warm water and soap, which he brushed across their hides over and over until they were wet and clean and trying very hard to get away so that they could roll in the dirt of the corral and undo his work. He seemed to be taking this badly, as he was flapping at them awkwardly and trying to hold them still; but when Harbert got closer, he saw that Ayrton was smiling and talking to the daaws, and that one of them, the female, was nuzzling his arm and threatening to tip over his bucket.
"Come now, come now," Harbert heard Ayrton saying, "you mustn't do this to me. I'm just trying to get you a bit cleaned up. Oh! you beast!" as one of the daaws trampled his foot and knocked him over, and he lay on his back in the dirt and looked mildly up at the creature. "Well, then, you can be filthy, if you like. It's not my concern."
Harbert had not seen Ayrton smile before now; not since he had come onto Lincoln Island had he ever seemed pleased about anything. Now, when he was alone, he was laughing a little. Harbert hesitated for a moment before he called,--
"Ayrton?"
At once, Ayrton scrambled to his feet apologetically. "I'm here, Mr. Harbert."
"Hello, Ayrton," said Harbert, smiling gently at him and holding out one slender, pale hand. Ayrton touched it briefly, but apart from that didn't move, standing at attention, as though he were ready to do whatever Harbert might ask of him--which, perhaps, he was. "How are you to-day?"
"I'm all right. I was just now trying to brush your--er--" he gestured helplessly at the daaws. "Them. I was trying to brush them a bit, because they were so dirty."
"Oh, that was very good of you! Mr. Cyrus will be quite pleased when he sees them, I should think."
"Well, if they stay clean long enough," said Ayrton, as the daaws went down on their forelegs and began rolling, with the wicked delight of all horses, mules, and creatures of that kind, when they know they are undoing the good work of their keepers.
Harbert laughed. "Oh, well! Still, I can vouch for you."
"Are you out walking, Mr. Harbert?"
"No, no, I came to see you. I want to ask you a question."
"Certainly," said Ayrton.
"Well--where is love?"
Ayrton hesitated. "Love?"
"Yes," Harbert answered, trying to sound reassuring. "It's just a question I was wondering about."
"Well," said Ayrton cautiously, "I think that love is where there's someone who will forgive you. I mean--anywhere there are people willing to take a man in, and help him, and forgive him his sins--that's love, is forgiving, and I think that's where you'd find it. --But you're a boy--I beg your pardon--you're a boy, and I suppose for you love is where there's something beautiful. A boy likes beautiful things like plays and girls and clever books, and those are in theatres and parties and libraries, so those might also be the sort of places love is." He didn't sound too sure of it, though, and Harbert thought his first answer was clearly the one he believed. "But for me, for a wretched kind of man like me, it's in a person who forgives. That's love."
"Thank you, Ayrton," said Harbert, speaking gently because of the funny, frightened look Ayrton wore, a look of being afraid to offend, of being afraid to be hated. It was a sad look, and Harbert was afraid of making it worse. He took Ayrton's hand and looked at him steadily. "Thank you for telling me. I wish you very good luck with the daaws."
"Is that what they're called?"
"Yes, that's what they're called! Good afternoon, Ayrton!"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Harbert," Ayrton called over his shoulder, trying again to make the daaws stand still and submit to being doused with water.
Harbert laughed to himself quietly and began the long walk back to Granite House, where he searched diligently for Gideon Spilett. At last he found him sitting in a high part of the house, looking out a window and sketching a small bird which was hopping about on a jagged part of the rock standing away from the wall of the house.
"Hello, Mr. Spilett," he whispered as he pushed aside the curtain over the entryway (there was no door here) and came into the room.
Gideon glanced up, raising his red eyebrows. "Good afternoon. It's hot as hell up here. What brings you?"
"Oh, I was wondering if I might ask you a question," said Harbert, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt in the heat of the high-up room. Gideon had already done the same, along with taking off his heavy greatcoat and laying it aside so he could work in his shirtsleeves.
