“I believe,” he said, “it’s an error to judge an action good or evil without knowing the purpose behind it. Rather the intentions of the actors are what should be scrutinized and weighed.”
“So if a letter of yours was misplaced—completely without malice—by someone at Bonaventure, you would not begrudge the guilty party?”
“How could I?”
“But we have not discussed the content of the letter,” said Minerva. “What if the letter contained information regarding an imminent invasion, addressed to the authorities? Or some other news that, if delayed, would cause harm.”
“Then I would say the carelessness of the one who misplaced the letter is to blame.”
“Even though he had no intent to do evil? And yet evil resulted nonetheless.” She waved her hand. “It wasn’t so long ago that such a thing was imaginable, the entire coastline of the state burned and ravaged by soldiers in crimson.”
The routes for Lyman and Minerva’s walks being rarely twice repeated, they had, while they talked, entered a new part of the forest. The path dipped between blocks of trap rock, the leaves barely carpeting the cobbles winding between them. The trees, many of them by this time stripped of their robes and shawls, perched atop the walls like naked crones.
Lyman replied with slowness as if considering each word. “The fault of the invasion lies with the invaders.”
“That’s beside the point. We’re confining our interest to the mishandler. We suppose that if the letter had reached the authorities, the invasion would have been prevented. He had no intent to do evil and yet evil occurred nonetheless.”
“Carelessness could be considered an evil.”
“But that’s not possible. No one intends to be careless with the post.”
It was not for nothing that Lyman preferred tight lips; these roads led only to rhetorical snares and logical bear traps. “Then he committed no evil,” Lyman said firmly. “Whatever occurred afterward is the fault of others. They’re the ones with evil intent, not him.”
Minerva was silent a moment. “I find that poor reasoning, Mr. Lyman.”
“And how would you reason it, Miss Grosvenor?” He tried to keep the cold out of his voice, to pretend it didn’t bother him. “I assume you value the result instead.”
“No,” she said. “I believe evil has nothing to do with either intent or result. Evil is merely the absence of good. The mishandling of your letter, for example, cannot be considered good, therefore it is evil.”
Lyman considered. “What then is the source of good? In your worldview.”
“Simply the desire to do good consciously in regard to every action, no matter how small. To do anything else is,” she searched for the correct word, “careless.”
The pair slowed to a stop; their path, if not their walk, had concluded. The thin canopy overhead opened onto slate clouds, mirroring a barren rock field below. Slabs zigzagged from the forest floor as if punched from the earth by a subterranean fist, its sterile loneliness further pocked by boulders and the odd tuft of grass. On all sides the field lay surrounded by black branches and red leaves, like Beefeaters standing at attention around some significant ruin, an almost perfect circle of erratic crag and stone sequestered among the trees. The isolation of it underscored the lifelessness of their strolls, the complete lack of squirrel or doe or fox, and Minerva imagined the far side of the moon could not be half as forsaken as this spot.
They mutually decided to turn back rather than risk a twisted ankle, so the day at least ended on an agreeable note.
•••
During Lyman’s absence from the farm’s activities the sweet corn had been collected; but now remained the work of husking it. The corn meal returned from the miller would serve as the basis for much of the farm’s comestibles over the winter months, while the proceeds from the corn sold at market would be folded into Bonaventure to purchase the things they could not themselves produce—which were many.
After breakfast on the chosen day, every resident gathered in the yard beside the Consulate, took his or her seat, and went to work on the mountains of green corn dumped on the ground. If a mound shrank too greatly, then some of the men would visit the corn crib, returning with full barrows to replenish the stock. The husked corn was tossed into a wagon bed for eventual return to the crib, and quickly a side sport developed of fancy tosses and over-the-shoulder hooks, rewarded with cheers or catcalls depending on the athlete’s aplomb.
It was a long and tedious chore. Fortunately, to make the time pass faster Grosvenor had engaged the services of a schoolteacher from New London to present a lecture while the Bonaventurists worked. This wasn’t unique; Lyman was told that visits by lecturers and scholars was a common occurrence in the bleak weeks of January snow and February ice, and likewise Grosvenor or some of the others were occasionally invited to share their views at lyceums and parlors in the neighboring burghs. The theme of the teacher’s talk—whose name was either Hoyt or Howson or maybe Hewlitt, no one could say exactly afterwards which—made it obvious why he had been chosen, dovetailing as it did with Grosvenor’s personal sensibilities.
He spoke on the inherent conservatism of society. “How often it is, friends,” he said, “that we keep old customs close to our bosoms for no other reason than they have long lodged there. Like letters from some youthful lover who has since married and moved elsewhere, we maintain these customs yellowed and careworn in our breast pockets, representative of something that was meaningful to us once and yet has no modern purpose today.”
“Much like our useless attachment to clothes,” said Mr. Presley.
“Yes! I mean—what? No. It’s not the same at all,” said Hoyson, “but regardless these customs and conventions lie all around us,
