Читать книгу The Master; a Novel - Israel Zangwill - Страница 15

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The long, endless years, crowded with petty episodes and uniformities, and moving like a cumbrous, creeping train that stops at every station, flash like an express past the eye of memory. Yet it is these unrecorded minutiæ of monotonous months that color the fabric of our future lives, eating into our souls like a slow acid. When, in after years, Matt Strangâs youth defiled before him, the panorama seemed more varied than when he was living the scenes in all their daily detail of dull routine, and when, whatever their superficial differences, they were all linked for him by an underlying unity of toil and aspiration.

First came his apprenticeship in Cattermoleâs saw-mill, at the opposite outskirt of the forest, twenty miles from Cobequid. For, though he early tired of savagery, as a blind-alley on the road to picture-painting, he refused, in the dogged pride of his boyish heart, to return to his folks, contenting himself with informing them of his whereabouts and of his intention to apprentice himself (with or without their consent). Labor being so scarce that year, Deacon Hailey drove over in great haste to offer him a loving home. Matt, who happened to be in the house, which was only parted from the mill-stream by a large vegetable-garden, saw through a window the deaconâs buggy arrive at the garden-path, and the deacon himself alight to open the wooden gate. The boyâs resentment flamed afresh, and it was supplemented by dread of the deaconâs inarticulate conversation. He fled to Mrs. Cattermole in the kitchen.

She was a shrewish, angular person, economical of everything save angry breath. A black silk cap with prim bows and ribbons sat severely on her head, and a thread-net confined her hair. Cattermole, a simple, religious, hen-pecked creature, had gone to the village store to trade off butter.

âThereâs Ole Hey coming!â cried Matt, breathlessly.

âKinât you speak quietly?â thundered Mrs. Cattermole. âYou made my heart jump like a frog. You donât mean Ole Hey from Cobequid, the man es you said married your mother?â

âYes, thetâs the skunk. I reckon heâs come to take me back.â

Mrs. Cattermoleâs eyes flashed angrily. âWell, I swan! But youâve promised to bide with us.â

âThetâs so. I wouldnât go back fur Captain Kiddâs treasure! I wonât see him.â

âIâll tell him youâre gone away.â

âNo,â said Matt, sturdily. âI wrote that I was goinâ to be âprenticed here, and there ainât any call for lies. Tell him Iâm in the kitchen and I wonât come out, and I donât want to hev anythinâ to do with him. See!â

âWell, set there and mind the cradle, and Iâll jest give him slockdologee. You uns allow youâre considerable smart, Cobequid way, but I reckon heâs struck the wrong track this time.â

Matt grinned joyously. âSpunk up to him, maâam!â he cried, with stirring reminiscences of fights at McTavitâs. âWalk into him full split!â

âYou mind the baby, young man. There wonât be no touse at all. He donât set foot in my kitchen, and thereâs an end of it.â

Mrs. Cattermole greeted the deacon politely, and informed him that the lad he was inquiring after was sulking in the kitchen, and that he refused to receive his visitor on any account. The deacon sighed unctuously with an air of patient martyrdom. Mattâs obduracy heightened his estimate of the ladâs value as a gratuitous field-worker, and sharpened his sense of being robbed of what small dowry Mrs. Strang had brought him.

âThe boy is dreadful set agin me,â he complained. âBut, es I told his poor mother, if you let a boy run wild, wild he runs, hey? Anyways, it ainât fur me to fail in lovinâ-kindness. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, ainât the gospel weâre called upon to practise. I allus thinks thereâs no sort oâ use in beinâ a Christian on Sundays and a heathen on week-days.â

âNo, thet thar ainât,â Mrs. Cattermole assented, amiably.

âEven to beasts a man kin be a Christian, hey? I reckon Iâd better wait in your kitchen anâ give the mare a rest. If Iâve come on a foolâs errand, thet ainât a reason my ole nag should suffer, hey?â

Mrs. Cattermole, seeing the outworks taken, directed the deacon, by a flank movement, into the parlor, as alone befitting his dignity. To Matt this parlor, far finer than the best room at home, was a chamber of awe, but also of attraction, for its walls were hung with sober Bible prints. Mrs. Cattermole stood there among her splendors with her back to the door, partly for defensive purposes, partly so as not to depreciate one of the hair-cloth chairs by sitting down. It was enough for one day that her guest sat solidly on the rocking-chair of honor.

