There is always something paradoxical in wisdom
instructing folly, for, after all, folly can never really learn, can
never really understand. Valentine hugged that thought.
"Go on," the lady of the feathers said, apparently in gaping wonderment.
"Why? do you mean to tell me you are interested?"
"I'm listenin'! It sounds wonderful!"
"It is wonderful!" Valentine cried. "Every living lie is wonderful.
But you don't know yet much about will. My gospel is full of secrets
and of subtleties, and only a few people are beginning to guess at its
far-reaching power, and to aim at learning its truths and sounding
its depths. And many unbelievers play with it, and never know that they
are playing with fire. A man did this once. Shall I tell you about him?"
"Yes!" said Cuckoo.
And her soul cried to the darkness in which she imagined some vague power
to dwell; cried aloud for understanding. This silent cry was so intense
that she lay back upon the hard sofa, almost exhausted, and as she lay
there, something hot, like fire, seemed to make its nest in her heart,
and to flame there, and to be alive, as a flame is alive, and to speak to
her, but not aloud, as a flame speaks in the coals to the imagination of
the watcher by the hearth.
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