PARNASSUS AND PUDDINGS.
“When for the first time Nature says plain ‘No’
To some ‘Yes’ in you, and walks over you
In gorgeous sweeps of scorn.”
Pip had not spoken to Meg for over three weeks. There had been one
fiery outbreak consequent upon Miss Jones’ dismissal of him. When he
learnt Meg had been to her he had accused his sister of treachery, of
trying to ruin his happiness; he had been willing, he said, to put off
the question of marriage for a year or two, but no power on earth would
have made him promise to give Mabelle up.
And she had given him up! Put him aside as if he had been a schoolboy,
or a worn-out glove! And with astonishing firmness. He had even seen
her already walking out with a man who sold saucepans and kettles and
fire-grates in the one business street of the suburb.
No wonder his cup of bitterness seemed running over; no wonder he felt
Meg had sinned beyond forgiveness in thus interfering.
His last examination had not, it was found, been hopelessly bad, and he
had been granted a “_post mortem_.” But even then he did not attempt
to work. He used certainly, to stay in his bedroom, where his table
stood with its wild confusion of books and papers, but he would sit
hour after hour staring moodily in front of him, with never a glance
at the Todhunter or Berkeley that so urgently required his attention.
Or he would read poetry, lying full length on his bed,—Keats, Shelley,
and Byron, tales of blighted passion and hopeless grief, till his eyes
would ache with the tears his young manhood forbade to fall, tears of
huge self-pity and misery.
Surely since the creation there had been no one quite so wretched,
so utterly bereft of all that made life worth living! How grey and
monotonous stretched out the future before him! The probable length
of his life made him aghast. The sheer uselessness of living, the
hollow mockery of the sunshine and laughter and birds’ songs, and the
intolerable length of hours and days, seemed each day to strike him
with fresh force.
After a certain time his mood induced poetic outpourings. He thought
himself just as wretched,—even more so, indeed; but the mere fact that
his feelings were able to relieve themselves in this way showed the
first keenness was passing.
[Illustration: “HE WOULD SIT HOUR AFTER HOUR STARING MOODILY IN FRONT
OF HIM.”]
Sheet after sheet of University paper was covered with wild,
impassioned addresses in the shape of sonnets and odes, or, when the
pen was too full for studied forms, of eloquent blank verse.
For instance, the following poem struck him as exceptionally fine. He
composed it at midnight, after eating his heart out in misery all the
day. It was written in his blackest writing, as might be expected,
and upon a sheet of grey note paper,—the University buff had suddenly
offended his sense of fitness.
“Oh, what is life when all its joys are fled!
I am in love with Death’s long dreamful ease.
Over my head I hear th’ unwelcome tread
Of future years; my aching eye still sees
New suns arise and set, and seasons wane.
I would take arms against this sea of pain,
I would embrace Earth’s sea and sink to rest,
For ever lulled upon her soothing breast!
I would fling off this gift of Life, as you,
O bitter Love, flung me aside, your you!
O Love, O Love, O bitter, beauteous Love,
Heartless and cold, but still my one fair dove!
What is this life that some find strangely fair,
When but to think brings sorrow and despair?
What is this life when love, your love, lies dead,
And mine, too much alive, slays me instead?
I will give up, go down,—there is a sea,
A winding sheet, kept cool and green for me.
I will give up, go down! Yet, Love, but smile,
But stretch to me that hand so soft and white,
That seemed my own, that sad, sweet little while,
And all grows day, for ever dead the night.”
He was not at all sure when he read it the eighth or ninth time
that the mantle of the “Sun-treader” had not fallen upon him, that
Helicon’s drying fount would not spring up afresh at his bidding.
Other men in love, he knew, had made verses, but they were of the
mawkish, sentimental kind his more fastidious taste rejected, the kind
that generally began something like—
“Oh, Star of Beauty, all the night
Thou shinest in the sky;
For thee the dark doth grow quite bright—
Oh, hear my plaintive sigh!”
His, he felt, were strong with the strength born of fathomless misery,
and sweet with the bitter-sweet of undying and spurned love.
One day he met Mabelle; she was walking to church with her fat, honest
old mother, who preferred a man of saucepans with money far before one
of irreproachable shirt cuffs and empty pockets.
She smiled at him from her brown, beautifully lashed eyes, a kind of
for-goodness-sake-try-to-make-the-best-of-it-and-don’t-look-so-tragic
smile, but he interpreted it as a sign of softening. When he got home
he sent her the poem,—if anything in the wide world could touch her
beautiful, stony heart he thought that would.