âWeâve been hevinâ too much soft weather, Mrs. Cattermole, arter all thet heavy snow.â

âYes, Iâm afeard the dam will go out,â responded Mrs. Cattermole, gloomily.

They discussed the disastrous thaw of a few years back, with a vivid remembrance of the vegetables and dairy produce spoiled in the flooded cellars.

âBut itâs the Lordâs will,â summed up the deacon. âIt ainât any use heapinâ up worldly treasure, I allus thinks.â

âThetâs a fact.â Mrs. Cattermole shook her head in sad acquiescence.

âHeavenâs the only safe place to lay up your goods, hey? So I guess Iâm just goinâ to forgive thet durned boy all the anxiety heâs giv his poor mother anâ me, anâ take him back right along.â

âOh, but I guess you ainât,â said Mrs. Cattermole. âWeâve promised to take him on here.â

âWeâll let you off thet thar promise, Mrs. Cattermole. We ainât folks as allus wants to hold people tight to every onthinkinâ word. Anâ you wonât be the loser hardly, for the lad ainât worth a tin pint to mortal man. Heâs a dreamy do-nuthinâ, anâ the worry heâs been to his poor mother youâve no idee—allus wastinâ the Lordâs hours, unbeknown to her, in scrawlinâ picters anâ smutchinâ boards with colors.â

âI reckon heâll come in handy in our paint-shop, then.â

The deacon shook his head, as if pitying her bubble delusions.

âHe ainât smart, anâ he ainât good-tempered. You see for yourself how grouty he is to the best friend a boy ever hed.â

âHe ainât smart, I know. Thetâs why we ainât goinâ to pay him no wages.â

The deacon chawed his quid and swayed in silent discomfiture.

âAh, itâs his poor mother Iâm thinkinâ of,â he said, after a while. âSheâs thet delicate sheâd kinder worry if he was to—a motherâs heart, hey? If âtwas my boy, Iâd be proper glad to see him in the hanâs of sech a hard-workinâ, God-fearinâ couple.â

âYou hednât ought to talk to me,â said Mrs. Cattermole, softening. âFatherâd be terrible ugly if I was to settle anythinâ while he was to the store.â

âAnd if he wouldnât itâs a pity. Wives, obey your husbands, hey? But there ainât no call for hurry. More haste less speed, I allus thinks. But I donât want to keep you from your occupations. There air some visitors who forgit folks kinât afford to keep moreân one Sunday a week, hey? Sorter devilâs darninâ-needles flyinâ into your ear—they worry you, and they donât do themselves no good. So donât you take no notice of me. Iâll jest talk to Matt to fill up the time.â

Mrs. Cattermole straightened herself against the door. âHe wonât listen; heâs too mad.â

âI reckon I could tone him down some.â

âGuess not. Heâs too sot—he wonât come in.â

âI ainât proud. Iâll go to him. True pride is in doinâ whatâs right, I allus thinks. Some folks kinât see the difference between true pride anâ false pride. Iâll go to the kitchen.â

âIâd rayther you didnât, deacon. Itâs all in a clutter.â

The conversation drooped. The deaconâs mouth moved in mere chawing. Swallowing his quid in deference to the parlor, he cut himself a new chunk.

âYouâve heerd about the doctor, Mrs. Cattermole?â he began again.

âI dunno es I hev.â

âWhat! Not heerd about our doctor es was said to practise the Black Art?â

âOh, the sorcerer es lives on the ole wood-road. My brother who drives the stage was tellinâ me âbout it. He sets spirits turninâ tables, tellinâ the future, anâ nobodyâll go past his house arter dark.â

âAh, but the elders called on him last week,â said the deacon. âOf course we couldnât hev him in the vestry. Anâ he explained to the committee thet sperrits or devils ainât got nuthinâ to do with it.â

âLanâ sakes! Anâ you believed him?â

âWaal, my motto is allus believe your fellow-critters. An evil mind sees a lookinâ-glass everyways, hey? He jest showed us how to make a table turn and answer questions. He says itâs no more wonderful than turninâ a grindstone.â

âI guess heâs pulled the wool over the eyes oâ the Church,â said Mrs. Cattermole, sceptically.

