Pesca’s face and manner, on the evening when we confronted each other
at my mother’s gate, were more than sufficient to inform me that
something extraordinary had happened. It was quite useless, however, to
ask him for an immediate explanation. I could only conjecture, while he
was dragging me in by both hands, that (knowing my habits) he had come
to the cottage to make sure of meeting me that night, and that he had
some news to tell of an unusually agreeable kind.
We both bounced into the parlour in a highly abrupt and undignified
manner. My mother sat by the open window laughing and fanning
herself. Pesca was one of her especial favourites and his wildest
eccentricities were always pardonable in her eyes. Poor dear soul!
from the first moment when she found out that the little Professor was
deeply and gratefully attached to her son, she opened her heart to
him unreservedly, and took all his puzzling foreign peculiarities for
granted, without so much as attempting to understand any one of them.
My sister Sarah, with all the advantages of youth, was, strangely
enough, less pliable. She did full justice to Pesca’s excellent
qualities of heart; but she could not accept him implicitly, as my
mother accepted him, for my sake. Her insular notions of propriety
rose in perpetual revolt against Pesca’s constitutional contempt for
appearances; and she was always more or less undisguisedly astonished
at her mother’s familiarity with the eccentric little foreigner. I
have observed, not only in my sister’s case, but in the instances of
others, that we of the young generation are nothing like so hearty
and so impulsive as some of our elders. I constantly see old people
flushed and excited by the prospect of some anticipated pleasure
which altogether fails to ruffle the tranquillity of their serene
grandchildren. Are we, I wonder, quite such genuine boys and girls now
as our seniors were in their time? Has the great advance in education
taken rather too long a stride; and are we in these modern days, just
the least trifle in the world too well brought up?
Without attempting to answer those questions decisively, I may at least
record that I never saw my mother and my sister together in Pesca’s
society, without finding my mother much the younger woman of the two.
On this occasion, for example, while the old lady was laughing heartily
over the boyish manner in which we tumbled into the parlour, Sarah
was perturbedly picking up the broken pieces of a teacup, which the
Professor had knocked off the table in his precipitate advance to meet
me at the door.
“I don’t know what would have happened, Walter,” said my mother, “if
you had delayed much longer. Pesca has been half mad with impatience,
and I have been half mad with curiosity. The Professor has brought some
wonderful news with him, in which he says you are concerned; and he
has cruelly refused to give us the smallest hint of it till his friend
Walter appeared.”
“Very provoking: it spoils the Set,” murmured Sarah to herself,
mournfully absorbed over the ruins of the broken cup.
While these words were being spoken, Pesca, happily and fussily
unconscious of the irreparable wrong which the crockery had suffered
at his hands, was dragging a large arm-chair to the opposite end of
the room, so as to command us all three, in the character of a public
speaker addressing an audience. Having turned the chair with its back
towards us, he jumped into it on his knees, and excitedly addressed his
small congregation of three from an impromptu pulpit.
“Now, my good dears,” began Pesca (who always said “good dears” when he
meant “worthy friends”), “listen to me. The time has come—I recite my
good news—I speak at last.”
“Hear, hear!” said my mother, humouring the joke.
“The next thing he will break, mamma,” whispered Sarah, “will be the
back of the best arm-chair.”
“I go back into my life, and I address myself to the noblest of created
beings,” continued Pesca, vehemently apostrophising my unworthy self
over the top rail of the chair. “Who found me dead at the bottom of the
sea (through Cramp); and who pulled me up to the top; and what did I
say when I got into my own life and my own clothes again?”
“Much more than was at all necessary,” I answered as doggedly as
possible; for the least encouragement in connection with this subject
invariably let loose the Professor’s emotions in a flood of tears.
“I said,” persisted Pesca, “that my life belonged to my dear friend,
Walter, for the rest of my days—and so it does. I said that I should
never be happy again till I had found the opportunity of doing a good
Something for Walter—and I have never been contented with myself till
this most blessed day. Now,” cried the enthusiastic little man at the
top of his voice, “the overflowing happiness bursts out of me at every
pore of my skin, like a perspiration; for on my faith, and soul, and
honour, the something is done at last, and the only word to say now
is—Right-all-right!”
It may be necessary to explain here that Pesca prided himself on being
a perfect Englishman in his language, as well as in his dress, manners,
and amusements. Having picked up a few of our most familiar colloquial
expressions, he scattered them about over his conversation whenever
they happened to occur to him, turning them, in his high relish for
their sound and his general ignorance of their sense, into compound
words and repetitions of his own, and always running them into each
other, as if they consisted of one long syllable.