He entrusted it to the common post, and waited with an undisciplined
heart for the answer.
It came on a Monday morning. Poppet took it from the postman and
carried it up to him, but she was too busy with a scheme of Bunty’s to
notice how white he turned, and how his hand trembled.
It was painfully short and to the point:—
“What’s the use of writing poetery to me when all’s up and done
with? I showed it to Ma and Pa and some one else, and they thort it
very fine; but said you oughtent to write it as some one else writes
poetery for me now. I think it’s very nice of course and I’ll keep it
this time but don’t send any more.
“Your friend only and nothing more,
“Miss Jones (not Mabelle).
“P.S.—I suppose I may as well tell you as I’m engaged to be married
to Mr. Wilkes.”
That was Pip’s death-blow, and, if a paradox may be allowed, from that
minute he began to live again.
The thought that his cherished poem had been submitted to the critical
gaze of a man who sold frying pans and wrote “poetery” himself, stung
him to madness. He sat down and attacked his hydrostatics with savage
frenzy to prevent himself doing anything desperate.
He even played in a football match the next week, a thing he had not
done for a long time; and he took food less under protest.
But Meg he could not forgive; his manner to her, if compelled to
speak, was cold and contemptuous; when possible he totally ignored her
presence.
The girl found such conduct very hard indeed to bear from her favourite
brother, especially as it was only her keen anxiety for his welfare
that had made her act as she had done; she bore it in silence, however,
and without reproaching him. Some day, she knew, he would thank her
from his heart, and for the present she must content herself to lie
under the ban of his displeasure.
To solace herself she took to making puddings, learning the
technicalities of meat cooking, and concocting queer-smelling bottles
of stuff she labelled mushroom ketchup, tomato sauce, and Australian
chutnee in her neatest hand.
Esther smiled a little when first these operations began. Meg had
hitherto expressed the frankest dislike for culinary engagements.
Nellie laughed openly.
“Her ’prentice hand she tried on us,
And then she cooked for Alan, oh!”
she said one day, shaking her head as she eyed a surprisingly
queer-looking conglomeration Meg called amber pudding.
“Many thanks, but no, Meg dearest; I think I will finish with honest
bread and cheese!”
“Esther?” said Meg, pausing with uplifted tablespoon, and taking no
notice of Nell’s sarcasm beyond blushing finely. “You’ll try a little,
won’t you? I’m sure it’s very nice.”
But even Esther looked dubious; the frothed icing on top had an elegant
appearance certainly, but underneath was a mass of strange colour and
consistency.
“Dear Meg,” she said, “I am like the French lady, you know,—I eat only
my acquaintances. Nellie, pass me the cheese.”
But this sort of thing did not damp Meg’s spirits, not at least for
more than a day or two.
Perhaps the next three or four puddings would be long-established
favourites that no one could take exception to, but after that there
would appear one or two of French title and unknown quantities. Now
and again indeed they turned out brilliant successes, that every one
praised and longed for more of; but most often, it must be confessed,
they were failures, very trying to the tempers and digestions of all
who ventured on a helping.
“It was well to be Alan,” Nellie said, “with nine innocent people
submitting themselves daily to the dangers of poisoning or lifelong
indigestion, just that in future he might escape and have his palate
continually pleased.”
“If I can’t practise on my own family,” demanded Meg, smiling however,
“how am I to get experience? All of you have excellent digestions, so
it will not do you any real harm.”
And she persevered with so much determination that they only groaned
inwardly when a “confection à la Marguerite,” as Nellie called it,
took the place of old favourites, such as plum puddings, apple pies,
roly-polys and Queens. Every one accepted their portion in meekness,
and really tried to say encouraging things, especially if her face was
hot and anxious.
Bunty was just beginning to find his place in the family again. But
he was a changed boy. No one could doubt that those five hard months
had had the most beneficial effect on his character, although they had
made him so white and hollow-cheeked. He was stronger morally, more
self-reliant. The rough usage he had received seemed to have quite
dissipated his cowardice, and with it the inclination to falsehood. He
was almost pitifully careful not to make the slightest untrue statement
about anything; and now the barriers of reserve between himself and
Meg were broken down, she was able to help him more, and put herself
more in his place.
Poppet was as much as ever his faithful little companion; there was
absolutely nothing the child would not have done for this dear,
recovered brother. She even consulted Meg as to the practicability of
learning Latin, just that she might look up his words for him every
evening in the dictionary.
But as three-syllabled words in her own language made her pucker up
her poor little brows, and as English grammar still had power to draw
weary, dispirited tears, Meg advised a short postponement.