No man likes to acknowledge that he has made a mistake in the choice of
his profession, and every man, worthy of the name, will row long against
wind and tide before he allows himself to cry out, “I am baffled!” and
submits to be floated passively back to land. From the first week of my
residence in X---- I felt my occupation irksome. The thing itself--the
work of copying and translating business-letters--was a dry and tedious
task enough, but had that been all, I should long have borne with the
nuisance; I am not of an impatient nature, and influenced by the double
desire of getting my living and justifying to myself and others the
resolution I had taken to become a tradesman, I should have endured
in silence the rust and cramp of my best faculties; I should not have
whispered, even inwardly, that I longed for liberty; I should have pent
in every sigh by which my heart might have ventured to intimate its
distress under the closeness, smoke, monotony and joyless tumult of
Bigben Close, and its panting desire for freer and fresher scenes; I
should have set up the image of Duty, the fetish of Perseverance, in my
small bedroom at Mrs. King’s lodgings, and they two should have been
my household gods, from which my darling, my cherished-in-secret,
Imagination, the tender and the mighty, should never, either by softness
or strength, have severed me. But this was not all; the antipathy which
had sprung up between myself and my employer striking deeper root and
spreading denser shade daily, excluded me from every glimpse of the
sunshine of life; and I began to feel like a plant growing in humid
darkness out of the slimy walls of a well.
Antipathy is the only word which can express the feeling Edward
Crimsworth had for me--a feeling, in a great measure, involuntary, and
which was liable to be excited by every, the most trifling movement,
look, or word of mine. My southern accent annoyed him; the degree
of education evinced in my language irritated him; my punctuality,
industry, and accuracy, fixed his dislike, and gave it the high flavour
and poignant relish of envy; he feared that I too should one day make a
successful tradesman. Had I been in anything inferior to him, he would
not have hated me so thoroughly, but I knew all that he knew, and, what
was worse, he suspected that I kept the padlock of silence on mental
wealth in which he was no sharer. If he could have once placed me in a
ridiculous or mortifying position, he would have forgiven me much, but I
was guarded by three faculties--Caution, Tact, Observation; and
prowling and prying as was Edward’s malignity, it could never baffle
the lynx-eyes of these, my natural sentinels. Day by day did his malice
watch my tact, hoping it would sleep, and prepared to steal snake-like
on its slumber; but tact, if it be genuine, never sleeps.
I had received my first quarter’s wages, and was returning to my
lodgings, possessed heart and soul with the pleasant feeling that
the master who had paid me grudged every penny of that hard-earned
pittance--(I had long ceased to regard Mr. Crimsworth as my brother--he
was a hard, grinding master; he wished to be an inexorable tyrant: that
was all). Thoughts, not varied but strong, occupied my mind; two voices
spoke within me; again and again they uttered the same monotonous
phrases. One said: “William, your life is intolerable.” The other: “What
can you do to alter it?” I walked fast, for it was a cold, frosty night
in January; as I approached my lodgings, I turned from a general view of
my affairs to the particular speculation as to whether my fire would be
out; looking towards the window of my sitting-room, I saw no cheering
red gleam.
“That slut of a servant has neglected it as usual,” said I, “and I shall
see nothing but pale ashes if I go in; it is a fine starlight night--I
will walk a little farther.”
It WAS a fine night, and the streets were dry and even clean for X----;
there was a crescent curve of moonlight to be seen by the parish church
tower, and hundreds of stars shone keenly bright in all quarters of the
sky.
Unconsciously I steered my course towards the country; I had got into
Grove-street, and began to feel the pleasure of seeing dim trees at the
extremity, round a suburban house, when a person leaning over the iron
gate of one of the small gardens which front the neat dwelling-houses in
this street, addressed me as I was hurrying with quick stride past.
“What the deuce is the hurry? Just so must Lot have left Sodom, when he
expected fire to pour down upon it, out of burning brass clouds.”
I stopped short, and looked towards the speaker. I smelt the fragrance,
and saw the red spark of a cigar; the dusk outline of a man, too, bent
towards me over the wicket.