“Among the fine London Houses where I teach the language of my
native country,” said the Professor, rushing into his long-deferred
explanation without another word of preface, “there is one, mighty
fine, in the big place called Portland. You all know where that is?
Yes, yes—course-of-course. The fine house, my good dears, has got
inside it a fine family. A Mamma, fair and fat; three young Misses,
fair and fat; two young Misters, fair and fat; and a Papa, the fairest
and the fattest of all, who is a mighty merchant, up to his eyes in
gold—a fine man once, but seeing that he has got a naked head and
two chins, fine no longer at the present time. Now mind! I teach the
sublime Dante to the young Misses, and ah!—my-soul-bless-my-soul!—it is
not in human language to say how the sublime Dante puzzles the pretty
heads of all three! No matter—all in good time—and the more lessons the
better for me. Now mind! Imagine to yourselves that I am teaching the
young Misses to-day, as usual. We are all four of us down together in
the Hell of Dante. At the Seventh Circle—but no matter for that: all
the Circles are alike to the three young Misses, fair and fat,—at the
Seventh Circle, nevertheless, my pupils are sticking fast; and I, to
set them going again, recite, explain, and blow myself up red-hot with
useless enthusiasm, when—a creak of boots in the passage outside, and
in comes the golden Papa, the mighty merchant with the naked head and
the two chins.—Ha! my good dears, I am closer than you think for to
the business, now. Have you been patient so far? or have you said to
yourselves, ‘Deuce-what-the-deuce! Pesca is long-winded to-night?’”
We declared that we were deeply interested. The Professor went on:
“In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter; and after he has made
his excuse for disturbing us in our Infernal Region with the common
mortal Business of the house, he addresses himself to the three young
Misses, and begins, as you English begin everything in this blessed
world that you have to say, with a great O. ‘O, my dears,’ says the
mighty merchant, ‘I have got here a letter from my friend, Mr.——‘(the
name has slipped out of my mind; but no matter; we shall come back
to that; yes, yes—right-all-right). So the Papa says, ‘I have got
a letter from my friend, the Mister; and he wants a recommend from
me, of a drawing-master, to go down to his house in the country.’
My-soul-bless-my-soul! when I heard the golden Papa say those words,
if I had been big enough to reach up to him, I should have put my arms
round his neck, and pressed him to my bosom in a long and grateful
hug! As it was, I only bounced upon my chair. My seat was on thorns,
and my soul was on fire to speak but I held my tongue, and let Papa
go on. ‘Perhaps you know,’ says this good man of money, twiddling
his friend’s letter this way and that, in his golden fingers and
thumbs, ‘perhaps you know, my dears, of a drawing-master that I can
recommend?’ The three young Misses all look at each other, and then
say (with the indispensable great O to begin) “O, dear no, Papa! But
here is Mr. Pesca——’ At the mention of myself I can hold no longer—the
thought of you, my good dears, mounts like blood to my head—I start
from my seat, as if a spike had grown up from the ground through the
bottom of my chair—I address myself to the mighty merchant, and I say
(English phrase) ‘Dear sir, I have the man! The first and foremost
drawing-master of the world! Recommend him by the post to-night,
and send him off, bag and baggage (English phrase again—ha!), send
him off, bag and baggage, by the train to-morrow!’ ‘Stop, stop,’
says Papa; ‘is he a foreigner, or an Englishman?’ ‘English to the
bone of his back,’ I answer. ‘Respectable?’ says Papa. ‘Sir,’ I say
(for this last question of his outrages me, and I have done being
familiar with him—) ‘Sir! the immortal fire of genius burns in this
Englishman’s bosom, and, what is more, his father had it before him!’
‘Never mind,’ says the golden barbarian of a Papa, ‘never mind about
his genius, Mr. Pesca. We don’t want genius in this country, unless
it is accompanied by respectability—and then we are very glad to have
it, very glad indeed. Can your friend produce testimonials—letters
that speak to his character?’ I wave my hand negligently. ‘Letters?’
