by George Moore
He would have liked to stop at the next station and begin drawing in the waiting-room, and might have done so if his father had not been at Stanislaus waiting for him. He might shake Hugh out of his lethargy instead, for he need hear the story but once to have enough of it in his mind to make a start. But Hugh could not be shaken out of his lethargy, coma, stupor, whatever it was; he lay back inert and all Percy could get out of him was: I can’t go over that story to-day, half of it is forgotten, Percy; my brain will not work. Whereupon Percy watched Hugh’s great, broad face, his long, loose mouth and his vague, shifting eyes, saying: I shall get nothing out of him to-day. It is strange, he added, to lie without seeing or hearing, and yet awake.
Percy’s restless mind, plain upon his thin, pale face, was able to penetrate Hugh’s almost animal indolence, now and again stirred by remembrances of Stanislaus College; the great, red-brick tower in which a bell tolled, bringing them to lessons and to play, the long, narrow passages down which he was sent to the prefect’s room to be flogged, and at whose door he had to wait sometimes for an hour, trying to keep his hands warm, hoping thereby to save himself some of the pain which he would suffer from the blow of the great leathern thong. Of the narrowness of the life there, of the thin, meagre outlook, he was aware, and how pernicious its effect had been upon him, and the old grudge against his mother and Stanislaus College revived in the midst of his stupor. He recalled how he had been taught about hell, its ovens, its gridirons. He recalled these things vaguely; what he remembered best was a small book, not much bigger than a man’s hand, a thin book printed on coarse paper and illustrated with long-tailed devils. The very morning that the book was given to him to read appeared in his thought: a wet, grey day it was and the hour midday. But it was not the religious instruction that he had received at Stanislaus College, nor this horrible little book that had formed his mind, giving it a bias, but a story told him by his mother when he was a baby. She was giving him the usual religious instruction, hell, of course, figuring largely in it, and he had asked her if being burnt for ever hurt as much as being burnt for a short time. He knew nothing about burning at the time, and his mother had laughed; and encouraged by her laughter he said: Is there no other punishment but burning in hell? Oh yes, she had answered, and told him a little story — that one of the punishments of hell was the hopelessness of ever getting out of hell, and so that this torment of hope might be stimulated, the damned were allowed to try to get out of hell, to steal the keys. He had asked his mother where the keys were, and she told him of a ruined castle some miles from the main road, reached by a narrow lane, and that it was in this castle that the jailer of the damned dwelt. There was a little stream across the road over which the jailer was not allowed to pass, and the damned soul knew that if he could hit off the time when the jailer was having his dinner, he could take the keys from the nail on which they hung. The soul crawled along the little walls so that none should see him; once he had crossed the bridge he was in the power of the demon that lived in the ruined tower, and when he got under the walls of the castle his plan was to cry out: Long Hand the Guff, are you there? If he cried three times he might be sure that Long Hand the Guff was away upon some other business. But Long Hand the Guff kept a good watch and before the soul had cried out for the third time: Long Hand the Guff, are you there? the demon was out of the ruined castle, and the soul fled, knowing that if he could only reach the stream he would be safe. But every moment Long Hand the Guff would gain upon him, till at last he would feel the great arm stretching out to seize him, and just as he put his foot into the water the hand would clasp about his neck and drag him back. None had ever escaped Long Hand the Guff. If he had asked his mother what punishment Long Hand the Guff put the soul to in the ruined castle he could not remember, but the flight of the soul from the ruined castle to the brook and the coming stench of the demon upon the unfortunate soul had sunk into his mind. He knew the story was but an invention of priests to frighten people into obedience, but the knowledge that it was that and no more than that was no help, for it had become part of his consciousness, something that he would never be able to separate himself from and which he thought had permanently injured his life. He had thought of these things so often that his thoughts could ramble on in his dream or stupor without any effort of will, and with his eyes fixed upon Percy, so different from himself, so free, so daring, with all the qualities that he knew himself to lack, he began to wonder if Percy would have outlived this story if he had been told it in his youth; and he cherished the belief that if he had not heard the story of Long Hand the Guff and others, he would be able to stand side by side with Percy, his equal. The word warped came into his mind and went out of it as the stupor deepened, and he lay for a long time without thought till they came to a station and Percy roused him.