“You see I am meditating in the field at eventide,” continued this
shade. “God knows it’s cool work! especially as instead of Rebecca on
a camel’s hump, with bracelets on her arms and a ring in her nose, Fate
sends me only a counting-house clerk, in a grey tweed wrapper.” The
voice was familiar to me--its second utterance enabled me to seize the
speaker’s identity.
“Mr. Hunsden! good evening.”
“Good evening, indeed! yes, but you would have passed me without
recognition if I had not been so civil as to speak first.”
“I did not know you.”
“A famous excuse! You ought to have known me; I knew you, though you
were going ahead like a steam-engine. Are the police after you?”
“It wouldn’t be worth their while; I’m not of consequence enough to
attract them.”
“Alas, poor shepherd! Alack and well-a-day! What a theme for regret, and
how down in the mouth you must be, judging from the sound of your voice!
But since you’re not running from the police, from whom are you running?
the devil?”
“On the contrary, I am going post to him.”
“That is well--you’re just in luck: this is Tuesday evening; there are
scores of market gigs and carts returning to Dinneford to-night; and he,
or some of his, have a seat in all regularly; so, if you’ll step in
and sit half-an-hour in my bachelor’s parlour, you may catch him as he
passes without much trouble. I think though you’d better let him alone
to-night, he’ll have so many customers to serve; Tuesday is his busy day
in X---- and Dinneford; come in at all events.”
He swung the wicket open as he spoke.
“Do you really wish me to go in?” I asked.
“As you please--I’m alone; your company for an hour or two would be
agreeable to me; but, if you don’t choose to favour me so far, I’ll not
press the point. I hate to bore any one.”
It suited me to accept the invitation as it suited Hunsden to give it.
I passed through the gate, and followed him to the front door, which he
opened; thence we traversed a passage, and entered his parlour; the door
being shut, he pointed me to an arm-chair by the hearth; I sat down, and
glanced round me.
It was a comfortable room, at once snug and handsome; the bright grate
was filled with a genuine ----shire fire, red, clear, and generous, no
penurious South-of-England embers heaped in the corner of a grate. On
the table a shaded lamp diffused around a soft, pleasant, and equal
light; the furniture was almost luxurious for a young bachelor,
comprising a couch and two very easy chairs; bookshelves filled the
recesses on each side of the mantelpiece; they were well-furnished, and
arranged with perfect order. The neatness of the room suited my taste;
I hate irregular and slovenly habits. From what I saw I concluded that
Hunsden’s ideas on that point corresponded with my own. While he removed
from the centre-table to the side-board a few pamphlets and periodicals,
I ran my eye along the shelves of the book-case nearest me. French and
German works predominated, the old French dramatists, sundry modern
authors, Thiers, Villemain, Paul de Kock, George Sand, Eugene Sue; in
German--Goethe, Schiller, Zschokke, Jean Paul Richter; in English there
were works on Political Economy. I examined no further, for Mr. Hunsden
himself recalled my attention.
“You shall have something,” said he, “for you ought to feel disposed for
refreshment after walking nobody knows how far on such a Canadian night
as this; but it shall not be brandy-and-water, and it shall not be
a bottle of port, nor ditto of sherry. I keep no such poison. I have
Rhein-wein for my own drinking, and you may choose between that and
coffee.”
Here again Hunsden suited me: if there was one generally received
practice I abhorred more than another, it was the habitual imbibing of
spirits and strong wines. I had, however, no fancy for his acid German
nectar, but I liked coffee, so I responded--
“Give me some coffee, Mr. Hunsden.”
