MY PUPIL.
Although I do happen to know how Miss Oldcastle fared that night after
I left her, the painful record is not essential to my story. Besides, I
have hitherto recorded only those things “quorum pars magna”—or minima,
as the case may be—“fui.” There is one exception, old Weir’s story, for
the introduction of which my reader cannot yet see the artistic reason.
For whether a story be real in fact, or only real in meaning, there
must always be an idea, or artistic model in the brain, after which it
is fashioned: in the latter case one of invention, in the former case
one of choice.
In the middle of the following week I was returning from a visit I had
paid to Tomkins and his wife, when I met, in the only street of the
village, my good and honoured friend Dr Duncan. Of course I saw him
often—and I beg my reader to remember that this is no diary, but only a
gathering together of some of the more remarkable facts of my history,
admitting of being ideally grouped—but this time I recall distinctly
because the interview bore upon many things.
“Well, Dr Duncan,” I said, “busy as usual fighting the devil.”
“Ah, my dear Mr Walton,” returned the doctor—and a kind word from him
went a long way into my heart—“I know what you mean. You fight the
devil from the inside, and I fight him from the outside. My chance is a
poor one.”
“It would be, perhaps, if you were confined to outside remedies. But
what an opportunity your profession gives you of attacking the enemy
from the inside as well! And you have this advantage over us, that no
man can say it belongs to your profession to say such things, and
THEREFORE disregard them.”
“Ah, Mr Walton, I have too great a respect for your profession to dare
to interfere with it. The doctor in ‘Macbeth,’ you know, could
‘not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart.’”
“What a memory you have! But you don’t think I can do that any more
than you?”
“You know the best medicine to give, anyhow. I wish I always did. But
you see we have no _theriaca_ now.”
“Well, we have. For the Lord says, ‘Come unto me, and I will give you
rest.’”
“There! I told you! That will meet all diseases.”
“Strangely now, there comes into my mind a line of Chaucer, with which
I will make a small return for your quotation from Shakespeare; you
have mentioned theriaca; and I, without thinking of this line, quoted
our Lord’s words. Chaucer brings the two together, for the word triacle
is merely a corruption of theriaca, the unfailing cure for every thing.
‘Crist, which that is to every harm triacle.’”
“That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in Chaucer?”
“Yes. In the Man-of-Law’s Tale.”
“Shall I tell you how I was able to quote so correctly from
Shakespeare? I have just come from referring to the passage. And I
mention that because I want to tell you what made me think of the
passage. I had been to see poor Catherine Weir. I think she is not long
for this world. She has a bad cough, and I fear her lungs are going.”
“I am concerned to hear that. I considered her very delicate, and am
not surprised. But I wish, I do wish, I had got a little hold of her
before, that I might be of some use to her now. Is she in immediate
danger, do you think?”
“No. I do not think so. But I have no expectation of her recovery. Very
likely she will just live through the winter and die in the spring.
Those patients so often go as the flowers come! All her coughing, poor
woman, will not cleanse her stuffed bosom. The perilous stuff weighs on
her heart, as Shakespeare says, as well as on her lungs.”
“Ah, dear! What is it, doctor, that weighs upon her heart? Is it shame,
or what is it? for she is so uncommunicative that I hardly know
anything at all about her yet.”
“I cannot tell. She has the faculty of silence.”
“But do not think I complain that she has not made me her confessor. I
only mean that if she would talk at all, one would have a chance of
knowing something of the state of her mind, and so might give her some
help.”
“Perhaps she will break down all at once, and open her mind to you. I
have not told her she is dying. I think a medical man ought at least to
be quite sure before he dares to say such a thing. I have known a long
life injured, to human view at least, by the medical verdict in youth
of ever imminent death.”
“Certainly one has no right to say what God is going to do with any one
till he knows it beyond a doubt. Illness has its own peculiar mission,
independent of any association with coming death, and may often work
better when mingled with the hope of life. I mean we must take care of
presumption when we measure God’s plans by our theories. But could you
not suggest something, Doctor Duncan, to guide me in trying to do my
duty by her?”
“I cannot. You see you don’t know what she is THINKING; and till you
know that, I presume you will agree with me that all is an aim in the
dark. How can I prescribe, without SOME diagnosis? It is just one of
those few cases in which one would like to have the authority of the
Catholic priests to urge confession with. I do not think anything will
save her life, as we say, but you have taught some of us to think of
the life that belongs to the spirit as THE life; and I do believe
confession would do everything for that.”
