Bab Bab 85 · 第85章

. Ernest being about two and thirty years old and having had his fling

for the last three or four years, now settled down in London, and began

to write steadily. Up to this time he had given abundant promise, but

had produced nothing, nor indeed did he come before the public for

another three or four years yet.

He lived as I have said very quietly, seeing hardly anyone but myself,

and the three or four old friends with whom I had been intimate for

years. Ernest and we formed our little set, and outside of this my

godson was hardly known at all.

His main expense was travelling, which he indulged in at frequent

intervals, but for short times only. Do what he would he could not get

through more than about fifteen hundred a year; the rest of his income

he gave away if he happened to find a case where he thought money would

be well bestowed, or put by until some opportunity arose of getting rid

of it with advantage.

I knew he was writing, but we had had so many little differences of

opinion upon this head that by a tacit understanding the subject was

seldom referred to between us, and I did not know that he was actually

publishing till one day he brought me a book and told me flat it was

his own. I opened it and found it to be a series of semi-theological,

semi-social essays, purporting to have been written by six or seven

different people, and viewing the same class of subjects from different

standpoints.

People had not yet forgotten the famous “Essays and Reviews,” and

Ernest had wickedly given a few touches to at least two of the essays

which suggested vaguely that they had been written by a bishop. The

essays were all of them in support of the Church of England, and

appeared both by internal suggestion, and their prima facie purport to

be the work of some half-dozen men of experience and high position who

had determined to face the difficult questions of the day no less

boldly from within the bosom of the Church than the Church’s enemies

had faced them from without her pale.

There was an essay on the external evidences of the Resurrection;

another on the marriage laws of the most eminent nations of the world

in times past and present; another was devoted to a consideration of

the many questions which must be reopened and reconsidered on their

merits if the teaching of the Church of England were to cease to carry

moral authority with it; another dealt with the more purely social

subject of middle class destitution; another with the authenticity or

rather the unauthenticity of the fourth gospel—another was headed

“Irrational Rationalism,” and there were two or three more.

They were all written vigorously and fearlessly as though by people

used to authority; all granted that the Church professed to enjoin

belief in much which no one could accept who had been accustomed to

weigh evidence; but it was contended that so much valuable truth had

got so closely mixed up with these mistakes, that the mistakes had

better not be meddled with. To lay great stress on these was like

cavilling at the Queen’s right to reign, on the ground that William the

Conqueror was illegitimate.

One article maintained that though it would be inconvenient to change

the words of our prayer book and articles, it would not be inconvenient

to change in a quiet way the meanings which we put upon those words.

This, it was argued, was what was actually done in the case of law;

this had been the law’s mode of growth and adaptation, and had in all

ages been found a righteous and convenient method of effecting change.

It was suggested that the Church should adopt it.

In another essay it was boldly denied that the Church rested upon

reason. It was proved incontestably that its ultimate foundation was

and ought to be faith, there being indeed no other ultimate foundation

than this for any of man’s beliefs. If so, the writer claimed that the

Church could not be upset by reason. It was founded, like everything

else, on initial assumptions, that is to say on faith, and if it was to

be upset it was to be upset by faith, by the faith of those who in

their lives appeared more graceful, more lovable, better bred, in fact,

and better able to overcome difficulties. Any sect which showed its

superiority in these respects might carry all before it, but none other

would make much headway for long together. Christianity was true in so

far as it had fostered beauty, and it had fostered much beauty. It was

false in so far as it fostered ugliness, and it had fostered much

ugliness. It was therefore not a little true and not a little false; on

the whole one might go farther and fare worse; the wisest course would

be to live with it, and make the best and not the worst of it. The

writer urged that we become persecutors as a matter of course as soon

as we begin to feel very strongly upon any subject; we ought not

therefore to do this; we ought not to feel very strongly—even upon that

institution which was dearer to the writer than any other—the Church of

England. We should be churchmen, but somewhat lukewarm churchmen,

inasmuch as those who care very much about either religion or

irreligion are seldom observed to be very well bred or agreeable

people. The Church herself should approach as nearly to that of

Laodicea as was compatible with her continuing to be a Church at all,

and each individual member should only be hot in striving to be as

lukewarm as possible.

The book rang with the courage alike of conviction and of an entire

absence of conviction; it appeared to be the work of men who had a

rule-of-thumb way of steering between iconoclasm on the one hand and

credulity on the other; who cut Gordian knots as a matter of course

when it suited their convenience; who shrank from no conclusion in

theory, nor from any want of logic in practice so long as they were

illogical of malice prepense, and for what they held to be sufficient

reason. The conclusions were conservative, quietistic, comforting. The

arguments by which they were reached were taken from the most advanced

writers of the day. All that these people contended for was granted

them, but the fruits of victory were for the most part handed over to

those already in possession.

