"It does," I agreed; "that is where the dear lad"s cleverness displays itself. Its appearance disarms suspicion. With judgment that chair might be made to serve a really useful purpose. There are mutual acquaintances of ours--I mention no names, you will know them--pompous, self-satisfied, superior persons who would be improved by that chair.
If I were Willie I should disguise the mechanism with some artistic drapery, bait the thing with a couple of exceptionally inviting cushions, and employ it to inculcate modesty and diffidence. I defy any human being to get out of that chair, feeling as important as when he got into it. What the dear boy has done has been to construct an automatic exponent of the transitory nature of human greatness. As a moral agency that chair should prove a blessing in disguise."
My hostess smiled feebly; more, I fear, from politeness than genuine enjoyment.
"I think you are too severe," she said. "When you remember that the boy has never tried his hand at anything of the kind before, that he has no knowledge and no experience, it really is not so bad."
Considering the matter from that point of view I was bound to concur.
I did not like to suggest to her that before entering upon a difficult task it would be better for young men to ACQUIRE knowledge and experience: that is so unpopular a theory.
But the thing that The Amateur put in the front and foremost of its propaganda was the manufacture of household furniture out of egg-boxes.
Why egg-boxes I have never been able to understand, but egg-boxes, according to the prescription of The Amateur, formed the foundation of household existence. With a sufficient supply of egg-boxes, and what The Amateur termed a "natural deftness," no young couple need hesitate to face the furnishing problem. Three egg-boxes made a writing-table; on another egg-box you sat to write; your books were ranged in egg-boxes around you--and there was your study, complete.
For the dining-room two egg-boxes made an overmantel; four egg-boxes and a piece of looking-gla.s.s a sideboard; while six egg-boxes, with some wadding and a yard or so of cretonne, const.i.tuted a so-called "cosy corner." About the "corner" there could be no possible doubt. You sat on a corner, you leant against a corner; whichever way you moved you struck a fresh corner. The "cosiness," however, I deny. Egg-boxes I admit can be made useful; I am even prepared to imagine them ornamental; but "cosy," no. I have sampled egg-boxes in many shapes. I speak of years ago, when the world and we were younger, when our fortune was the Future; secure in which, we hesitated not to set up house upon incomes folks with lesser expectations might have deemed insufficient. Under such circ.u.mstances, the sole alternative to the egg-box, or similar school of furniture, would have been the strictly cla.s.sical, consisting of a doorway joined to architectural proportions.
I have from Sat.u.r.day to Monday, as honoured guest, hung my clothes in egg-boxes.
I have sat on an egg-box at an egg-box to take my dish of tea. I have made love on egg-boxes.--Aye, and to feel again the blood running through my veins as then it ran, I would be content to sit only on egg-boxes till the time should come when I could be buried in an egg-box, with an egg-box reared above me as tombstone.--I have spent many an evening on an egg-box; I have gone to bed in egg-boxes. They have their points--I am intending no pun--but to claim for them cosiness would be but to deceive.
How quaint they were, those home-made rooms! They rise out of the shadows and shape themselves again before my eyes. I see the k.n.o.bbly sofa; the easy-chairs that might have been designed by the Grand Inquisitor himself; the dented settle that was a bed by night; the few blue plates, purchased in the slums off Wardour Street; the enamelled stool to which one always stuck; the mirror framed in silk; the two j.a.panese fans crossed beneath each cheap engraving; the piano cloth embroidered in peac.o.c.k"s feathers by Annie"s sister; the tea-cloth worked by Cousin Jenny. We dreamt, sitting on those egg-boxes--for we were young ladies and gentlemen with artistic taste--of the days when we would eat in Chippendale dining-rooms; sip our coffee in Louis Quatorze drawing-rooms; and be happy. Well, we have got on, some of us, since then, as Mr. b.u.mpus used to say; and I notice, when on visits, that some of us have contrived so that we do sit on Chippendale chairs, at Sheraton dining-tables, and are warmed from Adam"s fireplaces; but, ah me, where are the dreams, the hopes, the enthusiasms that clung like the scent of a March morning about those gim-crack second floors? In the dustbin, I fear, with the cretonne-covered egg-boxes and the penny fans.
Fate is so terribly even-handed. As she gives she ever takes away. She flung us a few shillings and hope, where now she doles us out pounds and fears. Why did not we know how happy we were, sitting crowned with sweet conceit upon our egg-box thrones?
Yes, d.i.c.k, you have climbed well. You edit a great newspaper. You spread abroad the message--well, the message that Sir Joseph Goldbug, your proprietor, instructs you to spread abroad. You teach mankind the lessons that Sir Joseph Goldbug wishes them to learn. They say he is to have a peerage next year. I am sure he has earned it; and perhaps there may be a knighthood for you, d.i.c.k.
