CHAPTER VIII.
My father took three strides up and down the room, and then, halting on
his hearth, and facing his brother, he thus spoke: "I condemn his deed,
Roland! At best he was but a haughty egotist. I understand why Brutus
should slay his sons. By that sacrifice he saved his country! What did
this poor dupe of an exaggeration save? Nothing but his own name. He
could not lift the crime from his son's soul, nor the dishonor from his
son's memory. He could but gratify his own vain pride; and insensibly
to himself, his act was whispered to him by the fiend that ever whispers
to the heart of man, 'Dread men's opinions more than God's law!' Oh, my
dear brother! what minds like yours should guard against the most is not
the meanness of evil,--it is the evil that takes false nobility, by
garbing itself in the royal magnificence of good." My uncle walked to
the window, opened it, looked out a moment, as if to draw in fresh air,
closed it gently, and came back again to his seat; but during the short
time the window had been left open, a moth flew in.
"Tales like these," renewed my father, pityingly,--"whether told by some
great tragedian, or in thy simple style, my brother,--tales like these
have their uses: they penetrate the heart to make it wiser; but all
wisdom is meek, my Roland. They invite us to put the question to
ourselves that thou hast asked, 'Can we condemn this man?' and reason
answers as I have answered, 'We pity the man, we condemn the deed.'
We--take care, my love! that moth will be in the candle. We--whisk!
whisk!" and my father stopped to drive away the moth. My uncle turned,
and taking his handkerchief from the lower part of his face, of which he
had wished to conceal the workings, he flapped away the moth from the
flame. My mother moved the candles from the moth.
I tried to catch the moth in my father's straw-hat. The deuce was in
the moth! it baffled us all, now circling against the ceiling, now
sweeping down at the fatal lights. As if by a simultaneous impulse, my
father approached one candle, my uncle approached the other; and just as
the moth was wheeling round and round, irresolute which to choose for
its funeral pyre, both candles were put out. The fire had burned down
low in the grate, and in the sudden dimness my father's soft, sweet
voice came forth, as if from an invisible being: "We leave ourselves in
the dark to save a moth from the flame, brother! Shall we do less for
our fellow-men? Extinguish, oh! humanely extinguish, the light of our
reason when the darkness more favors our mercy." Before the lights were
relit, my uncle had left the room; his brother followed him. My mother
and I drew near to each other and talked in whispers.