âNot hardly! He turned thet thar table in broad daylight with the Bible open upon it, to show thet Satan didnât hev a look in.â

âThe Bible on it! âPears to me terrible ongodly.â

âOngodly! Why, you anâ me kin do it—two pillars oâ the Church! I guess the Evil One couldnât come nigh us, hey?â

âI dunno es it would turn if you anâ me was to do it.â

âYou bet! It told me âbout the future world, anâ my poor Susanâs Christian name, anâ how much to ast for my upland hay.â

âGood lanâ!â cried Mrs. Cattermole. âAnâ would it tell me whether my sister is through her sickness yet?â

âYou may depend!â

âMy! Thetâs jest great!â And Mrs. Cattermole eagerly inquired how one set about interrogating the oracle.

The deacon explained, adding that the parlor table would not do. It must be a rough deal table.

âAh, the kitchin table,â said Mrs. Cattermole, walking into the elaborately laid trap.

âI dunno,â said the deacon, shaking his head. âAir you sure it ainât too large for us to span around?â

âWe could let the flaps down.â

The deacon chawed reflectively.

âWaal, it might,â he said, cautiously, at last. âThere ainât no harm in tryinâ. We hednât ought to give up anythinâ without tryinâ, I allus thinks. One never knows, hey?â

âI kinder think we ought to try,â said Mrs. Cattermole.

The deacon rose ponderously, and followed his guide into the kitchen.

âWhy, thereâs Matt!â he cried, in astonished accents. âGood-day, sonny.â

Matt strained his ears, but pursed his lips and rocked the cradle in violent impassivity. The deacon was uneasy at the boyâs sullen resentment. He could not understand open enemies.

âHowâs your health, hey?â he asked, affectionately.

âOh, Iâm hunky dory,â said Matt, in off-hand school-boy slang.

âIâm considerable glad youâve found a good place with rael Christians, Matt. I onây hope youâve made up your mind to work hard anâ turn over a new leaf. Itâs never too late to mend, I allus thinks. Youâre growinâ a young man, now; no more picter-makinâ, hey? If it warnât that you air so moony anâ lay-abed Iâd give you a chanst on my own land, with pocket-money into the bargain, hey, anâ pâraps a pair oâ store shoes fur a Chrismus-box.â

A flame shot from Mrs. Cattermoleâs now-opened eyes. She shut the cellar door with a vicious bang, but ere she could speak Matt cried out, âI wouldnât come, not fur five shillinâs a week!â

âAnâ who wants you to come fur money? What is money, hey? Is it health? Is it happiness? No, no, sonny. If money was any use, my poor Susan would hev been alive to this day. Youâll know better when youâre my age.â

He spat out now, directing the stream into the sink under the big wooden pump.

âDonât worry âbout him,â interposed Mrs. Cattermole. âHereâs the table.â

Deacon Hailey waved a rebuking palm. âDooty afore pleasure, Mrs. Cattermole. See here, sonny, Iâve been talkinâ with Mrs. Cattermole âbout you. Sheâs promised me to be a mother to you, Heaven bless her! But I kinât forget youâve got a mother oâ your own.â

âShe ainât my mother now, sheâs Ruthâs mother,â said Matt, half divining the mumble of words.

âSheâs mother to both oâ you. A large heart, thetâs what sheâs got. Anâ if sheâs Ruthâs mother, then Iâm your father, hey? Anâ it ainât right of you to disobey your father and mother. But young folks nowadays treats the commandments like old boots,â and the deacon sighed, as if in sympathy with the sorrows of a neglected decalogue.

âIâve got no father anâ no mother,â said Matt. âAnâ Iâm goinâ to be a picture-painter soon es I kin. I wonât do anything else, thetâs flat. Anâ when Iâm bigger Iâm goinâ to write to my uncle Matt and see if he kin sell my pictures fur me. If you was to drag me back by force, Iâd escape into the woods. Anâ Iâd work my way to London to be handy my uncle Matt. I reckon he takes in âprentices same es the boss here. So you jest tell my mother Iâm done with her, see! I donât want to hear any more âbout it.â

His face resumed its set expression, and his rocking foot its violence.

The deacon cast a reproachful, irate glance at Mrs. Cattermole.

