Lavengro: The Scholar, The Gypsy, The Priest

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 FORTY-FOUR

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.’

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

BOUGHT AND EXCHANGED – QUITE EMPTY – A NEW FIRM – BIBLES – COUNTENANCE OF A LION – CLAP OF THUNDER – 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 entrusted 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 become 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?’

Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that I might effect the exchange – which direction the young fellow cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to wish me success.

I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young fellow directed me; it was a very large house, situated in a square; and upon the side of the house was written in large letters, ‘Bibles, and other religious books.’

At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea-chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat leather covers; Bibles, said I, – Bibles, doubtless. I was not quite right, nor quite wrong; picking up one of the books, I looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testament. ‘Come, young lad,’ said a man who stood by, in the dress of a porter, ‘put that book down, it is none of yours; if you want a book, go in and deal for one.’

Deal, thought I, deal, – the man seems to know what I am coming about, – and going in, I presently found myself in a very large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold.

Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was dressed in black; both were tall men – he who was dressed in brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance; the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but they were those of a lion.

‘What is your business, young man?’ said the precise personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion.

‘I want a Bible,’ said I.

‘What price, what size?’ said the precise-looking man.

‘As to size,’ said I, ‘I should like to have a large one – that is, if you can afford me one – I do not come to buy.’

‘Oh, friend,’ said the precise-looking man, ‘if you come here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken – we – ’

‘I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing,’ said I, ‘or anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks barter.’

‘Oh, we don’t barter,’ said the precise man, ‘at least Bibles; you had better depart.’

‘Stay, brother,’ said the man with the countenance of a lion, ‘let us ask a few questions; this may be a very important case; perhaps the young man has had convictions.’

‘Not I,’ I exclaimed, ‘I am convinced of nothing, and with regard to the Bible – I don’t believe – ’

‘Hey!’ said the man with the lion countenance, and there he stopped. But with that ‘Hey’ the walls of the house seemed to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into the apartment through the glass of the door.

There was silence for about a minute – the same kind of silence which succeeds a clap of thunder.

At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his eyes fixed upon me, said calmly, ‘Were you about to say that you don’t believe in the Bible, young man?’

‘No more than in anything else,’ said I; ‘you were talking of convictions – I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible.’

‘He seems to be insane,’ said the prim-looking man; ‘we had better order the porter to turn him out.’

‘I am by no means certain,’ said I, ‘that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream.’

‘Come,’ said the lion-looking man, impatiently, ‘a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point – you want a Bible?’

‘I do,’ said I, ‘but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.’

‘And who is that person?’

‘A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions, – heard voices, or thought she heard them – I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.’

‘What has she sent to offer in exchange?’ said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech.

‘A book,’ said I.

‘Let me see it.’

‘Nay, brother,’ said the precise man, ‘this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.’

‘I wish to see what he has brought,’ said the other; ‘perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?’

I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket – the book was gone.

‘What’s the matter?’ repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.

‘I have it not – I have lost it!’

‘A pretty story, truly,’ said the precise-looking man, ‘lost it!’

‘You had better retire,’ said the other.

‘How shall I appear before the party who entrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her, – appearances are certainly against me.’

‘They are so – you had better retire.’

I moved towards the door. ‘Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.’

‘What is that?’ said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously.

‘The purchase of a Bible.’

‘Purchase!’ said I, ‘purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?’

The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, ‘Dear me,’ said I, ‘it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good.’

No answer.

‘Yes,’ I repeated, ‘I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost – ’ and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket.

The prim-looking man smiled: ‘I suppose,’ said he, ‘that he has lost his money as well as book.’

‘No,’ said I, ‘I have not’; and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns.

‘Oh, noble goddess of the Mint!’ as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, ‘great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man’s character!’

‘Only half-a-crown for this Bible?’ said I, putting down the money, ‘it is worth three’; and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase.

‘Queer customer,’ said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door – ‘don’t like him.’

‘Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,’ said he of the countenance of a lion.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

THE PICKPOCKET – STRANGE RENCOUNTER – DRAG HIM ALONG – A GREAT SERVICE – THINGS OF IMPORTANCE – PHILOLOGICAL MATTERS – A MOTHER OF LANGUAGES

A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, ‘My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket.’

The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange encounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals – the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; ‘I have picked no one’s pocket,’ said he. ‘Rascal,’ said the other, ‘you have got my pocket-book in your bosom.’ ‘No, I have not,’ said the other; and, struggling more violently than before, the pocket-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground.