"There now, Harry," said Mrs. Oswald, relenting, "you mustn"t be too hard, neither, on poor old Miss Catherine. She"s a bit soured, you see, by disappointments and one thing and another. She doesn"t mean it, really, but it"s just her nature. Folks can"t be blamed for their nature, now, can they?"
"It occurs to me," said Harry quietly, "that vipers only sting because it"s their nature; and Dr. Watts has made a similar observation with regard to the growling and fighting of bears and lions. But I"m not aware that anybody has yet proposed to get up a Society for the protection of those much-misunderstood creatures, on the ground that they are not really responsible for their own inherited dispositions. Mr. William Sikes had a nature (no doubt congenital) which impelled him to beat his wife--I"m not sure that she was even his wife at all, now I come to think of it, but that"s a mere detail--and to kick his familiar acquaintances casually about the head. We, on the other hand, have natures which impel us, when we catch Mr. William Sikes indulging in these innate idiosyncrasies by way of recreation, to clap him promptly into prison, and even, under certain aggravating conditions, to cause him to be hanged by the neck till he be dead. This may be a regrettable incident of our own peculiar dispositions, mother dear, but it has at least the same justification as Mr. Sikes"s or the bears" and lions", that "tis our nature to. And I feel pretty much the same way about old Miss Luttrell."
"Well, there," said his mother, kissing him gently, "you"re a bad rebellious boy to be calling names, like a chatter-mag, and I won"t listen to you any longer. How pretty Edie do look in her new dress, to be sure, Harry. I"ll warr"nt there won"t be a prettier girl in Oxford next week than what she is; no, nor a better one and a sweeter one neither."
Harry put his arms round both their waists at once, with an affectionate pressure; and they went down to their old-fashioned tea together in the little parlour behind the shop, looking out over the garden, and the beach, and the great cliffs beyond on either hand, to the very farthest edge of the distant clear-cut blue horizon.
CHAPTER III.
MAGDALEN QUAD.
The Reverend Arthur Collingham Berkeley, curate of St. Fredegond"s, lounged lazily in his own neatly padded wickerwork easy-chair, opposite the large lattice-paned windows of his pretty little first-floor rooms in the front quad of Magdalen.
"There"s a great deal to be said, Le Breton, in favour of October term," he observed, in his soft, musical voice, as he gazed pensively across the central gra.s.s-plot to the crimson drapery of the Founder"s Tower. "Just look at that magnificent Virginia creeper over there, now; just look at the way the red on it melts imperceptibly into Tyrian purple and cloth of gold! Isn"t that in itself argument enough to fling at Hartmann"s head, if he ventured to come here sprinkling about his heresies, with his affected little spray-shooter, in the midst of a drowsy Oxford autumn? The Cardinal never saw Virginia creeper, I suppose; a man of his taste wouldn"t have been guilty of committing such a gross practical anachronism as that, any more than he would have smoked a cigarette before tobacco was invented; but if only he could have seen the October effect on that tower yonder, he"d have acknowledged that his own hat and robe were positively nowhere in the running, for colour, wouldn"t he?"
"Well," answered Herbert, putting down the Venetian gla.s.s goblet he had been examining closely with due care into its niche in the over-mantel, "I"ve no doubt Wolsey had too much historical sense ever to step entirely out of his own century, like my brother Ernest, for instance; but I"ve never heard his opinion on the subject of colour-harmonies, and I should suspect it of having been distinctly tinged with nascent symptoms of renaissance vulgarity. This is a lovely bit of Venetian, really, Berkeley. How the d.i.c.kens do you manage to pick up all these pretty things, I wonder? Why can"t I afford them, now?"
"What a question for the endowed and established to put to a poor starving devil of a curate like me!" said Berkeley lightly. "You, an incarnate sinecure and vested interest, a creature revelling in an unearned income of fabulous Oriental magnificence--I dare say, putting one thing with another, fully as much as five hundred a year--to ask me, the unbeneficed and insignificant, with my wretched pittance of eighty pounds per annum and my three pa.s.s-men a term for cla.s.sical mods, how I sc.r.a.pe together the few miserable, h.o.a.rded ha"pence which I grudgingly invest in my pots and pipkins! I save them from my dinner, Mr. Bursar--I save them. If the Church only recognised modest merit as it ought to do!--if the bishops only listened with due attention to the sound and scholarly exegesis of my Sunday evening discourses at St. Fredegond"s!--then, indeed, I might be disposed to regard things through a more satisfied medium--the medium of a nice, fat, juicy country living. But for you, Le Breton--you, sir, a pluralist and a sanguisorb of the deepest dye--to reproach me with my Franciscan poverty--oh, it"s too cruel!"
"I"m an abuse, I know," Herbert answered, smiling and waving his hand gracefully. "I at once admit it. Abuses exist, unhappily; and while they continue do so, isn"t it better they should envisage themselves as me than as some other and probably less deserving fellow?"
