In the prosperous year of 1856, incomes of between a hundred and a
hundred and fifty pounds were chargeable with a tax of elevenpence
halfpenny in the pound: persons who enjoyed a revenue of a hundred and
fifty or more had the honour of paying one and fourpence. Abatements
there were none, and families supporting life on two pounds a week
might in some cases, perchance, be reconciled to the mulct by
considering how equitably its incidence was graduated.
Some, on the other hand, were less philosophical; for instance, the
household consisting of Nicholas Peak, his wife, their three-year-old
daughter, their newly-born son, and a blind sister of Nicholas,
dependent upon him for sustenance. Mr. Peak, aged thirty and now four
years wedded, had a small cottage on the outskirts of Greenwich. He was
employed as dispenser, at a salary of thirty-five shillings a week, by
a medical man with a large practice. His income, therefore, fell
considerably within the hundred pound limit; and, all things
considered, it was not unreasonable that he should be allowed to expend
the whole of this sum on domestic necessities. But it came to pass that
Nicholas, in his greed of wealth, obtained supplementary employment,
which benefited him to the extent of a yearly ten pounds. Called upon
to render his statement to the surveyor of income-tax, he declared
himself in possession of a hundred and one pounds per annum;
consequently, he stood indebted to the Exchequer in the sum of four
pounds, sixteen shillings, and ninepence. His countenance darkened, as
also did that of Mrs. Peak.
'This is wrong and cruel--dreadfully cruel!' cried the latter, with
tears in her eyes.
'It is; but that's no new thing,' was the bitter reply.
'I think it's wrong of _you_, Nicholas. What need is there to say
anything about that ten pounds? It's taking the food out of our mouths.'
Knowing only the letter of the law, Mr. Peak answered sternly:
'My income is a hundred and one pounds. I can't sign my name to a lie.'
Picture the man. Tall, gaunt, with sharp intellectual features, and
eyes of singular beauty, the face of an enthusiast--under given
circumstances, of a hero. Poorly clad, of course, but with rigorous
self-respect; his boots polished, _propria manu_, to the point of
perfection; his linen washed and ironed by the indefatigable wife. Of
simplest tastes, of most frugal habits, a few books the only luxury
which he deemed indispensable; yet a most difficult man to live with,
for to him applied precisely the description which Robert Burns gave of
his own father; he was 'of stubborn, ungainly integrity and headlong
irascibility'.
Ungainly, for his strong impulses towards culture were powerless to
obliterate the traces of his rude origin. Born in a London alley, the
son of a labourer burdened with a large family, he had made his way by
sheer force of character to a position which would have seemed proud
success but for the difficulty with which he kept himself alive. His
parents were dead. Of his brothers, two had disappeared in the abyss,
and one, Andrew, earned a hard livelihood as a journeyman baker; the
elder of his sisters had married poorly, and the younger was his blind
pensioner. Nicholas had found a wife of better birth than his own, a
young woman with country kindred in decent circumstances, though she
herself served as nursemaid in the house of the medical man who
employed her future husband. He had taught himself the English
language, so far as grammar went, but could not cast off the London
accent; Mrs. Peak was fortunate enough to speak with nothing worse than
the note of the Midlands.
His bent led him to the study of history, politics, economics, and in
that time of military outbreak he was frenzied by the conflict of his
ideals with the state of things about him. A book frequently in his
hands was Godwin's _Political Justice_, and when a son had been born to
him he decided to name the child after that favourite author. In this
way, at all events, he could find some expression for his hot defiance
of iniquity.
He paid his income-tax, and felt a savage joy in the privation thus
imposed upon his family. Mrs. Peak could not forgive her husband, and
in this case, though she had but dim appreciation of the point of
honour involved, her censures doubtless fell on Nicholas's vulnerable
spot; it was the perversity of arrogance, at least as much as honesty,
that impelled him to incur taxation. His wife's perseverance in
complaint drove him to stern impatience, and for a long time the peace
of the household suffered.
When the boy Godwin was five years old, the death of his blind aunt
came as a relief to means which were in every sense overtaxed. Twelve
months later, a piece of unprecedented good fortune seemed to place the
Peaks beyond fear of want, and at the same time to supply Nicholas with
a fulfilment of hopeless desires. By the death of Mrs Peak's brother,
they came into possession of a freehold house and about nine hundred
pounds. The property was situated some twelve miles from the Midland
town of Twybridge, and thither they at once removed. At Twybridge lived
Mrs. Peak's elder sister, Miss Cadman; but between this lady and her
nearest kinsfolk there had been but slight correspondence--the deceased
Cadman left her only a couple of hundred pounds. With capital at
command, Nicholas Peak took a lease of certain fields near his house,
and turned farmer. The study of chemistry had given a special bent to
his economic speculations; he fancied himself endowed with exceptional
aptitude for agriculture, and the scent of the furrow brought all his
energies into feverish activity--activity which soon impoverished him:
that was in the order of things. 'Ungainly integrity' and 'headlong
irascibility' wrought the same results for the ex-dispenser as for the
Ayrshire husbandman. His farming came to a chaotic end; and when the
struggling man died, worn out at forty-three, his wife and children
(there was now a younger boy, Oliver, named after the Protector) had no
very bright prospects.
Things went better with them than might have been anticipated. To Mrs.
