Herman possessed that extraordinary facility for vivid acting which is the great native gift of his race, and he enchained his listeners. They sat fascinated and spellbound.
“Herman, tell that again!” said Penrod, breathlessly.
Herman, nothing loath, accepted the encore and repeated the Miltonic episode, expanding it somewhat, and dwelling with a fine art upon those portions of the narrative which he perceived to be most exciting to his audience. Plainly, they thrilled less to Paradise gained than to its losing, and the dreadful climax of the descent into the Pit was the greatest treat of all.
The effect was immense and instant. Penrod sprang to his feet.
“Georgie Bassett couldn’t do that to save his life,” he declared. “I’m goin’ to be a preacher! I’D be all right for one, wouldn’t I, Herman?”
“So am I!” Sam Williams echoed loudly. “I guess I can do it if YOU can. I’d be better’n Penrod, wouldn’t I, Herman?”
“I am, too!” Maurice shouted. “I got a stronger voice than anybody here, and I’d like to know what — —”
The three clamoured together indistinguishably, each asserting his qualifications for the ministry according to Herman’s theory, which had been accepted by these sudden converts without question.
“Listen to ME!” Maurice bellowed, proving his claim to at least the voice by drowning the others. “Maybe I can’t climb a pole so good, but who can holler louder’n this? Listen to ME-E-E!”
“Shut up!” cried Penrod, irritated. “Go to heaven; go to hell!”
“Oo-o-oh!” exclaimed Georgie Bassett, profoundly shocked.
Sam and Maurice, awed by Penrod’s daring, ceased from turmoil, staring wide-eyed.
“You cursed and swore!” said Georgie.
“I did not!” cried Penrod, hotly. “That isn’t swearing.”
“You said, ‘Go to a big H’!” said Georgie.
“I did not! I said, ‘Go to heaven,’ before I said a big H. That isn’t swearing, is it, Herman? It’s almost what the preacher said, ain’t it, Herman? It ain’t swearing now, any more — not if you put ‘go to heaven’ with it, is it, Herman? You can say it all you want to, long as you say ‘go to heaven’ first, CAN’T you, Herman? Anybody can say it if the preacher says it, can’t they, Herman? I guess I know when I ain’t swearing, don’t I, Herman?”
Judge Herman ruled for the defendant, and Penrod was considered to have carried his point. With fine consistency, the conclave established that it was proper for the general public to “say it,” provided “go to heaven” should in all cases precede it. This prefix was pronounced a perfect disinfectant, removing all odour of impiety or insult; and, with the exception of Georgie Bassett (who maintained that the minister’s words were “going” and “gone,” not “go”), all the boys proceeded to exercise their new privilege so lavishly that they tired of it.
But there was no diminution of evangelical ardour; again were heard the clamours of dispute as to which was the best qualified for the ministry, each of the claimants appealing passionately to Herman, who, pleased but confused, appeared to be incapable of arriving at a decision.
During a pause, Georgie Bassett asserted his prior rights. “Who said it first, I’d like to know?” he demanded. “I was going to be a minister from long back of to-day, I guess. And I guess I said I was going to be a minister right to-day before any of you said anything at all. DIDN’T I, Herman? YOU heard me, didn’t you, Herman? That’s the very thing started you talking about it, wasn’t it, Herman?”
“You’ right,” said Herman. “You the firs’ one to say it.”
Penrod, Sam, and Maurice immediately lost faith in Herman.
“What if you did say it first?” Penrod shouted. “You couldn’t BE a minister if you were a hunderd years old!”
“I bet his mother wouldn’t let him be one,” said Sam. “She never lets him do anything.”
“She would, too,” retorted Georgie. “Ever since I was little, she — —”
“He’s too sissy to be a preacher!” cried Maurice. “Listen at his squeaky voice!”
“I’m going to be a better minister,” shouted Georgie, “than all three of you put together. I could do it with my left hand!”
