Bedtime is the best time for stories, as the Castle quiets down, and even busy Momma takes a moment to bask in peace and love. Just to see hyperactive Audrey quiet down and nestle into Tutor's shoulder, and smile half in a dream is gratifying to world-conquering Momma's human heart. Tonight Tutor is telling a tale that Wordsworth told from his own childhood, when England was still enchanted by fairies and goblins and no smoke could be yet seen from factories, and time was measured in seasons, and sunrises and sunsets, and no man or woman lived by the time-clock, measured and managed like mechanical things effectively and efficiently to some grim purpose, not their own.
Scripture is hard enough, Wordsworth riskier yet. But Audrey knows no better. "You see," says Tutor, long ago, not that far from the Castle back in the old days, there was an old, old beggar who used to walk from town to town. White hair, white beard. He had a staff or stick he used as a cane. His clothes were raggedy, but he is hale, that means healthy, and strong for his old age. Can you see him, Audrey, in your mind's eye?" She affirms she can, indeed, nestling closer, and with her little dreamy smile. Rex has crept up the bed and lies with his nose on her chest, her hand on his head. "Well, see the old beggar now. He is sitting on a bench, but it is not really a bench, at the edge of the highway. It is step that horsemen (and horsewoman, too) use, there were no cars, to get back on a horse. Well, the old man is sitting there. He has a crust of bread, can you see it? in his hands. Guess how he got it? A girl about your age, who had red hair and lived with her Momma, not in a palace or castle, but in a small hut in a small village had given him that crust, which her Momma had given her to eat herself. She was hungry, too. But she gave the old man the bread. When he walked by their house, he did not stop and ask; she ran out with her own breakfast." "That was really nice of her," says Audrey, "because she was hungry, too." "That's right," says Tutor, "but look now. See how the old man's fingers shake. He is so, so old, his hands are shaking even though the morning is warm. He is so infirm, that means weak, the birds are not afraid of him. They have come within the reach of his staff, unafraid, to peck about his feet. His palsied hands are shaking breadcrumbs to the ground, and the birds surround him for their feast. He too is a giver. Kid, can I recite you some out loud? It doesn't sound like regular talk, it sounds more like Gospels in church, ok? Just a little bit." Tutor knows it by heart. As he says, it memorized itself.
Man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
"I would give my bread to the old man, too," murmurs Audrey, her hand stroking the stiff fur of the unlovely dog she rescued from the pound. Momma has put her iPad down. This time, as Tutor exits, his charge fast asleep, Momma's hand comes up to be clasped in parting, sans cash in the palm. "One human heart," murmurs she. For Tutor it is joy and a relief to feel love circulate, from past to present, towards a future, through the text. A castle by the sea can so cold.