Father and Son: A Study of Two Temperaments

A NEW element now entered into my life, a fresh rival arose to compete for me with my Father’s dogmatic theology.  This rival was the Sea.  When Wordsworth was a little child, the presence of the mountains and the clouds lighted up his spirit with gleams that were like the flashing of a shield.  He has described, in the marvellous pages of the ‘Prelude’, the impact of nature upon the infant soul, but he has described it vaguely and faintly, with some ’infirmity of love for days disowned by memory’,—­I think because he was brought up in the midst of spectacular beauty, and could name no moment, mark no ‘here’ or ‘now’, when the wonder broke upon him.  It was at the age of twice five summers, he thought, that he began to hold unconscious intercourse with nature, ‘drinking in a pure organic pleasure’ from the floating mists and winding waters.  Perhaps, in his anxiety to be truthful, and in the absence of any record, he put the date of this conscious rapture too late rather than too early.  Certainly my own impregnation with the obscurely-defined but keenly-felt loveliness of the open sea dates from the first week of my ninth year.

The village, on the outskirts of which we had taken up our abode, was built parallel to the cliff line above the shore, but half a mile inland.  For a long time after the date I have now reached, no other form of natural scenery than the sea had any effect upon me at all.  The tors of the distant moor might be drawn in deep blue against the pallor of our morning or our evening sky, but I never looked at them.  It was the Sea, always the sea, nothing but the sea.  From our house, or from the field at the back of our house, or from any part of the village itself, there was no appearance to suggest that there could lie anything in an easterly direction to break the infinitude of red ploughed fields.  But on that earliest morning, how my heart remembers we hastened,—­Miss Marks, the maid, and I between them, along a couple of high-walled lanes, when suddenly, far below us, in an immense arc of light, there stretched the enormous plain of waters.  We had but to cross a step or two of downs, when the hollow sides of the great limestone cove yawned at our feet, descending, like a broken cup, down, down to the moon of snow-white shingle and the expanse of blue-green sea.

In these twentieth-century days, a careful municipality has studded the down with rustic seats and has shut its dangers out with railings, has cut a winding carriage-drive round the curves of the cove down to the shore, and has planted sausage-laurels at intervals in clearings made for that aesthetic purpose.  When last I saw the place, thus smartened and secured, with its hair in curl-papers and its feet in patent-leathers, I turned from it in anger and disgust, and could almost have wept.  I suppose that to those who knew it in no other guise, it may still have beauty.  No parish councils, beneficent and shrewd, can obscure the lustre of the waters or compress the vastness of the sky.  But what man could do to make wild beauty ineffectual, tame and empty, has amply been performed at Oddicombe.

Very different was it fifty years ago, in its uncouth majesty.  No road, save the merest goat-path, led down its concave wilderness, in which loose furze-bushes and untrimmed brambles wantoned into the likeness of trees, each draped in audacious tissue of wild clematis.  Through this fantastic maze the traveller wound his way, led by little other clue than by the instinct of descent.  For me, as a child, it meant the labour of a long, an endless morning, to descend to the snow-white pebbles, to sport at the edge of the cold, sharp sea, and then to climb up home again, slipping in the sticky red mud, clutching at the smooth boughs of the wild ash, toiling, toiling upwards into flat land out of that hollow world of rocks.

On the first occasion I recollect, our Cockney housemaid, enthusiastic young creature that she was, flung herself down upon her knees, and drank of the salt waters.  Miss Marks, more instructed in phenomena, refrained, but I, although I was perfectly aware what the taste would be, insisted on sipping a few drops from the palm of my hand.  This was a slight recurrence of what I have called my ‘natural magic’ practices, which had passed into the background of my mind, but had not quite disappeared.  I recollect that I thought I might secure some power of walking on the sea, if I drank of it—­a perfectly irrational movement of mind, like those of savages.

My great desire was to walk out over the sea as far as I could, and then lie flat on it, face downwards, and peer into the depths.  I was tormented with this ambition, and, like many grown-up people, was so fully occupied by these vain and ridiculous desires that I neglected the actual natural pleasures around me.  The idea was not quite so demented as it may seem, because we were in the habit of singing, as well as reading, of those enraptured beings who spend their days in ’flinging down their golden crowns upon the jasper sea’.  Why, I argued, should I not be able to fling down my straw hat upon the tides of Oddicombe?  And, without question, a majestic scene upon the Lake of Gennesaret had also inflamed my fancy.  Of all these things, of course, I was careful to speak to no one.

