by Edward Cline
“Yes, Father.” Hugh paused, then spoke. “Why may not one mention Culloden Moor when the Duke comes?”
The Baron shrugged. “It is a…sensitive subject,” he replied.
“I have heard—from Mr. Cole, and Squire Tallmadge—that it was a great battle, and a great victory.”
“Perhaps the Duke is too modest to wish to discuss it,” suggested the Earl.
The Baron looked again at his brother, then smiled. “There are those who say it was a great battle and victory, Hugh, and that he wept when he rode onto the battlefield and saw all the dead Scots. And there are some who claim that the Duke ordered the execution of a wounded Scot who smiled at him, and that he established a cruel policy of punishment in that luckless country.”
“What is the truth?” asked Hugh.
The Earl answered impatiently, “What it will be when the Duke has passed to his final judgment.”
On another occasion, Hugh sat in his room late one evening, when the house was quiet and the fall wind beat against the lead-paned glass of his window. The candles on his desk flickered nervously over a page in his school notebook and twenty Latin sentences he had been assigned by Mr. Cole to “render into plain, unembellished English.” They were difficult sentences, but an hour’s effort had conquered them.
Two of them fascinated him for a reason he could not yet explain. He had even read them out loud to himself, in Latin and in English, so that he could hear the words in a place other than inside his head. “Though you lose all, remember to preserve your honor.” “Freedom with danger is preferable to peace with slavery.” These dictums attracted him; he felt like a moth near a candle. He did not fully understand honor, for so far he had none to preserve. Perhaps, he thought, it had played a role in the incident at Eton; something like honor was in peril then, though the notion of it which most people seemed to ascribe to was of a passive nature. He knew that his parents and uncle believed that his actions then had been dishonorable. He could not agree with them; they had forgiven him, but the forgiveness made him uneasy.
Neither did he fully understand the sentence about freedom and slavery; he was enough of an aristocrat that the ideas held little meaning for him in the world around him. Yet, he thought, there was some unseen connection between honor and freedom and slavery, and with what had happened to him at Eton.
The next day, Mr. Cole congratulated Hugh on all the translations but one. “Danger seemed preferable, Master Kenrick, not is. ‘Poitor visa est periculosa libertas quieto servito.’”
Hugh was surprised with his error, and conceded the point, but preferred his error to the literal translation. He said, “It ought to read is, sir.”
“You may not correct Sallust,” said Mr. Cole. “Kindly keep in mind that the quotation is from his History.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Cole assigned his pupil twenty more translations. He meant it to be punishment. His pupil did not know it.
This was an aspect of Hugh which caused his parents to smile and which confounded his tormentors and enemies: his amity with thought. He did not regard thinking as a painful, cursed exercise peripheral to his life. Thought was as much an appendage to his being as an arm or a leg, and more: it was a constant, inseparable, welcome companion, as much an automatic reflex as using any of his limbs. Puzzles, problems, and conundrums did not last long under his purview. The behavior of many adults and of other children who did not think perplexed him for the longest while; he was growing to be intolerantly contemptuous of anyone who resisted or dismissed it. He neither nurtured nor dwelt on this contempt; it seethed at any chance encounter with resistance, then ebbed when the cause was no longer present.
Another tutor, Mr. Rittles, instructor in rhetoric, asked his pupils to parse two selections from Cicero, and to write an essay on the logical connection between them and on the moral inference to be drawn from them. Hugh obeyed, but tested the tutor’s patience when he questioned the truth of the second selection. When Mr. Rittles noted the statement in his pupil’s essay, and bid him to explain its brevity, Hugh said, “Cicero wrote: ‘Every judgment is an act of reasoning. Of good reasoning, if the judgment is true. Of bad reasoning, if it is false.’”
“Have you any difficulty with that, Master Kenrick?” asked the tutor.
“Some,” answered Hugh. “You see, sir, he goes on to say that ‘Reason underlies all our vices and is the seed of injustice, intemperance, and cowardice.’” Hugh paused and laid down his notebook. “I cannot connect the two logically, sir, because I do not believe that reason can be a partner in vice, injustice, intemperance, or cowardice.”
