A God and His Gifts (7 page)

“You feel I should follow in your steps? But we cannot choose our paths. They are chosen for us by something in ourselves. As yours was for you, and mine is for me. There can be no family custom there.”

“I find no fault with your path. I am glad you have chosen one. It is what I hoped for you. But what do you mean by the few?”

“You will know, if you think. I have heard you use the phrase. A small part of your books is read by them. It is they I should write for, and hope to reach; and feel I should in the end.”

“‘In this country and beyond it',” said his father, as if to himself.

“Oh, you think it is too ambitious. To choose the better part, if that is what it is; and I admit I think it is. But it might be thought narrower than yours, and by some it would be. Our abilities are different, and must lead to a different end. It is not unreasonable to think it. But it is rather in the air at my age.”

“It is not only in the air. It is in your thought. And your age perplexes me. Sixteen is hardly childhood.”

“Yes, in this matter, Hereward,” said Zillah. “It is what it is.”

“I wonder what fourteen is,” said Reuben. “I will not talk of it, in case someone tells me.”

“Anything worth knowing is known by my age,” said Merton. “Sixteen may be the high mark of youth. After that there can be retrogression as well as progress.”

“Father is deprived of words,” said Salomon.

Hereward was silent, as this was the case.

“Seventy-nine is not what it is,” said Joanna. “Or it would be old age.”

“Neither is it,” said Sir Michael. “I feel as young as I ever did.”

“I do not,” said Reuben. “I must begin to realise my age. I have to know all that is worth knowing in two years.”

“Childhood does take us quickly onward,” said Zillah.

“So it does,” said Hereward, lightly. “We see where it has taken Merton. Beyond his father.”

“That is the idea that troubles you, Father? But there is nothing so unusual about it.”

“Nothing. It is its commonness that strikes me. I have seen the death of hope.”

“You have also seen its fulfilment. And met it yourself in a sense. Of course I don't know what your original ambitions were.”

“We shall not say that of yours. And, as you have said, I am troubled by them. Both as a writer and a father. What are your hopes for the future, Reuben?”

“I have none, Father, only fears. And one of them is that I may be an usher. It is one that does take the place of hopes.”

“Why do we say ‘usher' and not ‘schoolmaster'?” said Sir Michael. “It has a disparaging sound.”

“That is the reason,” said his grandson. “We should hardly admit a note of respect.”

“Why not?” said Hereward. “Education has its purpose and serves it. I wish I had had more.”

“You would not have it,” said his father. “You said it would crush your creative gifts.”

“You can't be an usher without it,” said Salomon. “So I suppose ushers' gifts are always crushed. Before we have the advantage of them.”

“I wonder we risk education,” said Reuben, “when you think where it might lead. You will all remember that my gifts have been crushed.”

“That does not happen so easily,” said Merton. “People are without them, because they have never had them. If they had, they would not be ushers. And the lack of talent in many writers is a part of themselves. Of course I am not talking about Father.”

“Well, I suppose you are not,” said Sir Michael. “Why should you be?”

“I wonder he was not,” said Hereward, smiling. “But I have a word to say of him. They are all to go to Oxford, when they reach the age. It is their mother's wish, and therefore mine.”

“Yes, my word was the determining factor,” said Ada.
“I brought in the ordinary strain. That is my accepted part. My sons cannot follow in their father's steps. They must see him as widely removed from them, as my sister and I saw mine. They must have the usual training of average men. Why should they be above them? We should not hope, or perhaps even wish for it.”

“There are cases of a literary father and son,” said Merton. “And either of them may be the better. But it is idle to plan the future. It must take care of itself.”

“I did not find it did,” said Hereward. “The effort fell to me. I found it a long, hard service. And you may do the same. I even hope you will. It might be better for you in the end.”

“Why are early struggles so much recommended? They may not lead to success, because they end in it.”

“Well, may you do all you hope, my boy. No one would be prouder than your father.”

“No one is prouder of you, than I am in my way, Father. Of course it must be in my way. Our opinions and aims are different. They would hardly be the same.”

“I thought aims were always the same,” said Joanna. “And I believe they are.”

“They are more so than is thought,” said Zillah. “They tend to meet, as time goes by. They are adapted to achievements, and those do come nearer to each other.”

“Have you found that true, Father?” said Merton.

“I think there is truth in it. But I have never been concerned with aims. We give out what is in us.”

“Is not that saying the same thing?”

“I daresay it is,” said Joanna. “It so often is, when people say different things.”

“Let us leave our aims,” said Salomon. “I like to forget them, as I have none. Mother, you spoke of your sister. Why has she passed from our lives? I remember so well when she was in them.”

“She lives at a distance,” said Hereward. “And her marriage has widened it, as marriages will.”

“My Emmeline!” said Ada. “I hardly feel I have lost her. Reuben gives her back to me. And more with every day.”

“There is a great likeness,” said Zillah. “And it seems to grow with him. I suppose a real likeness would.”

“It is not only in his looks and ways. There is something that defies words. It is the touch I have missed myself. It is impossible to define it. I don't know if it will lead anywhere.”

“That would need something with more depth and force,” said Merton.

“I don't think Merton has a touch,” said Reuben.

“It is an elusive thing,” said Ada. “We can't give it a place.”

“We have given it one,” said Reuben. “It is in Aunt Emmeline and me.”

“Aunt Emmeline! How natural it sounds! How I wish we had heard it oftener!”

“Why have we not?” said Merton. “Why do we never see her? There must be a private reason. I suppose some family trouble.”

“There is or there was,” said his mother. “So that is enough.”

“But it is not,” said Salomon. “Not nearly enough, as you know.”

“We can add to it,” said Merton. “I expect it had to do with money.”