I perceived my answer pleased him; he had doubtless expected to see a
chilling effect produced by his steady announcement that he would give
me neither wine nor spirits; he just shot one searching glance at my
face to ascertain whether my cordiality was genuine or a mere feint
of politeness. I smiled, because I quite understood him; and, while I
honoured his conscientious firmness, I was amused at his mistrust; he
seemed satisfied, rang the bell, and ordered coffee, which was presently
brought; for himself, a bunch of grapes and half a pint of something
sour sufficed. My coffee was excellent; I told him so, and expressed the
shuddering pity with which his anchorite fare inspired me. He did not
answer, and I scarcely think heard my remark. At that moment one of
those momentary eclipses I before alluded to had come over his face,
extinguishing his smile, and replacing, by an abstracted and alienated
look, the customarily shrewd, bantering glance of his eye. I employed
the interval of silence in a rapid scrutiny of his physiognomy. I had
never observed him closely before; and, as my sight is very short, I had
gathered only a vague, general idea of his appearance; I was surprised
now, on examination, to perceive how small, and even feminine, were his
lineaments; his tall figure, long and dark locks, his voice and general
bearing, had impressed me with the notion of something powerful and
massive; not at all:--my own features were cast in a harsher and squarer
mould than his. I discerned that there would be contrasts between his
inward and outward man; contentions, too; for I suspected his soul
had more of will and ambition than his body had of fibre and muscle.
Perhaps, in these incompatibilities of the “physique” with the “morale,”
lay the secret of that fitful gloom; he WOULD but COULD not, and the
athletic mind scowled scorn on its more fragile companion. As to his
good looks, I should have liked to have a woman’s opinion on that
subject; it seemed to me that his face might produce the same effect
on a lady that a very piquant and interesting, though scarcely pretty,
female face would on a man. I have mentioned his dark locks--they were
brushed sideways above a white and sufficiently expansive forehead; his
cheek had a rather hectic freshness; his features might have done well
on canvas, but indifferently in marble: they were plastic; character
had set a stamp upon each; expression re-cast them at her pleasure, and
strange metamorphoses she wrought, giving him now the mien of a morose
bull, and anon that of an arch and mischievous girl; more frequently,
the two semblances were blent, and a queer, composite countenance they
made.
Starting from his silent fit, he began:--
“William! what a fool you are to live in those dismal lodgings of Mrs.
King’s, when you might take rooms here in Grove Street, and have a
garden like me!”
“I should be too far from the mill.”
“What of that? It would do you good to walk there and back two or three
times a day; besides, are you such a fossil that you never wish to see a
flower or a green leaf?”
“I am no fossil.”
“What are you then? You sit at that desk in Crimsworth’s counting-house
day by day and week by week, scraping with a pen on paper, just like an
automaton; you never get up; you never say you are tired; you never ask
for a holiday; you never take change or relaxation; you give way to
no excess of an evening; you neither keep wild company, nor indulge in
strong drink.”
“Do you, Mr. Hunsden?”
“Don’t think to pose me with short questions; your case and mine
are diametrically different, and it is nonsense attempting to draw a
parallel. I say, that when a man endures patiently what ought to be
unendurable, he is a fossil.”
“Whence do you acquire the knowledge of my patience?”
“Why, man, do you suppose you are a mystery? The other night you seemed
surprised at my knowing to what family you belonged; now you find
subject for wonderment in my calling you patient. What do you think I do
with my eyes and ears? I’ve been in your counting-house more than once
when Crimsworth has treated you like a dog; called for a book, for
instance, and when you gave him the wrong one, or what he chose to
consider the wrong one, flung it back almost in your face; desired you
to shut or open the door as if you had been his flunkey; to say nothing
of your position at the party about a month ago, where you had neither
place nor partner, but hovered about like a poor, shabby hanger-on; and
how patient you were under each and all of these circumstances!”
“Well, Mr. Hunsden, what then?”
“I can hardly tell you what then; the conclusion to be drawn as to
your character depends upon the nature of the motives which guide
your conduct; if you are patient because you expect to make something
eventually out of Crimsworth, notwithstanding his tyranny, or perhaps by
means of it, you are what the world calls an interested and mercenary,
but may be a very wise fellow; if you are patient because you think it a
duty to meet insult with submission, you are an essential sap, and in
no shape the man for my money; if you are patient because your nature is
phlegmatic, flat, inexcitable, and that you cannot get up to the pitch
of resistance, why, God made you to be crushed; and lie down by all
means, and lie flat, and let Juggernaut ride well over you.”