“Yes, if made to God. But I will grant that communication of one’s
sorrows or even sins to a wise brother of mankind may help to a deeper
confession to the Father in heaven. But I have no wish for AUTHORITY in
the matter. Let us see whether the Spirit of God working in her may not
be quite as powerful for a final illumination of her being as the fiat
confessio of a priest. I have no confidence in FORCING in the moral or
spiritual garden. A hothouse development must necessarily be a sickly
one, rendering the plant unfit for the normal life of the open air.
Wait. We must not hurry things. She will perhaps come to me of herself
before long. But I will call and inquire after her.”
We parted; and I went at once to Catherine Weir’s shop. She received me
much as usual, which was hardly to be called receiving at all. Perhaps
there was a doubtful shadow, not of more cordiality, but of less
repulsion in it. Her eyes were full of a stony brilliance, and the
flame of the fire that was consuming her glowed upon her cheeks more
brightly, I thought, than ever; but that might be fancy, occasioned by
what the doctor had said about her. Her hand trembled, but her
demeanour was perfectly calm.
“I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir,” I said.
“I suppose Dr Duncan told you so, sir. But I am quite well. I did not
send for him. He called of himself, and wanted to persuade me I was
ill.”
I understood that she felt injured by his interference.
“You should attend to his advice, though. He is a prudent man, and not
in the least given to alarming people without cause.”
She returned no answer. So I tried another subject.
“What a fine fellow your brother is!”
“Yes; he grows very much.”
“Has your father found another place for him yet?”
“I don’t know. My father never tells me about any of his doings.”
“But don’t you go and talk to him, sometimes?”
“No. He does not care to see me.”
“I am going there now: will you come with me?”
“Thank you. I never go where I am not wanted.”
“But it is not right that father and daughter should live as you do.
Suppose he may not have been so kind to you as he ought, you should not
cherish resentment against him for it. That only makes matters worse,
you know.”
“I never said to human being that he had been unkind to me.”
“And yet you let every person in the village know it.”
“How?”
Her eye had no longer the stony glitter. It flashed now.
“You are never seen together. You scarcely speak when you meet. Neither
of you crosses the other’s threshold.”
“It is not my fault.”
“It is not ALL your fault, I know. But do you think you can go to a
heaven at last where you will be able to keep apart from each other, he
in his house and you in your house, without any sign that it was
through this father on earth that you were born into the world which
the Father in heaven redeemed by the gift of His own Son?”
She was silent; and, after a pause, I went on.
“I believe, in my heart, that you love your father. I could not believe
otherwise of you. And you will never be happy till you have made it up
with him. Have you done him no wrong?”
At these words, her face turned white—with anger, I could see—all but
those spots on her cheek-bones, which shone out in dreadful contrast to
the deathly paleness of the rest of her face. Then the returning blood
surged violently from her heart, and the red spots were lost in one
crimson glow. She opened her lips to speak, but apparently changing her
mind, turned and walked haughtily out of the shop and closed the door
behind her.
I waited, hoping she would recover herself and return; but, after ten
minutes had passed, I thought it better to go away.
As I had told her, I was going to her father’s shop.
There I was received very differently. There was a certain softness in
the manner of the carpenter which I had not observed before, with the
same heartiness in the shake of his hand which had accompanied my last
leave-taking. I had purposely allowed ten days to elapse before I
called again, to give time for the unpleasant feelings associated with
my interference to vanish. And now I had something in my mind about
young Tom.
“Have you got anything for your boy yet, Thomas?”
“Not yet, sir. There’s time enough. I don’t want to part with him just
yet. There he is, taking his turn at what’s going. Tom!”
And from the farther end of the large shop, where I had not observed
him, now approached young Tom, in a canvas jacket, looking quite like a
workman.
“Well, Tom, I am glad to find you can turn your hand to anything.”
“I must be a stupid, sir, if I couldn’t handle my father’s tools,”
returned the lad.
“I don’t know that quite. I am not just prepared to admit it for my own
sake. My father is a lawyer, and I never could read a chapter in one of
his books—his tools, you know.”
“Perhaps you never tried, sir.”
“Indeed, I did; and no doubt I could have done it if I had made up my
mind to it. But I never felt inclined to finish the page. And that
reminds me why I called to-day. Thomas, I know that lad of yours is
fond of reading. Can you spare him from his work for an hour or so
before breakfast?”
“To-morrow, sir?”
