“Hallo! hallo!” said the Judge, putting aside his Farm Journal and giving his granddaughter and Andrew an affectionate grin. “How’s the mare?”
“I think she will live. The sores on her leg seem to be healing,” replied Andrew. He sat down near the Judge, and the old chair groaned and shivered under his huge bulk. He pulled out his pipe and filled it, and, as he did so, he glanced around the great shabby room. Yes, he reflected, as he had often reflected before, it was shabby, much shabbier than the interior of his old home and had none of the mouldering treasures of his mother’s “parlor.” Yet it had a casualness, this room, a warmth, a blowsiness, a haphazard grouping for comfort, a kind of peacefulness and homely ugliness which had endeared itself to the young and lonely man. Judge Farrell was a rich man, yet no imported rug lay on the polished maple flooring, which had been laid for strength rather than grace; the planks were thin, wide, short or long, as the carpenter had sawed them, but they gave a charm to the room. Here and there colorful rag-rugs had been scattered, of various shapes and sizes. All the furniture was home-made and of maple: rockers, square, round or octagon tables, sofas and foot-stools, these boasted no padding save the chintz cushions Miriam had made for them, chintz so faded that their pattern was a blurred tint of mingled green and brown. The Judge, himself, had lined the knotted pine walls with book-shelves, and all were bulging with scores of volumes well-worn and unmatched. The small-paned little windows had been hung with the same chintz that covered the cushions, and every table had its brass or china lamp, or, quite often, a plain, glass, ungarnished lamp ordinarily used in kitchens. The immense fieldstone fire-place was cold now, but heaps of ashes still lay there, “to make a bed for the fire in winter,” as the Judge said. Over it were crossed two of the Judge’s pet guns. The room was bare of ornament which served no purpose, yet in some manner it managed to be delightful.
All the rest of the house was furnished in a similar manner. It certainly had no elegance, no treasures, no real beauties. Yet Andrew thought it the most beautiful house in the world, for here were always laughter, good-temper, kindness, hearty food and vigorous voices. Here for the first time in his life, he felt he had a home.
Judge Farrell, that astute old man, watched Andrew as the younger man’s slow, heavy gaze of content wandered about the room. He then glanced at Miriam, who had settled down to knitting nearby, and the two, who loved each other with much devotion, smiled with affectionate understanding and significance.
The Judge said: “No regrets, eh, Andy? Still find farming what you wanted?”
Andrew replied, with quiet but almost vehement firmness: “It is, indeed, Judge. I never knew, before, what it was to be happy. I always wanted to farm. It isn’t just the farming, though. It is something else. In a way, I suppose, I have found myself.” He was not a young man given to rhetoric, and he flushed at what he considered his extravagance of language.
The Judge nodded thoughtfully, and sucked on his pipe. They all listened to the shrilling of crickets under the moon. The Judge said: “Hot again, tomorrow. The crickets always know.” Then he added: “There’s something about the land which makes a man stand honestly on his own feet. Maybe it’s because he’s alone. There’s nothing so bad for cluttering up a man’s thoughts as having his fellow-man around all the time. Not being able to get away from him. Mind, I’m not saying that every man should be a solitary, or a monk, and that that’s the only way to his own salvation. But he’s got to breathe air some other man isn’t breathing at the same time if he’s to be a prideful soul on his own, full of dignity and integrity.”
“I know,” said Andrew, in a low voice. He looked steadfastly at his old friend, and waited. The Judge refilled his pipe, with deep thoughtfulness.
“The trouble is, when a lot of men get together, and make a city, they begin to interfere with one another. That’s natural. There’s nothing else for them to do! They violate, cajole and support one another, because they’ve got to do something to fill in the time. So, either out of boredom, or with the best intentions in the world, they deprive one another of freedom. Eventually, such big conglomerations of men destroy liberty for other men; they can’t help it. They’ve got to have law, and there was never a law passed that didn’t deprive someone of liberty. A free world begins with each individual, but that individual can’t be free if when he’s getting around he keeps stumbling all over other men, or if he never gets away from the sound of their voices. If the world is to be free, it must be free for every man, free for himself and in himself.”
Andrew said nothing. But he thought: That was the trouble with Melissa and me. We had no freedom. No one could give it to us, though someone had deprived us of it. I had to free myself. Melly has to free herself. Yes, men can deprive other men of freedom, but only a man, himself, can give himself liberty.
The Judge chuckled. “Man is a dangerous animal. My God, they call the rattlesnake dangerous, and the tiger, and the wolf. But folks are a combination of them all, with a few brains thrown in to help them make the most of their endowments! But when a man is out on the land he is less dangerous than he is anywhere else. He’s usually kind of religious, too, and that helps keep down his natural instincts. I’ve always thought that the function of religion is to make man harmless; and it works, in the country. But the city, as far as I can see, doesn’t seem very keen on religion. So, in the city, where God isn’t much at home, the function of law is to compel man to remain harmless. And because men naturally don’t like laws imposed from outside by other men, city folk are more dangerous than country-folk, who usually have their consciences in good repair.”
They listened for a while to the crickets and the frogs and the warm wind in the trees outside. Then the Judge said softly: “It was country-folk who discovered God, and it was shepherds on the hill-side who saw the angels. But city folk substitute men for God, and theories for men. And somehow, if a man comes to believe in his own theories very hard, he comes to hate other men who don’t share them, and plots how to kill them for being so ornery and stubborn. Theories don’t grow on the land. They grow only in the cities.”
The sprightly Miriam stood up, and kissed her grandfather soundly. She looked at the faces of the two men, and laughed a little. “Oh, don’t look so sober and gloomy, my dears. It is so peaceful here. We have just had an awful war, and we shan’t have another very soon, I am sure, in spite of the nasty cities.”
The Judge returned her kiss fondly, and tried to smile. “My dear, I’m not afraid for you, or even for Andrew. But I am afraid for your children’s children, and their children. Don’t smile. No, I am wrong. Smile, my love. And keep your children on the land, if you can.”