THE OLD SPOT--A LONG HISTORY--THOU SHALT NOT STEAL--NO
HARM--EDUCATION--NECESSITY--FOAM ON YOUR LIP--METAPHOR--FUR CAP--I DON'T
KNOW HIM
It was past midwinter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the
old apple-woman: she has just returned to the other side of the bridge,
to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had
done after frequent conversations with me; 'she liked the old place
best,' she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which
she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her
at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which
I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old
woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than
she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared
for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that
afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many
thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal.
'You may keep it, dear,' said the old woman, with a sigh; 'you may carry
it to your lodging, and keep it for your own.'
Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed, 'Is it possible that
you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of
comfort so long?'
Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I
gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever
opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again;
also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely
different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter and beef-steaks were
no longer grateful to her palate, her present diet chiefly consisting of
tea, and bread and butter.
'Ah,' said I, 'you have been ill, and when people are ill, they seldom
like the things which give them pleasure when they are in health.' I
learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, and had all kinds of
strange thoughts; that as she lay awake many things connected with her
youth, which she had quite forgotten, came into her mind. There were
certain words that came into her mind the night before the last, which
were continually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, 'Thou
shalt not steal.'
On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned that she
had read them at school, in a book called the primer; to this school she
had been sent by her mother, who was a poor widow, and followed the trade
of apple-selling in the very spot where her daughter followed it now. It
seems that the mother was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant
of letters, the benefit of which she was willing to procure for her
child; and at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently
experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to read
the book which she found in an obscure closet of her mother's house, and
which had been her principal companion and comfort for many years of her
life.
But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with the book, and
with most other things in which she had taken pleasure; she dwelt much on
the words, 'Thou shalt not steal'; she had never stolen things herself,
but then she had bought things which other people had stolen, and which
she knew had been stolen; and her dear son had been a thief, which he
perhaps would not have been but for the example which she set him in
buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated with
her.
On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these characters, I
learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her
husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great
distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had
bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her
son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as
her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought
that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing;
her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though
poor.
So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to
being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived
respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference
between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But
for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably
and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace,
which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to
produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be
little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad
thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a
Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my
fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in
some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in
the management of the affairs of the world--if education was a benefit to
some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it,
any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I
did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her
mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could
turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the
perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no
means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that
it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it,
and--and--I felt myself getting into a maze; what is right, thought I?
what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every
action is bound up with necessity.
'Necessity!' I exclaimed, and cracked my finger-joints.
'Ah, it is a bad thing,' said the old woman.
'What is a bad thing?' said I.
'Why to be poor, dear.'
'You talk like a fool,' said I, 'riches and poverty are only different
forms of necessity.'
'You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call your own mother
a fool.'
'You are not my mother,' said I.
'Not your mother, dear?--no, no more I am; but your calling me fool put
me in mind of my dear son, who often used to call me fool--and you just
now looked as he sometimes did, with a blob of foam on your lip.'
'After all, I don't know that you are not my mother.'
'Don't you, dear? I'm glad of it; I wish you would make it out.'
'How should I make it out? who can speak from his own knowledge as to the
circumstances of his birth? Besides, before attempting to establish our
relationship, it would be necessary to prove that such people exist.'
'What people, dear?'
'You and I.'
'Lord, child, you are mad; that book has made you so.'
'Don't abuse it,' said I; 'the book is an excellent one, that is,
provided it exists.'
'I wish it did not,' said the old woman; 'but it shan't long; I'll burn
it, or fling it into the river--the voices at night tell me to do so.'
'Tell the voices,' said I, 'that they talk nonsense; the book, if it
exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?'
'All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it
was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.'
'Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book,
and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing
as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything
at all.'
'Anything at all! Why ain't we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my
stall and my--'
'Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say--I don't know; all is a
mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be,
whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and,
provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a
pear.'
'Don't talk so, dear.'
'I won't; we will suppose that we all exist--world, ourselves, apples,
and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?'
'Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.'
'I have read it, and have no further use for it; I do not need books: in
a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit
myself, far less books.'
'Then I will fling it into the river.'
'Don't do that; here, give it me. Now what shall I do with it? you were
so fond of it.'
'I am so no longer.'
'But how will you pass your time; what will you read?'
'I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read
the books I saw at school: the primer or the other.'
'What was the other?'
'I think they called it the Bible: all about God, and Job, and Jesus.'
'Ah, I know it.'
'You have read it; is it a nice book--all true?'
'True, true--I don't know what to say; but if the world be true, and not
all a lie, a fiction, I don't see why the Bible, as they call it, should
not be true. By the by, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or,
indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book.'
'What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?'
'Yes, the language of those who bring you things.'
'The language of those who _did_, dear; they bring them now no longer.
They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the
Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calf-skin.'
'That's metaphor,' said I; 'English, but metaphorical; what an odd
language! So you would like to have a Bible,--shall I buy you one?'
'I am poor, dear--no money since I left off the other trade.'
'Well, then, I'll buy you one.'
'No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can
take me one conveniently on the sly, you know--I think you may, for, as
it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.'
'That will never do,' said I, 'more especially as I should be sure to be
caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I'll tell you what
I'll do--try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for
what great things this same book of yours may serve?'
'Well, dear,' said the old woman, 'do as you please; I should like to see
the--what do you call it?--Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it
true.'
'Yes,' said I, 'seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of
doubt--I seem to think--these apples and pears seem to be--and here seems
to be a gentleman who wants to purchase either one or the other.'
A person had stopped before the apple-woman's stall, and was glancing now
at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself; he wore a blue mantle, and
had a kind of fur cap on his head; he was somewhat above the middle
stature; his features were keen, but rather hard; there was a slight
obliquity in his vision. Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman
a penny; then, after looking at me scrutinisingly for a moment, he moved
from the booth in the direction of Southwark.
'Do you know who that man is?' said I to the old woman.
'No,' said she, 'except that he is one of my best customers: he
frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny; his is the only
piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don't know him, but he
has once or twice sat down in the booth with two strange-looking
men--Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call them.'