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” I answered; “and there’s
Shakespeare for you.”
“Of course, sir, whatever you wish,” said Thomas, with a perplexed
look, in which pleasure seemed to long for confirmation, and to be,
till that came, afraid to put its “native semblance on.”
“I want to give him some direction in his reading. When a man is fond
of any tools, and can use them, it is worth while showing him how to
use them better.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” exclaimed Tom, his face beaming with delight.
“That IS kind of you, sir! Tom, you’re a made man!” cried the father.
“So,” I went on, “if you will let him come to me for an hour every
morning, till he gets another place, say from eight to nine, I will see
what I can do for him.”
Tom’s face was as red with delight as his sister’s had been with anger.
And I left the shop somewhat consoled for the pain I had given
Catherine, which grieved me without making me sorry that I had
occasioned it.
I had intended to try to do something from the father’s side towards a
reconciliation with his daughter. But no sooner had I made up my
proposal for Tom than I saw I had blocked up my own way towards my more
important end. For I could not bear to seem to offer to bribe him even
to allow me to do him good. Nor would he see that it was for his good
and his daughter’s—not at first. The first impression would be that I
had a PROFESSIONAL end to gain, that the reconciling of father and
daughter was a sort of parish business of mine, and that I had smoothed
the way to it by offering a gift—an intellectual one, true, but not,
therefore, the less a gift in the eyes of Thomas, who had a great
respect for books. This was just what would irritate such a man, and I
resolved to say nothing about it, but bide my time.
When Tom came, I asked him if he had read any of Wordsworth. For I
always give people what I like myself, because that must be wherein I
can best help them. I was anxious, too, to find out what he was capable
of. And for this, anything that has more than a surface meaning will
do. I had no doubt about the lad’s intellect, and now I wanted to see
what there was deeper than the intellect in him.
He said he had not.
I therefore chose one of Wordsworth’s sonnets, not one of his best by
any means, but suitable for my purpose—the one entitled, “Composed
during a Storm.” This I gave him to read, telling him to let me know
when he considered that he had mastered the meaning of it, and sat down
to my own studies. I remember I was then reading the Anglo-Saxon
Gospels. I think it was fully half-an-hour before Tom rose and gently
approached my place. I had not been uneasy about the experiment after
ten minutes had passed, and after that time was doubled, I felt certain
of some measure of success. This may possibly puzzle my reader; but I
will explain. It was clear that Tom did not understand the sonnet at
first; and I was not in the least certain that he would come to
understand it by any exertion of his intellect, without further
experience. But what I was delighted to be made sure of was that Tom at
least knew that he did not know. For that is the very next step to
knowing. Indeed, it may be said to be a more valuable gift than the
other, being of general application; for some quick people will
understand many things very easily, but when they come to a thing that
is beyond their present reach, will fancy they see a meaning in it, or
invent one, or even—which is far worse—pronounce it nonsense; and,
indeed, show themselves capable of any device for getting out of the
difficulty, except seeing and confessing to themselves that they are
not able to understand it. Possibly this sonnet might be beyond Tom
now, but, at least, there was great hope that he saw, or believed, that
there must be something beyond him in it. I only hoped that he would
not fall upon some wrong interpretation, seeing he was brooding over it
so long.
“Well, Tom,” I said, “have you made it out?”
“I can’t say I have, sir. I’m afraid I’m very stupid, for I’ve tried
hard. I must just ask you to tell me what it means. But I must tell you
one thing, sir: every time I read it over—twenty times, I daresay—I
thought I was lying on my mother’s grave, as I lay that terrible night;
and then at the end there you were standing over me and saying, ‘Can I
do anything to help you?’”
I was struck with astonishment. For here, in a wonderful manner, I saw
the imagination outrunning the intellect, and manifesting to the heart
what the brain could not yet understand. It indicated undeveloped gifts
of a far higher nature than those belonging to the mere power of
understanding alone. For there was a hidden sympathy of the deepest
kind between the life experience of the lad, and the embodiment of such
life experience on the part of the poet. But he went on:
“I am sure, sir, I ought to have been at my prayers, then, but I
wasn’t; so I didn’t deserve you to come. But don’t you think God is
sometimes better to us than we deserve?”
“He is just everything to us, Tom; and we don’t and can’t deserve
anything. Now I will try to explain the sonnet to you.”