Stafford was being cried along the platform. An hour’s wait, said Percy, and from Birmingham, their destination, a hansom took them through a rolling, barren country, almost treeless till they came to the trees about Stanislaus, meagre woods through which the half-starved pupils were wont to run to a small shop called Atkins to buy cocoa, thereby risking six strokes of the ferule. Hugh recalled the shop, and his measles in the rooms over the archway, when the gatekeeper opened the great door studded with iron nails; he had spent three weeks of the term in those rooms, attended on by the gatekeeper’s wife. It began to seem as if he could not go on, so hateful were his memories of Stanislaus, and if Percy had not distracted his thoughts from his schooldays with the remark: It is very good of you to undertake the explanation, but what are you going to tell the Governor? (remembering, I am returning to Stanislaus a week behind my time), Hugh might have called through the roof to the driver to turn back. A moment after Percy was in the middle of a description of a storm in the Sound, saying that nothing was more likely than bad weather, especially on the coast of Wales. I’ll jump out and wait for you here, he added, near the gateway. You’re not going to stay the night? No, no; I’ll see Dr. Knight, fix things up if I can, and be back as soon as possible. Percy called after him that he was not to hurry, and the cab passed on through skimpy plantations up the terrace, to stop before another great door studded with iron nails under the belfry tower whose bell had clanged so often in Hugh’s ears that it would never cease to clang in his memory.
Dr. Knight — is he at home? he asked. He recognised the well-known quadrangle through the leaded panes, the florid, tessellated pavement under his feet, and the stained wooden staircase with a copy of one of Murillo’s Virgins and a crescent moon decorating the wall, and again he felt that Percy was right when he said that he could not understand people wishing to return to the scenes of their youth. How wonderful, he said to himself, that he should know all this; and whilst he pondered Percy’s almost magical appreciations, Dr. Knight entered the room, very angry. Hugh had never seen Dr. Knight angry before, nor did he believe that the tall, lean, kindly ecclesiastic could be angry with anybody, least of all with him. Dr. Knight’s words were on a par with his appearance, and Hugh was glad to drop his hand, so antagonistic did it seem. Sir, I am sorry, and will tell you how it happened. You will then know how to apportion the blame. We ventured on Ramsey Island — But you know, Hugh, my son is studying for the priesthood, and for him not to return at the end of the vacation sets a bad example. But, sir, I haven’t told you that we were dissuaded from returning by the boatmen; the Sound is often very dangerous. You’ll be surprised when you see Percy’s drawings, and I am sure will hardly be able to regret that the boatmen dissuaded us. The face that was overcast brightened, and the prelate said: So Percy has not been wasting his time; he has been drawing? Oh, sir, when you see the drawings he has done of the ruined Palace —
Ruined Palace! the prelate repeated, and Hugh broke into the story of the destruction of St. Mary’s College during the Reformation, passing on to the Bishop’s Palace that was unroofed so that the five daughters of Bishop Barlow might marry five Bishops. Five daughters marry five Bishops! Dr. K
night said, his kindly temper having returned to him, and Hugh told him of the many laughs he and Percy had had about the five sons-in-law. So Percy has done some beautiful drawings? I shall be glad to see them. And you will not be too hard upon him? Hugh pleaded, for truly, Dr. Knight, the fault is mine. I didn’t like the look of the Sound, and — Well, well, send Percy to me.
