Kabanata Kabanata 29 · 第29章

. Soon after his father and mother had left him Ernest dropped asleep

over a book which Mrs Jay had given him, and he did not awake till

dusk. Then he sat down on a stool in front of the fire, which showed

pleasantly in the late January twilight, and began to muse. He felt

weak, feeble, ill at ease and unable to see his way out of the

innumerable troubles that were before him. Perhaps, he said to himself,

he might even die, but this, far from being an end of his troubles,

would prove the beginning of new ones; for at the best he would only go

to Grandpapa Pontifex and Grandmamma Allaby, and though they would

perhaps be more easy to get on with than Papa and Mamma, yet they were

undoubtedly not so really good, and were more worldly; moreover they

were grown-up people—especially Grandpapa Pontifex, who so far as he

could understand had been very much grown-up, and he did not know why,

but there was always something that kept him from loving any grown-up

people very much—except one or two of the servants, who had indeed been

as nice as anything that he could imagine. Besides even if he were to

die and go to Heaven he supposed he should have to complete his

education somewhere.

In the meantime his father and mother were rolling along the muddy

roads, each in his or her own corner of the carriage, and each

revolving many things which were and were not to come to pass. Times

have changed since I last showed them to the reader as sitting together

silently in a carriage, but except as regards their mutual relations,

they have altered singularly little. When I was younger I used to think

the Prayer Book was wrong in requiring us to say the General Confession

twice a week from childhood to old age, without making provision for

our not being quite such great sinners at seventy as we had been at

seven; granted that we should go to the wash like table-cloths at least

once a week, still I used to think a day ought to come when we should

want rather less rubbing and scrubbing at. Now that I have grown older

myself I have seen that the Church has estimated probabilities better

than I had done.

The pair said not a word to one another, but watched the fading light

and naked trees, the brown fields with here and there a melancholy

cottage by the road side, and the rain that fell fast upon the carriage

windows. It was a kind of afternoon on which nice people for the most

part like to be snug at home, and Theobald was a little snappish at

reflecting how many miles he had to post before he could be at his own

fireside again. However there was nothing for it, so the pair sat

quietly and watched the roadside objects flit by them, and get greyer

and grimmer as the light faded.

Though they spoke not to one another, there was one nearer to each of

them with whom they could converse freely. “I hope,” said Theobald to

himself, “I hope he’ll work—or else that Skinner will make him. I don’t

like Skinner, I never did like him, but he is unquestionably a man of

genius, and no one turns out so many pupils who succeed at Oxford and

Cambridge, and that is the best test. I have done my share towards

starting him well. Skinner said he had been well grounded and was very

forward. I suppose he will presume upon it now and do nothing, for his

nature is an idle one. He is not fond of me, I’m sure he is not. He

ought to be after all the trouble I have taken with him, but he is

ungrateful and selfish. It is an unnatural thing for a boy not to be

fond of his own father. If he was fond of me I should be fond of him,

but I cannot like a son who, I am sure, dislikes me. He shrinks out of

my way whenever he sees me coming near him. He will not stay five

minutes in the same room with me if he can help it. He is deceitful. He

would not want to hide himself away so much if he were not deceitful.

That is a bad sign and one which makes me fear he will grow up

extravagant. I am sure he will grow up extravagant. I should have given

him more pocket-money if I had not known this—but what is the good of

giving him pocket-money? It is all gone directly. If he doesn’t buy

something with it he gives it away to the first little boy or girl he

sees who takes his fancy. He forgets that it’s my money he is giving

away. I give him money that he may have money and learn to know its

uses, not that he may go and squander it immediately. I wish he was not

so fond of music, it will interfere with his Latin and Greek. I will

stop it as much as I can. Why, when he was translating Livy the other

day he slipped out Handel’s name in mistake for Hannibal’s, and his

mother tells me he knows half the tunes in the ‘Messiah’ by heart. What

should a boy of his age know about the ‘Messiah’? If I had shown half

as many dangerous tendencies when I was a boy, my father would have

apprenticed me to a greengrocer, of that I’m very sure,” etc., etc.

Then his thoughts turned to Egypt and the tenth plague. It seemed to

him that if the little Egyptians had been anything like Ernest, the

plague must have been something very like a blessing in disguise. If

the Israelites were to come to England now he should be greatly tempted

not to let them go.

Mrs Theobald’s thoughts ran in a different current. “Lord Lonsford’s

grandson—it’s a pity his name is Figgins; however, blood is blood as

much through the female line as the male, indeed, perhaps even more so

if the truth were known. I wonder who Mr Figgins was. I think Mrs

Skinner said he was dead, however, I must find out all about him. It

would be delightful if young Figgins were to ask Ernest home for the

holidays. Who knows but he might meet Lord Lonsford himself, or at any

rate some of Lord Lonsford’s other descendants?”

Meanwhile the boy himself was still sitting moodily before the fire in

Mrs Jay’s room. “Papa and Mamma,” he was saying to himself, “are much

better and cleverer than anyone else, but, I, alas! shall never be

either good or clever.”

