Erewhon Revisited

The streets were quite deserted as George had said they would be, and very dark, save for an occasional oil lamp.

“As soon as we can get within the preserves,” said George, “we had better wait till morning.  I have a rug for myself as well as for you.”

“I saw you had two,” answered my father; “you must let me carry them both; the provisions are much the heavier load.

George fought as hard as a dog would do, till my father said that they must not quarrel during the very short time they had to be together.  On this George gave up one rug meekly enough, and my father yielded about the basket, and the other rug.

It was about half-past eleven when they started, and it was after one before they reached the preserves.  For the first mile from the town they were not much hindered by the darkness, and my father told George about his book and many another matter; he also promised George to say nothing about this second visit.  Then the road became more rough, and when it dwindled away to be a mere lane—­becoming presently only a foot track—­they had to mind their footsteps, and got on but slowly.  The night was starlit, and warm, considering that they were more than three thousand feet above the sea, but it was very dark, so that my father was well enough pleased when George showed him the white stones that marked the boundary, and said they had better soon make themselves as comfortable as they could till morning.

“We can stay here,” he said, “till half-past three, there will be a little daylight then; we will rest half an hour for breakfast at about five, and by noon we shall be at the statues, where we will dine.”

This being settled, George rolled himself up in his rug, and in a few minutes went comfortably off to sleep.  Not so my poor father.  He wound up his watch, wrapped his rug round him, and lay down; but he could get no sleep.  After such a day, and such an evening, how could any one have slept?

About three the first signs of dawn began to show, and half an hour later my father could see the sleeping face of his son—­whom it went to his heart to wake.  Nevertheless he woke him, and in a few minutes the two were on their way—­George as fresh as a lark—­my poor father intent on nothing so much as on hiding from George how ill and unsound in body and mind he was feeling.

They walked on, saying but little, till at five by my father’s watch George proposed a halt for breakfast.  The spot he chose was a grassy oasis among the trees, carpeted with subalpine flowers, now in their fullest beauty, and close to a small stream that here came down from a side valley.  The freshness of the morning air, the extreme beauty of the place, the lovely birds that flitted from tree to tree, the exquisite shapes and colours of the flowers, still dew-bespangled, and above all, the tenderness with which George treated him, soothed my father, and when he and George had lit a fire and made some hot corn-coffee—­with a view to which Yram had put up a bottle of milk—­he felt so much restored as to look forward to the rest of his journey without alarm.  Moreover he had nothing to carry, for George had left his own rug at the place where they had slept, knowing that he should find it on his return; he had therefore insisted on carrying my father’s.  My father fought as long as he could, but he had to give in.

“Now tell me,” said George, glad to change the subject, “what will those three men do about what you said to them last night?  Will they pay any attention to it?”

My father laughed.  “My dear George, what a question—­I do not know them well enough.”

“Oh yes, you do.  At any rate say what you think most likely.”

“Very well.  I think Dr. Downie will do much as I said.  He will not throw the whole thing over, through fear of schism, loyalty to a party from which he cannot well detach himself, and because he does not think that the public is quite tired enough of its toy.  He will neither preach nor write against it, but he will live lukewarmly against it, and this is what the Hankys hate.  They can stand either hot or cold, but they are afraid of lukewarm.  In England Dr. Downie would be a Broad Churchman.”

“Do you think we shall ever get rid of Sunchildism altogether?”

“If they stick to the cock-and-bull stories they are telling now, and rub them in, as Hanky did on Sunday, it may go, and go soon.  It has taken root too quickly and easily; and its top is too heavy for its roots; still there are so many chances in its favour that it may last a long time.”

“And how about Hanky?”

“He will brazen it out, relic, chariot, and all:  and he will welcome more relics and more cock-and-bull stories; his single eye will be upon his own aggrandisement and that of his order.  Plausible, unscrupulous, heartless scoundrel that he is, he will play for the queen and the women of the court, as Dr. Downie will play for the king and the men.  He and his party will sleep neither night nor day, but they will have one redeeming feature—­whoever they may deceive, they will not deceive themselves.  They believe every one else to be as bad as they are, and see no reason why they should not push their own wares in the way of business.  Hanky is everything that we in England rightly or wrongly believe a typical Jesuit to be.”