Peak her husband's death was not an occasion of unmingled mourning. For
the last few years she had suffered severely from domestic discord, and
when left at peace by bereavement she turned with a sense of liberation
to the task of caring for her children's future. Godwin was just
thirteen, Oliver was eleven; both had been well schooled, and with the
help of friends they might soon be put in the way of self-support. The
daughter, Charlotte, sixteen years of age, had accomplishments which
would perhaps be profitable. The widow decided to make a home in
Twybridge, where Miss Cadman kept a millinery shop. By means of this
connection, Charlotte presently found employment for her skill in fine
needlework. Mrs. Peak was incapable of earning money, but the
experiences of her early married life enabled her to make more than the
most of the pittance at her disposal.
Miss Cadman was a woman of active mind, something of a
busy-body--dogmatic, punctilious in her claims to respect, proud of the
acknowledgment by her acquaintances that she was not as other
tradespeople; her chief weakness was a fanatical ecclesiasticism, the
common blight of English womanhood. Circumstances had allowed her a
better education than generally falls to women of that standing, and in
spite of her shop she succeeded in retaining the friendship of certain
ladies long ago her schoolfellows. Among these were the Misses
Lumb--middle-aged sisters, who lived at Twybridge on a small
independence, their time chiefly devoted to the support of the Anglican
Church. An eldest Miss Lumb had been fortunate enough to marry that
growing potentate of the Midlands, Mr. Job Whitelaw. Now Lady Whitelaw,
she dwelt at Kingsmill, but her sisters frequently enjoyed the honour
of entertaining her, and even Miss Cadman the milliner occasionally
held converse with the baronet's wife. In this way it came to pass that
the Widow Peak and her children were brought under the notice of
persons who sooner or later might be of assistance to them.
Abounding in emphatic advice, Miss Cadman easily persuaded her sister
that Godwin must go to school for at least two years longer. The boys
had been at a boarding-school twenty miles away from their country
home; it would be better for them now to be put under the care of some
Twybridge teacher--such an one as Miss Cadman's acquaintances could
recommend. For her own credit, the milliner was anxious that these
nephews of hers should not be running about the town as errand-boys or
the like, and with prudence there was no necessity for such
degradation. An uncommon lad like Godwin (she imagined him named after
the historic earl) must not be robbed of his fair chance in life; she
would gladly spare a little money for his benefit; he was a boy to
repay such expenditure.
Indeed it seemed probable. Godwin devoured books, and had a remarkable
faculty for gaining solid information on any subject that took his
fancy. What might be the special bent of his mind one could not yet
discover. He read poetry with precocious gusto, but at the same time
his aptitude for scientific pursuits was strongly marked. In botany,
chemistry, physics, he made progress which the people about him,
including his schoolmaster, were incapable of appreciating; and already
the collection of books left by his father, most of them out of date,
failed to satisfy his curiosity. It might be feared that tastes so
discursive would be disadvantageous to a lad who must needs pursue some
definite bread-study, and the strain of self-consciousness which grew
strong in him was again a matter for concern. He cared nothing for
boyish games and companionship; in the society of strangers especially
of females--he behaved with an excessive shyness which was easily
mistaken for a surly temper. Reproof, correction, he could not endure,
and it was fortunate that the decorum of his habits made remonstrance
seldom needful.
Ludicrous as the project would have appeared to any unbiassed observer
of character, Miss Cadman conceived a hope that Godwin might become a
clergyman. From her point of view it was natural to assume that
uncommon talents must be devoted to the service of the Church, and she
would have gladly done her utmost for the practical furthering of such
an end. Mrs. Peak, though well aware that her son had imbibed the
paternal prejudices, was disposed to entertain the same hope, despite
solid obstacles. For several years she had nourished a secret
antagonism to her husband's spirit of political, social, and religious
rebellion, and in her widowhood she speedily became a pattern of the
conservative female. It would have gratified her to discern any
possibility of Godwin's assuming the priestly garb. And not alone on
the ground of conscience. Long ago she had repented the marriage which
connected her with such a family as that of the Peaks, and she ardently
desired that the children, now exclusively her own, might enter life on
a plane superior to their father's.
'Godwin, how would you like to go to College and be a clergyman?' she
asked one Sunday afternoon, when an hour or two of congenial reading
seemed to have put the boy into a gentle humour.
'To go to College' was all very well (diplomacy had prompted this
preface), but the words that followed fell so alarmingly on Godwin's
ear that he looked up with a resentful expression, unable to reply
otherwise.
'You never thought of it, I suppose?' his mother faltered; for she
often stood in awe of her son, who, though yet but fourteen, had much
of his father's commanding severity.
'I don't want to be a parson,' came at length, bluntly.
'Don't use that word, Godwin.'
'Why not? It's quite a proper word. It comes from the Latin _persona_.'
The mother had enough discretion to keep silence, and Godwin, after in
vain trying to settle to his book again, left the room with disturbed
countenance.
He had now been attending the day-school for about a year, and was
distinctly ahead of his coevals. A Christmas examination was on the
point of being held, and it happened that a singular test of the lad's
moral character coincided with the proof of his intellectual progress.
In a neighbouring house lived an old man named Rawmarsh, kindly but
rather eccentric; he had once done a good business as a printer, and
now supported himself by such chance typographic work of a small kind
as friends might put in his way. He conceived an affection for Godwin;
often had the boy to talk with him of an evening. On one such occasion,
Mr. Rawmarsh opened a desk, took forth a packet of newly printed
leaves, and with a mysterious air silently spread them before the boy's
eyes. In an instant Godwin became aware that he was looking at the
examination papers which a day or two hence would be set before him at
school; he saw and recognised a passage from the book of Virgil which
his class had been reading.
