‘Exactly so,’ said I.
‘To prevent this, Michael,’ said John Spatter, ‘or the remotest chance of this, there must be perfect openness between us. Nothing must be concealed, and we must have but one interest.’
‘My dear John Spatter,’ I assured him, ‘that is precisely what I mean.’
‘And when you are too easy,’ pursued John, his face glowing with friendship, ‘you must allow me to prevent that imperfection in your nature from being taken advantage of, by any one; you must not expect me to humour it –’
‘My dear John Spatter,’ I interrupted, ‘I don’t expect you to humour it. I want to correct it.’
‘And I, too!’ said John.
‘Exactly so!’ cried I. ‘We both have the same end in view; and, honourably seeking it, and fully trusting one another, and having but one interest, ours will be a prosperous and happy partnership.’
‘I am sure of it!’ returned John Spatter. And we shook hands most affectionately.
I took John home to my Castle, and we had a very happy day. Our partnership throve well. My friend and partner supplied what I wanted, as I had foreseen that he would; and by improving both the business and myself, amply acknowledged any little rise in life to which I had helped him.
I am not (said the poor relation, looking at the fire as he slowly rubbed his hands), not very rich, for I never cared to be that; but I have enough, and am above all moderate wants and anxieties. My Castle is not a splendid place, but it is very comfortable, and it has a warm and cheerful air, and is quite a picture of Home.
Our eldest girl, who is very like her mother, married John Spatter’s eldest son. Our two families are closely united in other ties of attachment. It is very pleasant of an evening, when we are all assembled together – which frequently happens – and when John and I talk over old times, and the one interest there has always been between us.
I really do not know, in my Castle, what loneliness is. Some of our children or grandchildren are always about it, and the young voices of my descendants are delightful – O, how delightful! – to me to hear. My dearest and most devoted wife, ever faithful, ever loving, ever helpful and sustaining and consoling, is the priceless blessing of my house; from whom all its other blessings spring. We are rather a musical family, and when Christiana sees me, at any time, a little weary or depressed, she steals to the piano and sings a gentle air she used to sing when we were first betrothed. So weak a man am I, that I cannot bear to hear it from any other source. They played it once, at the Theatre, when I was there with Little Frank; and the child said, wondering, ‘Cousin Michael, whose hot tears are these that have fallen on my hand!’
Such is my Castle, and such are the real particulars of my life therein preserved. I often take Little Frank home there. He is very welcome to my grandchildren, and they play together. At this time of the year – the Christmas and New Year time – I am seldom out of my Castle. For, the associations of the season seem to hold me there, and the precepts of the season seem to teach me that it is well to be there.
‘And the Castle is –’ observed a grave, kind voice among the company.
‘Yes. My Castle,’ said the poor relation, shaking his head as he still looked at the fire, ‘is in the Air. John our esteemed host suggests its situation accurately. My Castle is in the Air! I have done. Will you be so good as to pass the story.’
THE CHILD’S STORY
ONCE UPON A time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child ‘What do you do here?’ And the child said, ‘I am always at play. Come and play with me!’
So, he played with that child, the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing birds and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home – where was that, they wondered! – whistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimnies, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But, when it snowed, that was best of all; for, they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture books: all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and beanstalks and riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.
But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, ‘What do you do here?’ And the boy said, ‘I am always learning. Come and learn with me.’
So he learnt with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learnt more than I could tell – or he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoners’ base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced all night till midnight, and real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young man, ‘What do you do here?’ And the young man said, ‘I am always in love. Come and love with me.’
So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen – just like Fanny in the corner there – and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly – just as Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! He was teazed sometimes – just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they quarrelled sometimes – just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon – all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention, and Fanny!
But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, ‘What are you doing here?’ And his answer was, ‘I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!’
So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was t
hrough a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his Wife; and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.
Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying, ‘Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!’ And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.
Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, ‘Father, I am going to sea,’ and another said, ‘Father, I am going to India,’ and another, ‘Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can,’ and another, ‘Father, I am going to Heaven!’ So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy.
At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall.
So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady stopped.
‘My husband,’ said the lady, ‘I am called.’
They listened, and they heard a voice, a long way down the avenue, say, ‘Mother, mother!’
It was the voice of the first child who had said, ‘I am going to Heaven!’ and the father said, ‘I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet!’
But, the voice cried ‘Mother, mother!’ without minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.
Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said ‘My dearest, I am summoned and I go!’ And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood: so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees.
Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, ‘What do you do here?’ And the old man said with a calm smile, ‘I am always remembering. Come and remember with me!’
So, the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face to face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honoured and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear Grandfather, because this is what you do to us, and what we do to you.
FROM ANOTHER ROUND OF STORIES BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE
THE SCHOOLBOY’S STORY
BEING RATHER YOUNG at present – I am getting on in years, but still I am rather young – I have no particular adventures of my own to fall back upon. It wouldn’t much interest anybody here, I suppose, to know what a screw the Reverend is, or what a griffin she is, or how they do stick it into parents – particularly hair cutting, and medical attendance. One of our fellows was charged in his half’s account twelve and sixpence for two pills – tolerably profitable at six and threepence apiece, I should think – and he never took them either, but put them up the sleeve of his jacket.