“And Panky—­what about him?”

“Panky must persuade himself of his own lies, before he is quite comfortable about telling them to other people.  Hanky keeps Hanky well out of it; Panky must have a base of operations in Panky.  Hanky will lead him by the nose, bit by bit, for his is the master spirit.  In England Panky would be what we call an extreme ritualist.”

“Then the real battle will be between Hanky and Dr. Downie.  Which will carry the day?”

“For the present, probably Hanky.  He is the more vigilant, and energetic; in this case Sunchildism will have to go, and I am afraid your whole Musical Bank system will be swept away along with it.”

“And why not?”

“Because, my dear boy, though false in the letter, if good counsels prevail, it may be made true enough in spirit.  If it were to go, its place would be soon filled by men who would be as false in letter as the others were, and much more false in spirit.  You want a heart to check your head, and a head to check your heart.  As in our English body politic there are two parties opposed to one another, neither of which can thrive if the other is unduly weakened, so in our spiritual and intellectual world two parties more or less antagonistic are equally necessary.  Those who are at the head of science provide us with the one party; those whom we call our churchmen are the other.  Both are corrupt, but we can spare neither, for each checks as far as it can the corruptions of the other.”

“Then you would have us uphold Sunchildism, knowing it to be untrue?”

“Do what you will, you will not get perfect truth.  And if you can follow the lead which I believe Dr. Downie will give you, that is to say, get rid of cock-and-bull stories, idealise my unworthy self, and, as I said last night, make me a peg on which to hang your own best thoughts—­Sunchildism will be as near truth as anything you are likely to get.  But if Hankyism triumphs, come what may you must get rid of it, for he and his school will tamper with the one sure and everlasting word of God revealed to us by human experience.  He who plays fast and loose with this is as one who would forge God’s signature to a cheque drawn on God’s own bank.”

“Are we to foster the belief that it was indeed the Sunchild who interrupted Hanky’s sermon?”

“Yes, where you safely can, but not otherwise; and commit the facts to writing as soon as you can find time.  Do nothing to jeopardise your own safety; you can do more by perfunctory acquiescence than by open dissent.  And tell those friends whom you can trust, what these my parting words to you have been.  But above all I charge you solemnly, do nothing to jeopardise your own safety; you cannot play into Hanky’s hands more certainly than by risking this.  Think how he and Panky would rejoice, and how Dr. Downie would grieve.  Be wise and wary; bide your time; do what you prudently can, and you will find you can do much; try to do more, and you will do nothing.  Be guided by the Mayor, by your mother—­and by that dear old lady whose grandson you will—­”

“Then they have told you,” interrupted the youth blushing scarlet.

“My dearest boy, of course they have, and I have seen her, and am head over ears in love with her myself.”

He was all smiles and blushes, and vowed for a few minutes that it was a shame of them to tell me, but presently he said—­

“Then you like her.”

“Rather!” said my father vehemently, and shaking George by the hand.  But he said nothing about the nuggets and the sovereigns, knowing that Yram did not wish him to do so.  Neither did George say anything about his determination to start for the capital in the morning, and make a clean breast of everything to the King.  So soon does it become necessary even for those who are most cordially attached to hide things from one another.  My father, however, was made comfortable by receiving a promise from the youth that he would take no step of which the persons he had named would disapprove.

When once Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter had been introduced there was no more talking about Hanky and Panky; for George began to bubble over with the subject that was nearest his heart, and how much he feared that it would be some time yet before he could be married.  Many a story did he tell of his early attachment and of its course for the last ten years, but my space will not allow me to inflict one of them on the reader.  My father saw that the more he listened and sympathised and encouraged, the fonder George became of him, and this was all he cared about.

Thus did they converse hour after hour.  They passed the Blue Pool, without seeing it or even talking about it for more than a minute.  George kept an eye on the quails and declared them fairly plentiful and strong on the wing, but nothing now could keep him from pouring out his whole heart about Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter, until towards noon they caught sight of the statues, and a halt was made which gave my father the first pang he had felt that morning, for he knew that the statues would be the beginning of the end.

