The Real Motive
Dorothy Canfield
eBook
(, Feb. 5, 2012)
THE REAL MOTIVEBUT THIS IS ALSO EVERLASTING LIFEWe call this Time and gauge it by the clock, Deep in such insect cares as suit that view, As whether dresses fit, what modes are new, And where to buy, and when to barter, stock. We think we hold, based on some Scripture rock, Claims on immortal life, to press when due; Imagining some door between the two, Our deaths shall each, with presto change, unlock.But this is also Everlasting Life: On Monday in the kitchen, street or store, We are immortal, we, the man and wife; Immortal now, or shall be nevermore. Immortals in immortal values spend Those lives that shall no more begin than end.THE PRAGMATIST"Lord, who shall abide in thy tabernacle? who shall dwell in thy holy hill?"He that . . . speaketh the truth in his heart"As he lay dying, he shuddered at the thought of his lifelong duplicity. He had always worn a mask; he had never been his true self. In the isolation of the sick-room he faced the facts with horror. He had been a hypocrite since the beginning of his conscious life.And yet, as he went wearily over the years behind him, it seemed that as each day had come upon him, the long fraud had been necessary. The time had never come when he dared lay it aside and be himself. Thrown constantly with weak and wavering souls, it had seemed impossible not to pretend to a courage and certainty he could not feel. Passing his life among fretful complaints, he had felt so keenly the need of serenity and faith that he had counterfeited them, ransoming from doubt those he loved, with false moneys of a calm he himself dared not trust.Driven to bay by his realisation of the futility of resistance to the powers of evil, he had fought desperately and hopelessly with a sword of integrity in whose temper he had no confidence, making a show of battle which he knew could mean only defeat. Knowing the enemy to be irresistible, he had encouraged others by heartening cries to follow him upon a quest at once aimless and futile.All in him was a sham; he had never spoken a consciously true word. Upon the wretched world about him he had showered a Hood of reassuring thoughts, of inspiriting phrases, of resolute aspirations . . . and all with the sinking heart of one who speaks of a cheerful to-morrow to a man lying at the point of death.A web of falsehood ... a// his much-praised life.And now he was come to the end of it. He was an imposter, through and through. The very face which lay on the pillow was not his, since it was calm from a long habit of hiding his base and real passions, hardened into a mask of mock courage above his fainting heart and weak, despairing soul.A deathlike chill crept upon him. This was the beginning of dissolution, he thought. Soon the mask would be torn from him, and his true face of agonised doubt disclosed. In the unsparing mirror which death was about to hold before him he would at last seehimself as he really was . . . and he trembled in an awful terror. . . yet those who were with him at the last, say that at the end he cried out in a loud voice of exceeding joy.THE CONVICTION OF SIN" THE trouble with all that kind of talk," remarked Mr. Walker, judicially, as he listened to the reverberations of the revivalist's impassioned periods, " is that it's out of date. That's the way folks used to go on about religion when I was a boy back in West End-bury, but it's as much gone by now as putting bear-grease on your hair." After emitting this dictum, he put his pipe back in his mouth, cocked his feet up on the railing of his porch, and contemplated with great satisfaction the new concrete walk from the street to the house. " Concrete costs like the devil," he admitted to his wife; " but there's some class to it, once you got it."There was a pause. The sweet, hot June night was vibrant with the stirring of the year's new life, with the whir of the Walker lawn-sprinkler revolving briskly, with the soft spatter of the water on the ...