Читать книгу Joan and Peter - H. G. Wells - Страница 33

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Death was too big a thing for Peter to comprehend. He had hardly begun yet with life. And he had made not even a beginning with religion. He had never been baptized; he had learnt no prayers at his mother’s knee. The priceless Mary had come to the Stublands warranted a churchwoman, but as with so many of her class, her orthodoxy had been only a professional uniform to cloak a very keen hostility and contempt for the clergy, and she dropped quite readily into the ways of a household in which religion was entirely ignored. The first Peter heard of religion was at the age of four and a half, and that was from a serious friend of Mary’s, a Particular Baptist, who came for a week’s visit to The Ingle-Nook. The visitor was really distressed at the spiritual outlook of the two children. She borrowed Peter for a “little walk.” She thought she would begin with him and try Joan afterwards. Then as plainly and impressively as possible she imparted the elements of her faith to Peter and taught him a brief, simple prayer. “He’s a Love,” she told Mary, “and so Quick! It’s a shime to keep him such a little heathen. I didn’t say that prayer over twice before he had it Pat.”

Mary was rather moved by her friend’s feelings. She felt that she was going behind the back of the aunts, but nevertheless she saw no great harm in what had happened. The deaths of Arthur and Dolly had shaken Mary’s innate scepticism; she had a vague feeling that there might be grave risks, well worth consideration, beyond the further edge of life.

Aunt Phyllis was the first of the responsible people overhead to discover what had happened. Peter loved his prayer; it was full of the most beautiful phrases; no words had ever so filled his mouth and mind. There was for example, “For Jesus Krice sake Amen.” Like a song. You could use it anywhere. Aunt Phyllis found him playing trains with his bricks in the nursery one afternoon. “Hoo! Chuff-Chuff. Chuff-Chuff. Change for Reigate, change for London. For Jesus Krice sake Amen.”

Aunt Phyllis sat down in the little chair. “Peter,” she said, “who is this Jesus Krice?”

Peter was reluctant to give information. “I know all about ’im,” he said, and would at first throw no other light on the matter.

Then he relented and told a wonder. He turned his back on his brick train and drew close to Aunt Phyllis. His manner was solemn and impressive exactly as Mary’s friend’s had been; his words were as slow and deliberate. “Jesus Krice could go dead and come alive again,” he said, “over and over, whenever He wanted to.”

And having paused a moment to complete the effect of this marvel, Peter turned about again, squatted down like a little brown holland mushroom with a busy little knob on the top, and resumed his shouting. “Hoo! Chuff-Chuff. Chuff-Chuff. Chuff.”