Perhaps the passage which attracted most attention in the book was one

from the essay on the various marriage systems of the world. It ran:—

“If people require us to construct,” exclaimed the writer, “we set good

breeding as the corner-stone of our edifice. We would have it ever

present consciously or unconsciously in the minds of all as the central

faith in which they should live and move and have their being, as the

touchstone of all things whereby they may be known as good or evil

according as they make for good breeding or against it.”

“That a man should have been bred well and breed others well; that his

figure, head, hands, feet, voice, manner and clothes should carry

conviction upon this point, so that no one can look at him without

seeing that he has come of good stock and is likely to throw good stock

himself, this is the _desiderandum_. And the same with a woman. The

greatest number of these well-bred men and women, and the greatest

happiness of these well-bred men and women, this is the highest good;

towards this all government, all social conventions, all art,

literature and science should directly or indirectly tend. Holy men and

holy women are those who keep this unconsciously in view at all times

whether of work or pastime.”

If Ernest had published this work in his own name I should think it

would have fallen stillborn from the press, but the form he had chosen

was calculated at that time to arouse curiosity, and as I have said he

had wickedly dropped a few hints which the reviewers did not think

anyone would have been impudent enough to do if he were not a bishop,

or at any rate some one in authority. A well-known judge was spoken of

as being another of the writers, and the idea spread ere long that six

or seven of the leading bishops and judges had laid their heads

together to produce a volume, which should at once outbid “Essays and

Reviews” and counteract the influence of that then still famous work.

Reviewers are men of like passions with ourselves, and with them as

with everyone else _omne ignotum pro magnifico_. The book was really an

able one and abounded with humour, just satire, and good sense. It

struck a new note and the speculation which for some time was rife

concerning its authorship made many turn to it who would never have

looked at it otherwise. One of the most gushing weeklies had a fit over

it, and declared it to be the finest thing that had been done since the

“Provincial Letters” of Pascal. Once a month or so that weekly always

found some picture which was the finest that had been done since the

old masters, or some satire that was the finest that had appeared since

Swift or some something which was incomparably the finest that had

appeared since something else. If Ernest had put his name to the book,

and the writer had known that it was by a nobody, he would doubtless

have written in a very different strain. Reviewers like to think that

for aught they know they are patting a Duke or even a Prince of the

blood upon the back, and lay it on thick till they find they have been

only praising Brown, Jones or Robinson. Then they are disappointed, and

as a general rule will pay Brown, Jones or Robinson out.

Ernest was not so much up to the ropes of the literary world as I was,

and I am afraid his head was a little turned when he woke up one

morning to find himself famous. He was Christina’s son, and perhaps

would not have been able to do what he had done if he was not capable

of occasional undue elation. Ere long, however, he found out all about

it, and settled quietly down to write a series of books, in which he

insisted on saying things which no one else would say even if they

could, or could even if they would.

He has got himself a bad literary character. I said to him laughingly

one day that he was like the man in the last century of whom it was

said that nothing but such a character could keep down such parts.

He laughed and said he would rather be like that than like a modern

writer or two whom he could name, whose parts were so poor that they

could be kept up by nothing but by such a character.

I remember soon after one of these books was published I happened to

meet Mrs Jupp to whom, by the way, Ernest made a small weekly

allowance. It was at Ernest’s chambers, and for some reason we were

left alone for a few minutes. I said to her: “Mr Pontifex has written

another book, Mrs Jupp.”

“Lor’ now,” said she, “has he really? Dear gentleman! Is it about

love?” And the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep’s eye glance at me

from under her aged eyelids. I forget what there was in my reply which

provoked it—probably nothing—but she went rattling on at full speed to

the effect that Bell had given her a ticket for the opera, “So, of

course,” she said, “I went. I didn’t understand one word of it, for it

was all French, but I saw their legs. Oh dear, oh dear! I’m afraid I

shan’t be here much longer, and when dear Mr Pontifex sees me in my

coffin he’ll say, ‘Poor old Jupp, she’ll never talk broad any more’;

but bless you I’m not so old as all that, and I’m taking lessons in

dancing.”

At this moment Ernest came in and the conversation was changed. Mrs

Jupp asked if he was still going on writing more books now that this

one was done. “Of course I am,” he answered, “I’m always writing books;

here is the manuscript of my next;” and he showed her a heap of paper.

“Well now,” she exclaimed, “dear, dear me, and is that manuscript? I’ve

often heard talk about manuscripts, but I never thought I should live

to see some myself. Well! well! So that is really manuscript?”

There were a few geraniums in the window and they did not look well.

Ernest asked Mrs Jupp if she understood flowers. “I understand the

language of flowers,” she said, with one of her most bewitching leers,

and on this we sent her off till she should choose to honour us with

another visit, which she knows she is privileged from time to time to

do, for Ernest likes her.