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All this this liking to be kissed, and feeling wobbly. They're Kraill's preliminary canter." "Oh no no!" she cried in horror. "Oh, yes, yes!" he mocked, laughing at her gently. "But Louis, how horrible!" "Well, you're always preaching honesty and facing facts," he said bluntly. "Yes " she said thoughtfully. "But I don't like it. I hate it.
As she read Kraill's message she thought again of her prayer for weakness down by the lake. As she stood there, with all the lights of her life burning dim, all the virtue gone out of her, it was forced upon her that her prayer was being answered. She was getting weak!
From that he went on to the usual gibberish of French, the usual accusation against men in the neighbourhood, the usual mélange of Chinese tortures and gruesome operations. From Kraill's horrified face Marcella saw that he understood more than she did. She had never been sufficiently morbid to ask anyone to translate his words for her, even after more than three years of them.
She tried hard, too, to keep shining Kraill's conception of her courage; she did not realize that he would never know, however much she gave way: always, for her, he lived just on the threshold of her consciousness.
Sometimes she felt that it was quite impossible to safeguard him: she literally had not the knowledge. Such knowledge was locked away in a few wise brains like Kraill's and meanwhile people were rotting. Once she wrote a long letter to Carnegie asking him to stop giving money for libraries and spend some on helping to cure neurotics. But she destroyed the letter, and went on hoping.
But, looking at Kraill's face for one fleeting instant Marcella knew that he understood how sore and shamed she was. "He's very ill, really," she said in a low voice. "But no one believes it. They think he's just wicked. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. I expect you know without my telling you. But I didn't want you to see him like this. I've fixed up a bed for you at home.
It showed me that, though I am muddled now, there is such a thing as clearness in the world. It seemed to me that if I knew all the things Professor Kraill knows things might be like a crystal ball all the things in the world, you know, beautifully clear and rounded off. I read a lot of books to father after that and got muddled again. But I never lost the feel of Professor Kraill's book.
Professor Kraill's "Questing Cells" was there and she copied the prophecy into it, on the fly-leaf. "Talk about a battle-ground!" she said, smiling reflectively. "Professor Kraill and a gipsy!" She turned several pages, and once more got the feel of the book, though still much of it was Greek to her. Then she got down from the window seat, for her aunt was calling her to tea, and she was hungry.
The times I've written it, thick down strokes, thin upstrokes! Well, that's like any of these ologies biology especially. It's a good teacher. You don't have to let it be a taskmaster." "I'd like to learn ologies, doctor. I'd like to learn to the roots of things. All the things I know legends, history, poetry, haven't any roots at all. Professor Kraill's a biologist, isn't he?"
Taking young Andrew she went down by the lake and leaving him to splash joyously in the ripples at the edge, she read the last lectures. She read for an hour, gorging the book as a child gobbling sweets before his nurse's return. She was devouring understanding it seemed to her that the lectures were being written expressly for her. It seemed, with one half of Kraill's wisdom she could save Louis.
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