The three laughed bitingly in chorus. They jeered, derided, scoffed, and raised an uproar which would have had its effect upon much stronger nerves than Georgie’s. For a time he contained his rising choler and chanted monotonously, over and over: “I COULD! I COULD, TOO! I COULD! I COULD, TOO!” But their tumult wore upon him, and he decided to avail himself of the recent decision whereby a big H was rendered innocuous and unprofane. Having used the expression once, he found it comforting, and substituted it for: “I could! I could, too!”
But it relieved him only temporarily. His tormentors were unaffected by it and increased their howlings, until at last Georgie lost his head altogether. Badgered beyond bearing, his eyes shining with a wild light, he broke through the besieging trio, hurling little Maurice from his path with a frantic hand.
“I’ll show you!” he cried, in this sudden frenzy. “You give me a chance, and I’ll prove it right NOW!”
“That’s talkin’ business!” shouted Penrod. “Everybody keep still a minute. Everybody!”
He took command of the situation at once, displaying a fine capacity for organization and system. It needed only a few minutes to set order in the place of confusion and to determine, with the full concurrence of all parties, the conditions under which Georgie Bassett was to defend his claim by undergoing what may be perhaps intelligibly defined as the Herman test. Georgie declared he could do it easily. He was in a state of great excitement and in no condition to think calmly or, probably, he would not have made the attempt at all. Certainly he was overconfident.
CHAPTER XXVII CONCLUSION OF THE QUIET AFTERNOON
IT WAS DURING the discussion of the details of this enterprise that Georgie’s mother, a short distance down the street, received a few female callers, who came by appointment to drink a glass of iced tea with her, and to meet the Rev. Mr. Kinosling. Mr. Kinosling was proving almost formidably interesting to the women and girls of his own and other flocks. What favour of his fellow clergymen a slight precociousness of manner and pronunciation cost him was more than balanced by the visible ecstasies of ladies. They blossomed at his touch.
He had just entered Mrs. Bassett’s front door, when the son of the house, followed by an intent and earnest company of four, opened the alley gate and came into the yard. The unconscious Mrs. Bassett was about to have her first experience of a fatal coincidence. It was her first, because she was the mother of a boy so well behaved that he had become a proverb of transcendency. Fatal coincidences were plentiful in the Schofield and Williams families, and would have been familiar to Mrs. Bassett had Georgie been permitted greater intimacy with Penrod and Sam.
Mr. Kinosling sipped his iced tea and looked about, him approvingly. Seven ladies leaned forward, for it was to be seen that he meant to speak.
“This cool room is a relief,” he said, waving a graceful hand in a neatly limited gesture, which everybody’s eyes followed, his own included. “It is a relief and a retreat. The windows open, the blinds closed — that is as it should be. It is a retreat, a fastness, a bastion against the heat’s assault. For me, a quiet room — a quiet room and a book, a volume in the hand, held lightly between the fingers. A volume of poems, lines metrical and cadenced; something by a sound Victorian. We have no later poets.”
“Swinburne?” suggested Miss Beam, an eager spinster. “Swinburne, Mr. Kinosling? Ah, SWINBURNE!”
“Not Swinburne,” said Mr. Kinosling chastely. “No.”
That concluded all the remarks about Swinburne.
Miss Beam retired in confusion behind another lady; and somehow there became diffused an impression that Miss Beam was erotic.
“I do not observe your manly little son,” Mr. Kinosling addressed his hostess.
“He’s out playing in the yard,” M
rs. Bassett returned. “I heard his voice just now, I think.”
“Everywhere I hear wonderful report of him,” said Mr. Kinosling. “I may say that I understand boys, and I feel that he is a rare, a fine, a pure, a lofty spirit. I say spirit, for spirit is the word I hear spoken of him.”
A chorus of enthusiastic approbation affirmed the accuracy of this proclamation, and Mrs. Bassett flushed with pleasure. Georgie’s spiritual perfection was demonstrated by instances of it, related by the visitors; his piety was cited, and wonderful things he had said were quoted.
