Читать книгу Cardboard Castle - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 15
§ 3
ОглавлениеThe better I knew Anthony, the more I loved him.
Also the better I knew Anthony, the less I understood him.
Nor did that fact make him the less lovable. Actually it made him the more intriguing, the more attractive, the more worth while, by which I mean the more worthy of study and investigation. Life with him was one long series of little surprises, little discoveries, and an infinity of little amusing, pleasing, or puzzling incidents. And there were times, times without number, when I felt inclined to smack his young head, for subtle impudence, artful little traps, tricks intended to hoodwink me in some way, cunning little plots to bring me to a brief confusion.
How a pompous, insincere or dogmatically omniscient type of tutor would have suffered at his hands!
We had just finished work one morning when he said,
“Mr. Waring, will you tell me the meaning of some words?”
“Yes.”
“Hagiology. Is it the study of hags?”
“Not unless they were holy hags. Hagiology is the study of the history of saints.”
“Oh, thank you. And what’s eschatology? Nothing to do with cats, of course?”
“No, nor with chatting ... It’s the study of final things; death; the Hereafter.”
“Oh, thank you. And what’s etiology?”
“Might call that the opposite. The study of beginnings; origins and causes.”
“Oh, thank you. Must be awfully nice to know everything, like you do.”
“Very nice,” I agreed. “Any more?”
“Yes, bonnance. What does that mean?”
“‘Bonnance?’” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Sure you’ve got the word right?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, you’ve defeated me. I don’t know the word, and therefore I don’t know its meaning. Are you certain there is such a word?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Waring. Quite certain. I made it up.”
“Good. Now make up a meaning for it, and write the word and the meaning a hundred times.”
“Would it do if I apologized?”
“It would not.”
“But you win, Mr. Waring. And it was only—fun.”
“Oh, quite so. Quite so. You aren’t objecting to paying for your fun, are you?”
“What meaning shall I give bonnance, Mr. Waring?”
“Its proper meaning. You’re the only person who knows it.”
And with a sigh Anthony settled to his task.
When he showed up the imposition, it appeared that the meaning of bonnance was but brief and easily written, a word of four letters—‘Hell.’
It became one of our pass-words, and certainly none but Anthony and I knew its meaning ...
Another thing I loved about the boy was the fact that, much as he enjoyed scoring, he equally enjoyed being scored off.
Furthermore, when I had occasion, at a much later date, to take him somewhat sharply to task for adopting an ugly and blasphemous ejaculation much favoured by Captain Bertie-Norton, he apologized, smiled impishly, and appointed the word ‘Bonnance!’ as his own private and particular exclamatory oath. As he pointed out to me, I, on the one hand, could find no fault with the word itself, whilst he, on the other hand, could give it any meaning that he liked. A typically Antonian arrangement.
Looking back, it is amazing to realize how swiftly the time passed, how extraordinarily happy we were together, and what pleasure it gave me to know that Anthony was obviously very fond of me indeed. He would not have sought my company so consistently had it been otherwise, nor derived such satisfaction from pleasing me. The fact that I wanted him to do a certain thing was good and sufficient reason for doing it. And it was a fine trait in his character, one which I admired and appreciated, that he liked me not a whit the less for being a pretty strict disciplinarian. He recognized the fact that I did my utmost to be absolutely just and entirely reasonable, understanding and sympathetic. He would have despised me had I failed in discipline as much as he would have disliked me had I been unjust, unreasonable and uncomprehending.
We worked every week-day, and we fenced and walked as regularly as we worked. Most days we rode, and except for the Sabbath, there was never a day when we failed to dress up to greater or lesser degree—sometimes en grande tenue and sometimes only to the extent of Cavalier hat and boots, baldrick, sash and sword—and stage a scene, either on the greensward beneath the trees or in an old oak-panelled gallery which made an admirable setting.
Anthony wrote the scenes, charades and playlets, brought them to me for opinion, and joyfully accepted suggestions for their improvement. We then learned our respective parts, forgot them or improved upon them, improvised and gagged. And when words failed us, drew our swords—a pair of buttoned foils of fine Italian make—and fell to. And always the period was Stuart, the theme Cavalier and Roundhead, and the dénouement the downfall and defeat of the foul Cromwellian.
Personally, so far from life being boring and monotonous, and time dragging heavily, I never found the days long enough, nor ever once regretted my acceptance of this post, or wished myself elsewhere.