“You are wrong,” said Hereward. “Money is not the whole of life.”

“It is often the whole of quarrels, Father”

“It was no part of this one.”

“I am surprised that there was trouble, Father,” said Salomon. “I remember you and my aunt together.”

“There was no trouble between her and me.”

“Perhaps it was the opposite,” said Merton. “Ah, that is nearer the truth.”

“So it is out,” said Ada. “Well, it had to come. Questions are asked in the end, and carry their answers. Yes, your
father and my sister were becoming too much to each other. And it led to a breach that has remained. Not an estrangement, not a silence. But a parting of the ways.”

“How I long to ask a question!” said Reuben.

“Well, what is it?” said his father.

“What do you feel for Aunt Emmeline now?”

“I keep the memory. I cared both for her and your mother. I cared for them both for each other's sake and their own. We fell in with your mother's wish and parted. She married later. That is the whole.”

“My wish!” said Ada. “No, it is not quite the whole. Both my father and Aunt Penelope advised the parting. But my sister! How I wish it had been different! I hope and feel so does she. But nothing can be undone.”

“It seems that this might be ended,” said Salomon. “Do you need to remember the past?”

“Now that is enough,” said Sir Michael. “Your parents have told you all they can. You should know better than to ask more.”

“Well, we will be content. It is a relief to know. I have wondered and feared to ask.”

“So have I,” said Merton. “It has been on the tip of my tongue.”

“That does keep people silent,” said Joanna. “It hardly seems that it would.”

“Well, the truth has escaped, Grandma. I admire Mother's simple courage. It is a thing I am without.”

“And you admire yourself for being without it,” said Ada. “It may not be a high quality. But it is not such a common one.”

“I think it is,” said Reuben. “I am always meeting it.”

“I have to show it now,” said Hereward. “I am reluctant to cloud our reunion. That is how it seems to me when I leave a book. But there is a word that must be said. Your reports are here and cannot be quite passed over.”

“Well, now they have not been,” said Reuben. “We have met the courage.”

“Yours was no worse than mediocre.”

“That is right for me, as I am to educate others. If it was better, I should not educate them. And if it was worse, I could not.”

“There is never any fault to be found with yours, Salomon.”

“None by you, Father. I am steady and of sound intelligence. But they are things that Merton would be ashamed to be.”

“He has his own cause to be ashamed. His is hardly a report at all. It seems there was little to make one. He is said to assume he is a man before his time. He may not have to educate others. But he can hardly do without education himself.”

“So you think I could be improved, Father?”

“It appears to be what is thought.”

“Not by prolonging boyhood. Education so-called does only what it can.”

“And does idleness so-called do so much?” said Sir Michael. “And does ingratitude so-called do any more? Things have to be known by their names. Why should your father immure himself and moil, for you to be a man before your time? ‘So-called' is the right word there. Why, I am ashamed of being your grandparent.”

“I am not,” said Joanna. “I don't see how I can help it.”

“Well, I have done what I can,” said her husband, leaning back. “No one can do any more.”

“That is good to hear,” said Merton. “I was fearing you might go to almost any length.”

“Any length! Well, I went a certain way. I felt it was my part. It is my duty to second your father. I see it as the least I can do. The brunt of things falls on him. I take any chance to support him.”

“Well, I give you one by speaking the truth. I am not afraid of it. I can't be a slave to what is called my work. I know where my real talent lies, and what I owe to it.”

“What is called your work! Is everything to be so
called? What do you do with your so-called leisure, may I ask? Perhaps it is the word there.”

“It is. I give it to the writing that is to be my life, and to last it. And not more for my own sake than for other people's.”

“Oh, well, for other people's. Well, if that is what it is. Well, it is a thing I am used to. I am no stranger to it. This working for the world outside, and forgetting the one you live in. Like father, like son, I suppose. Well, we must not find fault with it.”

“I fear I must,” said Hereward. “Though I may not seem the person to do it. I am troubled for Merton's future. The likeness between us is not so great. It should have a better basis than these early efforts and hopes.”

“What basis did you have for your own, Father?”

“That of a stronger brain and greater creative force,” said Hereward, in an almost ruthless tone. “I will say the truth, as you do. It is time it was said. We are right not to be afraid of it.”

“But just afraid enough,” murmured Salomon.

“I am terrified,” murmured Reuben.

“I am untouched,” said their brother. “If it is the truth to you, you are right to say it, Father. It is the honest thing. Indeed I admire your courage.”

“I admire Merton's,” said Salomon.

“But I have no fear. There are different kinds of brain. The one that is known as powerful, may not be the best.”

“You would not like to have written my books?” said Hereward, meeting his eyes.

“Well, to be as honest as you are, Father. I should not.”

“We are told not to be afraid of the truth,” said Joanna. “But no one is.”

“No one who speaks it,” said Reuben. “Everyone else.”

“The people who speak it can be the most afraid,” said Hereward. “But at times it must be said.”

“There is nothing in Merton's feeling,” said Zillah.

“No writer goes the whole length with any other. Each
of them shivers at the lapses of the rest, and is blind to his own. And the youngest shiver the most. And the greatest writers have them.”

“And I daresay the smaller ones too,” said Sir Michael. “And a boy who would not like to have written a mature man's books, is a queer example of one to my mind. Why, I should like to have written them myself. I should be proud to have written a word. And he can think what he likes of it.”

“I think it is quite reasonable, Grandpa.”

“The less we can do a thing ourselves, the more we should appreciate it in other people. To fail is to grudge someone else the better place. We should be ashamed of it.”

“Grandpa need not be ashamed,” said Reuben. “He tells us about it.”

“Well, I need not either,” said Merton. “I simply want to write for a body of readers neglected because it is small. It is not an unworthy ambition.”