Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “What is your passion?” asked Tom.

  “Making people like me, especially if they hate me naturally. I wouldn’t say that it is my vocation, because lots of people detest me. Don’t trouble to say you don’t believe me. I am sure that sort of speech would come very badly from you.”

  “Do you mean that I’ve got such awkward manners, or that I am naturally honest?”

  “I mean that when a man doesn’t owe a compliment, it is no use his trying to pay one.”

  “Compliments are a cheap way of paying debts. They are like apologies. I always apologize if it will do any good.”

  Maud walked on in silence a little way.

  “If I wasn’t a woman,” she said at length very slowly, “I should choose to be a man. No, it’s not such nonsense as it sounds. What I really mean is that men have great advantages over us in some ways. A woman can hardly ever become anything else than an amateur, and I want to be a professional artist, and a musician, and she-clergyman, living in the country. But I wouldn’t give up being a woman. Women have much more self than men, else they would have all taken to professions long ago. If men hadn’t professions they would all bore themselves to death. That is why they take to the Stock Exchange and politics — they do anything to make them forget their own selves. I don’t say that women are any better, but they find themselves more interesting than men do.”

  “But men have to make money or else they couldn’t marry and support families,” said Tom rather feebly.

  “Yes; but don’t you see that if women had not been sufficiently interested in themselves to make them not want professions, they would have had them long ago? They would both have worked for their living. As it is, a woman’s chief object is to marry a rich man, so that she can’t possibly work.”

  “That’s a new idea,” said Tom. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You ought to marry a poor man, and help him to earn his living.”

  “Unfortunately I have lots of money myself.”

  Tom drew in a deep breath.

  “That is a misfortune. I am in the same state. One can’t give it all to a lunatic asylum, or else people think you are laying up treasure for your own dotage. I wish I was poor, really poor, you know, out at elbows, having to work for my bread. It must be exquisite to be poor.”

  “It’s a ridiculous arrangement,” said Maud suddenly. “My grandmother left me heaps of money, and poor (Bob none; now Bob wants money and I don’t But I expect, if one was poor, one would get to like money.”

  “No doubt one would,” said Tom, “but that would do one no harm. One would get to know what its value was. At present I haven’t the slightest idea. That is not being miserly — misers never know the value of money; they only know the price of things they want, but refuse to buy.”

  They had reached the front door, and stood waiting for the others.

  “One ought to be allowed to change circumstances with one’s friends,” said Tom. “I would choose Ted Markham’s circumstances. He is poor, and he is working at what he likes best Just think how happy one would be! Success to him means the fullest possible success; position means opportunities.”

  “What do you mean by opportunities?”

  “Why, the University Press will consent to publish his editions of classical authors.”

  “That’s narrow,” remarked Miss Wrexham. “Providence has spared me that limitation.”

  “That’s what I’m always telling him. But it must be very comfortable to be narrow.”

  “Until you know you are narrow.”

  “Oh, but then you become broad,” said Tom, “and that’s nice too!”

  “We are a pair of blighted beings,” said Miss Wrexham solemnly. “We have been made rich and broad, whereas we only want to be poor and narrow.”

  “No, we should like to be narrow, if we couldn’t be broad,” said Tom— “just as you would like to be a man if you couldn’t be a woman.”

  “Ah, well, one can’t have everything.”

  Tom looked at her with radiant confidence.

  “I mean to have everything!” he announced.

  CHAPTER IV.

  TOM went back to Cambridge for his third year with his mind fully made up as regard his career. He was alone with his father his last night at home, and they had talked the matter out — or rather Tom talked the matter out, and his father expressed acquiescence with his proposed arrangements, and mingled a little cynical advice.

  “You see, I must be a sculptor, father,” Tom had said, “at least, that is my passion. If you wish me to go into the business or go to the bar, I’ll go, but that won’t be the work of my life. You don’t object, do you?”

  They were sitting in the smoking-room after dinner before the fire, for October had started with early frosts, and Mr. Carlingford loathed cold weather, He often stopped indoors for two or three weeks at a time in the winter.

  “My dear boy,” he replied, “I don’t object to anything about you at present; I really find you the only satisfactory spot in a — a satisfactory life. There is only one thing I should object to, and that is if you made a fool of yourself. Don’t do that, Tom. Many people when they make fools of themselves think that they are being original, whereas they are doing what nine-tenths of the human race has done since the beginning of the world — more than nine-tenths, probably. Adam and Eve both made fools of themselves, so did Cain and Abel — Abel particularly. And a sculptor has such unlimited opportunities for making a fool of himself.”

  “In what way?” asked Tom.

  “Falling in love with his models, or still worse, marrying them. If you are going to the devil, go to him like a gentleman. Then, sculptors often wear long hair, and Liberty fabric ties, with gold rings round them. I knew a sculptor once who wore a cameo ring. If you wear a cameo ring I shall cut my throat.”

  “Oh, I shan’t do any of those things,” said Tom confidently.

  “No, I think it is most probable that you won’t, otherwise I should make objections to your being a sculptor. But you can’t tell. You haven’t had many opportunities yet.”

  “One can make a fool of one’s self at Cambridge if it comes to that,” said Tom.

  “No, not very easily. Public opinion is against it, whereas in most places the fools themselves constitute public opinion. I’m glad of it, though it is only putting off the evil days a little longer. When I was at Cambridge, boys made fools of themselves earlier than they do now. For instance, people get drunk much less. It’s a change for the better, I suppose. But I don’t know that this generation will have gone through less dirt when they are forty, than we did. There comes a time to every one when they must decide definitely whether they are going to make fools of themselves or not. I’ve got very strong views about morality.”

  His clever, wrinkled old face beamed with amusement “Morality is just a synonym for wisdom,” he went on, “and immorality is folly. I don’t know anything about the religious side of it all. I leave that to others, professionals. But I know a little about folly. It’s quite the worst investment you can make.”

  “I don’t know that I ever thought about it at all,” said Tom frankly; “I don’t mean to be a brute if I can help it.”

  “There are no such things as brutes,” said his father; “there are only wise men and fools — chiefly fools. Every man has to settle the question for himself as to which he will be: no one goes through life scot-free of the necessity of fighting inclinations.

  I haven’t ever talked to you before about it, because it is no use giving advice to young men, and the worst thing of all is to tell them to think about such things. You have to think about it when your time comes; till then it’s best not to know it The best preparation is to lead a healthy life, and think about cricket, not to read White Cross tracts and go to purity meetings.”

  Tom rose from his chair and knocked out the ashes of his pipe against the chimney-piece.

  “I think you�
��re wrong, father,” he said; “if one has an aim in life, everything gives way to that If one has principles, one cannot disregard them.”

  “Sometimes principles interfere with interests,” remarked Mr. Carlingford.

  Tom laughed.

  “Idle men are the vicious men,” he said.

  “I haven’t done a stroke of work for ten years,” remarked his father with amusement. “All the same, I haven’t been idle. I find plenty to do in watching other people. But there is one piece of advice I would really like to give you. If you find you fall in love with any unsuitable young person — a model probably — send her about her business. If it’s too far gone for that, cut her throat — it is probably her fault — she probably wanted you to fall in love with her, and if you see any objection to that, cut mine, or cut your own. Perhaps your own is best. It is unpleasant, no doubt, for the moment, but that is better than wishing every moment for the rest of your life that you had done it.”

  “But one can always cut one’s throat. Besides, isn’t that making a fool of one’s self?”

  “Not at all: it is the consequence of having made a fool of one’s self.”

  Tom frowned.

  “Ah, I don’t like people talking about consequences. That is the talk of cowards.”

  His father laughed.

  “Never mind me, Tom,” he said; “I don’t expect you to agree with me. I am a vicious coward, am I not?”