"Ask away. I'm not doing anything pressing," Gideon replied, putting his sketchbook on a piece of rock beside him. "In fact, I'm rather glad for the interruption. That blasted bird keeps moving, and I can't begin to draw it properly. What's the question?"
"Where is love?"
Gideon paused, considered, looked at Harbert questioningly. "Love? Where it is? That's a curious thing to ask. I would say that love is right here in the pages of this little book," and he picked up his sketchbook and flipped through it. "In here I've got bits and pieces of everything in the world; I've got addresses and facts and statistics. I've got pinned in pieces of cloth from the skirts of Russian peasant girls and rubbings of leaves from all over the United States. I've drawn the queer creatures that live in Australia and I've drawn the ordinary deer and bears in America, as well as quite a few people from--I count--twenty-eight countries I've been. If, in here, I haven't got any love anywhere, I must say I've made myself a very poor book of memories. Of course, by that same token, I imagine that a newspaper is twice as good--but one never hears of a newspaper signifying love, does one? Must be something about the black and white and the lack of having been there to see or hear whatever they're reporting on. Still, it's a thought. But my answer, Harbert, is that my book contains love enough for me, because it is entirely full of memories."
"May I look at it all someday, Mr. Spilett?" asked Harbert, smiling.
"Certainly, certainly; but not to-day. To-day I'm busy." Gideon took up his sketchbook again, and grinned sideways at Harbert. "Be off! Find your Pencroff and see what he'll say, or ask Cyrus."
"I already have!" Harbert said.
"Rascal! Get out!" said Gideon, flapping the notebook with the impressive resume at Harbert as he retreated, laughingly, from the small, hot room. It was much cooler outside, and Harbert buttoned his shirt up again and wiped the sweat off his forehead and went out to find Pencroff, as Gideon had told him.
Pencroff was in the wheatfield, surveying it proudly, and the ribbons on his hat were fluttering around his face. He seemed extraordinarily content and entirely in approval of the wheatfield's conduct in growing, and Harbert felt a great wave of fondness just looking at him.
"Pencroff!" he cried, running across the hill to the field, feeling the mud squish between his bare toes and stick to the soles of his feet. "Hallo, Pencroff!"
Here Pencroff turned around, and held out his arms. "Hallo, my boy!" he said, as Harbert embraced him. "What are you about?"
"Pencroff, I've got a question, and I've asked everyone else, and now it's your turn to answer me."
"Very well, what's the question?"
"Where is love? I asked Mr. Cyrus, and he said it's in any place of learning; and I asked Neb, and he said it's anywhere Mr. Cyrus is; I asked Ayrton, and he said it's with people who forgive, and at theatres, and at parties, and at libraries; and I've just asked Mr. Spilett, and he says that love is in his notebook, in memories. What do you say?"
"Oh," said Pencroff carelessly. "Love may be in any of those places that it pleases itself to be, because I fancy no one's exactly forcing it to be anywhere, but since I've never been in any place that they call a place of learning, I can't say I know for a fact it's there--and I've been around Mr. Cyrus for a long while, and I certainly love him, but I don't know if he carries love around in his pocket, as Neb makes it sound. I've been forgiven in the past, but that was all grudging, I assure you, and not at all loving; and I've never gone to a proper theatre, nor a proper party, nor a real library, so I again can't say anything about those places. As for Mr. Spilett's notebook, if he's hoarding love in there, I hope someone knocks him on the head with it and makes him let it go, because it's not at all decent of him to keep it from the rest of us, and as for memories, they're not always good. I would hardly call them places to find love."
"Well, then," said Harbert, a little regretting that Pencroff had just refuted so easily all those answers which he'd gone looking for all afternoon, "where is it, then?"
Pencroff merely looked at him, and laughed, and pulled him into an embrace. "Oh, I fancy you'll find out, my boy. I fancy you'll find out."
Harbert, who was beginning to think he understood, smiled privately against Pencroff's blue jacket as Pencroff tousled his fluffy blond hair, and said, "Yes, my dear Pencroff. I think you're right."
Back to the Index.