'That is _sub rosa_, you know,' whispered the old printer, with half
averted face.
Godwin shrank away, and could not resume the conversation thus
interrupted. On the following day he went about with a feeling of
guilt. He avoided the sight of Mr. Rawmarsh, for whom he had suddenly
lost all respect, and suffered torments in the thought that he enjoyed
an unfair advantage over his class-mates. The Latin passage happened to
be one which he knew thoroughly well; there was no need, even had he
desired, to 'look it up'; but in sitting down to the examination, he
experienced a sense of shame and self-rebuke. So strong were the
effects of this, that he voluntarily omitted the answer to a certain
important question which he could have 'done' better than any of the
other boys, thus endeavouring to adjust in his conscience the terms of
competition, though in fact no such sacrifice was called for. He came
out at the head of the class, but the triumph had no savour for him,
and for many a year he was subject to a flush of mortification whenever
this incident came back to his mind.
Mr. Rawmarsh was not the only intelligent man who took an interest in
Godwin. In a house which the boy sometimes visited with a
school-fellow, lodged a notable couple named Gunnery the husband about
seventy, the wife five years older; they lived on a pension from a
railway company. Mr. Gunnery was a dabbler in many sciences, but had a
special enthusiasm for geology. Two cabinets of stones and fossils gave
evidence of his zealous travels about the British isles; he had even
written a little hand-book of petrology which was for sale at certain
booksellers' in Twybridge, and probably nowhere else. To him, about
this time, Godwin began to resort, always sure of a welcome; and in the
little uncarpeted room where Mr. Gunnery pursued his investigations
many a fateful lesson was given and received. The teacher understood
the intelligence he had to deal with, and was delighted to convey, by
the mode of suggested inference, sundry results of knowledge which it
perhaps would not have been prudent to declare in plain, popular words.
Their intercourse was not invariably placid. The geologist had an
irritable temper, and in certain states of the atmosphere his rheumatic
twinges made it advisable to shun argument with him. Godwin, moreover,
was distinguished by an instability of mood peculiarly trying to an old
man's testy humour. Of a sudden, to Mr Gunnery's surprise and
annoyance, he would lose all interest in this or that science. Thus,
one day the lad declared himself unable to name two stones set before
him, felspar and quartz, and when his instructor broke into angry
impatience he turned sullenly away, exclaiming that he was tired of
geology.
'Tired of geology?' cried Mr. Gunnery, with flaming eyes. 'Then _I_ am
tired of _you_, Master Peak! Be off, and don't come again till I send
for you!'
Godwin retired without a word. On the second day he was summoned back
again, but his resentment of the dismissal rankled in him for a long
time; injury to his pride was the wrong he found it hardest to forgive.
His schoolmaster, aware of the unusual pursuits which he added to the
routine of lessons, gave him as a prize the English translation of a
book by Figuier--_The World before the Deluge_. Strongly interested by
the illustrations of the volume (fanciful scenes from the successive
geologic periods), Godwin at once carried it to his scientific friend.
'Deluge?' growled Mr. Gunnery. '_What_ deluge? _Which_ deluge?' But he
restrained himself, handed the book coldly back, and began to talk of
something else. All this was highly significant to Godwin, who of
course began the perusal of his prize in a suspicious mood. Nor was he
long before he sympathised with Mr Gunnery's distaste. Though too young
to grasp the arguments at issue, his prejudices were strongly excited
by the conventional Theism which pervades Figuier's work. Already it
was the habit of his mind to associate popular dogma with intellectual
shallowness; herein, as at every other point which fell within his
scope, he had begun to scorn average people, and to pride himself
intensely on views which he found generally condemned. Day by day he
grew into a clearer understanding of the memories bequeathed to him by
his father; he began to interpret remarks, details of behaviour,
instances of wrath, which, though they had stamped themselves on his
recollection, conveyed at the time no precise significance. The issue
was that he hardened himself against the influence of his mother and
his aunt, regarding them as in league against the free progress of his
education.
As women, again, he despised these relatives. It is almost impossible
for a bright-witted lad born in the lower middle class to escape this
stage of development. The brutally healthy boy contemns the female sex
because he sees it incapable of his own athletic sports, but Godwin was
one of those upon whose awaking intellect is forced a perception of the
brain-defect so general in women when they are taught few of life's
graces and none of its serious concerns,--their paltry prepossessions,
their vulgar sequaciousness, their invincible ignorance, their
absorption in a petty self. And especially is this phase of thought to
be expected in a boy whose heart blindly nourishes the seeds of
poetical passion. It was Godwin's sincere belief that he held girls, as
girls, in abhorrence. This meant that he dreaded their personal
criticism, and that the spectacle of female beauty sometimes overcame
him with a despair which he could not analyse. Matrons and elderly
unmarried women were truly the objects of his disdain; in them he saw
nothing but their shortcomings. Towards his mother he was conscious of
no tenderness; of as little towards his sister, who often censured him
with trenchant tongue; as for his aunt, whose admiration of him was
modified by reticences, he could never be at ease in her company, so
strong a dislike had he for her look, her voice, her ways of speech.