If you could give me a few minutes more of your time, sir, I should be glad, for I have something important to say, important to myself. You remember my telling you when you were at Wotton Hall my mother’s dread lest I might be drawn to the priesthood? Dr. Knight answered that he had not forgotten, and Hugh continued: You asked me if I had ever spoken to my mother on the subject, and I think I said that I had not, that I just wished to be allowed to live my life naturally, without being poked on to do something I didn’t want to do, at least not just then. Yes, Hugh, I remember. Well, sir, I have now come to tell you that I think I have discovered a vocation for the priesthood in myself. I am not sure — My dear Hugh, you have not seen your mother since I left you at Wotton Hall (you and Percy left her the next day, I believe), and any inclination you may have developed since then for the priesthood can be no more than an inclination that may pass from you as quickly as it came. Was it association with Percy that put the thought into your mind? No, sir, I don’t think it was. Percy’s example may have been a motive, but I have always wished to do something for my Church. You can be of greater advantage to the Church as a layman than as a priest. It’ may be as you say, sir. Of course it all depends, Hugh, upon the call, if it be a true call and not a fancy. In six months’ time or a year, if you wish to take Orders I shall be glad to help you in any way in my power. Are you stopping with us for the night? No, sir, I must return to London. Send Percy to me. I’ll send him, sir; he is waiting to say good-bye to me in the plantations, and I’ll not delay. I will tell him to come to you at once.
IX
The cab stopped, and Percy, who was having tea with the gatekeeper and his wife, came from the lodge and asked Hugh if he had made it all right with his father. We will talk of that presently, Hugh answered, and when the cab had passed out into the high road, he said: Your father was very angry at first, and I thought all the fat was in the fire, as we used to say at school; but I cracked up your drawings and very soon his face recovered its benignity. I suppose my father is benign now he’s a priest and will be more so when he’s a bishop. So he wants to see my drawings? Well, I’ll go and show them to him. And you won’t forget the story of Ferabras? As soon as I get the translation I’ll begin to plan my pictures. He sprang from the footboard, crying from the hedge-bottom: But there was another story about a great count who warred against the King of France. You haven’t forgotten? Hugh tried to collect his thoughts, but the cabman whipped up his horse, and all the way to Birmingham Hugh searched his memory for the story of a count who was defeated after long years of struggle, but his mind refused to work, which was not strange: he had been on the road since three in the morning, and so heavy were his eyelids that he must have fallen asleep soon after he settled himself in the railway carriage, for of the journey he remembered only that he was roused by a ticket collector. After having had his ticket punched, he dropped asleep again as soon as the door was shut, and slept on till the train reached London, and learning at Liverpool Street that there was no late train out he was minded to telegraph for his carriage. Of what use to keep horses eating their heads off in the stables? Excellent logic, but he spent the night at an hotel.
Next day he journeyed to Essex and the emblazoned carriage that met him at the station reminded him of the delightful days when he and Percy walked from inn to inn, knapsacks on their backs, free from all care, back in a younger world that Time had left long behind. Are these happy days gone by, never to return? he asked himself. Can anything return? Nothing returns as it was. Life’s pleasures only exist once; its tedium is always with us: the silk-lined carriage, the liveried servants, the shining horses, and in a few minutes passages will appear hung with Venetian pictures, furnished with gilt console tables, and many various saloons opening one into the other, long reaches of pale roses and the purple architecture of Aubusson, my monumental butler, and my watchful valet. As he drove from the station he foresaw all Wotton Hall save the young girl whom he caught sight of sitting with his mother. This is Beatrice, she said, Percy’s sister, and Hugh recognised Percy in Beatrice without being able to say in what feature — a certain cast of countenance, mayhap. Percy’s cheeks were thin; Beatrice’s face was almost full, and it cannot be denied that the words: a full oval, would rise up in the mind of whosoever sought to describe her. If the eyes are not like, there is no likeness worth speaking of, and Beatrice’s eyes were not obviously like Percy’s; Percy’s were more plaintive, the whites were larger, yet it was in Beatrice’s smaller eyes that Hugh read Percy. Percy was pale, white; Beatrice showed a brown face. She was, if anything, taller than her brother, and though Percy’s talk pierced through hers, her talk was less bracing; and seeking for a simile, Hugh said to himself: The atmosphere of the valleys compared with that of the hill. He was not carried away at first sight, and missed a great many of the wonders he had been told he would find in her. It’s always a misfortune, he admitted to himself, to hear much about anybody before seeing them, for one is prejudiced more by praise than blame, and there’s nothing for one to discover for oneself; we are merely critical of our authorities.
