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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
67
("What
is
a
farmer
doing
quoting
Tolstoi!"
remarked
his
countenance--though
he
said
not
a
word.)
"In
the
kingdom
of
Ivan,
you
remember,"
I
said,
"it
was
the
rule
that
whoever
had
hard
places
on
his
hands
came
to
table,
but
whoever
had
not
must
eat
what
the
others
left."
Thus
I
led
him
up
to
the
back
steps
and
poured
him
a
basin
of
hot
water--which
I
brought
myself
from
the
kitchen,
Harriet
having
marvellously
and
completely
disappeared.
We
both
washed
our
hands,
talking
with
great
good
humour.
When
we
had
finished
I
said:
"Sit
down,
friend,
if
you've
time,
and
let's
talk."
So
he
sat
down
on
one
of
the
logs
of
my
woodpile:
a
solid
sort
of
man,
rather
warm
after
his
recent
activities.
He
looked
me
over
with
some
interest
and,
I
thought,
friendliness.
"Why
does
a
man
like
you,"
he
asked
finally,
"waste
himself
on
a
little
farm
back
here
in
the
country?"
For
a
single
instant
I
came
nearer
to
being
angry
than
I
have
been
for
a
long
time.
Waste
myself!
So
we
are
judged
without
knowledge.
I
had
a
sudden
impulse
to
demolish
him
(if
I
could)
with
the
nearest
sarcasms
I
could
lay
hand
to.
He
was
so
sure
of
himself!
"Oh
well,"
I
thought,
with
vainglorious
superiority,
"he
doesn't
know,"
So
I
said:
"What
would
you
have
me
be--a
millionnaire?"
He
smiled,
but
with
a
sort
of
sincerity.
"You
might
be,"
he
said:
"who
can
tell!"
I
laughed
outright:
the
humour
of
it
struck
me
as
delicious.
Here
I
had
been,
ever
since
I
first
heard
of
John
Starkweather,
rather
gloating
over
him
as
a
poor
suffering
millionnaire
(of
course
millionnaires
are
unhappy),
and
there
he
sat,
ruddy
of
face
and
hearty
of
body,
pitying
me
for
a
poor
unfortunate
farmer
back
here
in
the
country!
Curious,
this
human
nature
of
ours,
isn't
it?
But
how
infinitely
beguiling!
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