Lavengro

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Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a cane
headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; and, after
glancing at me for a moment, made me a half bow, attended with a strange
grimace, and departed.

"Who is that gentleman?" said I to Francis Ardry, as soon as we were
alone.

"Oh, that is ---," said Frank smiling, "the gentleman who gives me
lessons in elocution."

"And what need have you of elocution?"

"Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians," said Francis, "who
insist that I should, with the assistance of ---, qualify myself for
Parliament; for which they do me the honour to suppose that I have some
natural talent. I dare not disobey them; for, at the present moment, I
have particular reasons for wishing to keep on good terms with them."

"But," said I, "you are a Roman Catholic; and I thought that persons of
your religion were excluded from Parliament?"

"Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges; people of our
religion are determined to be no longer excluded from Parliament, but to
have a share in the government of the nation. Not that I care anything
about the matter; I merely obey the will of my guardians; my thoughts are
fixed on something better than politics."

"I understand you," said I; "dog-fighting--well, I can easily conceive
that to some minds dog-fighting--"

"I was not thinking of dog-fighting," said Francis Ardry, interrupting
me.

"Not thinking of dog-fighting!" I ejaculated.

"No," said Francis Ardry, "something higher and much more rational than
dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts."

"Dear me," said I, "I thought I had heard you say, that there was nothing
like it!"

"Like what?" said Francis Ardry.

"Dog-fighting, to be sure," said I.

"Pooh," said Francis Ardry; "who but the gross and unrefined care
anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages my waking and
sleeping thoughts is love--divine love--there is nothing like _that_.
Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to you."

And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared
that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most
delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, who
had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining
the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on
account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill.
Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for
the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in
England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement
inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he
had, moreover--for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding
creature in the world--succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire
for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to
accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. "I am
looking out for a handsome gig and horse," said Francis Ardry, at the
conclusion of his narration; "it were a burning shame that so divine a
creature should have to go about a place like London on foot, or in a
paltry hackney coach."

"But," said I, "will not the pursuit of politics prevent your devoting
much time to this fair lady?"

"It will prevent me devoting all my time," said Francis Ardry, "as I
gladly would; but what can I do? My guardians wish me to qualify myself
for a political orator, and I dare not offend them by a refusal. If I
offend my guardians, I should find it impossible--unless I have recourse
to Jews and money-lenders--to support Annette; present her with articles
of dress and jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of
conveying her angelic person through the streets of London."

After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in thought, his mind
being probably occupied with the subject of Annette, I broke silence by
observing, "So your fellow-religionists are really going to make a
serious attempt to procure their emancipation?"

"Yes," said Francis Ardry, starting from his reverie; "everything has
been arranged; even a leader has been chosen, at least for us of Ireland,
upon the whole the most suitable man in the world for the occasion--a
barrister of considerable talent, mighty voice, and magnificent
impudence. With emancipation, liberty, and redress for the wrongs of
Ireland in his mouth, he is to force his way into the British House of
Commons, dragging myself and others behind him--he will succeed, and when
he is in he will cut a figure; I have heard --- himself, who has heard
him speak, say that he will cut a figure."

"And is --- competent to judge?" I demanded.

"Who but he?" said Francis Ardry; "no one questions his judgment
concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that point is so well
established, that the greatest orators do not disdain occasionally to
consult him; C--- himself, as I have been told, when anxious to produce
any particular effect in the House, is in the habit of calling in --- for
consultation."

"As to matter, or manner?" said I.

"Chiefly the latter," said Francis Ardry, "though he is competent to give
advice as to both, for he has been an orator in his day, and a leader of
the people; though he confessed to me that he was not exactly qualified
to play the latter part--'I want paunch,' said he."

"It is not always indispensable," said I; "there is an orator in my town,
a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not only leads the people,
but the mayor too; perhaps he has a succedaneum in his hunch: but, tell
me, is the leader of your movement in possession of that which ---
wants?"

"No more deficient in it than in brass," said Francis Ardry.

"Well," said I, "whatever his qualifications may be, I wish him success
in the cause which he has taken up--I love religious liberty."

"We shall succeed," said Francis Ardry; "John Bull upon the whole is
rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are sure to be backed by
the radical party, who, to gratify their political prejudices, would join
with Satan himself."

"There is one thing," said I, "connected with this matter which surprises
me--your own lukewarmness. Yes, making every allowance for your natural
predilection for dog-fighting, and your present enamoured state of mind,
your apathy at the commencement of such a movement is to me
unaccountable."

