The Greater Trumps Read Online Free PDF Page B

still; it alone in the middle of all that curious dance did not move, though it stood as if poised for running. The lynx or other great cat by its side was motionless also. They paused—the man and the beast—as if struck into inactivity in the very midst of activity. And all about them, sliding, stepping, leaping, rolling, the complex dance went on.
    â€œThat certainly,” Henry said, turning slowly away.
    The old man took a step to meet him. “But then,” he whispered, so that his faint voice blended with the faint music, “but then we can find out—at any moment—what the dance says? We can tell what the future will be—from what the present is?”
    Henry spread out his hands towards the table, as if he were laying something down. “That could be done, I suppose,” he answered. “But if the Fool does not move, how will it affect divination? Don’t your books tell you anything?”
    â€œThere are no writings which tell us anything at all of the Fool,” Aaron said.
    They stood still for what might have been two or three minutes, watching that unresting movement, hearing that unceasing sound, themselves changed from moment to moment in that altering light; then Aaron said, “Come away now. I don’t like to watch too long, unless I am working at the order of the dance.”
    Henry stood for a moment longer. “I wonder if you can know the dance without being among the dancers,” he said.
    â€œBut we are,” the old man answered hurriedly, “we are—everything is.”
    â€œOh, as everything is,” Henry uttered scornfully, “as stones or winds or ships. But stones and winds and ships don’t know . And to know——” He fell silent, and stood meditating till the other pulled at his arm, then, a little reluctantly, he turned to withdraw, and between the curtains and through the doorway they came into the outer room. Aaron locked the door and went back to his seat at the table, whence he looked inquiringly at his grandson.
    â€œWhat will you do now about the cards?” he asked.
    Henry came back from his secret thoughts with an abrupt movement of his body and smiled, though his eyes remained brilliant and somber. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Remember, I’ve only just seen them.”
    â€œThis owner, this father—will he sell them?” Aaron asked.
    Henry played a tune on the table. “If he doesn’t,” he answered slowly, “I don’t know quite how … He is supposed, at his death—or before, perhaps—to give them to the British Museum. All of them.”
    â€œWhat?” Aaron cried out in something like terror. “But that’s imbecile. Surely he’d sell—if we offered him enough.”
    Henry shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s a man who’s got pretty well everything he wants and finds it entirely useless to him. He doesn’t need money at all badly. He can think of nothing that will give him pleasure, and because of that he doesn’t like other people to have too much pleasure. No, he isn’t cruel; he’s even kind in his own way. But he holds on to his own as a child does to a broken toy—because one day it might want it or because it doesn’t like to see another child playing with what was once its own.”
    â€œBut money?” Aaron urged.
    â€œI tell you he doesn’t want money,” Henry said.
    â€œWouldn’t he give it to his daughter?” Aaron asked more hopefully. “Are you going to marry her?”
    â€œHe can’t easily give her one pack out of the whole collection, and the rest to the Museum,” Henry answered. “Yes—I shall marry her. I think perhaps—but that doesn’t matter. But if he gives her the whole lot he will be bothered by his friend’s wish; and if he gives her one pack he will be bothered by