He would soon be fifteen years old. Mrs. Peak was growing anxious, for
she could no longer consent to draw upon her sister for a portion of
the school fees, and no pertinent suggestion for the lad's future was
made by any of the people who admired his cleverness. Miss Cadman still
clung in a fitful way to the idea of making her nephew a cleric; she
had often talked it over with the Misses Lumb, who of course held that
'any sacrifice' was justifiable with such a motive, and who suggested a
hope that, by the instrumentality of Lady Whitelaw, a curacy might
easily be obtained as soon as Godwin was old enough. But several years
must pass before that Levitical stage could be reached; and then, after
all, perhaps the younger boy, Oliver, placid of temper and notably
pliant in mind, was better suited for the dignity of Orders. It was
lamentable that Godwin should have become so intimate with that
earth-burrowing Mr. Gunnery, who certainly never attended either church
or chapel, and who seemed to have imbued his pupil with immoral
theories concerning the date of creation. Godwin held more decidedly
aloof from his aunt, and had been heard by Charlotte to speak very
disrespectfully of the Misses Lumb. In short, there was no choice but
to discover an opening for him in some secular pursuit. Could he,
perhaps, become an assistant teacher? Or must he 'go into an office'?
No common lad. A youth whose brain glowed like a furnace, whose heart
throbbed with tumult of high ambitions, of inchoate desires; endowed
with knowledge altogether exceptional for his years; a nature
essentially militant, displaying itself in innumerable forms of callow
intolerance--apt, assuredly, for some vigorous part in life, but as
likely as not to rush headlong on traverse roads if no judicious mind
assumed control of him. What is to be done with the boy?
All very well, if the question signified, in what way to provide for
the healthy development of his manhood. Of course it meant nothing of
the sort, but merely: What work can be found for him whereby he may
earn his daily bread? We--his kinsfolk even, not to think of the world
at large--can have no concern with his growth as an intellectual being;
we are hard pressed to supply our own mouths with food; and now that we
have done our recognised duty by him, it is high time that he learnt to
fight for his own share of provender. Happily, he is of the robust sex;
he can hit out right and left, and make standing-room. We have armed
him with serviceable weapons, and now he must use them against the
enemy--that is to say, against all mankind, who will quickly enough
deprive him of sustenance if he fail in the conflict. We neither know,
nor in great measure care, for what employment he is naturally marked.
Obviously he cannot heave coals or sell dogs' meat, but with negative
certainty not much else can be resolved, seeing how desperate is the
competition for minimum salaries. He has been born, and he must eat. By
what licensed channel may he procure the necessary viands?
Paternal relatives Godwin had as good as none. In quitting London,
Nicholas Peak had ceased to hold communication with any of his own
stock save the younger brother Andrew. With him he occasionally
exchanged a letter, but Andrew's share in the correspondence was
limited to ungrammatical and often unintelligible hints of numerous
projects for money-making. Just after the removal of the bereaved
family to Twybridge, they were surprised by a visit from Andrew, in
answer to one of whose letters Mrs. Peak had sent news of her husband's
death. Though her dislike of the man amounted to loathing, the widow
could not refuse him hospitality; she did her best, however, to prevent
his coming in contact with anyone she knew. Andrew declared that he was
at length prospering; he had started a coffee-shop at Dalston, in
north-east London, and positively urged a proposal (well-meant, beyond
doubt) that Godwin should be allowed to come to him and learn the
business. Since then the Londoner had once again visited Twybridge,
towards the end of Godwin's last school-year. This time he spoke of
himself less hopefully, and declared a wish to transfer his business to
some provincial town, where he thought his metropolitan experience
might be of great value, in the absence of serious competition. It was
not difficult to discover a family likeness between Andrew's
instability and the idealism which had proved the ruin of Nicholas.
On this second occasion Godwin tried to escape a meeting with his
uncle. Unable to do so, he sat mute, replying to questions
monosyllabically. Mrs. Peak's shame and annoyance, in face of this
London-branded vulgarian, were but feeble emotions compared with those
of her son. Godwin hated the man, and was in dread lest any
school-fellow should come to know of such a connection. Yet delicacy
prevented his uttering a word on the subject to his mother. Mrs Peak's
silence after Andrew's departure made it uncertain how she regarded the
obligation of kindred, and in any such matter as this the boy was far
too sensitive to risk giving pain. But to his brother Oliver he spoke.
'What is the brute to us? When I'm a man, let him venture to come near
me, and see what sort of a reception he'll get! I hate low, uneducated
people! I hate them worse than the filthiest vermin!--don't you?'
Oliver, aged but thirteen, assented, as he habitually did to any
question which seemed to await an affirmative.
'They ought to be swept off the face of the earth!' pursued Godwin,
sitting up in bed--for the dialogue took place about eleven o'clock at
night. 'All the grown-up creatures, who can't speak proper English and
don't know how to behave themselves, I'd transport them to the Falkland
Islands,'--this geographic precision was a note of the boy's
mind,--'and let them die off as soon as possible. The children should
be sent to school and purified, if possible; if not, they too should be
got rid of.'
'You're an aristocrat, Godwin,' remarked Oliver, simply; for the elder
brother had of late been telling him fearful stories from the French
Revolution, with something of an anti-popular bias.
'I hope I am. I mean to be, that's certain. There's nothing I hate like
vulgarity. That's why I can't stand Roper. When he beat me in
mathematics last midsummer, I felt so ashamed I could hardly bear
myself. I'm working like a nigger at algebra and Euclid this half, just
because I think it would almost kill me to be beaten again by a low
cad.'
