<SPAN name="vol_1_chap_16"></SPAN>
<h3>Volume One--Chapter Sixteen.</h3>
<h4>The Letter.</h4>
<p>Then there was roast goose for dinner, and Clara amused herself by making silly
facetious faces, furtively, dangerously, under her father’s very eyes. The children
feared goose for their father, whose digestion was usually unequal to this particular
bird. Like many fathers of families in the Five Towns, he had the habit of going forth on
Saturday mornings to the butcher’s or the poulterer’s and buying
Sunday’s dinner. He was a fairly good judge of a joint, but Maggie considered
herself to be his superior in this respect. However, Darius was not prepared to learn from
Maggie, and his purchases had to be accepted without criticism. At a given meal Darius
would never admit that anything chosen and bought by him was not perfect; but a week
afterwards, if the fact was so, he would of his own accord recall imperfections in that
which he had asserted to be perfect; and he would do this without any shame, without any
apparent sense of inconsistency or weakness. Edwin noticed a similar trait in other
grown-up persons, and it astonished him. It astonished him especially in his father, who,
despite the faults and vulgarities which his fastidious son could find in him, always
impressed Edwin as a strong man, a man with the heroic quality of not caring too much what
other people thought.</p>
<p>When Edwin saw his father take a second plateful of goose, with the deadly stuffing
thereof—Darius simply could not resist it, like most dyspeptics he was somewhat
greedy—he foresaw an indisposed and perilous father for the morrow. Which prevision
was supported by Clara’s pantomimic antics, and even by Maggie’s grave and
restrained sigh. Still, he had sworn to write and send the letter, and he should do so. A
career, a lifetime, was not to be at the mercy of a bilious attack, surely! Such a notion
offended logic and proportion, and he scorned it away.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Two.</h4>
<p>The meal proceeded in silence. Darius, as in duty bound, mentioned the sermon, but
neither Clara nor Edwin would have anything to do with the sermon, and Maggie had not been
to chapel. Clara and Edwin felt themselves free of piety till six o’clock at least,
and they doggedly would not respond. And Darius from prudence did not insist, for he had
arrived at chapel unthinkably late—during the second chant—and Clara was
capable of audacious remarks upon occasions. The silence grew stolid.</p>
<p>And Edwin wondered what the dinner-table of the Orgreaves was like. And he could smell
fresh mortar. And he dreamed of a romantic life—he knew not what kind of life, but
something different fundamentally from his own. He suddenly understood, understood with
sympathy, the impulse which had made boys run away to sea. He could feel the open sea; he
could feel the breath of freedom on his cheek.</p>
<p>He said to himself—</p>
<p>“Why shouldn’t I break this ghastly silence by telling father out loud here
that he mustn’t forget what I told him that night in the attic? I’m going to
be an architect. I’m not going to be any blooming printer. I’m going to be an
architect. Why haven’t I mentioned it before? Why haven’t I talked about it
all the time? Because I am an ass! Because there is no word for what I am! Damn it! I
suppose I’m the person to choose what I’m going to be! I suppose it’s my
business more than his. Besides, he can’t possibly refuse me. If I say flatly that I
won’t be a printer—he’s done. This idea of writing a letter is just like
me! Coward! Coward! What’s my tongue for? Can’t I talk? Isn’t he bound
to listen? All I have to do is to open my mouth. He’s sitting there. I’m
sitting here. He can’t eat me. I’m in my rights. Now suppose I start on it as
soon as Mrs Nixon has brought the pudding and pie in?”</p>
<p>And he waited anxiously to see whether he indeed would be able to make a start after
the departure of Mrs Nixon.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Three.</h4>
<p>Hopeless! He could not bring himself to do it. It was strange! It was disgusting! ...