It was not with Miss Marks, however, but with my Father, that I became accustomed to make the laborious and exquisite journeys down to the sea and back again.  His work as a naturalist eventually took him, laden with implements, to the rock-pools on the shore, and I was in attendance as an acolyte.  But our earliest winter in South Devon was darkened for us both by disappointments, the cause of which lay, at the time, far out of my reach.  In the spirit of my Father were then running, with furious velocity, two hostile streams of influence.  I was standing, just now, thinking of these things, where the Cascine ends in the wooded point which is carved out sharply by the lion-coloured swirl of the Arno on the one side and by the pure flow of the Mugnone on the other.  The rivers meet, and run parallel, but there comes a moment when the one or the other must conquer, and it is the yellow vehemence that drowns the purer tide.

So, through my Father’s brain, in that year of scientific crisis, 1857, there rushed two kinds of thought, each absorbing, each convincing, yet totally irreconcilable.  There is a peculiar agony in the paradox that truth has two forms, each of them indisputable, yet each antagonistic to the other.  It was this discovery, that there were two theories of physical life, each of which was true, but the truth of each incompatible with the truth of the other, which shook the spirit of my Father with perturbation.  It was not, really, a paradox, it was a fallacy, if he could only have known it, but he allowed the turbid volume of superstition to drown the delicate stream of reason.  He took one step in the service of truth, and then he drew back in an agony, and accepted the servitude of error.

This was the great moment in the history of thought when the theory of the mutability of species was preparing to throw a flood of light upon all departments of human speculation and action.  It was becoming necessary to stand emphatically in one army or the other.  Lyell was surrounding himself with disciples, who were making strides in the direction of discovery.  Darwin had long been collecting facts with regard to the variation of animals and plants.  Hooker and Wallace, Asa Gray and even Agassiz, each in his own sphere, were coming closer and closer to a perception of that secret which was first to reveal itself clearly to the patient and humble genius of Darwin.  In the year before, in 1856, Darwin, under pressure from Lyell, had begun that modest statement of the new revelation, that ’abstract of an essay’, which developed so mightily into ‘The Origin of Species’.  Wollaston’s ‘Variation of Species’ had just appeared, and had been a nine days’ wonder in the wilderness.

On the other side, the reactionaries, although never dreaming of the fate which hung over them, had not been idle.  In 1857 the astounding question had for the first time been propounded with contumely, ‘What, then, did we come from an orang-outang?’ The famous ‘Vestiges of Creation’ had been supplying a sugar-and-water panacea for those who could not escape from the trend of evidence, and who yet clung to revelation.  Owen was encouraging reaction by resisting, with all the strength of his prestige, the theory of the mutability of species.

In this period of intellectual ferment, as when a great political revolution is being planned, many possible adherents were confidentially tested with hints and encouraged to reveal their bias in a whisper.  It was the notion of Lyell, himself a great mover of men, that, before the doctrine of natural selection was given to a world which would be sure to lift up at it a howl of execration, a certain bodyguard of sound and experienced naturalists, expert in the description of species, should be privately made aware of its tenor.  Among those who were thus initiated, or approached with a view towards possible illumination, was my Father.  He was spoken to by Hooker, and later on by Darwin, after meetings of the Royal Society in the summer of 1857.

My Father’s attitude towards the theory of natural selection was critical in his career, and oddly enough, it exercised an immense influence on my own experience as a child.  Let it be admitted at once, mournful as the admission is, that every instinct in his intelligence went out at first to greet the new light.  It had hardly done so, when a recollection of the opening chapter of ‘Genesis’ checked it at the outset.  He consulted with Carpenter, a great investigator, but one who was fully as incapable as himself of remodelling his ideas with regard to the old, accepted hypotheses.  They both determined, on various grounds, to have nothing to do with the terrible theory, but to hold steadily to the law of the fixity of species.  It was exactly at this juncture that we left London, and the slight and occasional but always extremely salutary personal intercourse with men of scientific leading which my Father had enjoyed at the British Museum and at the Royal Society came to an end.  His next act was to burn his ships down to the last beam and log out of which a raft could have been made.  By a strange act of wilfulness, he closed the doors upon himself forever.