This was perhaps the first time that Godwin found expression for the
prejudice which affected all his thoughts and feelings. It relieved him
to have spoken thus; henceforth he had become clear as to his point of
view. By dubbing him aristocrat, Oliver had flattered him in the
subtlest way. If indeed the title were justly his, as he instantly felt
it was, the inference was plain that he must be an aristocrat of
nature's own making--one of the few highly favoured beings who, in
despite of circumstance, are pinnacled above mankind. In his ignorance
of life, the boy visioned a triumphant career; an aristocrat _de jure_
might possibly become one even in the common sense did he but pursue
that end with sufficient zeal. And in his power of persistent endeavour
he had no lack of faith.
The next day he walked with exalted head. Encountering the
objectionable Roper, he smiled upon him contemptuously tolerant.
There being no hope of effective assistance from relatives, Mrs. Peak
turned for counsel to a man of business, with whom her husband had made
acquaintance in his farming days, and who held a position of influence
at Twybridge. This was Mr. Moxey, manufacturing chemist, famous in the
Midlands for his 'sheep and cattle dressings', and sundry other
products of agricultural enterprise. His ill-scented, but lucrative,
works were situated a mile out of the town; and within sight of the
reeking chimneys stood a large, plain house, uncomfortably like an
'institution' of some kind, in which he dwelt with his five daughters.
Thither, one evening, Mrs. Peak betook herself, having learnt that Mr.
Moxey dined at five o'clock, and that he was generally to be found
digging in his garden until sunset. Her reception was civil. The
manufacturer--sparing of words, but with no unkindly face--requested
that Godwin should be sent to see him, and promised to do his best to
be of use. A talk with the boy strengthened his interest. He was
surprised at Godwin's knowledge of chemistry, pleased with his general
intelligence, and in the end offered to make a place for him at the
works, where, though for a year or two his earnings must be small, he
would gain experience likely to be of substantial use to him. Godwin
did not find the proposal distasteful; it brought a change into his
life, and the excitement of novelty; it flattered him with the show of
release from pupilage. To Mr. Moxey's he went.
The hours were not long, and it was understood that his theoretical
studies should continue in the evening. Godwin's home was a very small
house in a monotonous little street; a garret served as bedroom for the
two boys, also as the elder one's laboratory. Servant Mrs. Peak had
none. She managed everything herself, as in the old Greenwich days,
leaving Charlotte free to work at her embroidery. Godwin took turns
with Oliver at blacking the shoes.
As a matter of course the boys accompanied their mother each Sunday
morning to the parish church, and this ceremony was becoming an
insufferable tax on Godwin's patience. It was not only that he hated
the name of religion, and scorned with much fierceness all who came in
sympathetic contact therewith; the loss of time seemed to him an
oppressive injury, especially now that he began to suffer from
restricted leisure. He would not refuse to obey his mother's wish, but
the sullenness of his Sabbatic demeanour made the whole family
uncomfortable. As often as possible he feigned illness. He tried the
effect of dolorous sighs and groans; but Mrs. Peak could not dream of
conceding a point which would have seemed to her the condonation of
deadly sin. 'When I am a man!' muttered Godwin. 'Ah! when I am a man!'
A year had gone by, and the routine to which he was bound began to have
a servile flavour. His mind chafed at subjugation to commercial
interests. Sick of 'sheep and cattle dressings', he grew tired of
chemistry altogether, and presently of physical science in general. His
evenings were given to poetry and history; he took up the classical
schoolbooks again, and found a charm in Latin syntax hitherto
unperceived. It was plain to him now how he had been wronged by the
necessity of leaving school when his education had but just begun.
Discontent becoming ripe for utterance, he unbosomed himself to Mr
Gunnery. It happened that the old man had just returned from a visit to
Kingsmill, where he had spent a week in the museum, then newly enriched
with geologic specimens. After listening in silence to the boy's
complaints, and pondering for a long time, he began to talk of Whitelaw
College.
'Does it cost much to study there?' Godwin asked, gloomily.
'No great sum, I think. There are scholarships to be had.'
Mr. Gunnery threw out the suggestion carelessly. Knowing the hazards of
life, he could not quite justify himself in encouraging Godwin's
restiveness.
'Scholarships? For free study?'
'Yes; but that wouldn't mean free living, you know. Students don't live
at the College.'
'How do you go in for a scholarship?'
The old man replied, meditatively, 'If you were to pass the Cambridge
Local Examination, and to get the first place in the Kingsmill
district, you would have three years of free study at Whitelaw.'
'Three years?' shouted Godwin, springing up from his chair.
'But how could you live, my boy?'
Godwin sat down again, and let his head fall forward.
How to keep oneself alive during a few years of intellectual growth?--a
question often asked by men of mature age, but seldom by a lad of
sixteen. No matter. He resolved that he would study for this Cambridge
Local Examination, and have a try for the scholarship. His attainments
were already up to the standard required for average success in such
competitions. On obtaining a set of 'papers', he found that they looked
easy enough. Could he not come out first in the Kingsmill district?
He worked vigorously at special subjects; aid was needless, but he
wished for more leisure. Not a word to any member of his household.