As to the beef, it’s shameful. It’s not beef. Regular beef isn’t veins. You can chew regular beef. Besides which, there’s gravy to regular beef, and you never see a drop to ours. Another of our fellows went home ill, and heard the family doctor tell his father that he couldn’t account for his complaint unless it was the beer. Of course it was the beer, and well it might be!
However, beef and old Cheeseman are two different things. So is beer. It was Old Cheeseman I meant to tell about; not the manner in which our fellows get their constitutions destroyed for the sake of profit.
Why, look at the piecrust alone. There’s no flakiness in it. It’s solid – like damp lead. Then our fellows get nightmares, and are bolstered for calling out and waking other fellows. Who can wonder!
Old Cheeseman one night walked in his sleep, put his hat on over his nightcap, got hold of a fishing rod and a cricket bat, and went down into the parlour, where they naturally thought from his appearance he was a Ghost. Why, he never would have done that, if his meals had been wholesome. When we all begin to walk in our sleeps, I suppose they’ll be sorry for it.
Old Cheeseman wasn’t second Latin Master then; he was a fellow himself. He was first brought there, very small, in a post-chaise, by a woman who was always taking snuff and shaking him – and that was the most he remembered about it. He never went home for the holidays. His accounts (he never learnt any extras) were sent to a Bank, and the Bank paid them; and he had a brown suit twice a year, and went into boots at twelve. They were always too big for him, too.
In the Midsummer holidays, some of our fellows who lived within walking distance, used to come back and climb the trees outside the playground wall, on purpose to look at Old Cheeseman reading there by himself. He was always as mild as the tea – and that’s pretty mild, I should hope! – so when they whistled to him, he looked up and nodded; and when they said ‘Halloa Old Cheeseman, what have you had for dinner?’ he said ‘Boiled mutton;’ and when they said ‘An’t it solitary, Old Cheeseman?’ he said ‘It is a little dull, sometimes;’ and then they said ‘Well, good bye, Old Cheeseman!’ and climbed down again. Of course it was imposing on Old Cheeseman to give him nothing but boiled mutton through a whole Vacation, but that was just like the system. When they didn’t give him boiled mutton they gave him rice pudding, pretending it was a treat. And saved the butcher.
So Old Cheeseman went on. The holidays brought him into other trouble besides the loneliness; because when the fellows began to come back, not wanting to, he was always glad to see them: which was aggravating when they were not at all glad to see him, and so he got his head knocked against walls, and that was the way his nose bled. But he was a favourite in general. Once, a subscription was raised for him; and, to keep up his spirits, he was presented before the holidays with two white mice, a rabbit, a pigeon, and a beautiful puppy. Old Cheeseman cried about it – especially soon afterwards, when they all ate one another.
Of course Old Cheeseman used to be called by the names of all sorts of cheeses – Double Glo’sterman, Family Cheshireman, Dutchman, North Wiltshireman, and all that. But he never minded it. And I don’t mean to say he was old in point of years – because he wasn’t – only he was called, from the first, Old Cheeseman.
At last, Old Cheeseman was made second Latin Master. He was brought in one morning at the beginning of a new half, and presented to the school in that capacity as ‘Mr Cheeseman’. Then our fellows all agreed that Old Cheeseman was a spy, and a deserter, who had gone over to the enemy’s camp, and s
old himself for gold. It was no excuse for him that he had sold himself for very little gold – two pound ten a quarter, and his washing, as was reported. It was decided by a Parliament which sat about it, that Old Cheeseman’s mercenary motives could alone be taken into account, and that he had ‘coined our blood for drachmas’. The Parliament took the expression out of the quarrel scene between Brutus and Cassius.
When it was settled in this strong way that Old Cheeseman was a tremendous traitor, who had wormed himself into our fellows’ secrets on purpose to get himself into favour by giving up everything he knew, all courageous fellows were invited to come forward and enrol themselves in a Society for making a set against him. The President of the Society was First boy, named Bob Tarter. His father was in the West Indies, and he owned, himself, that his father was worth Millions. He had great power among our fellows, and he wrote a parody, beginning,
‘Who made believe to be so meek
That we could hardly hear him speak,
Yet turned out an Informing Sneak?
Old Cheeseman.’
– and on in that way through more than a dozen verses, which he used to go and sing, every morning, close by the new master’s desk. He trained one of the low boys too, a rosy-cheeked little Brass who didn’t care what he did, to go up to him with his Latin Grammar one morning, and say it so: – Nominativus pronominum – Old Cheeseman, raro exprimitur – was never suspected, nisi distinctionis – of being an informer, aut emphasis gratiá until he proved one. Ut – for instance, Vos damnastis – when he sold the boys. Quasi – as though, dicat – he should say, Pretoerea nemo – I’m a Judas! All this produced a great effect on Old Cheeseman. He had never had much hair; but what he had, began to get thinner and thinner every day. He grew paler and more worn; and sometimes of an evening he was seen sitting at his desk with a precious long snuff to his candle, and his hands before his face, crying. But no member of the Society could pity him, even if he felt inclined, because the President said it was Old Cheeseman’s conscience.
Dickens at Christmas (Vintage Classics) Page 56