I say. ‘Ha! my-soul-bless-my-soul! I should think so, indeed! Volumes
of letters and portfolios of testimonials, if you like!’ ‘One or two
will do,’ says this man of phlegm and money. ‘Let him send them to
me, with his name and address. And—stop, stop, Mr. Pesca—before you
go to your friend, you had better take a note.’ ‘Bank-note!’ I say,
indignantly. ‘No bank-note, if you please, till my brave Englishman has
earned it first.’ ‘Bank-note!’ says Papa, in a great surprise, ‘who
talked of bank-note? I mean a note of the terms—a memorandum of what
he is expected to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and I will
give you the necessary extract from my friend’s letter.’ Down sits
the man of merchandise and money to his pen, ink, and paper; and down
I go once again into the Hell of Dante, with my three young Misses
after me. In ten minutes’ time the note is written, and the boots of
Papa are creaking themselves away in the passage outside. From that
moment, on my faith, and soul, and honour, I know nothing more! The
glorious thought that I have caught my opportunity at last, and that
my grateful service for my dearest friend in the world is as good as
done already, flies up into my head and makes me drunk. How I pull
my young Misses and myself out of our Infernal Region again, how my
other business is done afterwards, how my little bit of dinner slides
itself down my throat, I know no more than a man in the moon. Enough
for me, that here I am, with the mighty merchant’s note in my hand,
as large as life, as hot as fire, and as happy as a king! Ha! ha! ha!
right-right-right-all-right!” Here the Professor waved the memorandum
of terms over his head, and ended his long and voluble narrative with
his shrill Italian parody on an English cheer.
My mother rose the moment he had done, with flushed cheeks and
brightened eyes. She caught the little man warmly by both hands.
“My dear, good Pesca,” she said, “I never doubted your true affection
for Walter—but I am more than ever persuaded of it now!”
“I am sure we are very much obliged to Professor Pesca, for Walter’s
sake,” added Sarah. She half rose, while she spoke, as if to approach
the arm-chair, in her turn; but, observing that Pesca was rapturously
kissing my mother’s hands, looked serious, and resumed her seat. “If
the familiar little man treats my mother in that way, how will he
treat ME?” Faces sometimes tell truth; and that was unquestionably the
thought in Sarah’s mind, as she sat down again.
Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness of Pesca’s
motives, my spirits were hardly so much elevated as they ought to have
been by the prospect of future employment now placed before me. When
the Professor had quite done with my mother’s hand, and when I had
warmly thanked him for his interference on my behalf, I asked to be
allowed to look at the note of terms which his respectable patron had
drawn up for my inspection.
Pesca handed me the paper, with a triumphant flourish of the hand.
“Read!” said the little man majestically. “I promise you my friend, the
writing of the golden Papa speaks with a tongue of trumpets for itself.”
The note of terms was plain, straightforward, and comprehensive, at any
rate. It informed me,
First, That Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge House,
Cumberland, wanted to engage the services of a thoroughly competent
drawing-master, for a period of four months certain.
Secondly, That the duties which the master was expected to perform
would be of a twofold kind. He was to superintend the instruction of
two young ladies in the art of painting in water-colours; and he was to
devote his leisure time, afterwards, to the business of repairing and
mounting a valuable collection of drawings, which had been suffered to
fall into a condition of total neglect.
Thirdly, That the terms offered to the person who should undertake and
properly perform these duties were four guineas a week; that he was to
reside at Limmeridge House; and that he was to be treated there on the
footing of a gentleman.
Fourthly, and lastly, That no person need think of applying for this
situation unless he could furnish the most unexceptionable references
to character and abilities. The references were to be sent to Mr.
Fairlie’s friend in London, who was empowered to conclude all necessary
arrangements. These instructions were followed by the name and
address of Pesca’s employer in Portland Place—and there the note, or
memorandum, ended.
The prospect which this offer of an engagement held out was certainly
an attractive one. The employment was likely to be both easy and
agreeable; it was proposed to me at the autumn time of the year when I
was least occupied; and the terms, judging by my personal experience in
my profession, were surprisingly liberal. I knew this; I knew that I
ought to consider myself very fortunate if I succeeded in securing the
offered employment—and yet, no sooner had I read the memorandum than I
felt an inexplicable unwillingness within me to stir in the matter. I
had never in the whole of my previous experience found my duty and my
inclination so painfully and so unaccountably at variance as I found
them now.
“Oh, Walter, your father never had such a chance as this!” said my
mother, when she had read the note of terms and had handed it back to
me.
“Such distinguished people to know,” remarked Sarah, straightening
herself in the chair; “and on such gratifying terms of equality too!”