"You would not have cause to complain of my indifference," said Frank,
"provided I thought my country would be benefited by this movement; but I
happen to know the origin of it. The priests are the originators, 'and
what country was ever benefited by a movement which owed its origin to
them?' so says Voltaire, a page of whom I occasionally read. By the
present move they hope to increase their influence, and to further
certain designs which they entertain both with regard to this country and
Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange fellow--a half
Italian, half English priest,--who was recommended to me by my guardians,
partly as a spiritual--partly as a temporal guide, has let me into a
secret or two; he is fond of a glass of gin and water--and over a glass
of gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more
communicative, perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own
master, I would kick him, politics, and religious movements, to a
considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so quickly; I
have an appointment with Annette, and must make myself fit to appear
before her."

CHAPTER XLIII.

Progress--Glorious John--Utterly Unintelligible--What a Difference!

By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and
obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I
had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some
progress in translating the publisher's philosophy into German. But
about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that
our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my
leaving the big man, what other resource had I--another publisher? But
what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym, but then I
thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I
determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm,
and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none
took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One
asked me if I had anything else--he was a snuff-taker--I said yes; and
going home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I
have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to
me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not
do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which
was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff
on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had
never opened it.

I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of
the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that
Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he,
taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house
where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not
see Glorious John--I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious
John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw
Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they
were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab
Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me
to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now
gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never
forget Glorious John.

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the
publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the
publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of
paper.

"Sir," said he, "you know nothing of German; I have shown your
translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it
is utterly unintelligible to them." "Did they see the Philosophy?" I
replied. "They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand
English." "No more do I," I replied, "if that Philosophy be English."

The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I
had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of snuff
to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the
publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however,
eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other
words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I
got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!

CHAPTER XLIV.

The Old Spot--A Long History--Thou Shalt Not Steal--No
Harm--Education--Necessity--Foam on Your Lip--Apples and Pears--What Will
You Read--Metaphor--The Fur Cap--I Don't Know Him.

It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the
old apple-woman: she had just returned from the other side of the bridge,
to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had
done after repeated 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 mid-winter, 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, who 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 shall 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 sha'n'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, a'n'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 farther 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; it is a nice book--all true?"

"True, true--I don't know what to say; but if the world be true, and not
a lie, a fiction, I don't see why the Bible, as they call it, should not
be true. By-the-bye, 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 a 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 scrutinizingly 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."

CHAPTER XLV.

Bought and Exchanged--Quite Empty--A New Firm--Bibles--Countenance of a
Lion--Clap of Thunder--A Truce with This--I Have Lost It--Clearly a
Right--Goddess of the Mint.

In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about procuring her a
Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book which she had intrusted
to me for the purpose of exchange in my pocket. I went to several shops
and asked if Bibles were to be had: I found that there were plenty. When,
however, I informed the people that I came to barter, they looked blank,
and declined treating with me; saying that they did not do business in
that way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw
written, "Books bought and exchanged:" there was a smartish young fellow
in the shop, with black hair and whiskers; "You exchange?" said I. "Yes,"
said he, "sometimes, but we prefer selling; what book do you want?" "A
Bible," said I. "Ah," said he, "there's a great demand for Bibles just
now; all kinds of people are becoming very pious of late," he added,
grinning at me; "I am afraid I can't do business with you, more
especially as the master is not at home. What book have you brought?"
Taking the book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter: the young
fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into a loud
laugh. "What do you laugh for?" said I, angrily, and half clenching my
fist. "Laugh!" said the young fellow; "laugh! who could help laughing?"
"I could," said I; "I see nothing to laugh at; I want to exchange this
book for a Bible." "You do?" said the young fellow; "well, I daresay
there are plenty who would be willing to exchange, that is, if they
dared. I wish master were at home; but that would never do, either.
Master's a family man, the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family
man, is sharp, and knows all his stock; I'd buy it of you, but, to tell
you the truth, I am quite empty here," said he, pointing to his pocket,
"so I am afraid we can't deal."

Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, "what am I to do?" said I;
"I really want a Bible."

"Can't you buy one?" said the young man; "have you no money?"

"Yes," said I, "I have some, but I am merely the agent of another; I came
to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?"

"I don't know," said the young man, thoughtfully, laying down the book on
the counter; "I don't know what you can do; I think you will find some
difficulty in this bartering job, the trade are rather precise." All at
once he laughed louder than before; suddenly stopping, however, he put on
a very grave look. "Take my advice," said he; "there is a firm
established in this neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but
Bibles; they are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books
at the lowest possible price; apply to them, who knows but what they will
exchange with you?"