My Father had never admired Sir Charles Lyell.  I think that the famous ‘Lord Chancellor manner’ of the geologist intimidated him, and we undervalue the intelligence of those whose conversation puts us at a disadvantage.  For Darwin and Hooker, on the other hand, he had a profound esteem, and I know not whether this had anything to do with the fact that he chose, for his impetuous experiment in reaction, the field of geology, rather than that of zoology or botany.  Lyell had been threatening to publish a book on the geological history of Man, which was to be a bombshell flung into the camp of the catastrophists.  My Father, after long reflection, prepared a theory of his own, which, as he fondly hoped, would take the wind out of Lyell’s sails, and justify geology to godly readers of ‘Genesis’.  It was, very briefly, that there had been no gradual modification of the surface of the earth, or slow development of organic forms, but that when the catastrophic act of creation took place, the world presented, instantly, the structural appearance of a planet on which life had long existed.

The theory, coarsely enough, and to my Father’s great indignation, was defined by a hasty press as being this—­that God hid the fossils in the rocks in order to tempt geologists into infidelity.  In truth, it was the logical and inevitable conclusion of accepting, literally, the doctrine of a sudden act of creation; it emphasized the fact that any breach in the circular course of nature could be conceived only on the supposition that the object created bore false witness to past processes, which had never taken place.  For instance, Adam would certainly possess hair and teeth and bones in a condition which it must have taken many years to accomplish, yet he was created full-grown yesterday.  He would certainly—­though Sir Thomas Browne denied it—­display an ‘omphalos’, yet no umbilical cord had ever attached him to a mother.

Never was a book cast upon the waters with greater anticipations of success than was this curious, this obstinate, this fanatical volume.  My Father lived in a fever of suspense, waiting for the tremendous issue.  This ‘Omphalos’ of his, he thought, was to bring all the turmoil of scientific speculation to a close, fling geology into the arms of Scripture, and make the lion eat grass with the lamb.  It was not surprising, he admitted, that there had been experienced an ever-increasing discord between the facts which geology brings to light and the direct statements of the early chapters of ‘Genesis’.  Nobody was to blame for that.  My Father, and my Father alone, possessed the secret of the enigma; he alone held the key which could smoothly open the lock of geological mystery.  He offered it, with a glowing gesture, to atheists and Christians alike.  This was to be the universal panacea; this the system of intellectual therapeutics which could not but heal all the maladies of the age.  But, alas! atheists and Christians alike looked at it, and laughed, and threw it away.

In the course of that dismal winter, as the post began to bring in private letters, few and chilly, and public reviews, many and scornful, my Father looked in vain for the approval of the churches, and in vain for the acquiescence of the scientific societies, and in vain for the gratitude of those ’thousands of thinking persons’, which he had rashly assured himself of receiving.  As his reconciliation of Scripture statements and geological deductions was welcomed nowhere, as Darwin continued silent, and the youthful Huxley was scornful, and even Charles Kingsley, from whom my Father had expected the most instant appreciation, wrote that he could not ’give up the painful and slow conclusion of five and twenty years’ study of geology, and believe that God has written on the rocks one enormous and superfluous lie’,—­as all this happened or failed to happen, a gloom, cold and dismal, descended upon our morning teacups.  It was what the poets mean by an ‘inspissated’ gloom; it thickened day by day, as hope and self-confidence evaporated in thin clouds of disappointment.  My Father was not prepared for such a fate.  He had been the spoiled darling of the public, the constant favourite of the press, and now, like the dark angels of old,

            so huge a rout
  Encumbered him with ruin.

He could not recover from amazement at having offended everybody by an enterprise which had been undertaken in the cause of universal reconciliation.

During that grim season, my Father was no lively companion, and circumstance after circumstance combined to drive him further from humanity.  He missed more than ever the sympathetic ear of my Mother; there was present to support him nothing of that artful, female casuistry which insinuates into the wounded consciousness of a man the conviction that, after all, he is right and all the rest of the world is wrong.  My Father used to tramp in solitude around and around the red ploughed field which was going to be his lawn, or sheltering himself from the thin Devonian rain, pace up and down the still-naked verandah where blossoming creepers were to be.  And I think that there was added to his chagrin with all his fellow mortals a first tincture of that heresy which was to attack him later on.  It was now that, I fancy, he began, in his depression, to be angry with God.  How much devotion had he given, how many sacrifices had he made, only to be left storming around this red morass with no one in all the world to care for him except one pale-faced child with its cheek pressed to the window!