When his mother discovered that he was reading in the bedroom till long
past midnight, she made serious objection on the score of health and on
that of gas bills. Godwin quietly asserted that work he must, and that
if necessary he would buy candles out of his pocket-money. He had
unexpectedly become more grave, more restrained; he even ceased to
grumble about going to church, having found that service time could be
utilised for committing to memory lists of dates and the like, jotted
down on a slip of paper. When the time for the examination drew near,
he at length told his mother to what end he had been labouring, and
asked her to grant him the assistance necessary for his journey and the
sojourn at Kingsmill; the small sum he had been able to save, after
purchase of books, would not suffice. Mrs. Peak knew not whether to
approve her son's ambition or to try to repress it. She would welcome
an improval in his prospects, but, granting success, how was he to live
whilst profiting by a scholarship? And again, what did he propose to
make of himself when he had spent three years in study?
'In any case,' was Godwin's reply, 'I should be sure of a good place as
a teacher. But I think I might try for something in the Civil Service;
there are all sorts of positions to be got.'
It was idle to discuss the future whilst the first step was still
speculative. Mrs. Peak consented to favour the attempt, and what was
more, to keep it a secret until the issue should be known. It was
needful to obtain leave of absence from Mr. Moxey, and Godwin, when
making the request, stated for what purpose he was going to Kingsmill,
though without explaining the hope which had encouraged his studies.
The project seemed laudable, and his employer made no difficulties.
Godwin just missed the scholarship; of candidates in the prescribed
district, he came out second.
Grievous was the disappointment. To come so near success exasperated
his impatient temper, and for a few days his bondage at the chemical
works seemed intolerable; he was ready for almost any venture that
promised release and new scope for his fretting energies. But at the
moment when nervous irritation was most acute, a remarkable act of
kindness suddenly restored to him all the hopes he had abandoned. One
Saturday afternoon he was summoned from his surly retreat in the
garret, to speak with a visitor. On entering the sitting-room, he found
his mother in company with Miss Cadman and the Misses Lumb, and from
the last-mentioned ladies, who spoke with amiable alternation, he
learnt that they were commissioned by Sir Job Whitelaw to offer for his
acceptance a three-years' studentship at Whitelaw College. Affected by
her son's chagrin, Mrs. Peak had disclosed the story to her sister, who
had repeated it to the Misses Lumb, who in turn had made it the subject
of a letter to Lady Whitelaw. It was an annual practice with Sir Job to
discover some promising lad whom he could benefit by the payment of his
fees for a longer or shorter period of college study. The hint from
Twybridge came to him just at the suitable time, and, on further
inquiry, he decided to make proffer of this advantage to Godwin Peak.
The only condition was that arrangements should be made by the
student's relatives for his support during the proposed period.
This generosity took away Godwin's breath. The expenditure it
represented was trifling, but from a stranger in Sir Job's position it
had something which recalled to so fervent a mind the poetry of
Medicean patronage. For the moment no faintest doubt gave warning to
his self-respect; he was eager to accept nobly a benefaction nobly
intended.
Miss Cadman, flattered by Sir Job's attention to her nephew, now came
forward with an offer to contribute towards Godwin's livelihood. Her
supplement would eke into adequacy such slender allowance as the
widow's purse could afford. Details were privately discussed, resolves
were taken. Mr. Moxey, when it was made known to him, without
explanation, that Godwin was to be sent to Whitelaw College, behaved
with kindness; he at once released the lad, and added a present to the
salary that was due. Proper acknowledgment of the Baronet's kindness
was made by the beneficiary himself, who wrote a letter giving truer
testimony of his mental calibre than would have been offered had he
expressed himself by word of mouth. A genial reply summoned him to an
interview as soon as he should have found an abode in Kingsmill. The
lodging he had occupied during the examination was permanently secured,
and a new period of Godwin's life began.
For two years, that is to say until his age drew towards nineteen, Peak
pursued the Arts curriculum at Whitelaw. His mood on entering decided
his choice, which was left free to him. Experience of utilitarian
chemistry had for the present made his liberal tastes predominant, and
neither the splendid laboratories of Whitelaw nor the repute of its
scientific Professors tempted him to what had once seemed his natural
direction. In the second year, however, he enlarged his course by the
addition of one or two classes not included in Sir Job's design; these
were paid for out of a present made to him by Mr. Gunnery.
It being customary for the regular students of Whitelaw to graduate at
London University, Peak passed his matriculation, and worked on for the
preliminary test then known as First B.A. In the meanwhile he rose
steadily, achieving distinction in the College. The more observant of
his teachers remarked him even where he fell short of academic triumph,
and among his fellow-students he had the name of a stern 'sweater', one
not easily beaten where he had set his mind on excelling. He was not
generally liked, for his mood appeared unsocial, and a repelling
arrogance was sometimes felt in his talk. No doubt--said the more
fortunate young men--he came from a very poor home, and suffered from
the narrowness of his means. They noticed that he did not subscribe to
the College Union, and that he could never join in talk regarding the
diversions of the town. His two or three intimates were chosen from
among those contemporaries who read hard and dressed poorly.