There was no need to light a fire, for Yram had packed for them two bottles of a delicious white wine, something like White Capri, which went admirably with the many more solid good things that she had provided for them.  As soon as they had finished a hearty meal my father said to George, “You must have my watch for a keepsake; I see you are not wearing my boots.  I fear you did not find them comfortable, but I am glad you have not got them on, for I have set my heart on keeping yours.”

“Let us settle about the boots first.  I rather fancied that that was why you put me off when I wanted to get my own back again; and then I thought I should like yours for a keepsake, so I put on another pair last night, and they are nothing like so comfortable as yours were.”

“Now I wonder,” said my father to me, “whether this was true, or whether it was only that dear fellow’s pretty invention; but true or false I was as delighted as he meant me to be.”

I asked George about this when I saw him, and he confessed with an ingenuous blush that my father’s boots had hurt him, and that he had never thought of making a keepsake of them, till my father’s words stimulated his invention.

As for the watch, which was only a silver one, but of the best make, George protested for a time, but when he had yielded, my father could see that he was overjoyed at getting it; for watches, though now permitted, were expensive and not in common use.

Having thus bribed him, my father broached the possibility of his meeting him at the statues on that day twelvemonth, but of course saying nothing about why he was so anxious that he should come.

“I will come,” said my father, “not a yard farther than the statues, and if I cannot come I will send your brother.  And I will come at noon; but it is possible that the river down below may be in fresh, and I may not be able to hit off the day, though I will move heaven and earth to do so.  Therefore if I do not meet you on the day appointed, do your best to come also at noon on the following day.  I know how inconvenient this will be for you, and will come true to the day if it is possible.”

To my father’s surprise, George did not raise so many difficulties as he had expected.  He said it might be done, if neither he nor my father were to go beyond the statues.  “And difficult as it will be for you,” said George, “you had better come a second day if necessary, as I will, for who can tell what might happen to make the first day impossible?”

“Then,” said my father, “we shall be spared that horrible feeling that we are parting without hope of seeing each other again.  I find it hard enough to say good-bye even now, but I do not know how I could have faced it if you had not agreed to our meeting again.”

“The day fixed upon will be our XXI. i. 3, and the hour noon as near as may be?”

“So.  Let me write it down:  ’XXI. i. 3, i.e. our December 9, 1891, I am to meet George at the statues, at twelve o’clock, and if he does not come, I am to be there again on the following day.’

In like manner, George wrote down what he was to do:  “XXI. i. 3, or failing this XXI. i. 4.  Statues.  Noon.”

“This,” he said, “is a solemn covenant, is it not?”

“Yes,” said my father, “and may all good omens attend it!”

The words were not out of his mouth before a mountain bird, something like our jackdaw, but smaller and of a bluer black, flew out of the hollow mouth of one of the statues, and with a hearty chuckle perched on the ground at his feet, attracted doubtless by the scraps of food that were lying about.  With the fearlessness of birds in that country, it looked up at him and George, gave another hearty chuckle, and flew back to its statue with the largest fragment it could find.

They settled that this was an omen so propitious that they could part in good hope.  “Let us finish the wine,” said my father, “and then, do what must be done!”

They finished the wine to each other’s good health; George drank also to mine, and said he hoped my father would bring me with him, while my father drank to Yram, the Mayor, their children, Mrs. Humdrum, and above all to Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter.  They then re-packed all that could be taken away; my father rolled his rug to his liking, slung it over his shoulder, gripped George’s hand, and said, “My dearest boy, when we have each turned our backs upon one another, let us walk our several ways as fast as we can, and try not to look behind us.”

So saying he loosed his grip of George’s hand, bared his head, lowered it, and turned away.

George burst into tears, and followed him after he had gone two paces; he threw his arms round him, hugged him, kissed him on his lips, cheeks, and forehead, and then turning round, strode full speed towards Sunch’ston.  My father never took his eyes off him till he was out of sight, but the boy did not look round.  When he could see him no more, my father with faltering gait, and feeling as though a prop had suddenly been taken from under him, began to follow the stream down towards his old camp.