Mr. Hunsden’s eloquence was not, it will be perceived, of the smooth and
oily order. As he spoke, he pleased me ill. I seem to recognize in him
one of those characters who, sensitive enough themselves, are selfishly
relentless towards the sensitiveness of others. Moreover, though he
was neither like Crimsworth nor Lord Tynedale, yet he was acrid, and, I
suspected, overbearing in his way: there was a tone of despotism in
the urgency of the very reproaches by which he aimed at goading the
oppressed into rebellion against the oppressor. Looking at him still
more fixedly than I had yet done, I saw written in his eye and mien a
resolution to arrogate to himself a freedom so unlimited that it might
often trench on the just liberty of his neighbours. I rapidly ran over
these thoughts, and then I laughed a low and involuntary laugh, moved
thereto by a slight inward revelation of the inconsistency of man.
It was as I thought: Hunsden had expected me to take with calm his
incorrect and offensive surmises, his bitter and haughty taunts; and
himself was chafed by a laugh, scarce louder than a whisper.
His brow darkened, his thin nostril dilated a little.
“Yes,” he began, “I told you that you were an aristocrat, and who but
an aristocrat would laugh such a laugh as that, and look such a look?
A laugh frigidly jeering; a look lazily mutinous; gentlemanlike irony,
patrician resentment. What a nobleman you would have made, William
Crimsworth! You are cut out for one; pity Fortune has baulked Nature!
Look at the features, figure, even to the hands--distinction all
over--ugly distinction! Now, if you’d only an estate and a mansion,
and a park, and a title, how you could play the exclusive, maintain the
rights of your class, train your tenantry in habits of respect to the
peerage, oppose at every step the advancing power of the people, support
your rotten order, and be ready for its sake to wade knee-deep in
churls’ blood; as it is, you’ve no power; you can do nothing; you’re
wrecked and stranded on the shores of commerce; forced into collision
with practical men, with whom you cannot cope, for YOU’LL NEVER BE A
TRADESMAN.”
The first part of Hunsden’s speech moved me not at all, or, if it did,
it was only to wonder at the perversion into which prejudice had twisted
his judgment of my character; the concluding sentence, however, not only
moved, but shook me; the blow it gave was a severe one, because Truth
wielded the weapon. If I smiled now, it, was only in disdain of myself.
Hunsden saw his advantage; he followed it up.
“You’ll make nothing by trade,” continued he; “nothing more than the
crust of dry bread and the draught of fair water on which you now live;
your only chance of getting a competency lies in marrying a rich widow,
or running away with an heiress.”
“I leave such shifts to be put in practice by those who devise them,”
said I, rising.
“And even that is hopeless,” he went on coolly. “What widow would have
you? Much less, what heiress? You’re not bold and venturesome enough for
the one, nor handsome and fascinating enough for the other. You think
perhaps you look intelligent and polished; carry your intellect and
refinement to market, and tell me in a private note what price is bid
for them.”
Mr. Hunsden had taken his tone for the night; the string he struck was
out of tune, he would finger no other. Averse to discord, of which I had
enough every day and all day long, I concluded, at last, that silence
and solitude were preferable to jarring converse; I bade him good-night.
“What! Are you going, lad? Well, good-night: you’ll find the door.” And
he sat still in front of the fire, while I left the room and the house.
I had got a good way on my return to my lodgings before I found out that
I was walking very fast, and breathing very hard, and that my nails were
almost stuck into the palms of my clenched hands, and that my teeth were
set fast; on making this discovery, I relaxed both my pace, fists, and
jaws, but I could not so soon cause the regrets rushing rapidly through
my mind to slacken their tide. Why did I make myself a tradesman? Why
did I enter Hunsden’s house this evening? Why, at dawn to-morrow, must
I repair to Crimsworth’s mill? All that night did I ask myself these
questions, and all that night fiercely demanded of my soul an answer. I
got no sleep; my head burned, my feet froze; at last the factory bells
rang, and I sprang from my bed with other slaves.