The details of Godwin's private life were noteworthy. Accustomed
hitherto to a domestic circle, at Kingsmill he found himself isolated,
and it was not easy for him to surrender all at once the comforts of
home. For a time he felt as though his ambition were a delinquency
which entailed the punishment of loneliness. Nor did his relations with
Sir Job Whitelaw tend to mitigate this feeling. In his first interview
with the Baronet, Godwin showed to little advantage. A deadly
bashfulness forbade him to be natural either in attitude or speech. He
felt his dependence in a way he had not foreseen; the very clothes he
wore, then fresh from the tailor's, seemed to be the gift of charity,
and their stiffness shamed him. A man of the world, Sir Job could make
allowance for these defects. He understood that the truest kindness
would be to leave a youth such as this to the forming influences of the
College. So Godwin barely had a glimpse of Lady Whitelaw in her
husband's study, and thereafter for many months he saw nothing of his
benefactors. Subsequently he was twice invited to interviews with Sir
Job, who talked with kindness and commendation. Then came the Baronet's
death. Godwin received an assurance that this event would be no check
upon his career, but he neither saw nor heard directly from Lady
Whitelaw.
Not a house in Kingsmill opened hospitable doors to the lonely student;
nor was anyone to blame for this. With no family had he friendly
acquaintance. When, towards the end of his second year, he grew
sufficiently intimate with Buckland Warricombe to walk out with him to
Thornhaw, it could be nothing more than a scarcely welcome exception to
the rule of solitude. Impossible for him to cultivate the friendship of
such people as the Warricombes, with their large and joyous scheme of
life. Only at a hearth where homeliness and cordiality united to unthaw
his proud reserve could Godwin perchance have found the companionship
he needed. Many such homes existed in Kingsmill, but no kindly fortune
led the young man within the sphere of their warmth.
His lodgings were in a very ugly street in the ugliest outskirts of the
town; he had to take a long walk through desolate districts
(brick-yard, sordid pasture, degenerate village) before he could
refresh his eyes with the rural scenery which was so great a joy to him
as almost to be a necessity. The immediate vicinage offered nothing but
monotone of grimy, lower middle-class dwellings, occasionally relieved
by a public-house. He occupied two rooms, not unreasonably clean, and
was seldom disturbed by the attentions of his landlady.
An impartial observer might have wondered at the negligence which left
him to arrange his life as best he could, notwithstanding youth and
utter inexperience. It looked indeed as if there were no one in the
world who cared what became of him. Yet this was merely the result of
his mother's circumstances, and of his own character. Mrs Peak could do
no more than make her small remittances, and therewith send an
occasional admonition regarding his health. She did not, in fact,
conceive the state of things, imagining that the authority and
supervisal of the College extended over her son's daily existence,
whereas it was possible for Godwin to frequent lectures or not, to
study or to waste his time, pretty much as he chose, subject only to
official inquiry if his attendance became frequently irregular. His
independent temper, and the seeming maturity of his mind, supplied
another excuse for the imprudent confidence which left him to his own
resources. Yet the perils of the situation were great indeed. A youth
of less concentrated purpose, more at the mercy of casual allurement,
would probably have gone to wreck amid trials so exceptional.
Trials not only of his moral nature. The sums of money with which he
was furnished fell short of a reasonable total for bare necessities. In
the calculation made by Mrs. Peak and her sister, outlay on books had
practically been lost sight of; it was presumed that ten shillings a
term would cover this item. But Godwin could not consent to be at a
disadvantage in his armoury for academic contest. The first month saw
him compelled to contract his diet, that he might purchase books;
thenceforth he rarely had enough to eat. His landlady supplied him with
breakfast, tea, and supper--each repast of the very simplest kind; for
dinner it was understood that he repaired to some public table, where
meat and vegetables, with perchance a supplementary sweet when nature
demanded it, might be had for about a shilling. That shilling was not
often at his disposal. Dinner as it is understood by the comfortably
clad, the 'regular meal' which is a part of English respectability,
came to be represented by a small pork-pie, or even a couple of buns,
eaten at the little shop over against the College. After a long morning
of mental application this was poor refreshment; the long afternoon
which followed, again spent in rigorous study, could not but reduce a
growing frame to ravenous hunger. Tea and buttered bread were the means
of appeasing it, until another four hours' work called for reward in
the shape of bread and cheese. Even yet the day's toil was not ended.
Godwin sometimes read long after midnight, with the result that, when
at length he tried to sleep, exhaustion of mind and body kept him for a
long time feverishly wakeful.
These hardships he concealed from the people at Twybridge. Complaint,
it seemed to him, would be ungrateful, for sacrifices were already made
on his behalf. His father, as he well remembered, was wont to relate,
with a kind of angry satisfaction, the miseries through which he had
fought his way to education and the income-tax. Old enough now to
reflect with compassionate understanding upon that life of conflict,
Godwin resolved that he too would bear the burdens inseparable from
poverty, and in some moods was even glad to suffer as his father had
done. Fortunately he had a sound basis of health, and hunger and vigils
would not easily affect his constitution. If, thus hampered, he could
outstrip competitors who had every advantage of circumstance, the more
glorious his triumph.
Sunday was an interval of leisure. Rejoicing in deliverance from
Sabbatarianism, he generally spent the morning in a long walk, and the
rest of the day was devoted to non-collegiate reading. He had
subscribed to a circulating library, and thus obtained new publications
recommended to him in the literary paper which again taxed his stomach.