Mrs Pontifex continued—

“Perhaps it would be best to get young Figgins on a visit to ourselves

first. That would be charming. Theobald would not like it, for he does

not like children; I must see how I can manage it, for it would be so

nice to have young Figgins—or stay! Ernest shall go and stay with

Figgins and meet the future Lord Lonsford, who I should think must be

about Ernest’s age, and then if he and Ernest were to become friends

Ernest might ask him to Battersby, and he might fall in love with

Charlotte. I think we have done _most wisely_ in sending Ernest to Dr

Skinner’s. Dr Skinner’s piety is no less remarkable than his genius.

One can tell these things at a glance, and he must have felt it about

me no less strongly than I about him. I think he seemed much struck

with Theobald and myself—indeed, Theobald’s intellectual power must

impress any one, and I was showing, I do believe, to my best advantage.

When I smiled at him and said I left my boy in his hands with the most

entire confidence that he would be as well cared for as if he were at

my own house, I am sure he was greatly pleased. I should not think many

of the mothers who bring him boys can impress him so favourably, or say

such nice things to him as I did. My smile is sweet when I desire to

make it so. I never was perhaps exactly pretty, but I was always

admitted to be fascinating. Dr Skinner is a very handsome man—too good

on the whole I should say for Mrs Skinner. Theobald says he is not

handsome, but men are no judges, and he has such a pleasant bright

face. I think my bonnet became me. As soon as I get home I will tell

Chambers to trim my blue and yellow merino with—” etc., etc.

All this time the letter which has been given above was lying in

Christina’s private little Japanese cabinet, read and re-read and

approved of many times over, not to say, if the truth were known,

rewritten more than once, though dated as in the first instance—and

this, too, though Christina was fond enough of a joke in a small way.

Ernest, still in Mrs Jay’s room mused onward. “Grown-up people,” he

said to himself, “when they were ladies and gentlemen, never did

naughty things, but he was always doing them. He had heard that some

grown-up people were worldly, which of course was wrong, still this was

quite distinct from being naughty, and did not get them punished or

scolded. His own Papa and Mamma were not even worldly; they had often

explained to him that they were exceptionally unworldly; he well knew

that they had never done anything naughty since they had been children,

and that even as children they had been nearly faultless. Oh! how

different from himself! When should he learn to love his Papa and Mamma

as they had loved theirs? How could he hope ever to grow up to be as

good and wise as they, or even tolerably good and wise? Alas! never. It

could not be. He did not love his Papa and Mamma, in spite of all their

goodness both in themselves and to him. He hated Papa, and did not like

Mamma, and this was what none but a bad and ungrateful boy would do

after all that had been done for him. Besides he did not like Sunday;

he did not like anything that was really good; his tastes were low and

such as he was ashamed of. He liked people best if they sometimes swore

a little, so long as it was not at him. As for his Catechism and Bible

readings he had no heart in them. He had never attended to a sermon in

his life. Even when he had been taken to hear Mr Vaughan at Brighton,

who, as everyone knew, preached such beautiful sermons for children, he

had been very glad when it was all over, nor did he believe he could

get through church at all if it was not for the voluntary upon the

organ and the hymns and chanting. The Catechism was awful. He had never

been able to understand what it was that he desired of his Lord God and

Heavenly Father, nor had he yet got hold of a single idea in connection

with the word Sacrament. His duty towards his neighbour was another

bugbear. It seemed to him that he had duties towards everybody, lying

in wait for him upon every side, but that nobody had any duties towards

him. Then there was that awful and mysterious word ‘business.’ What did

it all mean? What was ‘business’? His Papa was a wonderfully good man

of business, his Mamma had often told him so—but he should never be

one. It was hopeless, and very awful, for people were continually

telling him that he would have to earn his own living. No doubt, but

how—considering how stupid, idle, ignorant, self-indulgent, and

physically puny he was? All grown-up people were clever, except

servants—and even these were cleverer than ever he should be. Oh, why,

why, why, could not people be born into the world as grown-up persons?

Then he thought of Casabianca. He had been examined in that poem by his

father not long before. ‘When only would he leave his position? To whom

did he call? Did he get an answer? Why? How many times did he call upon

his father? What happened to him? What was the noblest life that

perished there? Do you think so? Why do you think so?’ And all the rest

of it. Of course he thought Casabianca’s was the noblest life that

perished there; there could be no two opinions about that; it never

occurred to him that the moral of the poem was that young people cannot

begin too soon to exercise discretion in the obedience they pay to

their Papa and Mamma. Oh, no! the only thought in his mind was that he

should never, never have been like Casabianca, and that Casabianca

would have despised him so much, if he could have known him, that he

would not have condescended to speak to him. There was nobody else in

the ship worth reckoning at all: it did not matter how much they were

blown up. Mrs Hemans knew them all and they were a very indifferent

lot. Besides Casabianca was so good-looking and came of such a good

family.”

And thus his small mind kept wandering on till he could follow it no

longer, and again went off into a doze.