Tom, you are getting on now. You have abandoned those unsaleable allegories. What rich art patron cares to be told continually by his own walls that Midas had a.s.s"s ears; that Lazarus sits ever at the gate? You paint portraits now, and everybody tells me you are the coming man. That "Impression" of old Lady Jezebel was really wonderful. The woman looks quite handsome, and yet it is her ladyship. Your touch is truly marvellous.
But into your success, Tom--d.i.c.k, old friend, do not there creep moments when you would that we could fish up those old egg-boxes from the past, refurnish with them the dingy rooms in Camden Town, and find there our youth, our loves, and our beliefs?
An incident brought back to my mind, the other day, the thought of all these things. I called for the first time upon a man, an actor, who had asked me to come and see him in the little home where he lives with his old father. To my astonishment--for the craze, I believe, has long since died out--I found the house half furnished out of packing cases, b.u.t.ter tubs, and egg-boxes. My friend earns his twenty pounds a week, but it was the old father"s hobby, so he explained to me, the making of these monstrosities; and of them he was as proud as though they were specimen furniture out of the South Kensington Museum.
He took me into the dining-room to show me the latest outrage--a new book-case. A greater disfigurement to the room, which was otherwise prettily furnished, could hardly be imagined. There was no need for him to a.s.sure me, as he did, that it had been made out of nothing but egg-boxes. One could see at a glance that it was made out of egg-boxes, and badly constructed egg-boxes at that--egg-boxes that were a disgrace to the firm that had turned them out; egg-boxes not worthy the storage of "shop "uns" at eighteen the shilling.
We went upstairs to my friend"s bedroom. He opened the door as a man might open the door of a museum of gems.
"The old boy," he said, as he stood with his hand upon the door-k.n.o.b, "made everything you see here, everything," and we entered. He drew my attention to the wardrobe. "Now I will hold it up," he said, "while you pull the door open; I think the floor must be a bit uneven, it wobbles if you are not careful." It wobbled notwithstanding, but by coaxing and humouring we succeeded without mishap. I was surprised to notice a very small supply of clothes within, although my friend is a dressy man.
"You see," he explained, "I dare not use it more than I can help. I am a clumsy chap, and as likely as not, if I happened to be in a hurry, I"d have the whole thing over:" which seemed probable.
I asked him how he contrived. "I dress in the bath-room as a rule," he replied; "I keep most of my things there. Of course the old boy doesn"t know."
He showed me a chest of drawers. One drawer stood half open.
"I"m bound to leave that drawer open," he said; "I keep the things I use in that. They don"t shut quite easily, these drawers; or rather, they shut all right, but then they won"t open. It is the weather, I think.
They will open and shut all right in the summer, I dare say." He is of a hopeful disposition.
But the pride of the room was the washstand.
"What do you think of this?" cried he enthusiastically, "real marble top--"
He did not expatiate further. In his excitement he had laid his hand upon the thing, with the natural result that it collapsed. More by accident than design I caught the jug in my arms. I also caught the water it contained. The basin rolled on its edge and little damage was done, except to me and the soap-box.
I could not pump up much admiration for this washstand; I was feeling too wet.
"What do you do when you want to wash?" I asked, as together we reset the trap.
There fell upon him the manner of a conspirator revealing secrets. He glanced guiltily round the room; then, creeping on tip-toe, he opened a cupboard behind the bed. Within was a tin basin and a small can.
"Don"t tell the old boy," he said. "I keep these things here, and wash on the floor."
That was the best thing I myself ever got out of egg-boxes--that picture of a deceitful son stealthily washing himself upon the floor behind the bed, trembling at every footstep lest it might be the "old boy" coming to the door.
One wonders whether the Ten Commandments are so all-sufficient as we good folk deem them--whether the eleventh is not worth the whole pack of them: "that ye love one another" with just a common-place, human, practical love. Could not the other ten be comfortably stowed away into a corner of that! One is inclined, in one"s anarchic moments, to agree with Louis Stevenson, that to be amiable and cheerful is a good religion for a work-a-day world. We are so busy NOT killing, NOT stealing, NOT coveting our neighbour"s wife, we have not time to be even just to one another for the little while we are together here. Need we be so c.o.c.ksure that our present list of virtues and vices is the only possibly correct and complete one? Is the kind, unselfish man necessarily a villain because he does not always succeed in suppressing his natural instincts? Is the narrow-hearted, sour-souled man, incapable of a generous thought or act, necessarily a saint because he has none?
Have we not--we unco guid--arrived at a wrong method of estimating our frailer brothers and sisters? We judge them, as critics judge books, not by the good that is in them, but by their faults. Poor King David! What would the local Vigilance Society have had to say to him?