“Not all boys are pure, of fine spirit, of high mind,” said Mr. Kinosling, and continued with true feeling: “You have a neighbour, dear Mrs. Bassett, whose household I indeed really feel it quite impossible to visit until such time when better, firmer, stronger handed, more determined discipline shall prevail. I find Mr. and Mrs. Schofield and their daughter charming — —”
Three or four ladies said “Oh!” and spoke a name simultaneously. It was as if they had said, “Oh, the bubonic plague!”
“Oh! Penrod Schofield!”
“Georgie does not play with him,” said Mrs. Bassett quickly— “that is, he avoids him as much as he can without hurting Penrod’s feelings. Georgie is very sensitive to giving pain. I suppose a mother should not tell these things, and I know people who talk about their own children are dreadful bores, but it was only last Thursday night that Georgie looked up in my face so sweetly, after he had said his prayers and his little cheeks flushed, as he said: ‘Mamma, I think it would be right for me to go more with Penrod. I think it would make him a better boy.’”
A sibilance went about the room. “Sweet! How sweet! The sweet little soul! Ah, SWEET!”
“And that very afternoon,” continued Mrs. Bassett, “he had come home in a dreadful state. Penrod had thrown tar all over him.”
“Your son has a forgiving spirit!” said Mr. Kinosling with vehemence. “A too forgiving spirit, perhaps.” He set down his glass. “No more, I thank you. No more cake, I thank you. Was it not Cardinal Newman who said — —”
He was interrupted by the sounds of an altercation just outside the closed blinds of the window nearest him.
“Let him pick his tree!” It was the voice of Samuel Williams. “Didn’t we come over here to give him one of his own trees? Give him a fair show, can’t you?”
“The little lads!” Mr. Kinosling smiled. “They have their games, their outdoor sports, their pastimes. The young muscles are toughening. The sun will not harm them. They grow; they expand; they learn. They learn fair play, honour, courtesy, from one another, as pebbles grow round in the brook. They learn more from themselves than from us. They take shape, form, outline. Let them.”
“Mr. Kinosling!” Another spinster — undeterred by what had happened to Miss Beam — leaned fair forward, her face shining and ardent. “Mr. Kinosling, there’s a question I DO wish to ask you.”
“My dear Miss Cosslit,” Mr. Kinosling responded, again waving his hand and watching it, “I am entirely at your disposal.”
“WAS Joan of Arc,” she asked fervently, “inspired by spirits?”
He smiled indulgently. “Yes — and no,” he said. “One must give both answers. One must give the answer, yes; one must give the answer, no.”
“Oh, THANK you!” said Miss Cosslit, blushing.
“She’s one of my great enthusiasms, you know.”
“And I have a question, too,” urged Mrs. Lora Rewbush, after a moment’s hasty concentration. “‘I’ve never been able to settle it for myself, but NOW — —”
“Yes?” said Mr. Kinosling encouragingly.
“Is — ah — is — oh, yes: Is Sanskrit a more difficult language than Spanish, Mr. Kinosling?”
“It depends upon the student,” replied the oracle smiling. “One must not look for linguists everywhere. In my own especial case — if one may cite one’s self as an example — I found no great, no insurmountable difficulty in mastering, in conquering either.”
“And may I ask one?” ventured Mrs. Bassett. “Do you think it is right to wear egrets?”
“There are marks of quality, of caste, of social distinction,” Mr. Kinosling began, “which must be permitted, allowed, though perhaps regulated. Social distinction, one observes, almost invariably implies spiritual distinction as well. Distinction of circumstances is accompanied by mental distinction. Distinction is hereditary; it descends from father to son, and if there is one thing more true than ‘Like father, like son,’ it is—” he bowed gallantly to Mrs. Bassett— “it is, ‘Like mother, like son.’ What these good ladies have said this afternoon of YOUR — —”
This was the fatal instant. There smote upon all ears the voice of Georgie, painfully shrill and penetrating — fraught with protest and protracted, strain. His plain words consisted of the newly sanctioned and disinfected curse with a big H.
With an ejaculation of horror, Mrs. Bassett sprang to the window and threw open the blinds.