Mr. Rittles scoffed, and with a discreet glance at the other boys—there were seven other pupils—invited them to join him. All but Roger Tallmadge chortled. The tutor asked, “Then to what would you attribute the cause of vice and all those other failings, Master Kenrick?”
“I am sure that it is not reason, sir, or any kind of thought at all. Reason is too noble an endowment to sire stupidity.”
“How would you explain false judgments, if not by bad reasoning?”
“Perhaps by…counterfeit thought, sir!” exclaimed Hugh. “Or just… emotion. Whimsy. A man can pretend to think, to reason, but it is not actually reasoning. If reasoning is concerned with only truth, it cannot be employed to create a lie, or an untruth.” He spoke, and his bright eyes seemed to reflect the light that had flared up in his mind. He derived an almost feverish joy from following a course of logic, from putting his thoughts into words, thoughts that were his own, and words that were his own. “So there cannot be such a thing as bad reasoning. Bad thinking, perhaps, but not bad reasoning. But men do lie, they do put over untruths. They use words and logic, but do not report truth, they have not employed reason, they have only erected a subterfuge, or a facade.” Hugh paused to catch his breath. “Bad thinking is either intentional, or proof of lack of wit.”
Mr. Rittles had leaned forward on his lectern, engrossed together with the boys in the impromptu speech. Then he realized that Hugh was waiting for a reply. He snapped to attention, patted his wig once, then cleared his throat and said, “My apologies, Master Kenrick. It seems that you have propelled us, prematurely, into the realm of sophistry. For that is the name of what you were laboring to identify.” He gave his pupils a broad, all-inclusive grin. “Sophistry may be called the antithesis of reason.”
Roger Tallmadge smiled in celebration of his friend’s victory. The other boys granted Hugh a grudging, if envious respect. And Mr. Rittles said, “Thank you, Master Kenrick. Someday, when you assume the ermine of your office, you may speak with such passion in Lords. I earnestly hope to audit that moment.” He never baited or mocked Hugh again.
Hugh cemented his friendship with Roger Tallmadge inadvertently, but inevitably. The boy was mystified by Hugh’s self-possession and aloofness, which seemed to both reject companionship and at the same time invite it. He observed that Hugh’s bearing provoked hostility or wary respect. He could not understand the older boy’s character, but he was attracted to it.
Roger Tallmadge was given a clue to understanding it when, one afternoon, he had difficulty delivering an oral description of two countries to the geography and history tutor, Mr. Galpin. Mr. Galpin was the lowest paid and the least liked of all the tutors in Squire Tallmadge’s pay. His colleagues avoided him and his pupils feared him. He compensated for his unpopularity by being a prig to his colleagues and a tyrant to his dozen charges. He regularly failed a pupil’s otherwise competently written paper for the misspelling of a single word, and badgered anyone who displayed the least hesitancy in answer to a question in class.
Hugh Kenrick was the only pupil who had never been subjected to the tutor’s abuse, because he always knew his lessons, and because he was the nephew of an earl.
Mr. Galpin, on this day, called on Roger Tallmadge to recite some of the differences—cultural and geographical—between Spain and Ireland. The boy, stammering out of fear, confused the locations, the l
anguages, and the climates. Mr. Galpin lit into him, and called him all the derogatory names he could think of. He did this because he was a miserable man, and because he had explicit permission from Squire Tallmadge to be as harsh on his sons as he thought necessary. “If Francis and Roger do not take to knowledge,” said the Squire to his new tutor some years ago, “then they must be taken to it—in harness if necessary. Do not spare them. Be rigorous.”
Roger Tallmadge, standing at his desk, sobbed under the stream of invective, and was barely able to hold back his tears. Then Mr. Galpin stopped shouting, and laughed. The other boys felt free to join him, including Francis, Roger’s older brother, aged twelve. “And,” added the tutor with another bellow, “you are a blubberer!” The boys laughed even harder, and Francis picked a pebble stuck on the bottom of his shoe and flicked it at his sibling.
Hugh Kenrick rose from his desk and addressed the tutor in a clear voice. “Perhaps, sir, Mr. Tallmadge is at a loss because you yourself have not clarified well enough the distinctions between Iberia and Hibernia.”