After one or two brilliant excursions to the sea, winter, in its dampest, muddiest, most languid form, had fallen upon us and shut us in.  It was a dreary winter for the wifeless man and the motherless boy.  We had come into the house, in precipitate abandonment to that supposed answer to prayer, a great deal too soon.  In order to rake together the lump sum for buying it, my Father had denuded himself of almost everything, and our sticks of chairs and tables filled but two or three rooms.  Half the little house, or ‘villa’ as we called it, was not papered, two-thirds were not furnished.  The workmen were still finishing the outside when we arrived, and in that connection I recall a little incident which exhibits my Father’s morbid delicacy of conscience.  He was accustomed in his brighter moments—­and this was before the publication of his ’Omphalos’—­occasionally to sing loud Dorsetshire songs of his early days, in a strange, broad Wessex lingo that I loved.  One October afternoon he and I were sitting on the verandah, and my Father was singing; just around the corner, out of sight, two carpenters were putting up the framework of a greenhouse.  In a pause, one of them said to his fellow:  ’He can zing a zong, zo well’s another, though he be a minister.’  My Father, who was holding my hand loosely, clutched it, and looking up, I saw his eyes darken.  He never sang a secular song again during the whole of his life.

Later in the year, and after his literary misfortune, his conscience became more troublesome than ever.  I think he considered the failure of his attempt at the reconciliation of science with religion to have been intended by God as a punishment for something he had done or left undone.  In those brooding tramps around and around the garden, his soul was on its knees searching the corners of his conscience for some sin of omission or commission, and one by one every pleasure, every recreation, every trifle scraped out of the dust of past experience, was magnified into a huge offence.  He thought that the smallest evidence of levity, the least unbending to human instinct, might be seized by those around him as evidence of inconsistency, and might lead the weaker brethren into offence.  The incident of the carpenters and the comic song is typical of a condition of mind which now possessed my Father, in which act after act became taboo, not because each was sinful in itself, but because it might lead others into sin.

I have the conviction that Miss Marks was now mightily afraid of my Father.  Whenever she could, she withdrew to the room she called her ‘boudoir’, a small, chilly apartment, sparsely furnished, looking over what was in process of becoming the vegetable garden.  Very properly, that she might have some sanctuary, Miss Marks forbade me to enter this virginal bower, which, of course, became to me an object of harrowing curiosity.  Through the key-hole I could see practically nothing; one day I contrived to slip inside, and discovered that there was nothing to see but a plain bedstead and a toilet-table, void of all attraction.  In this ‘boudoir’, on winter afternoons, a fire would be lighted, and Miss Marks would withdraw to it, not seen by us anymore between high-tea and the apocalyptic exercise known as ’worship’—­in less strenuous households much less austerely practised under the name of ‘family prayers’.  Left meanwhile to our own devices, my Father would mainly be reading his book or paper held close up to the candle, while his lips and heavy eyebrows occasionally quivered and palpitated, with literary ardour, in a manner strangely exciting to me.  Miss Marks, in a very high cap, and her large teeth shining, would occasionally appear in the doorway, desiring, with spurious geniality, to know how we were ‘getting on’.  But on these occasions neither of us replied to Miss Marks.

Sometimes in the course of this winter, my Father and I had long cosy talks together over the fire.  Our favourite subject was murders.  I wonder whether little boys of eight, soon to go upstairs alone at night, often discuss violent crime with a widower-papa?  The practice, I cannot help thinking, is unusual; it was, however, consecutive with us.  We tried other secular subjects, but we were sure to come around at last to ’what do you suppose they really did with the body?’ I was told, a thrilled listener, the adventure of Mrs. Manning, who killed a gentleman on the stairs and buried him in quick-lime in the back-kitchen, and it was at this time that I learned the useful historical fact, which abides with me after half a century, that Mrs. Manning was hanged in black satin, which thereupon went wholly out of fashion in England.  I also heard about Burke and Hare, whose story nearly froze me into stone with horror.

