Read Online The Language of Paradise: A Novel by Barbara Klein Moss - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Klein Moss
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explanation.”
Gideon took a second to absorb the astonishing fact that Hedge, the unshakable pillar of righteousness, was about to justify himself to a student.
“I assure you, sir, none is required,” he said. “Only an ingrate would have taken offense. It’s not easy to speak of such experiences, and I did so awkwardly. I’m afraid you took me by surprise. Our earlier conversation led me to believe that my discoveries were congenial to you.”
“Con-gen-i-al.” Hedge lingered so long over each syllable that Gideon wondered if he was being mocked. “What an apt choice of word, Mr. Birdsall. Perhaps you know that genius is at the heart of it? And deeper still, the lurking demon: the genie who drives us to abuse our God-given talents. He may not wield a pitchfork, but his jabs are just as sharp! You remind me of a young man I knew. Another zealous student whose affinities enticed him to breach walls.”
The pastor had been looking into Gideon’s eyes, but now his glance turned inward. Gideon thought he might be praying again.
“From boyhood I have had a love for languages. When I was not yet seven, Father began to teach me Latin.” He smiled, with a touch of self-satisfaction, and looked up. “He was surprised at how quickly I learned. I had a gift, you see, coupled with an adventurous spirit. Mastering the native tongue was a way to claim places I longed to explore—planting the flag, if you will. Greek and my beloved Hebrew were major excursions, French and Italian amusing day trips. German I left until college because the sounds didn’t please me, but soon enough I could make my way through Goethe.”
“And did you discover your New Found Land?” Gideon kept his tone light, though the pulse in his neck throbbed so energetically he was sure the parson must notice.
“What I discovered,” Hedge said, “was Poetry.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Gideon was vaguely disappointed; he wondered if the professor had departed from his usual plain speech to take refuge in metaphor.
Hedge seemed to anticipate his reaction. “I began to write verse around the age of sixteen, and threw myself into it heart and soul. In those days I was the sort of young man who would spend hours gazing at the night sky, questioning the universe and dreaming of other worlds. Maybe all that Hebrew had gotten into my bones—I was forever poking at the ineffable with my pen, trying to trap it on the page.”
“To be a poet is a high calling,” Gideon said. “It’s not an unusual ambition when one is young.”
He was starting to feel restless, a state that would have seemed impossible a few hours ago. The narrative had taken a mundane turn, and in any case, how much more of the Reverend could he absorb in one sitting? His attention wandered to a single painting on the wall: a fountain, a baroque affair with an elaborate scalloped base from which geysers spurted up, deluging a small bed of flowers beneath. Some effort had been made to render the plumes of water transparent, but the paint had been laid on too thickly. It was as if the floodgates of heaven had opened to irrigate a daisy.
Hedge did not appear to notice his distraction. “A high calling,” he went on, “but only if it comes from above. I left for Harvard convinced I was about to make my mark on the world—a Dante in embryo, or at very least, a Bunyan. My magnum opus was already begun: a long visionary poem transposing the legend of Orpheus to a biblical setting. Night after night I stayed up to work on it, contending so long and hard that the words, when at last I managed to subdue them, seemed to bleed upon the page. Let my classmates spend their evenings carousing. The romance of creation was intoxicant enough for me! I was afloat in my own ether, forever trembling on the edge of revelation. What did it matter that I was putting an intolerable strain on my eyes and mind? If only I had taken a lesson from my subject matter, Mr. Birdsall. Soon
Gideon took a second to absorb the astonishing fact that Hedge, the unshakable pillar of righteousness, was about to justify himself to a student.
“I assure you, sir, none is required,” he said. “Only an ingrate would have taken offense. It’s not easy to speak of such experiences, and I did so awkwardly. I’m afraid you took me by surprise. Our earlier conversation led me to believe that my discoveries were congenial to you.”
“Con-gen-i-al.” Hedge lingered so long over each syllable that Gideon wondered if he was being mocked. “What an apt choice of word, Mr. Birdsall. Perhaps you know that genius is at the heart of it? And deeper still, the lurking demon: the genie who drives us to abuse our God-given talents. He may not wield a pitchfork, but his jabs are just as sharp! You remind me of a young man I knew. Another zealous student whose affinities enticed him to breach walls.”
The pastor had been looking into Gideon’s eyes, but now his glance turned inward. Gideon thought he might be praying again.
“From boyhood I have had a love for languages. When I was not yet seven, Father began to teach me Latin.” He smiled, with a touch of self-satisfaction, and looked up. “He was surprised at how quickly I learned. I had a gift, you see, coupled with an adventurous spirit. Mastering the native tongue was a way to claim places I longed to explore—planting the flag, if you will. Greek and my beloved Hebrew were major excursions, French and Italian amusing day trips. German I left until college because the sounds didn’t please me, but soon enough I could make my way through Goethe.”
“And did you discover your New Found Land?” Gideon kept his tone light, though the pulse in his neck throbbed so energetically he was sure the parson must notice.
“What I discovered,” Hedge said, “was Poetry.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Gideon was vaguely disappointed; he wondered if the professor had departed from his usual plain speech to take refuge in metaphor.
Hedge seemed to anticipate his reaction. “I began to write verse around the age of sixteen, and threw myself into it heart and soul. In those days I was the sort of young man who would spend hours gazing at the night sky, questioning the universe and dreaming of other worlds. Maybe all that Hebrew had gotten into my bones—I was forever poking at the ineffable with my pen, trying to trap it on the page.”
“To be a poet is a high calling,” Gideon said. “It’s not an unusual ambition when one is young.”
He was starting to feel restless, a state that would have seemed impossible a few hours ago. The narrative had taken a mundane turn, and in any case, how much more of the Reverend could he absorb in one sitting? His attention wandered to a single painting on the wall: a fountain, a baroque affair with an elaborate scalloped base from which geysers spurted up, deluging a small bed of flowers beneath. Some effort had been made to render the plumes of water transparent, but the paint had been laid on too thickly. It was as if the floodgates of heaven had opened to irrigate a daisy.
Hedge did not appear to notice his distraction. “A high calling,” he went on, “but only if it comes from above. I left for Harvard convinced I was about to make my mark on the world—a Dante in embryo, or at very least, a Bunyan. My magnum opus was already begun: a long visionary poem transposing the legend of Orpheus to a biblical setting. Night after night I stayed up to work on it, contending so long and hard that the words, when at last I managed to subdue them, seemed to bleed upon the page. Let my classmates spend their evenings carousing. The romance of creation was intoxicant enough for me! I was afloat in my own ether, forever trembling on the edge of revelation. What did it matter that I was putting an intolerable strain on my eyes and mind? If only I had taken a lesson from my subject matter, Mr. Birdsall. Soon
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