Georgie’s back was disclosed to the view of the tea-party. He was endeavouring to ascend a maple tree about twelve feet from the window. Embracing the trunk with arms and legs, he had managed to squirm to a point above the heads of Penrod and Herman, who stood close by, watching him earnestly — Penrod being obviously in charge of the performance. Across the yard were Sam Williams and Maurice Levy, acting as a jury on the question of voice-power, and it was to a complaint of theirs that Georgie had just replied.
“That’s right, Georgie,” said Penrod encouragingly. “They can, too, hear you. Let her go!”
“Going to heaven!” shrieked Georgie, squirming up another inch. “Going to heaven, heaven, heaven!”
His mother’s frenzied attempts to attract his attention failed utterly. Georgie was using the full power of his lungs, deafening his own ears to all other sounds. Mrs. Bassett called in vain; while the tea-party stood petrified in a cluster about the window.
“Going to heaven!” Georgie bellowed. “Going to heaven! Going to heaven, my Lord! Going to heaven, heaven, heaven!”
He tried to climb higher, but began to slip downward, his exertions causing damage to his apparel. A button flew into the air, and his knickerbockers and his waistband severed relations.
“Devil’s got my coat-tails, sinners! Old devil’s got my coat-tails!” he announced appropriately. Then he began to slide.
He relaxed his clasp of the tree and slid to the ground.
“Going to hell!” shrieked Georgie, reaching a high pitch of enthusiasm in this great climax. “Going to hell! Going to hell! I’m gone to hell, hell, hell!”
With a loud scream, Mrs. Bassett threw herself out of the window, alighting by some miracle upon her feet with ankles unsprained.
Mr. Kinosling, feeling that his presence as spiritual adviser was demanded in the yard, followed with greater dignity through the front door. At the corner of the house a small departing figure collided with him violently. It was Penrod, tactfully withdrawing from what promised to be a family scene of unusual painfulness.
Mr. Kinosling seized him by the shoulders and, giving way to emotion, shook him viciously.
“You horrible boy!” exclaimed Mr. Kinosling. “You ruffianly creature! Do you know what’s going to happen to you when you grow up? Do you realize what you’re going to BE!”
With flashing eyes, the indignant boy made know his unshaken purpose. He shouted the reply:
“A minister!”
CHAPTER XXVIII TWELVE
THIS BUSY GLOBE which spawns us is as incapable of flattery and as intent upon its own affair, whatever that is, as a gyroscope; it keeps steadily whirling along its lawful track, and, thus far seeming to hold a right of way, spins doggedly on, with no perceptible diminution of speed to mark the most gigantic human events — it did not pause to pant and recuperate even when what seemed to Penrod its principal purpose was accomplished, and an enormous shadow, vanishing westward over its surface, marked the dawn of his twelfth birthday.
To be tw
elve is an attainment worth the struggle. A boy, just twelve, is like a Frenchman just elected to the Academy.
Distinction and honour wait upon him. Younger boys show deference to a person of twelve: his experience is guaranteed, his judgment, therefore, mellow; consequently, his influence is profound. Eleven is not quite satisfactory: it is only an approach. Eleven has the disadvantage of six, of nineteen, of forty-four, and of sixty-nine. But, like twelve, seven is an honourable age, and the ambition to attain it is laudable. People look forward to being seven. Similarly, twenty is worthy, and so, arbitrarily, is twenty-one; forty-five has great solidity; seventy is most commendable and each year thereafter an increasing honour. Thirteen is embarrassed by the beginnings of a new colthood; the child becomes a youth. But twelve is the very top of boyhood.
Dressing, that morning, Penrod felt that the world was changed from the world of yesterday. For one thing, he seemed to own more of it; this day was HIS day. And it was a day worth owning; the midsummer sunshine, pouring gold through his window, came from a cool sky, and a breeze moved pleasantly in his hair as he leaned from the sill to watch the tribe of clattering blackbirds take wing, following their leader from the trees in the yard to the day’s work in the open country. The blackbirds were his, as the sunshine and the breeze were his, for they all belonged to the day which was his birthday and therefore most surely his. Pride suffused him: he was twelve!
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 156