Noah, according to our plan, would be denounced from every teetotal platform in the country, and Ham would head the Local Vestry poll as a reward for having exposed him. And St. Peter! weak, frail St. Peter, how lucky for him that his fellow-disciples and their Master were not as strict in their notions of virtue as are we to-day.
Have we not forgotten the meaning of the word "virtue"? Once it stood for the good that was in a man, irrespective of the evil that might lie there also, as tares among the wheat. We have abolished virtue, and for it subst.i.tuted virtues. Not the hero--he was too full of faults--but the blameless valet; not the man who does any good, but the man who has not been found out in any evil, is our modern ideal. The most virtuous thing in nature, according to this new theory, should be the oyster. He is always at home, and always sober. He is not noisy. He gives no trouble to the police. I cannot think of a single one of the Ten Commandments that he ever breaks. He never enjoys himself, and he never, so long as he lives, gives a moment"s pleasure to any other living thing.
I can imagine the oyster lecturing a lion on the subject of morality.
"You never hear me," the oyster might say, "howling round camps and villages, making night hideous, frightening quiet folk out of their lives. Why don"t you go to bed early, as I do? I never prowl round the oyster-bed, fighting other gentlemen oysters, making love to lady oysters already married. I never kill antelopes or missionaries. Why can"t you live as I do on salt water and germs, or whatever it is that I do live on? Why don"t you try to be more like me?"
An oyster has no evil pa.s.sions, therefore we say he is a virtuous fish.
We never ask ourselves--"Has he any good pa.s.sions?" A lion"s behaviour is often such as no just man could condone. Has he not his good points also?
Will the fat, sleek, "virtuous" man be as Welcome at the gate of heaven as he supposes?
"Well," St. Peter may say to him, opening the door a little way and looking him up and down, "what is it now?"
"It"s me," the virtuous man will reply, with an oily, self-satisfied smile; "I should say, I--I"ve come."
"Yes, I see you have come; but what is your claim to admittance? What have you done with your three score years and ten?"
"Done!" the virtuous man will answer, "I have done nothing, I a.s.sure you."
"Nothing!"
"Nothing; that is my strong point; that is why I am here. I have never done any wrong."
"And what good have you done?"
"What good!"
"Aye, what good? Do not you even know the meaning of the word? What human creature is the better for your having eaten and drunk and slept these years? You have done no harm--no harm to yourself. Perhaps, if you had you might have done some good with it; the two are generally to be found together down below, I remember. What good have you done that you should enter here? This is no mummy chamber; this is the place of men and women who have lived, who have wrought good--and evil also, alas!--for the sinners who fight for the right, not the righteous who run with their souls from the fight."
It was not, however, to speak of these things that I remembered The Amateur and its lessons. My intention was but to lead up to the story of a certain small boy, who in the doing of tasks not required of him was exceedingly clever. I wish to tell you his story, because, as do most true tales, it possesses a moral, and stories without a moral I deem to be but foolish literature, resembling roads that lead to nowhere, such as sick folk tramp for exercise.
I have known this little boy to take an expensive eight-day clock to pieces, and make of it a toy steamboat. True, it was not, when made, very much of a steamboat; but taking into consideration all the difficulties--the inadaptability of eight-day clock machinery to steamboat requirements, the necessity of getting the work accomplished quickly, before conservatively-minded people with no enthusiasm for science could interfere--a good enough steamboat. With merely an ironing-board and a few dozen meat-skewers, he would--provided the ironing-board was not missed in time--turn out quite a practicable rabbit-hutch. He could make a gun out of an umbrella and a gas-bracket, which, if not so accurate as a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more deadly. With half the garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan out of the dairy, and a few Dresden china ornaments off the drawing-room mantelpiece, he would build a fountain for the garden. He could make bookshelves out of kitchen tables, and crossbows out of crinolines. He could dam you a stream so that all the water would flow over the croquet lawn. He knew how to make red paint and oxygen gas, together with many other suchlike commodities handy to have about a house. Among other things he learned how to make fireworks, and after a few explosions of an unimportant character, came to make them very well indeed. The boy who can play a good game of cricket is liked. The boy who can fight well is respected. The boy who can cheek a master is loved. But the boy who can make fireworks is revered above all others as a boy belonging to a superior order of beings. The fifth of November was at hand, and with the consent of an indulgent mother, he determined to give to the world a proof of his powers. A large party of friends, relatives, and school-mates was invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the scullery was converted into a manufactory for fireworks. The female servants went about in hourly terror of their lives, and the villa, did we judge exclusively by smell, one might have imagined had been taken over by Satan, his main premises being inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By the evening of the fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested to make sure that no contretemps should occur the following night. All was found to be perfect.
The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the Roman candles tossed their fiery b.a.l.l.s into the darkness, the Catherine wheels sparkled and whirled, the crackers cracked, and the squibs banged. That night he went to bed a proud and happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He stood surrounded by blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him.