<SPAN name="vol_1_chap_17"></SPAN>
<h3>Volume One--Chapter Seventeen.</h3>
<h4>End of a Struggle.</h4>
<p>It was not one of his official bilious attacks that Darius had on the following day; he
only yielded himself up in the complete grand manner when nature absolutely compelled. The
goose had not formally beaten him, but neither had he formally beaten the goose. The
battle was drawn, and this meant that Darius had a slight headache, a feeling of heavy
disgust with the entire polity of the universe, and a disinclination for food. The first
and third symptoms he hid as far as possible, from pride: at breakfast he toyed with
bacon, from pride, hating bacon. The children knew from his eyes and his guilty gestures
that he was not well, but they dared not refer to his condition; they were bound to
pretend that the health of their father flourished in the highest perfection. And they
were glad that things were no worse.</p>
<p>On the other hand Edwin had a sneezing cold which he could not conceal, and Darius
inimically inquired what foolishness he had committed to have brought this on himself.
Edwin replied that he knew of no cause for it. A deliberate lie! He knew that he had
contracted a chill while writing a letter to his father in an unwarmed attic, and had
intensified the chill by going forth to post the letter without his overcoat in a raw
evening mist. Obviously, however, he could not have stated the truth. He was uncomfortable
at the breakfast-table, but, after the first few moments, less so than during the
disturbed night he had feared to be. His father had neither eaten him, nor jumped down his
throat, nor performed any of those unpleasant miraculous feats which fathers usually do
perform when infuriated by filial foolishness. The letter therefore had not been utterly
disastrous; sometimes a letter would ruin a breakfast, for Mr Clayhanger, with no
consideration for the success of meals, always opened his post before bite or sup. He had
had the letter, and still he was ready to talk to his son in the ordinary grim tone of a
goose-morrow. Which was to the good. Edwin was now convinced that he had done well to
write the letter.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Two.</h4>
<p>But as the day passed, Edwin began to ask himself: “Has he had the letter?”
There was no sign of the letter in his father’s demeanour, which, while not such as
to make it credible that he ever had moods of positive gay roguishness, was almost
tolerable, considering his headache and his nausea. Letters occasionally were lost in the
post, or delayed. Edwin thought it would be just his usual bad luck if that particular
letter, that letter of all letters, should be lost. And the strange thing is that he could
not prevent himself from hoping that it indeed was lost. He would prefer it to be lost
rather than delayed. He felt that if the postman brought it by the afternoon delivery
while he and his father were in the shop together, he should drop down dead. The day
continued to pass, and did pass. And the shop was closed. “He’ll speak to me
after supper,” said Edwin. But Darius did not speak to him after supper. Darius put
on his hat and overcoat and went out, saying no word except to advise the children to be
getting to bed, all of them.</p>
<p>As soon as he was gone Edwin took a candle and returned to the shop. He was convinced
now that the letter had not been delivered, but he wished to make conviction sure. He
opened the desk. His letter was nearly the first document he saw. It looked affrighting,
awful. He dared not read it, to see whether its wording was fortunate or unfortunate. He
departed, mystified. Upstairs in his bedroom he had a new copy of an English translation
of Victor Hugo’s “Notre Dame,” which had been ordered by Lawyer Lawton,
but would not be called for till the following week, because Lawyer Lawton only called
once a fortnight. He had meant to read that book, with due precautions, in bed. But he
could not fix attention on it. Impossible for him to follow a single paragraph. He
extinguished the candle. Then he heard his father come home. He thought that he scarcely
slept all night.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Three.</h4>
<p>The next morning, Tuesday, the girls, between whom and their whispering friend Miss
Ingamells something feminine was evidently afoot, left the breakfast-table sooner than
usual, not without stifled giggles: upon occasion Maggie would surprisingly meet Clara and
Miss Ingamells on their own plane; since Sunday afternoon she had shown no further
interest in Edwin’s important crisis; she seemed, so far as he could judge, to have
fallen back into her customary state of busy apathy.</p>
<p>The man and the young man were alone together. Darius, in his satisfaction at having
been delivered so easily from the goose, had taken an extra slice of bacon. Edwin’s
cold was now fully developed; and Maggie had told him to feed it.</p>
<p>“I suppose you got that letter I wrote you, father, about me going in for
architecture,” said Edwin. Then he blew his nose to hide his confusion. He was
rather startled to hear himself saying those bold words. He thought that he was quite calm
and in control of his impulses; but it was not so; his nerves were stretched to the
utmost.</p>
<p>Darius said nothing. But Edwin could see his face darkening, and his lower lip heavily
falling. He glowered, though not at Edwin. With eyes fixed on the window he glowered into
vacancy. The pride went out of Edwin’s heart.</p>
<p>“So ye’d leave the printing?” muttered Darius, when he had finished
masticating. He spoke in a menacing voice thick with ferocious emotion.</p>
<p>“Well—” said Edwin, quaking.</p>
<p>He thought he had never seen his father so ominously intimidating. He was terrorised as
he looked at that ugly and dark countenance. He could not say any more. His voice left
him. Thus his fear was physical as well as moral. He reflected: “Well, I expected a
row, but I didn’t expect it would be as bad as this!” And once more he was
completely puzzled and baffled by the enigma of his father.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Four.</h4>
<p>He did not hold the key, and even had he held it he was too young, too inexperienced,
to have used it. As with gathering passion the eyes of Darius assaulted the window-pane,
Darius had a painful intense vision of that miracle, his own career. Edwin’s grand
misfortune was that he was blind to the miracle. Edwin had never seen the little boy in
the Bastille. But Darius saw him always, the infant who had begun life at a
rope’s-end. Every hour of Darius’s present existence was really an astounding
marvel to Darius. He could not read the newspaper without thinking how wonderful it was
that he should be able to read the newspaper. And it was wonderful! It was wonderful that
he had three different suits of clothes, none of them with a single hole. It was wonderful
that he had three children, all with complete outfits of good clothes. It was wonderful
that he never had to think twice about buying coal, and that he could have more food than
he needed. It was wonderful that he was not living in a two-roomed cottage. He never came
into his house by the side entrance without feeling proud that the door gave on to a
preliminary passage and not direct into a living-room; he would never lose the idea that a
lobby, however narrow, was the great distinguishing mark of wealth. It was wonderful that
he had a piano, and that his girls could play it and could sing. It was wonderful that he
had paid twenty-eight shillings a term for his son’s schooling, in addition to
book-money. Twenty-eight shillings a term! And once a penny a week was considered enough,
and twopence generous! Through sheer splendid wilful pride he had kept his son at school
till the lad was sixteen, going on seventeen! Seventeen, not seven! He had had the sort of
pride in his son that a man may have in an idle, elegant, and absurdly expensive woman. It
even tickled him to hear his son called ‘Master Edwin,’ and then ‘Mister
Edwin’; just as the fine ceremonious manners of his sister-in-law Mrs Hamps tickled
him. His marriage! With all its inevitable disillusions it had been wonderful, incredible.
He looked back on it as a miracle. For he had married far above him, and had proved equal
to the enormously difficult situation. Never had he made a fool of himself. He often took
keen pleasure in speculating upon the demeanour of his father, his mother, his little
sister, could they have seen him in his purple and in his grandeur. They were all dead.
And those days were fading, fading, gone, with their unutterable, intolerable shame and
sadness, intolerable even in memory. And his wife dead too! All that remained was Mr
Shushions.</p>
<p>And then his business? Darius’s pride in the achievement of his business was
simply indescribable. If he had not built up that particular connexion he had built up
another one whose sale had enabled him to buy it. And he was waxing yearly. His supremacy
as a printer could not be challenged in Bursley. Steam! A double-windowed shop! A foreman
to whom alone he paid thirty shillings a week! Four other employees! (Not to mention a
domestic servant.) ... How had he done it? He did not know. Certainly he did not credit
himself with brilliant faculties. He knew he was not brilliant; he knew that once or twice
he had had luck. But he had the greatest confidence in his rough-hewing common sense. The
large curves of his career were correctly drawn. His common sense, his slow shrewdness,
had been richly justified by events. They had been pitted against foes—and look now
at the little boy from the Bastille!</p>
<hr>
<h4>Five.</h4>
<p>To Darius there was no business quite like his own. He admitted that there were
businesses much bigger, but they lacked the miraculous quality that his own had. They were
not sacred. His was, genuinely. Once, in his triumphant and vain early manhood he had had
a fancy for bulldogs; he had bred bulldogs; and one day he had sacrificed even that great
delight at the call of his business; and now no one could guess that he knew the
difference between a setter and a mastiff!</p>
<p>It was this sacred business (perpetually adored at the secret altar in Darius’s
heart), this miraculous business, and not another, that Edwin wanted to abandon, with
scarcely a word; just casually!</p>
<p>True, Edwin had told him one night that he would like to be an architect. But Darius
had attached no importance to the boyish remark. Darius had never even dreamed that Edwin
would not go into the business. It would not have occurred to him to conceive such a
possibility. And the boy had shown great aptitude. The boy had saved the printing office
from disaster. And Darius had proved his satisfaction therein, not by words certainly, but
beyond mistaking in his general demeanour towards Edwin. And after all that, a
letter—mind you, a letter!—proposing with the most damnable insolent audacity
that he should be an architect, because he would not be ‘happy’ in the
printing business! ... An architect! Why an architect, specially? What in the name of God
was there to attract in bricks and mortar? He thought the boy had gone off his head for a
space. He could not think of any other explanation. He had not allowed the letter to upset
him. By his armour of thick callousness, he had protected the tender places in his soul
from being wounded. He had not decided how to phrase his answer to Edwin. He had not even
decided whether he would say anything at all, whether it would not be more dignified and
impressive to make no remark whatever to Edwin, to let him slowly perceive, by silence,
what a lamentable error he had committed.</p>
<p>And here was the boy lightly, cheekily, talking at breakfast about ‘going in for
architecture’! The armour of callousness was pierced. Darius felt the full force of
the letter; and as he suffered, so he became terrible and tyrannic in his suffering. He
meant to save his business, to put his business before anything. And he would have his own
way. He would impose his will. And he would have treated argument as a final insult. All
the heavy, obstinate, relentless force of his individuality was now channelled in one
tremendous instinct.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Six.</h4>
<p>“Well, what?” he growled savagely, as Edwin halted.</p>
<p>In spite of his advanced age Edwin began to cry. Yes, the tears came out of his
eyes.</p>
<p>“And now you begin blubbing!” said his father.</p>
<p>“You say naught for six months—and then you start writing letters!”
said his father.</p>
<p>“And what’s made ye settle on architecting, I’d like to be
knowing?” Darius went on.</p>
<p>Edwin was not able to answer this question. He had never put it to himself. Assuredly
he could not, at the pistol’s point, explain <i>why</i> he wanted to be an
architect. He did not know. He announced this truth ingenuously—</p>
<p>“I don’t know—I—”</p>
<p>“I sh’d think not!” said his father. “D’ye think
architecting’ll be any better than this?” ‘This’ meant
printing.</p>
<p>“I don’t know—”</p>
<p>“Ye don’t know! Ye don’t know!” Darius repeated testily. His
testiness was only like foam on the great wave of his resentment.</p>
<p>“Mr Orgreave—” Edwin began. It was unfortunate, because Darius had
had a difficulty with Mr Orgreave, who was notoriously somewhat exacting in the matter of
prices.</p>
<p>“Don’t talk to me about Mester Orgreave!” Darius almost shouted.</p>
<p>Edwin didn’t. He said to himself: “I am lost.”</p>
<p>“What’s this business o’ mine for, if it isna’ for you?”
asked his father. “Architecting! There’s neither sense nor reason in it!
Neither sense nor reason!”</p>
<p>He rose and walked out. Edwin was now sobbing. In a moment his father returned, and
stood in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Ye’ve been doing well, I’ll say that, and I’ve shown it! I was
beginning to have hopes of ye!” It was a great deal to say.</p>
<p>He departed.</p>
<p>“Perhaps if I hadn’t stopped his damned old machine from going through the
floor, he’d have let me off!” Edwin muttered bitterly. “I’ve been
too good, that’s what’s the matter with me!”</p>
<hr>
<h4>Seven.</h4>
<p>He saw how fantastic was the whole structure of his hopes. He wondered that he had ever
conceived it even wildly possible that his father would consent to architecture as a
career! To ask it was to ask absurdly too much of fate. He demolished, with a violent and
resentful impulse, the structure of his hopes; stamped on it angrily. He was beaten. What
could he do? He could do nothing against his father. He could no more change his father
than the course of a river. He was beaten. He saw his case in its true light.</p>
<p>Mrs Nixon entered to clear the table. He turned away to hide his face, and strode
passionately off. Two hours elapsed before he appeared in the shop. Nobody asked for him,
but Mrs Nixon knew he was in the attic. At noon, Maggie, with a peculiar look, told him
that Auntie Hamps had called and that he was to go and have dinner with her at one
o’clock, and that his father consented. Obviously, Maggie knew the facts of the day.
He was perturbed at the prospect of the visit. But he was glad; he thought he could not
have lived through a dinner at the same table as Clara. He guessed that his auntie had
been made aware of the situation and wished to talk to him.</p>
<hr>
<h4>Eight.</h4>
<p>“Your father came to see me in such a state last night!” said Auntie Hamps,
after she had dealt with his frightful cold.</p>
<p>Edwin was astonished by the news. Then after all his father had been afraid! ... After
all perhaps he had yielded too soon! If he had held out... If he had not been a baby! ...
But it was too late. The incident was now closed.</p>
<p>Mrs Hamps was kind, but unusually firm in her tone; which reached a sort of benevolent
severity.</p>
<p>“Your father had such high hopes of you. <i>Has</i>—I should say. He
couldn’t imagine what on earth possessed you to write such a letter. And I’m
sure I can’t. I hope you’re sorry. If you’d seen your father last night
you would be, I’m sure.”</p>
<p>“But look here, auntie,” Edwin defended himself, sneezing and wiping his
nose; and he spoke of his desire. Surely he was entitled to ask, to suggest! A son could
not be expected to be exactly like his father. And so on.</p>
<p>No! no! She brushed all that aside. She scarcely listened to it.</p>
<p>“But think of the business! And just think of your father’s
feelings!”</p>
<p>Edwin spoke no more. He saw that she was absolutely incapable of putting herself in his
place. He could not have explained her attitude by saying that she had the vast
unconscious cruelty which always goes with a perfect lack of imagination; but this was the
explanation. He left her, saddened by the obvious conclusion that his auntie, whom he had
always supported against his sisters, was part author of his undoing. She had undoubtedly
much strengthened his father against him. He had a gleam of suspicion that his sisters had
been right, and he wrong, about Mrs Hamps. Wonderful, the cruel ruthless insight of
girls—into some things!</p>
<hr>
<h4>Nine.</h4>
<p>Not till Saturday did the atmosphere of the Clayhanger household resume the normal. But
earlier than that Edwin had already lost his resentment. It disappeared with his cold. He
could not continue to bear ill-will. He accepted his destiny of immense disappointment. He
shouldered it. You may call him weak or you may call him strong. Maggie said nothing to
him of the great affair. What could she have said? And the affair was so great that even
Clara did not dare to exercise upon it her peculiar faculties of ridicule. It abashed her
by its magnitude.</p>
<p>On Saturday Darius said to his son, good-humouredly—</p>
<p>“Canst be trusted to pay wages?”</p>
<p>Edwin smiled.</p>
<p>At one o’clock he went across the yard to the printing office with a little bag
of money. The younger apprentice was near the door scrubbing type with potash to cleanse
it. The backs of his hands were horribly raw and bleeding with chaps, due to the frequent
necessity of washing them in order to serve the machines, and the impossibility of drying
them properly. Still, winter was ending now, and he only worked eleven hours a day, in an
airy room, instead of nineteen hours in a cellar, like the little boy from the Bastille.
He was a fortunate youth. The journeyman stood idle; as often, on Saturdays, the length of
the journeyman’s apron had been reduced by deliberate tearing during the week from
three feet to about a foot—so imperious and sudden was the need for rags in the
processes of printing. Big James was folding up his apron. They all saw that Edwin had the
bag, and their faces relaxed.</p>
<p>“You’re as good as the master now, Mr Edwin,” said Big James with
ceremonious politeness and a fine gesture, when Edwin had finished paying.</p>
<p>“Am I?” he rejoined simply.</p>
<p>Everybody knew of the great affair. Big James’s words were his gentle intimation
to Edwin that every one knew the great affair was now settled.</p>
<p>That night, for the first time, Edwin could read “Notre Dame” with
understanding and pleasure. He plunged with soft joy into the river of the gigantic and
formidable narrative. He reflected that after all the sources of happiness were not
exhausted.</p>
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