âDid I tell you a lie when I said he warnât worth thet thar?â he vociferated, snatching the tin dipper from the water-bucket. The noise disturbed the baby, which began to whimper feebly. Matt turned his chairâs back on the deacon and gazed studiously towards the wood-house in the yard. The deaconâs face grew apoplectic. He seemed about to throw the dipper at the back of Mattâs head, but mastering himself he let it fall with a splash, and said, quietly: âI guess you wonât hev me to blame if he turns out all belly anâ no hanâs. Some folksâd say Iâm offerinâ you a smart, likely young man, with his heart in the wood-pile. But thetâs not Deacon Haileyâs way. He makes a pint of tellinâ the bad pints. Heâs a man you could swap a horse with, hey? I tell you, Mrs. Cattermole, thet durned boy is all moonshine anâ viciousness, stuffed with conceit from floor to ridge-piece. Picters, picters, picters, is all he thinks about! Amoosinâ himself—thetâs his idee of life in this vale of tears. I reckon he thinks heâs goinâ to strike Captain Kiddâs treasure. But, arter all, he ainât your burden. Iâve giv his poor mother a home, anâ I ainât the man to grudge bite anâ sup to her boy. So even now I donât mind lettinâ you off. Heâs my crost, and Iâve got to bear him. âTainât no use beinâ a Christian only in church, hey?â

âI guess Iâm a Christian, too,â said Mrs. Cattermole. âSo I must bear with the poor lad anâ train him up some in the way he should go. Anâ then thereâs father. Youâre a rael saint, deacon, but I sorter think where heaven is consarned father âud like a look-in es well. So letâs say no more âbout it. Now, then, deacon, the tableâs waitinâ!â

He ignored the patient piece of furniture. âWaal, donât blame me any if the buckwheat turns out bad,â he shouted, losing his self-control again, and spurting out his nicotian fluid at the stove like an angry cuttle-fish.

âThetâs so,â acquiesced Mrs. Cattermole, quietly. âNow, then, Deacon Hailey, jest you set there.â She had taken a chair and placed her hands on the table.

âHush!â said the deacon. âDonât you see thet thar young un wakinâ up? The tarnation boy hes been shakinâ him like an earthquake. I didnât know es you kepâ your baby in the kitchin or I wouldnât hev troubled to come. When thet thar table kinder began to dance and jump, you wouldnât thank me fur rousinâ the innocent baby, hey? Sleep, sleep, thetâs what a baby wants! A baby kinât hev too much sleep anâ a grown-up person kinât hev too little, hey? Theyâre a lazy slinky lot, the young men oâ the Province, sleepinâ with their mouths open, expectinâ johnny-cakes to fall into âem. I wonder this young man here donât get into a cradle hisself. Heâd be es much use to his fellow-critters es makinâ picters, I do allow. This lifeâs a battle, I allus thinks, anâ star-gazinâ ainât the way to sight the enemy, hey? I reckon Iâll git back now, Mrs. Cattermole. Thereâs ânough time been wasted over thet limb of Satan. Jest you tell Cattermole what I say âbout him, anâ if ever you git durned sick anâ tired feedinâ an onthankful lazybones, es youâre bound to git, sure es skunks, jest you remember Deacon Hailey is the Christian youâre lookinâ fur. Anâ donât you forgit it!â And very solemnly he strode without.

Mrs. Cattermole lifted her hands and brought them down again on the table with a thump. âThe tarnation ole fox!â she cried, âtryinâ to bamboozle me with tales âbout turninâ tables. âTainât likely es a table is goinâ to dance of itself, anâ tell me âbout Mariaâs sickness. Jest you come here, Matt, anâ lay your hands alongside oâ mine. Whatâs thet youâre doinâ?â

For Matt had begun pensively adorning the hood of the cradle by means of a burned stick he had pulled from the stove.

âItâs onây Ole Hey,â he said, reddening.

âJest you leave off makinâ fun oâ your elders anâ betters,â she said, sharply. âThereâll be plenty of work fur you in the paint-shop.â

There was plenty of work, Matt found, in numerous other directions, too. Many more things than mechanical wood-cutting did the boy practise at Cattermoleâs saw-mill. To begin with, Mrs. Cattermoleâs apprehensions were justified and the spring freshets swept away the dam, and so Matt was set to work hauling brushwood and gravel and logs to build up a kind of breast-work. Cattermole was really a house-joiner and house-builder, so Matt acquired cabinet-making, decoration, and house-building. His farming and cattle-rearing experience was also considerably enlarged. He milked the cows, looked after four stage-horses (driven by Mrs. Cattermoleâs brother) and thirty-six sheep, cut firewood, cleared out barns, turned churns, hoed potatoes, mowed hay, fed fowls and pigs, and rocked the cradle, and, in the interval of running the circular and up-and-down saws in the mill, worked in the paint-shop at the back, graining and scrolling the furniture and ornamenting it with roses and other gorgeous flowers, sometimes even with landscapes. This was his only opportunity of making pictures, for recreation hours he had none. He rose at four in the morning and went to bed at ten at night. His wages were his food and clothes, both left off.