These were crimes which appear in the chronicles.  But who will tell me what ‘the Carpet-bag Mystery’ was, which my Father and I discussed evening after evening?  I have never come across a whisper of it since, and I suspect it of having been a hoax.  As I recall the details, people in a boat, passing down the Thames, saw a carpet-bag hung high in air, on one of the projections of a pier of Waterloo Bridge.  Being with difficulty dragged down—­or perhaps up—­this bag was found to be full of human remains, dreadful butcher’s business of joints and fragments.  Persons were missed, were identified, were again denied—­the whole is a vapour in my memory which shifts as I try to define it.  But clear enough is the picture I hold of myself, in a high chair, on the left-hand side of the sitting-room fireplace, the leaping flames reflected in the glass-case of tropical insects on the opposite wall, and my Father, leaning anxiously forward, with uplifted finger, emphasizing to me the pros and cons of the horrible carpet-bag evidence.

I suppose that my interest in these discussions—­and Heaven knows I was animated enough—­amused and distracted my Father, whose idea of a suitable theme for childhood’s ear now seems to me surprising.  I soon found that these subjects were not welcome to everybody, for, starting the Carpet-bag Mystery one morning with Miss Marks, in the hope of delaying my arithmetic lesson, she fairly threw her apron over her ears, and told me, from that vantage, that if I did not desist at once, she should scream.

Occasionally we took winter walks together, my Father and I, down some lane that led to a sight of the sea, or over the rolling downs.  We tried to recapture the charm of those delightful strolls in London, when we used to lean over the bridges and watch the ducks.  But we could not recover this pleasure.  My Father was deeply enwoven in the chain of his own thoughts, and would stalk on, without a word, buried in angry reverie.  If he spoke to me, on these excursions, it was a pain to me to answer him.  I could talk on easy terms with him indoors, seated in my high chair, with our heads on a level, but it was intolerably laborious to look up into the firmament and converse with a dark face against the sky.  The actual exercise of walking, too, was very exhausting to me; the bright red mud, to the strange colour of which I could not for a long while get accustomed, becoming caked about my little shoes, and wearying me extremely.  I would grow petulant and cross, contradict my Father, and oppose his whims.  These walks were distressing to us both, yet he did not like to walk alone, and he had no other friend.  However, as the winter advanced, they had to be abandoned, and the habit of our taking a ‘constitutional’ together was never resumed.

I look back upon myself at this time as upon a cantankerous, ill-tempered and unobliging child.  The only excuse I can offer is that I really was not well.  The change to Devonshire had not suited me; my health gave the excellent Miss Marks some anxiety, but she was not ready in resource.  The dampness of the house was terrible; indoors and out, the atmosphere seemed soaked in chilly vapours.  Under my bed-clothes at night I shook like a jelly, unable to sleep for cold, though I was heaped with coverings, while my skin was all puckered with gooseflesh.  I could eat nothing solid, without suffering immediately from violent hiccough, so that much of my time was spent lying prone on my back upon the hearthrug, awakening the echoes like a cuckoo.  Miss Marks, therefore, cut off all food but milk-sop, a loathly bowl of which appeared at every meal.  In consequence the hiccough lessened, but my strength declined with it.  I languished in a perpetual catarrh.  I was roused to a conscious-ness that I was not considered well by the fact that my Father prayed publicly at morning and evening ‘worship’ that if it was the Lord’s will to take me to himself there might be no doubt whatever about my being a sealed child of God and an inheritor of glory.  I was partly disconcerted by, partly vain of, this open advertisement of my ailments.

Of our dealings with the ‘Saints’, a fresh assortment of whom met us on our arrival in Devonshire, I shall speak presently.  My Father’s austerity of behaviour was, I think, perpetually accentuated by his fear of doing anything to offend the consciences of these persons, whom he supposed, no doubt, to be more sensitive than they really were.  He was fond of saying that ’a very little stain upon the conscience makes a wide breach in our communion with God’, and he counted possible errors of conduct by hundreds and by thousands.  It was in this winter that his attention was particularly drawn to the festival of Christmas, which, apparently, he had scarcely noticed in London.