The laughter ceased, and all eyes, including Mr. Galpin’s, turned to look at Hugh. “Excuse me, Master Kenrick?” asked the tutor.
Hugh did not repeat himself. He stood waiting for an answer.
Mr. Galpin drew himself up with some dignity and looked down his nose at the boy. “While I do not need to justify myself or my methods, young sir, I will say only that Master Tallmadge was not prepared for the question, as he should have been. He was not prepared, because he did not listen closely enough to my lecture yesterday afternoon.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied Hugh, “but you devoted a mere five minutes each to Iberia and Hibernia, and concentrated on Russia, Sweden, and Persia. You did not ask us to take notes on Iberia or Hibernia.”
This was true. Mr. Galpin scoffed. “Perhaps you can tell us about Iberia and Hibernia.”
Hugh did so. He recited from memory what little the tutor had said the day before about the two countries, and added: “Ireland is a Celtic country, and mostly Catholic. So is Northern Spain, parts of which are also Gaelic. ‘Gaelic’ is a variation of ‘Gaul,’ the Roman name for France, which was once a province of Rome, as was Spain. Southern Spaniards are of a different complexion and temper than Northern Spaniards, because of the long Moorish occupation. The Moors were thrust from Spain three centuries ago. Ireland has a fair climate, except in the fall and winter, when it is terribly wet and damp. It is notorious for giving men the ague. Spain, too, has a fair climate, but its summers are hot and fatiguing.”
Mr. Galpin raised his eyebrows. Francis Tallmadge muffled a laugh, but the tutor heard it and threw him a wicked glance. Then he smiled. “No doubt you have taken your studies seriously, Master Kenrick—unlike some of my other pupils. You are to be commended. Thank you for the enlightening recitation.”
Some of the boys gasped. They had never before heard him compliment a pupil.
But Mr. Galpin read something other than acknowledgment in the boy’s eyes: not merely bravery or the knowledge of his lurking power, but contempt. His smile still fixed, he nodded to his pupil to take his seat again, then turned, and without looking at Roger Tallmadge, said, “I will quiz you again tomorrow, Master Tallmadge. You may be seated.”
Hugh’s fellow pupils wondered at the precedent. It was not just a matter of confronting and contradicting Mr. Galpin; some of them had done it before, out of boredom or bravura, and had been punished. They knew that the tutor would never again taunt Roger Tallmadge, thanks to Hugh Kenrick. They were beginning to believe that the future earl had a special power that made unjust and cruel men cringe and crawl.
When the day was over, Roger Tallmadge took Hugh to the family’s kitchen and gave him a pastry one of the cooks had baked. “Thank you, Hugh, for what you did today,” he said. He smiled tentatively. “You are more of a brother to me than is Francis,” he added with bitterness.
Hugh smiled. “You shall be my brother, when we are together,” he said.
“A brother? I, to you?” asked the other boy incredulously.
“If you wish.”
“Why?”
“Because you have never laughed at me, or mocked me. Because you try harder in your studies than does anyone else.”
“Yes! I do wish it!” laughed Roger Tallmadge.
Hugh smiled. “You ought to have known about Spain and Ireland,” he said. “Mr. Galpin often pulls that trick on us—mentions something one day, and examines us on it another. And Spain and Ireland are in your geography book.”
“I’ll be ready for him tomorrow!” laughed Roger.
For Hugh Kenrick, the idea of adopting Roger Tallmadge as his “brother” was a sudden impulse and a brainstorm. Since the stillbirth of a brother months ago, he had occasionally wondered about the value of a sibling. His sister, Alice, was too young, the other boys in his school too old for him or too preoccupied with concerns that were not his, and the boys in his uncle’s and father’s employ were too fearful of his rank to respond naturally to his overtures, and risked little more than gruff, almost hostile acknowledgment of him. But in Roger was a perfect model for experimentation, someone a little like himself, an outsider, a scrappy maverick, enthusiastic about many things—someone with a sense of his own importance.
And so they kept each other company in the intervals between their tutors, more often than not in silent preparation for their lessons than in games or conversation. Hugh appreciated Roger’s unobtrusive presence when he wanted time alone for his thoughts; Roger appreciated the respect granted him by the older boy. Hugh saw in Roger a friendly, patient sounding board for his ideas and even for his presence; Roger saw in Hugh an almost regal mien which curiously was neither arrogant nor arbitrary nor an affectation, together with a cool approach to almost everything. Hugh broadcast a self-possession that Roger found intriguing, and so he felt worthier for having befriended him, though he never completely resolved the question either of why Hugh tolerated him or what about himself was worthy. Hugh unconsciously set the terms of their companionship; Roger submitted to them in deference to everything that was Hugh, and in doing so learned the value of unanxious solitude.
He also learned that virtually the only thing that commanded Hugh’s unreserved respect was knowledge, both in what was to be learned and in what degree it was demonstrated in others.
It was only in the social arts that Hugh exhibited extreme rebellion. All games bored him, and when pressed to participate in cricket and rounders, he played indifferently. Squire Tallmadge, who usually supervised games for the pupils in between their time with tutors, spoke to the Baron about Hugh’s laxness. And the Baron admonished his son. “You will encounter politics someday, Hugh. Games are a crude introduction to that most crucial sport of all.”
Hugh sighed. “I’ll try, Father.”
And he did try, but the games became now an exercise in duty.
On another occasion, he rode with his father one early winter day into the village of Danvers and observed how rents were collected from the shopkeepers. Riding through the cobblestone streets, Hugh saw a number of men, women, and children, sometimes together, sometimes singly, clothed in mere rags and shoed in scraps of leather, carrying bundles on sticks over their shoulders, trudging through the newly fallen snow without purpose or hope of finding any, but still with an almost tangible slyness that was both pitiable and repulsive. His father gave these creatures a grave eye, but said nothing to them. These were paupers, and Danvers had no almshouse for them. The Baron rode to the constable’s house, and informed the man of the strangers.
“’Pon my word, my lord, I didn’t know they was about! So help me! They all know, these beggars, there ain’t no comfort for them here!”
The Baron frowned. “Refresh their memories, Mr. Stobb, or we’ll appoint a new constable. I don’t want to see a single ragged body loitering in this vicinity tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As they rode back to the estate, Hu
gh said, “Father, I want to learn a trade.”
“What?”
“I want to be something.”
“Be something?”
“Yes.”
“You are something, Hugh,” replied his astonished father. “You are a knight banneret. You are to be a baron. And someday, an earl.”
Hugh turned his head to hide his grimace. “Like Uncle Basil?”
Garnet Kenrick raised his eyebrows. He knew what his son thought of him—he was grateful for that. And he suspected what his son thought of his uncle, and was grateful that his brother was too arrogant to sense his nephew’s estimate of him. The Baron sighed. “Hugh, what would you become? A coal-heaver? A silk-thrower, or a wool-puller like the men in our factory? A mudlark? An apprentice higgler? If you went to London or Bristol to apprentice a trade—with no support from your family—you would find yourself sharing a miserable, cold, rat-infested cellar with twenty or so other souls who called it home. You would spend all of your time working your trade, and the time you didn’t spend scrambling for pittance, you would spend scrambling for food. You would have no time for books, no time to make neat observations. You would be too tired, too hungry, too distracted. The mental energy you expend now on construing Latin wisdom and appreciating the prose of Milton and Dryden would be wholly diverted on the time, place, and composition of your every meal.”
The Baron paused to gauge the effect of this description on his son. Hugh was looking at him expectantly.
“Hugh, the men and women who must have trades are born with poor, dim candles for souls, made of the most adulterated, cheap tallow, which they spend all their lives keeping from sputtering out. One could say that it is their sole purpose for living. Even so, their candles are stunted and do not illuminate much. You, however, were born with an untaxed candle, made of the finest, purest tallow and beeswax. It is tall and it burns brightly. In London or Bristol, that candle inside you would be snuffed out in a wink by the brutal exigencies of life, and you would become dross, like those paupers back there, or philistines, like those shopkeepers. You would see, but have no vision. You would become like them—able to appreciate a political cartoon, laugh at a puppet show, or marvel at an engraving by Mr. Hogarth, but be blind to a canvas by Titian, or deaf to a chorus by Mr. Handel.”