No, he would be compelled to write the letter. Besides, the letter would be more
effective. His father could not interrupt a letter by some loud illogical remark. Thus he
salved his self-conceit. He also sought relief in reflecting savagely upon the speeches
that had been made against him in the debate. He went through them all in his mind. There
was the slimy idiot from Baines’s (it was in such terms that his thoughts ran) who
gloried in never having read a word of Colenso, and called the assembled company to
witness that nothing should ever induce him to read such a godless author, going about in
the mask of a so-called Bishop. But had any of them read Colenso, except possibly
Llewellyn Roberts, who in his Welsh way would pretend ignorance and then come out with a
quotation and refer you to the exact page? Edwin himself had read very little of
Colenso—and that little only because a customer had ordered the second part of the
“Pentateuch” and he had stolen it for a night. Colenso was not in the Free
Library... What a world! What a debate! Still, he could not help dwelling with pleasure on
Mr Roberts’s insistence on the brilliant quality of his brains. Astute as Mr Roberts
was, the man was clearly in awe of Edwin’s brains! Why? To be honest, Edwin had
never been deeply struck by his own brain power. And yet there must be something in
it!</p>
<p>“Of course,” he reflected sardonically, “father doesn’t show
the faintest interest in the debate. Yet he knew all about it, and that I had to open
it.” But he was glad that his father showed no interest in the debate. Clara had
mentioned it in the presence of Maggie, with her usual ironic intent, and Edwin had
quickly shut her up.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Four.</h4>
<p>In the afternoon, the sitting-room being made uninhabitable by his father’s
goose-ridden dozes, he went out for a walk; the weather was cold and fine. When he
returned his father also had gone out; the two girls were lolling in the sitting-room. An
immense fire, built up by Darius, was just ripe for the beginning of decay, and the room
very warm. Clara was at the window, Maggie in Darius’s chair reading a novel of
Charlotte M. Yonge’s. On the table, open, was a bound volume of “The Family
Treasury of Sunday Reading,” in which Clara had been perusing “The Chronicles
of the Schönberg-Cotta Family” with feverish interest. Edwin had laughed at her
ingenuous absorption in the adventures of the Schönberg-Cotta family, but the fact
was that he had found them rather interesting, in spite of himself, while pretending the
contrary. There was an atmosphere of high obstinate effort and heroical foreign-ness about
the story which stimulated something secret in him that seldom responded to the
provocation of a book; more easily would this secret something respond to a calm evening
or a distant prospect, or the silence of early morning when by chance he looked out of his
window.</p>
<p>The volume of “The Family Treasury,” though five years old, was a recent
acquisition. It had come into the house through the total disappearance of a customer who
had left the loose numbers to be bound in 1869. Edwin dropped sideways on to a chair at
the table, spread out his feet to the right, pitched his left elbow a long distance to the
left, and, his head resting on his left hand, turned over the pages with his right hand
idly. His eye caught titles such as: “The Door was Shut,” “My
Mother’s Voice,” “The Heather Mother,” “The Only
Treasure,” “Religion and Business,” “Hope to the End,”
“The Child of our Sunday School,” “Satan’s Devices,” and
“Studies of Christian Life and Character, Hannah More.” Then he saw an article
about some architecture in Rome, and he read: “In the Sistine picture there is the
struggle of a great mind to reduce within the possibilities of art a subject that
transcends it. That mind would have shown itself to be greater, truer, at least, in its
judgement of the capabilities of art, and more reverent to have let it alone.” The
seriousness of the whole magazine intimidated him into accepting this pronouncement for a
moment, though his brief studies in various encyclopaedias had led him to believe that the
Sistine Chapel (shown in an illustration in Cazenove) was high beyond any human criticism.
His elbow slid on the surface of the table, and in recovering himself he sent “The
Family Treasury” on the floor, wrong side up, with a great noise. Maggie did not
move. Clara turned and protested sharply against this sacrilege, and Edwin, out of mere
caprice, informed her that her precious magazine was the most stinking silly
‘pi’ (pious) thing that ever was. With haughty and shocked gestures she
gathered up the volume and took it out of the room.</p>
<p>“I say, Mag,” Edwin muttered, still leaning his head on his hand, and
staring blankly at the wall.</p>
<p>The fire dropped a little in the grate.</p>
<p>“What is it?” asked Maggie, without stirring or looking up.</p>
<p>“Has father said anything to you about me wanting to be an architect?” He
spoke with an affectation of dreaminess.</p>
<p>“About you wanting to be an architect?” repeated Maggie in surprise.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Edwin. He knew perfectly well that his father would never have
spoken to Maggie on such a subject. But he wanted to open a conversation.</p>
<p>“No fear!” said Maggie. And added in her kindest, most encouraging,
elder-sisterly tone: “Why?”</p>
<p>“Oh!” He hesitated, drawling, and then he told her a great deal of what was
in his mind. And she carefully put the wool-marker in her book and shut it, and listened
to him. And the fire dropped and dropped, comfortably. She did not understand him;
obviously she thought his desire to be an architect exceedingly odd; but she sympathised.
Her attitude was soothing and fortifying. After all (he reflected) Maggie’s all
right—there’s some sense in Maggie. He could ‘get on’ with Maggie.
For a few moments he was happy and hopeful.</p>
<p>“I thought I’d write him a letter,” he said. “You know how he
is to talk to.”</p>
<p>There was a pause.</p>
<p>“What d’ye think?” he questioned.</p>
<p>“I should,” said Maggie.</p>
<p>“Then I shall!” he exclaimed. “How d’ye think he’ll take
it?”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Maggie, “I don’t see how he can do aught but take
it all right... Depends how you put it, of course.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you leave that to me!” said Edwin, with eager confidence. “I
shall put it all right. You trust me for that!”</p>
<hr>
<h4>Five.</h4>
<p>Clara danced into the room, flowing over with infantile joy. She had been listening to
part of the conversation behind the door.</p>
<p>“So he wants to be an architect! Arch-i-tect! Arch-i-tect!” She half-sang
the word in a frenzy of ridicule. She really did dance, and waved her arms. Her eyes
glittered, as if in rapture. These singular manifestations of her temperament were caused
solely by the strangeness of the idea of Edwin wanting to be an architect. The strange
sight of him with his hair cut short or in a new neck-tie affected her in a similar
manner.</p>
<p>“Clara, go and put your pinafore on this <i>instant</i>!” said Maggie.
“You know you oughtn’t to leave it off.”</p>
<p>“You needn’t be so hoity-toity, miss,” Clara retorted. But she moved
to obey. When she reached the door she turned again and gleefully taunted Edwin.
“And it’s all because he went for a walk yesterday with Mr Orgreave! I know! I
know! You needn’t think I didn’t see you, because I did! Arch-i-tect!
Arch-i-tect!”</p>
<p>She vanished, on all her springs, spitefully graceful.</p>
<p>“You might almost think that infernal kid was right bang off her head,”
Edwin muttered crossly. (Still, it was extraordinary how that infernal kid hit on the
truth.)</p>
<p>Maggie began to mend the fire.</p>
<p>“Oh, well!” murmured Maggie, conveying to Edwin that no importance must be
attached to the chit’s chittishness.</p>
<p>He went up to the next flight of stairs to his attic. Dust on the table of his
work-attic! Shameful dust! He had not used that attic since Christmas, on the miserable
plea that winter was cold and there was no fireplace! He blamed himself for his
effeminacy. Where had flown his seriousness, his elaborate plans, his high purposes? A
touch of winter had frightened them away. Yes, he blamed himself mercilessly. True it
was—as that infernal kid had chanted—a casual half-hour with Mr Orgreave was
alone responsible for his awakening—at any rate, for his awakening at this
particular moment. Still, he was awake—that was the great fact. He was tremendously
awake. He had not been asleep; he had only been half-asleep. His intention of becoming an
architect had never left him. But, through weakness before his father, through a cowardly
desire to avoid disturbance and postpone a crisis, he had let the weeks slide by. Now he
was in a groove, in a canyon. He had to get out, and the sooner the better.</p>
<p>A piece of paper, soiled, was pinned on his drawing-board; one or two sketches lay
about. He turned the drawing-board over, so that he might use it for a desk on which to
write the letter. But he had no habit of writing letters. In the attic was to be found
neither ink, pen, paper, nor envelope. He remembered a broken quire of sermon paper in his
bedroom; he had used a few sheets of it for notes on Bishop Colenso. These notes had been
written in the privacy and warmth of bed, in pencil. But the letter must be done in ink;
the letter was too important for pencil; assuredly his father would take exception to
pencil. He descended to his sister’s room and borrowed Maggie’s ink and a pen,
and took an envelope, tripping like a thief. Then he sat down to the composition of the
letter; but he was obliged to stop almost immediately in order to light the lamp.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Six.</h4>
<p>This is what he wrote:</p>
<p>“Dear Father,—I dare say you will think it queer me writing you a letter