  “What I mean is, that you can make the best or the worst of a bad job,” said Tom. “When people talk of consequences, they seem to mean the worst consequences. When a man has made a mistake, it is stupid of him to sit down and say, ‘Well, that is done; now for the consequences.’ There is almost always a choice of consequences.”

  “Very often there are no consequences,” remarked his father. “I don’t think I ever did anything which had any consequences. But then, I never remember doing anything either, except making some money. When are you going to marry, Tom?” he asked suddenly.

  Tom looked startled.

  “When I fall in love, I suppose,” he said roundly.

  “That’s a man’s answer. Well, my boy, I’m going to bed. You go to Cambridge to-morrow, don’t you? Are you going to do well in your Tripos?”

  “I should think it’s very unlikely,” said Tom. “It seems that I’m a fool.”

  “That’s no reason why you shouldn’t do well.”

  “Then it seems that I’m the wrong sort of fool.” Mr. Carlingford lighted his candle.

  “That is very likely. Don’t trouble to do well on my account I really don’t care the least what you do.”

  “I shan’t trouble to do well on my own,” said Tom, laughing. “We had better prepare for failure.”

  It was very evident in the course of the next term that Tom was extremely unlikely to do well on anybody’s account The wine of his passion had begun to ferment in his brain, and he lounged his mornings away sometimes in the cast museum, sometimes in his room over a bushel of sculptor’s clay. At other times he had fits of complete idleness. He would get up late, perhaps go to a lecture, then stroll up to the tennis court, and play till lunch-time. In the afternoon he would play football, and sit talking over tea till Hall time, and after Hall play whist till bedtime. Markham, who was busy writing a dissertation for his Fellowship, had not time to look after him at all, and those in authority gave him up as a bad job. Tom regarded his own position as an excellent example of a man determining the consequences of his acts.

  “I haven’t done any work for weeks,” he said to Markham one day, “and I ought to be in hot water. As a matter of fact, I am not, because I make up for it by cordially agreeing with all that they say to me, and never being out after twelve.”

  “Don’t you think you are behaving rather idiotically?” asked Markham. “You seem to be rather proud of doing no work. It’s very easy; any one can do it.”

  “Yes, I know it’s very easy,” said Tom, who was in an exasperating mood, “that’s why I do it. At the same time, any one can’t do it. You couldn’t, for example.”

  “I hope I should never wish to try.”

  “My dear Ted, you are incapable of wishing to try. It isn’t in you. It’s not so easy to be idle — though I said it was just now, because I wanted to make you angry — you must have a great deal to think about in order to be idle. If you don’t do something, you must be something, and that requires thought.”

  “May I ask what you are being just now?”

  “You shouldn’t interrupt, Ted. I was going to say that of course there are some people, who neither do or are anything, but they are idiots. I’m not that sort of idiot myself; just now I am being an artist.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but what reason have I for believing it?” —

  “Oh, none at all,” said Tom, “but you asked me. I am meditating. I shall do the better for this some day.”

  Markham made an impatient movement in his chair.

  “Excuse my saying that I want to go on with my work.”

  Tom laughed.

  “Poor, dear old Ted, how you must loathe me! You can’t understand my doing nothing any more than I can understand your doing so much. Is your work of such vital importance? What does it all come to?”

  “You’ve asked that before,” remarked Ted.

  “Yes, and you’ve never answered it. I can understand a man doing archaeology; there’s some human interest in that. I like to know what sort of earrings the Greek women used to wear. Oh, Ted, do you know the sepulchral reliefs from Athens? there’s a cast of one in the Museum. It’s wonderful. I shall do one to you when you die.”

  “I wish you, would go to your room, and get on with it.”

  “Is the deliberative subjunctive going to kill you so soon as that? Well, I’ve often warned you.

  Good-bye, Teddy. You’re not sociable this morning.”

  Tom departed, whistling loudly, and out of tune.

  The Fellowship elections took place in March, and as the days drew near, Markham, finding himself unable to work, and fretting because he could not, very wisely determined to go away from Cambridge for the last week, having made Tom promise to telegraph the result to him. Tom was just returning from the telegraph office, having performed what was a thoroughly pleasing and satisfactory duty, and was crossing the court in the gathering dusk, when he saw a figure standing on the path near the Hall, where the announcement was posted. A sociable curiosity made him tack off a little and see who it was, and to his astonishment he found Markham standing there.

  “Why, Teddy, I’ve just telegraphed to you!” he cried.

  Markham turned round to him.

  “Quick! tell me quick!” he said.

  “You may walk across the grass,” said Tom solemnly; this being one of the Fellows’ privileges “And you may set to work to become a fossil as soon as you please. Well, I congratulate you, I suppose, though I’m not sure it’s the best thing for you.”

  Markham caught hold of Tom’s arm.

  “I think,” he said, very slowly and deliberately, “I think I’ve been making a fool of myself. This morning I found I couldn’t stop away, and I came back about a quarter of an hour ago. Since then I have been standing here, not daring to go in and see. Tom, I’m going to chapel.”

  It was two or three days after this that the two were walking down to the Pitt on Sunday evening. On their way they passed one of the mission-rooms in the town, and the street was almost blocked by a crowd all trying to get in. Tom, who was never so happy as in a mass of surging humanity, insisted on mingling with them and seeing what was going on. Markham tried to dissuade him, but failed, and after a good deal of pushing he succeeded in getting inside.

  It was a Revivalist meeting full to overflowing; the room was hung with flaring banners, lit with blazing gas-standards, and warm condensed moisture shone on the walls. Tom looked with wonder and slight disgust towards the platform, where a short, stumpy man with a chin beard was addressing the people. He was de
scribing his own conversion, which transformed him, according to his own account, from a swindling greengrocer into one of the saved. This happy change had also been accompanied with a great improvement in the greengrocery business. Instead of giving short weight and being always in debt, he took to giving full measure and speedily opened an account at a savings bank. He also mentioned that he became a teetotaler at the same time, though the more obvious connection between this fact and the incident of the savings bank did not seem to occur either to him or to his audience. All these sumptuous results were a direct effect of grace.

  Tom listened for some minutes with amusement struggling with disgust, until the preacher in a sudden burst of gratitude gave out a hymn of the most militant order, and packed solidly with concrete images of abstract ideas. A young woman in a large poke bonnet was busy thrusting hymn-books into the hands of the congregation, and gave one to Tom. The band struck up a tune expressive of the liveliest devotion, and the congregation joined at the top of their voices.

  They were in the middle of the second verse, when a sudden stir ran through the crowd, and from the middle of the hall there ran up to the platform a young woman, smartly — over-smartly — dressed, who burst into a loud fit of hysterical crying, and cried out that she was saved. The hymn was stopped at once, and the preacher led her aside while the congregation waited. In a few moments he led her back to the front of the platform, and gave out another hymn: —

  “There were ninety-and-nine that safely lay.”

  Tom’s sense of amusement was gone — a frown gathered on his forehead. What on earth did it all mean? It was clear what sort of a girl it was who had “stormed the gate of Heaven,” as the preacher expressed it — he had often noticed her in the streets — and now she was — what? How was she suddenly different from what she was before? Had her previous life been blotted out? What was the change, what did it mean? It could have been no easy thing to make an exhibition of one’s self like that; and where was the driving power? He began to be almost afraid. And before the hymn was finished the same thing happened again, this time to an elderly, respectable-looking man, who delivered a short speech to the congregation with tears streaming down his face. There was some strange force abroad, and Tom did not like it at all. He was desperately afraid of making a fool of himself, and he remembered his father’s warnings, though they were delivered in a very different sense. The vulgarity, the loudness of the whole proceedings were still very present to him, but he felt that he was in the presence of some force, hysterical perhaps, or perhaps only that force which does exist in enthusiastic crowds, of the nature of which he was absolutely ignorant For aught he knew it might lay its hands on him next. So he resorted to the most obvious way out of it, and pushing through the crowd, he left the room.