“Yes, yes; the terms, in every sense, are tempting enough,” I replied
impatiently. “But before I send in my testimonials, I should like a
little time to consider——”
“Consider!” exclaimed my mother. “Why, Walter, what is the matter with
you?”
“Consider!” echoed my sister. “What a very extraordinary thing to say,
under the circumstances!”
“Consider!” chimed in the Professor. “What is there to consider about?
Answer me this! Have you not been complaining of your health, and have
you not been longing for what you call a smack of the country breeze?
Well! there in your hand is the paper that offers you perpetual choking
mouthfuls of country breeze for four months’ time. Is it not so? Ha!
Again—you want money. Well! Is four golden guineas a week nothing?
My-soul-bless-my-soul! only give it to me—and my boots shall creak like
the golden Papa’s, with a sense of the overpowering richness of the
man who walks in them! Four guineas a week, and, more than that, the
charming society of two young misses! and, more than that, your bed,
your breakfast, your dinner, your gorging English teas and lunches
and drinks of foaming beer, all for nothing—why, Walter, my dear good
friend—deuce-what-the-deuce!—for the first time in my life I have not
eyes enough in my head to look, and wonder at you!”
Neither my mother’s evident astonishment at my behaviour, nor Pesca’s
fervid enumeration of the advantages offered to me by the new
employment, had any effect in shaking my unreasonable disinclination to
go to Limmeridge House. After starting all the petty objections that I
could think of to going to Cumberland, and after hearing them answered,
one after another, to my own complete discomfiture, I tried to set up a
last obstacle by asking what was to become of my pupils in London while
I was teaching Mr. Fairlie’s young ladies to sketch from nature. The
obvious answer to this was, that the greater part of them would be away
on their autumn travels, and that the few who remained at home might be
confided to the care of one of my brother drawing-masters, whose pupils
I had once taken off his hands under similar circumstances. My sister
reminded me that this gentleman had expressly placed his services at my
disposal, during the present season, in case I wished to leave town;
my mother seriously appealed to me not to let an idle caprice stand
in the way of my own interests and my own health; and Pesca piteously
entreated that I would not wound him to the heart by rejecting the
first grateful offer of service that he had been able to make to the
friend who had saved his life.
The evident sincerity and affection which inspired these remonstrances
would have influenced any man with an atom of good feeling in
his composition. Though I could not conquer my own unaccountable
perversity, I had at least virtue enough to be heartily ashamed of it,
and to end the discussion pleasantly by giving way, and promising to do
all that was wanted of me.
The rest of the evening passed merrily enough in humorous anticipations
of my coming life with the two young ladies in Cumberland. Pesca,
inspired by our national grog, which appeared to get into his head, in
the most marvellous manner, five minutes after it had gone down his
throat, asserted his claims to be considered a complete Englishman by
making a series of speeches in rapid succession, proposing my mother’s
health, my sister’s health, my health, and the healths, in mass, of
Mr. Fairlie and the two young Misses, pathetically returning thanks
himself, immediately afterwards, for the whole party. “A secret,
Walter,” said my little friend confidentially, as we walked home
together. “I am flushed by the recollection of my own eloquence. My
soul bursts itself with ambition. One of these days I go into your
noble Parliament. It is the dream of my whole life to be Honourable
Pesca, M.P.!”
The next morning I sent my testimonials to the Professor’s employer
in Portland Place. Three days passed, and I concluded, with secret
satisfaction, that my papers had not been found sufficiently explicit.
On the fourth day, however, an answer came. It announced that Mr.
Fairlie accepted my services, and requested me to start for Cumberland
immediately. All the necessary instructions for my journey were
carefully and clearly added in a postscript.
I made my arrangements, unwillingly enough, for leaving London early
the next day. Towards evening Pesca looked in, on his way to a
dinner-party, to bid me good-bye.
“I shall dry my tears in your absence,” said the Professor gaily, “with
this glorious thought. It is my auspicious hand that has given the
first push to your fortune in the world. Go, my friend! When your sun
shines in Cumberland (English proverb), in the name of heaven make your
hay. Marry one of the two young Misses; become Honourable Hartright,
M.P.; and when you are on the top of the ladder remember that Pesca, at
the bottom, has done it all!”
I tried to laugh with my little friend over his parting jest, but
my spirits were not to be commanded. Something jarred in me almost
painfully while he was speaking his light farewell words.
When I was left alone again nothing remained to be done but to walk to
the Hampstead cottage and bid my mother and Sarah good-bye.