I had always had an impulse to teach; not for the teaching’s sake, for
that, regarded as the attempt to fill skulls with knowledge, had always
been to me a desolate dreariness; but the moment I saw a sign of
hunger, an indication of readiness to receive, I was invariably seized
with a kind of passion for giving. I now proceeded to explain the
sonnet. Having done so, nearly as well as I could, Tom said:
“It is very strange, sir; but now that I have heard you say what the
poem means, I feel as if I had known it all the time, though I could
not say it.”
Here at least was no common mind. The reader will not be surprised to
hear that the hour before breakfast extended into two hours after
breakfast as well. Nor did this take up too much of my time, for the
lad was capable of doing a great deal for himself under the sense of
help at hand. His father, so far from making any objection to the
arrangement, was delighted with it. Nor do I believe that the lad did
less work in the shop for it: I learned that he worked regularly till
eight o’clock every night.
Now the good of the arrangement was this: I had the lad fresh in the
morning, clear-headed, with no mists from the valley of labour to cloud
the heights of understanding. From the exercise of the mind it was a
pleasant and relieving change to turn to bodily exertion. I am certain
that he both thought and worked better, because he both thought and
worked. Every literary man ought to be MECHANICAL (to use a
Shakespearean word) as well. But it would have been quite a different
matter, if he had come to me after the labour of the day. He would not
then have been able to think nearly so well. But LABOUR, SLEEP,
THOUGHT, LABOUR AGAIN, seems to me to be the right order with those
who, earning their bread by the sweat of the brow, would yet remember
that man shall not live by bread alone. Were it possible that our
mechanics could attend the institutions called by their name in the
morning instead of the evening, perhaps we should not find them so
ready to degenerate into places of mere amusement. I am not objecting
to the amusement; only to cease to educate in order to amuse is to
degenerate. Amusement is a good and sacred thing; but it is not on a
par with education; and, indeed, if it does not in any way further the
growth of the higher nature, it cannot be called good at all.
Having exercised him in the analysis of some of the best portions of
our home literature,—I mean helped him to take them to pieces, that,
putting them together again, he might see what kind of things they
were—for who could understand a new machine, or find out what it was
meant for, without either actually or in his mind taking it to pieces?
(which pieces, however, let me remind my reader, are utterly useless,
except in their relation to the whole)—I resolved to try something
fresh with him.
At this point I had intended to give my readers a theory of mine about
the teaching and learning of a language; and tell them how I had found
the trial of it succeed in the case of Tom Weir. But I think this would
be too much of a digression from the course of my narrative, and would,
besides, be interesting to those only who had given a good deal of
thought to subjects belonging to education. I will only say, therefore,
that, by the end of three months, my pupil, without knowing any other
Latin author, was able to read any part of the first book of the
AEneid—to read it tolerably in measure, and to enjoy the poetry of
it—and this not without a knowledge of the declensions and
conjugations. As to the syntax, I made the sentences themselves teach
him that. Now I know that, as an end, all this was of no great value;
but as a beginning, it was invaluable, for it made and KEPT him hungry
for more; whereas, in most modes of teaching, the beginnings are such
that without the pressure of circumstances, no boy, especially after an
interval of cessation, will return to them. Such is not Nature’s mode,
for the beginnings with her are as pleasant as the fruition, and that
without being less thorough than they can be. The knowledge a child
gains of the external world is the foundation upon which all his future
philosophy is built. Every discovery he makes is fraught with
pleasure—that is the secret of his progress, and the essence of my
theory: that learning should, in each individual case, as in the first
case, be DISCOVERY—bringing its own pleasure with it. Nor is this to be
confounded with turning study into play. It is upon the moon itself
that the infant speculates, after the moon itself—that he stretches out
his eager hands—to find in after years that he still wants her, but
that in science and poetry he has her a thousand-fold more than if she
had been handed him down to suck.
So, after all, I have bored my reader with a shadow of my theory,
instead of a description. After all, again, the description would have
plagued him more, and that must be both his and my comfort.
So through the whole of that summer and the following winter, I went on
teaching Tom Weir. He was a lad of uncommon ability, else he could not
have effected what I say he had within his first three months of Latin,
let my theory be not only perfect in itself, but true as well—true to
human nature, I mean. And his father, though his own book-learning was
but small, had enough of insight to perceive that his son was something
out of the common, and that any possible advantage he might lose by
remaining in Marshmallows was considerably more than counterbalanced by
the instruction he got from the vicar. Hence, I believe, it was that
not a word was said about another situation for Tom. And I was glad of
it; for it seemed to me that the lad had abilities equal to any
profession whatever.