Mere class-work did not satisfy him. He was possessed with throes of
spiritual desire, impelling him towards that world of unfettered
speculation which he had long indistinctly imagined. It was a great
thing to learn what the past could teach, to set himself on the common
level of intellectual men; but he understood that college learning
could not be an end in itself, that the Professors to whom he listened
either did not speak out all that was in their minds, or, if they did,
were far from representing the advanced guard of modern thought. With
eagerness he at length betook himself to the teachers of philosophy and
of geology. Having paid for these lectures out of his own pocket, he
felt as if he had won a privilege beyond the conventional course of
study, an initiation to a higher sphere of intellect. The result was
disillusion. Not even in these class-rooms could he hear the word for
which he waited, the bold annunciation of newly discovered law, the
science which had completely broken with tradition. He came away
unsatisfied, and brooded upon the possibilities which would open for
him when he was no longer dependent.
His evening work at home was subject to a disturbance which would have
led him to seek other lodgings, could he have hoped to find any so
cheap as these. The landlady's son, a lank youth of the clerk species,
was wont to amuse himself from eight to ten with practice on a piano.
By dint of perseverance he had learned to strum two or three hymnal
melodies popularised by American evangelists; occasionally he even
added the charm of his voice, which had a pietistic nasality not easily
endured by an ear of any refinement. Not only was Godwin harassed by
the recurrence of these performances; the tunes worked themselves into
his brain, and sometimes throughout a whole day their burden clanged
and squalled incessantly on his mental hearing. He longed to entreat
forbearance from the musician, but an excess of delicacy--which always
ruled his behaviour--kept him silent. Certain passages in the classics,
and many an elaborate mathematical formula, long retained for him an
association with the cadences of revivalist hymnody.
Like all proud natures condemned to solitude, he tried to convince
himself that he had no need of society, that he despised its
attractions, and could be self-sufficing. So far was this from the
truth that he often regarded with bitter envy those of his
fellow-students who had the social air, who conversed freely among
their equals, and showed that the pursuits of the College were only a
part of their existence. These young men were either preparing for the
University, or would pass from Whitelaw to business, profession,
official training; in any case, a track was marked out for them by the
zealous care of relatives and friends, and their efforts would always
be aided, applauded, by a kindly circle. Some of them Godwin could not
but admire, so healthful were they, so bright of intellect, and
courteous in manner,--a type distinct from any he had formerly
observed. Others were antipathetic to him. Their aggressive gentility
conflicted with the wariness of his self-esteem; such a one, for
instance, as Bruno Chilvers, the sound of whose mincing voice, as he
read in the class, so irritated him that at times he had to cover his
ears. Yet, did it chance that one of these offensive youths addressed a
civil word to him, on the instant his prejudice was disarmed, and his
emotions flowed forth in a response to which he would gladly have given
free expression. When he was invited to meet the relatives of Buckland
Warricombe, shyness prepossessed him against them; but the frank
kindness of his reception moved him, and on going away he was ashamed
to have replied so boorishly to attentions so amiably meant. The same
note of character sounded in what personal intercourse he had with the
Professors. Though his spirit of criticism was at times busy with these
gentlemen, he had for most of them a profound regard; and to be elected
by one or other for a word of commendation, a little private
assistance, a well-phrased inquiry as to his progress, always made his
heart beat high with gratitude. They were his first exemplars of
finished courtesy, of delicate culture; and he could never sufficiently
regret that no one of them was aware how thankfully he recognised his
debt.
In longing for the intimacy of refined people, he began to modify his
sentiments with regard to the female sex. His first prize-day at
Whitelaw was the first occasion on which he sat in an assembly where
ladies (as he understood the title) could be seen and heard. The
impression he received was deep and lasting. On the seat behind him
were two girls whose intermittent talk held him with irresistible charm
throughout the whole ceremony. He had not imagined that girls could
display such intelligence, and the sweet clearness of their intonation,
the purity of their accent, the grace of their habitual phrases, were
things altogether beyond his experience. This was not the English he
had been wont to hear on female lips. His mother and his aunt spoke
with propriety; their associates were soft-tongued; but here was
something quite different from inoffensiveness of tone and diction.
Godwin appreciated the differentiating cause. These young ladies behind
him had been trained from the cradle to speak for the delight of
fastidious ears; that they should be grammatical was not enough--they
must excel in the art of conversational music. Of course there existed
a world where only such speech was interchanged, and how inestimably
happy those men to whom the sphere was native!
When the proceedings were over, he drew aside and watched the two girls
as they mingled with acquaintances; he kept them in view until they
left the College. An emotion such as this he had never known; for the
first time in his life he was humiliated without embitterment.
The bitterness came when he had returned to his home in the back street
of Twybridge, and was endeavouring to spend the holidays in a hard
'grind'. He loathed the penurious simplicity to which his life was
condemned; all familiar circumstances were become petty, coarse,
vulgar, in his eyes; the contrast with the idealised world of his
ambition plunged him into despair: Even Mr. Gunnery seemed an ignoble
figure when compared with the Professors of Whitelaw, and his authority
in the sciences was now subjected to doubt. However much or little
might result from the three years at College, it was clear to Godwin
that his former existence had passed into infinite remoteness; he was
no longer fit for Twybridge, no longer a companion for his kindred.
Oliver, whose dulness as a schoolboy gave no promise of future
achievements, was now learning the business of a seedsman; his brother
felt ashamed when he saw him at work in the shop, and had small
patience with the comrades to whom Oliver dedicated his leisure.
Charlotte was estranged by religious differences. Only for his mother
did the young man show increased consideration. To his aunt he
endeavoured to be grateful, but his behaviour in her presence was
elaborate hypocrisy. Hating the necessity for this, he laid the blame
on fortune, which had decreed his birth in a social sphere where he
must ever be an alien.