On the subject of all feasts of the Church he held views of an almost grotesque peculiarity.  He looked upon each of them as nugatory and worthless, but the keeping of Christmas appeared to him by far the most hateful, and nothing less than an act of idolatry.  ‘The very word is Popish’, he used to exclaim, ‘Christ’s Mass!’ pursing up his lips with the gesture of one who tastes assafoetida by accident.  Then he would adduce the antiquity of the so-called feast, adapted from horrible heathen rites, and itself a soiled relic of the abominable Yule-Tide.  He would denounce the horrors of Christmas until it almost made me blush to look at a holly-berry.

On Christmas Day of this year 1857 our villa saw a very unusual sight.  My Father had given strictest charge that no difference whatever was to be made in our meals on that day; the dinner was to be neither more copious than usual nor less so.  He was obeyed, but the servants, secretly rebellious, made a small plum-pudding for themselves. (I discovered afterwards, with pain, that Miss Marks received a slice of it in her boudoir.) Early in the afternoon, the maids,—­of whom we were now advanced to keeping two,—­kindly remarked that ’the poor dear child ought to have a bit, anyhow’, and wheedled me into the kitchen, where I ate a slice of plum-pudding.  Shortly I began to feel that pain inside which in my frail state was inevitable, and my conscience smote me violently.  At length I could bear my spiritual anguish no longer, and bursting into the study I called out:  ’Oh!  Papa, Papa, I have eaten of flesh offered to idols!’ It took some time, between my sobs, to explain what had happened.  Then my Father sternly said:  ‘Where is the accursed thing?’ I explained that as much as was left of it was still on the kitchen table.  He took me by the hand, and ran with me into the midst of the startled servants, seized what remained of the pudding, and with the plate in one hand and me still tight in the other, ran until we reached the dust-heap, when he flung the idolatrous confectionery on to the middle of the ashes, and then raked it deep down into the mass.  The suddenness, the violence, the velocity of this extraordinary act made an impression on my memory which nothing will ever efface.

The key is lost by which I might unlock the perverse malady from which my Father’s conscience seemed to suffer during the whole of this melancholy winter.  But I think that a dislocation of his intellectual system had a great deal to do with it.  Up to this point in his career, he had, as we have seen, nourished the delusion that science and revelation could be mutually justified, that some sort of compromise was possible.  With great and ever greater distinctness, his investigations had shown him that in all departments of organic nature there are visible the evidences of slow modification of forms, of the type developed by the pressure and practice of aeons.  This conviction had been borne in upon him until it was positively irresistible.  Where was his place, then, as a sincere and accurate observer?  Manifestly, it was with the pioneers of the new truth, it was with Darwin, Wallace and Hooker.  But did not the second chapter of ‘Genesis’ say that in six days the heavens and earth were finished, and the host of them, and that on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made?

Here was a dilemma!  Geology certainly seemed to be true, but the Bible, which was God’s word, was true.  If the Bible said that all things in Heaven and Earth were created in six days, created in six days they were,—­in six literal days of twenty-four hours each.  The evidences of spontaneous variation of form, acting, over an immense space of time, upon ever-modifying organic structures, seemed overwhelming, but they must either be brought into line with the six-day labour of creation, or they must be rejected.  I have already shown how my Father worked out the ingenious ‘Omphalos’ theory in order to justify himself as a strictly scientific observer who was also a humble slave of revelation.  But the old convention and the new rebellion would alike have none of his compromise.

To a mind so acute and at the same time so narrow as that of my Father—­a mind which is all logical and positive without breadth, without suppleness and without imagination—­to be subjected to a check of this kind is agony.  It has not the relief of a smaller nature, which escapes from the dilemma by some foggy formula; nor the resolution of a larger nature to take to its wings and surmount the obstacle.  My Father, although half suffocated by the emotion of being lifted, as it were, on the great biological wave, never dreamed of letting go his clutch of the ancient tradition, but hung there, strained and buffeted.  It is extraordinary that he—­an ‘honest hodman of science’, as Huxley once called him—­should not have been content to allow others, whose horizons were wider than his could be, to pursue those purely intellectual surveys for which he had no species of aptitude.  As a collector of facts and marshaller of observations, he had not a rival in that age; his very absence of imagination aided him in this work.  But he was more an attorney than philosopher, and he lacked that sublime humility which is the crown of genius.  For, this obstinate persuasion that he alone knew the mind of God, that he alone could interpret the designs of the Creator, what did it result from if not from a congenital lack of that highest modesty which replies ‘I do not know’ even to the questions which Faith, with menacing forger, insists on having most positively answered?