"No, it"s not, decidedly. I should much prefer that one of them envisaged itself as me."
"Ah, of course. From your own strictly subjective point of view that"s very natural. I also look at the question abstractly from the side of the empirical ego, and correctly deduce a corresponding conclusion. Only then, you see, the terms of the minor premiss are luckily reversed."
"Well, my dear fellow," said the curate, "the fact about the tea-things is this. You eat up your income, devour your substance in riotous living; I prefer to feast my eyes and ears to my grosser senses. You dine at high table, and fare sumptuously every day; I take a commons of cold beef for lunch, and have tea off an egg and roll in my own rooms at seven. You drink St. Emilion or still hock; I drink water from the well or the cup that cheers but not obfuscates. The difference goes to pay for the crockery. Do likewise, and with your untold wealth you might play Aunt Sally at Oriental blue, and take c.o.c.k-shots with a boot-jack at hawthorn-pattern vases."
"At any rate, Berkeley, you always manage to get your money"s worth of amus.e.m.e.nt out of your money."
"Of course, because I lay myself out to do it. Buy a bottle of champagne, drink it off, and there you have to show for your total permanent investment on the transaction the memory of a noisy evening and a headache the next morning. Buy a flute, or a book of poems, or a little picture, or a Palissy platter, and you have something to turn to with delight and admiration for half a lifetime."
"Ah, but it isn"t everybody who can isolate himself so utterly from the workaday world and live so completely in his own little paradise of art as you can, my dear fellow. Non omnia possumus omnes. You seem to be always up in the aesthetic clouds, with your own music automatically laid on, and no need of cherubim or seraphim to chant continually for your gratification. Play me something of your own on your flute now, like a good fellow."
"No, I won"t; because the spirit doesn"t move me. It"s treachery to the divine gift to play when you don"t want to. Besides, what"s the use of playing before YOU when you"re not the dean of a musical cathedral? David was wiser; he played only before Saul, who had of course all the livings in his own gift, no doubt. I"ve got a new thing running in my head this very minute that you shall hear though, all the same, as soon as I"ve hammered it into shape--a sort of villanette in music, a little whiff of country freshness, suggested by the new ethereal acquisition, little Miss b.u.t.terfly.
Have you seen Miss b.u.t.terfly yet?"
"Not by that name, at any rate. Who is she?"
"Oh, the name"s my own invention. Mademoiselle Volauvent, I mean--the little bit of whirligig thistledown from Devonshire, Oswald"s sister, you know, of Oriel."
"Ah, that one! Yes; just caught a glimpse of her in the High on Thursday. Very pretty, certainly, and as airy as a humming-bird."
"That"s her! She"s coming here to lunch this morning. If you"re a good boy, and will promise not to say anything naughty, you may stop and meet her. She"s a nice little thing, but rather timid at seeing so many fresh faces. You mustn"t frighten her by discussing the Absolute and the Unconditioned, or bore her by talking about Aristotle"s Politics, or the revolutions in Corcyra. For you know, my dear Le Breton, if you HAVE a fault, it is that you"re such a consummate and irrepressible prig; now aren"t you really?"
"I"m hardly a fair judge on that subject, I suppose, Berkeley; but if YOU have a rudimentary glimmering of a virtue, it is that you"re such a deliciously frank and yet considerate critic. I"ll pocket your rudeness though, and eat your lunch, in spite of it. Is Miss b.u.t.terfly, as you call her, as stand-off as her brother?"
"Not at all. She"s accueillante to the last degree."
"Very restricted, I suppose--a country girl of the first water?
Horizon absolutely bounded by the high hedges of her native parish?"
"Oh dear no! Anything but that. She"s like her brother, naturally quick and adaptive."
"Oswald"s an excellent fellow in his way," said Herbert, b.u.t.ton-holing his own waistcoat; "but he"s spoilt by two bad traits. In the first place, he"s so dreadfully conscious of the fact that he has risen from a lower position; and then, again, he"s so engrossingly and pervadingly mathematical. X square seems to have seized upon him bodily, and to have wormed its fatal way into his very marrow."
"Ah, you must remember, he"s true to his first love. Culture came to him first, while yet he abode in Philistia, under the playful disguise of a conic section. He scaled his way out of Gath by means of a treatise on elementary trigonometry, and evaded Askelon on the wings of an undulatory theory of light. It is different with us, you know, who have emerged from the land of darkness by the regular cla.s.sical and literary highway. We feed upon Rabelais and Burton; he flits carelessly from flower to flower of the theory of Quantics. If he were an idealist painter, like Rossetti, he would paint great allegorical pictures for us, representing an asymptotic curve appearing to him in a dream, and introducing that blushing maiden, Hyperbola, to his affectionate consideration."
As Berkeley spoke, a rap sounded on the oak, and Ernest Le Breton entered the room.