It was whilst thinking these thoughts that Hugh felt his mother’s eyes upon him, and so it came to him to say to himself: She shall not accuse me of prejudice; and to convince her that he was of a free mind he proposed that Beatrice should help him with the translation of Ferabras. Ferabras? said Mrs. Monfert. A book of knight-errantry, Hugh answered, that I promised Percy to translate for him; he thinks it will suit his style. And he began to tell his mother of the drawings that Percy had done among the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace. After listening for some time Mrs. Monfert mentioned that Beatrice knew Provençal. A mere smattering, Mrs. Monfert, only enough to read Mireille, the last great poem come out of Southern France. Beatrice added that it was written, of course, in modern Provençal, but Mistral had translated his poem into the Provençal of some distant century — maybe the thirteenth; of that she was not sure. In the book she had read there was a second translation into modern French, and she had been curious to compare them. A piece of great good fortune this seemed to Hugh, who was eager to hear how much Provençal Beatrice knew, and if she wished to enlarge her knowledge. As these questions could not be discussed in front of Mrs. Monfert, be invited her to the Barn. In the Barn, he said, they would have the books before them, Beatrice acquiesced, and apologising to his mother for taking Beatrice away from her (an apology altogether unneeded, Mrs. Monfert being delighted that he should do so), they went up the great and the little staircase together. So this is where you live, said Beatrice, viewing almost with alarm the beams, whitewash, and the suits of ghostly steel worn by men long whiles agone. I think I should feel frightened sitting here late lest the knights might come back and claim their helmets and swords and greaves and breast-plates and — but now I am at the end of my knowledge of armour. Hugh mentioned many more names to her, and he explained how the visor was worn and the use of the little hammer that the knight carried by his side, saying that when a knight was overthrown the weight of his armour prevented him from rising; his adversary would then approach him and kneel down to punch solemnly a hole in the armour with his spiked hammer, and when the hole was large enough, the sword did the rest. Oh, how frightful to kill a man when he was down!
There was much more to be said about armour, but Hugh guessed that Beatrice had no interest in the subject, and at that moment he had very little himself, being eager to talk about Percy. It is a piece of good luck, he said, that you should know Provençal. Know Provençal! But, Mr. Monfert, I never said I did. After reading Mireille in French I read it in Provençal, because one of the teachers came from Arles; the book
s of knight-errantry are not written in modern Provençal but in the Provençal of the thirteenth century, which is no doubt quite different. I am sure I shall not be able to translate a sentence. Well, we shall soon know, said Hugh returning from his bookcase, for here is the celebrated story of Ferabras, written in the thirteenth or the fourteenth century, I have forgotten which. And laying the book open before Beatrice he waited, saying that it would not be reasonable if the Provençal she had read in Mireille varied from the ancient language more than Chaucer did from modern English, or Dante from modern Italian; and whilst she scanned the pages, hoping to find a sentence she could translate, he watched her face, thinking how surprised Percy would be if he could see them sitting together and how pleased he would be that they should waste no time but go to work at once, which they would do as soon as they acquired sufficient knowledge of the language it was written in. I understand a little, she said, but will understand much more at the end of the week, enough to check your translation. But do you think that a book so dependent for its interest on the ideas of mediaeval France would find readers to-day? Percy raised the same objection, Hugh answered; he would like the story of Gerard de Rousillon, I think, better for that very reason. It’s a more human story, but I think Ferabras would lend itself more to his drawings, and the text is, after all, only a peg on which to hang his drawings. But do you think, Beatrice asked, that Percy is at present old enough — Has enough command of his talent? Hugh interjected. Indeed I do.