like this, but it is the best thing I can do, and I hope you will excuse me. I dare say
you will remember I told you that night when you came home late from Manchester here in
the attic that I wanted to be an architect. You replied that what I wanted was business
experience. If you say that I have not had enough business experience yet, I agree to
that, but I want it to be understood that later on, when it is the proper time, I am to be
an architect. You know I am very fond of architecture, and I feel that I must be an
architect. I feel I shall not be happy in the printing business because I want to be an
architect. I am now nearly seventeen. Perhaps it is too soon yet for me to be apprenticed
to an architect, and so I can go on learning business habits. But I just want it to be
understood. I am quite sure you wish me to be happy in life, and I shan’t be happy
if I am always regretting that I have not gone in for being an architect. I know I shall
like architecture.—Your affectionate son, Edwin Clayhanger.”</p>
<p>Then, as an afterthought, he put the date and his address at the top. He meditated a
postscript asking for a reply, but decided that this was unnecessary. As he was addressing
the envelope Mrs Nixon called out to him from below to come to tea. He was surprised to
find that he had spent over an hour on the letter. He shivered and sneezed.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Seven.</h4>
<p>During tea he felt himself absurdly self-conscious, but nobody seemed to notice his
condition. The whole family went to chapel. The letter lay in his pocket, and he might
easily have slipped away to the post-office with it, but he had had no opportunity to
possess himself of a stamp. There was no need to send the letter through the post. He
might get up early and put it among the morning’s letters. He had decided, however,
that it must arrive formally by the postman, and he would not alter his decision. Hence,
after chapel, he took a match, and, creeping into the shop, procured a crimson stamp from
his father’s desk. Then he went forth, by the back way, alone into the streets. The
adventure was not so hazardous as it seemed and as it felt. Darius was incurious by
nature, though he had brief fevers of curiosity. Thus the life of the children was a
demoralising mixture of rigid discipline and freedom. They were permitted nothing, but, as
the years passed, they might take nearly anything. There was small chance of Darius
discovering his son’s excursion.</p>
<p>In crossing the road from chapel Edwin had opined to his father that the frost was
breaking. He was now sure of it. The mud, no longer brittle, yielded to pressure, and
there was a trace of dampness in the interstices of the pavement bricks. A thin raw mist
was visible in huge spheres round the street lamps. The sky was dark. The few people whom
he encountered seemed to be out upon mysterious errands, seemed to emerge strangely from
one gloom and strangely to vanish into another. In the blind, black façades of the
streets the public-houses blazed invitingly with gas; they alone were alive in the weekly
death of the town; and they gleamed everywhere, at every corner; the town appeared to
consist chiefly of public-houses. He dropped the letter into the box in the market-place;
he heard it fall. His heart beat. The deed was now irrevocable. He wondered what Monday
held for him. The quiescent melancholy of the town invaded his spirit, and mingled with
his own remorseful sorrow for the unstrenuous past, and his apprehensive solicitude about
the future. It was not unpleasant, this brooding sadness, half-despondency and half-hope.
A man and a woman, arm-in-arm, went by him as he stood unconscious of his conspicuousness
under the gas-lamp that lit the post-office. They laughed the smothered laugh of intimacy
to see a tall boy standing alone there, with no overcoat, gazing at naught. Edwin turned
to go home. It occurred to him that nearly all the people he met were couples, arm-in-arm.
And he suddenly thought of Florence, the clog-dancer. He had scarcely thought of her for
months. The complexity of the interests of life, and the interweaving of its moods,
fatigued his mind into an agreeably grave vacuity.</p>
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