"What, you here, Herbert?" he said with a shade of displeasure in his tone. "Are you, too, of the bidden?"
"Berkeley has asked me to stop and lunch with him, if that"s what you mean."
"We shall be quite a party," said Ernest, seating himself, and looking abstractedly round the room. "Why, Berkeley," as his eye fell upon the Venetian vase, "you"ve positively got some more gew-gaws here.
This one"s new, isn"t it? Eh!"
"Yes. I picked it up for a song, this long, at a stranded village in the Apennines. Literally for a song, for it cost me just what I got from Fradelli for that last little piece of mine. It"s very pretty, isn"t it?"
"Very; exquisite, really; the blending of the tones is so perfect.
I wish I knew what to think about these things. I can"t make up my mind about them. Sometimes I think it"s all right to make them and buy them; sometimes I think it"s all wrong."
"Oh, if that"s your difficulty," said Berkeley, pulling his white tie straight at the tiny round looking-gla.s.s, "I can easily rea.s.sure you. Do you think a hundred and eighty pounds a year an excessive sum for one person to spend upon his own entire living?"
"It doesn"t seem so, as expenses go amongst US," said Ernest, seriously, "though I dare say it would look like shocking extravagance to a working man with a wife and family."
"Very well, that"s the very outside I ever spend upon myself in any one year, for the excellent reason that it"s all I ever get to spend in any way. Now, why shouldn"t I spend it on the things that please me best and are joys for ever, instead of on the things that disappear at once and perish in the using?"
"Ah, but that"s not the whole question," Ernest answered, looking at the curate fixedly. "What right have you and I to spend so much when others are wanting for bread? And what right have you or I to make other people work at producing these useless trinkets for our sole selfish gratification?"
"Well now, Le Breton," said the parson, a.s.suming a more serious tone, "you know you"re a reasonable creature, so I don"t mind discussing this question with you. You"ve got an ethical foundation to your nature, and you want to see things done on decent grounds of distributive justice. There I am one with you. But you"ve also got an aesthetic side to your nature, which makes you worth arguing with upon the matter. I won"t argue with your vulgar materialised socialist, who would break up the frieze of the Parthenon for road metal, or pull down Giotto"s frescoes because they represent scenes in the fabulous lives of saints and martyrs. You know what a work of art is when you see it; and therefore you"re worth arguing with, which your vulgar Continental socialist really isn"t. The one cogent argument for him is the whiff of grape-shot."
"I recognise," said Ernest, "that the works of art, of poetry, or of music, which we possess are a grand inheritance from the past; and I would do all I could to preserve them intact for those that come after us."
"I"m sure you would. No restoration or tinkering in you, I"m certain. Well, then, would you give anything for a world which hadn"t got this aesthetic side to its corporate existence? Would you give anything for a world which didn"t care at all for painting, sculpture, music, poetry? I wouldn"t. I don"t want such a world.
I won"t countenance such a world. I"ll do nothing to further or advance such a world. It"s utterly repugnant to me, and I banish it, as Themistocles banished the Athenians."
"But consider," said Ernest, "we live in a world where men and women are actually starving. How can we reconcile to our consciences the spending of one penny on one useless thing when others are dying of sheer want, and cold, and nakedness? That"s the great question that"s always oppressing my poor dissatisfied conscience."
"So it does everybody"s--except Herbert"s: he explains it all on biological grounds as the beautiful discriminative action of natural selection. Simple, but not consolatory. Still, look at the other side of the question. Suppose you and everybody else were to give up all superfluities, and confine all your energies to the unlimited production of bare necessaries. Suppose you occupy every acre of land with your corn-fields, or your piggeries; and sweep away all the parks, and woods, and heaths, and moorlands in England.
Suppose you keep on letting your population multiply as fast as it chooses--and it WILL multiply, you know, in that ugly, reckless, anti-Malthusian fashion of its own--till every rood of ground maintains its man, and only just maintains him; and what will you have got then?"
"A dead level of abject pauperism," put in Herbert blandly; "a reductio ad absurdum of all your visionary Schurzian philosophy, my dear Ernest. Look at it another way, now, and just consider.
Which really and truly matters most to you and me, a great work of art or a highly respectable h.o.r.n.y-handed son of toil, whose acquaintance we have never had the pleasure of personally making?
Suppose you read in the Times that the respectable h.o.r.n.y-handed one has fallen off a scaffolding and broken his neck; and that the Dresden Madonna has been burnt by an unexpected accident; which of the two items of intelligence affects you the most acutely? My dear fellow, you may push your humanitarian enthusiasm as far as ever you like; but in your heart of hearts you know as well as I do that you"ll deeply regret the loss of the Madonna, and you"ll never think again about the fate of the respectable h.o.r.n.y-handed, his wife or children."
Ernest"s answer, if he had any to make, was effectually nipped in the bud by the entrance of the scout, who came in to announce Mr.