Mrs. Cattermole made his garments out of her husbandâs out-worn wardrobe, itself of gray homespun.

But the hours in the paint-shop threw their aroma over all the others and made them livable.

And Cattermole, though a hard was not a harsh taskmaster, and had gentle flashes of jest when Mrs. Cattermole was out of ear-shot. And, though winter was long, yet there were seasons of delicious sunshine, when the blueberries ripened on the flats, or the apples waxed rosy in the orchard; when the air thrilled with the song of birds, and the dawn was golden.

In one of these seasons of hope he wrote to his uncle of his fatherâs death and his own existence, and Cattermole paid the postage; an ingenuous letter full of the pathetic, almost incredible ignorance of obscure and sequestered youth, and inquiring what chances there would be for him to reap fortune by painting pictures in London. He addressed the letter—with vague recollection of something in his school reading-book—to Mr. Matthew Strang, Painter, National Gallery, London.

It was not an ill-written letter nor an ill-spelt. Here and there the orthography was original, but in the main McTavit had been not ineffectual, and there were fewer traces of illiteracy about the epistle than might have been imagined from Mattâs talk. But in Mattâs mind the written and the spoken were kept as distinct as printed type and the manuscript alphabet; they ran on parallel lines that never met, and that âAmurâcanâ should be spelled âAmericanâ seemed no more contradictory than that âthrooâ should be spelled âthrough.â The grammar he had used in scholastic exercises was not for everyday wear; it was of a ceremonious dignity that suited with the stateliness of epistolary communication. Alas! For all the carefulness of the composition, his uncle of the National Gallery gave no sign.

Mattâs suspense and sorrow dwindled at last into resignation, for he had come to a renewed sense of religion. As Mrs. Strang would have put it, he had found grace. There were a few pious books and tracts about the Cattermole establishment, to devour in stolen snatches or by bartering sleep for reading, and among these dusty treasures he lighted on The Pilgrimâs Progress, with quaint wood-cuts. In the moral fervor with which the dramatic allegory informed him Matt felt wickedness an impossibility henceforward; his future life stretched before him white, fleckless, unstainable. Meanness or falsehood or viciousness could never touch his soul. How curiously people must be constituted who could knowingly prefer evil, when good thrilled one with such rapture, bathed one in such peace! Already he felt the beatitude of the New Jerusalem. The pictures he painted should be good, please God. They should exhibit the baseness of Mr. Worldly Wiseman, castigate the town of Carnal Policy; he would uplift the eyes of the wicked to the contemplation of the Shining Ones. Though, after all, he began to ask himself, could any picture equal Bunyanâs book? Was not a book immeasurably the better medium of expression? The suspicion was strengthened by the reading of a dime novel which his mistressâs brother, the stage-driver, had left lying about. It was the first unadulterated novel he had read, and the sensational episodes stirred his blood, his new-born religious enthusiasm died. He loved Mike the Bush-ranger, who was the hero of the novel. Action, strong, self-dependent action, a big personality—there lay the admirable in life. The Christians and Hopefuls were pale-blooded figures after all, and unreal at that. In actual life one only came across mimics who used their language: the Deacon Haileys or the Abner Preeps, to whom even thieving Tommy were preferable. No wonder Mike had been driven to bush-ranging! What a pity he himself had not remained in his forest hut, rebel against humanity, king of the woods! Ah! and how inadequate was paint to express the fulness of life; the medium was too childishly simple. At most one could fix a single scene, a single incident, and that only in its outside aspect. Books palpitated with motion and emotion. He set to work to write a dime novel, stealing an hour from his scanty night. He made but slow progress, though he began with an exciting episode about a white boy besieged in his log-hut by a party of Indians, and saved by the sudden advent of a couple of bears. The words he wrote down seemed a paltry rendition of his thought and inner vision, they were tame and scant of syllable. He discovered that his literary palette was even more pitiful than his pictorial. Still he labored on, for the goal was grand. And, despite his mental divorce between pronunciation and orthography, his spoken English improved imperceptibly through all this contact with literature.

Then one wonderful day—to be marked with a white stone and yet also with a black—he received a letter from England. All his artistic ambition flamed up furiously again as he broke the seal: