CHAPTER III.
A CHANGE IN CONDUCT AND IN CHARACTER: OUR EVIL PASSIONS WILL SOMETIMESPRODUCE GOOD EFFECTS; AND ON THE CONTRARY, AN ALTERATION FOR THE BETTERIN MANNERS WILL, NOT UNFREQUENTLY, HAVE AMONGST ITS CAUSES A LITTLECORRUPTION OF MIND; FOR THE FEELINGS ARE SO BLENDED THAT, IN SUPPRESSINGTHOSE DISAGREEABLE TO OTHERS, WE OFTEN SUPPRESS THOSE WHICH ARE AMIABLEIN THEMSELVES.
MY twin brother, Gerald, was a tall, strong, handsome boy, blessed witha great love for the orthodox academical studies, and extraordinaryquickness of ability. Nevertheless, he was indolent by nature in thingswhich were contrary to his taste; fond of pleasure; and, amidst all hispersonal courage, ran a certain vein of irresolution, which rendered iteasy for a cool and determined mind to awe or to persuade him. Icannot help thinking, too, that, clever as he was, there was somethingcommonplace in the cleverness; and that his talent was of thatmechanical yet quick nature which makes wonderful boys but mediocre men.In any other family he would have been considered the beauty; in ours hewas thought the genius.
My youngest brother, Aubrey, was of a very different disposition ofmind and frame of body; thoughtful, gentle, susceptible, acute; with anuncertain bravery, like a woman's, and a taste for reading, that variedwith the caprice of every hour. He was the beauty of the three, and mymother's favourite. Never, indeed, have I seen the countenance of manso perfect, so glowingly yet delicately handsome, as that of AubreyDevereux. Locks, soft, glossy, and twining into ringlets, fell in darkprofusion over a brow whiter than marble; his eyes were black and tenderas a Georgian girl's; his lips, his teeth, the contour of his face, wereall cast in the same feminine and faultless mould; his hands would haveshamed those of Madame de la Tisseur, whose lover offered six thousandmarks to any European who could wear her glove; and his figure wouldhave made Titania give up her Henchman, and the King of the Fairies beanything but pleased with the exchange.
Such were my two brothers; or, rather (so far as the internal qualitiesare concerned), such they seemed to me; for it is a singular fact thatwe never judge of our near kindred so well as we judge of others; and Iappeal to any one, whether, of all people by whom he has been mistaken,he has not been most often mistaken by those with whom he was broughtup.
I had always loved Aubrey, but they had not suffered him to love me;and we had been so little together that we had in common none of thosechildish remembrances which serve, more powerfully than all else inlater life, to cement and soften affection. In fact, I was the scapegoatof the family. What I must have been in early childhood I cannot tell;but before I was ten years old I was the object of all the despondencyand evil forebodings of my relations. My father said I laughed at _lagloire et le grand monarque_ the very first time he attempted to explainto me the value of the one and the greatness of the other. The countesssaid I had neither my father's eye nor her own smile,--that I was slowat my letters and quick with my tongue; and throughout the whole housenothing was so favourite a topic as the extent of my rudeness and thevenom of my repartee. Montreuil, on his entrance into our family,not only fell in with, but favoured and fostered, the reigning humouragainst me; whether from that _divide et impera_ system, which was sograteful to his temper, or from the mere love of meddling and intrigue,which in him, as in Alberoni, attached itself equally to petty as tolarge circles, was not then clearly apparent; it was only certain thathe fomented the dissensions and widened the breach between my brothersand myself. Alas! after all, I believe my sole crime was my candour. Ihad a spirit of frankness which no fear could tame, and my vengeance forany infantine punishment was in speaking veraciously of my punishers.Never tell me of the pang of falsehood to the slandered: nothing isso agonizing to the fine skin of vanity as the application of a roughtruth!
As I grew older, I saw my power and indulged it; and, being scoldedfor sarcasm, I was flattered into believing I had wit; so I punned andjested, lampooned and satirized, till I was as much a torment toothers as I was tormented myself. The secret of all this was that Iwas unhappy. Nobody loved me: I felt it to my heart of hearts. Iwas conscious of injustice, and the sense of it made me bitter. Ourfeelings, especially in youth, resemble that leaf which, in some oldtraveller, is described as expanding itself to warmth, but when chilled,not only shrinking and closing, but presenting to the spectator thornswhich had lain concealed upon the opposite side of it before.
With my brother Gerald, I had a deadly and irreconcilable feud. He wasmuch stouter, taller, and stronger than myself; and, far from concedingto me that respect which I imagined my priority of birth entitled meto claim, he took every opportunity to deride my pretensions, andto vindicate the cause of the superior strength and vigour whichconstituted his own. It would have done your heart good to have seen uscuff one another, we did it with such zeal. There is nothing in humanpassion like a good brotherly hatred! My mother said, with the mostfeeling earnestness, that she used to feel us fighting even before ourbirth: we certainly lost no time directly after it. Both my parents weresecretly vexed that I had come into the world an hour sooner than mybrother; and Gerald himself looked upon it as a sort of juggle,--a kindof jockeyship by which he had lost the prerogative of birthright. Thisvery early rankled in his heart, and he was so much a greater favouritethan myself that, instead of rooting out so unfortunate a feeling on hispart, my good parents made no scruple of openly lamenting my seniority.I believe the real cause of our being taken from the domesticinstructions of the Abbe (who was an admirable teacher) and sent toschool, was solely to prevent my uncle deciding everything in my favour.Montreuil, however, accompanied us to our academy, and remained withus during the three years in which we were perfecting ourselves in theblessings of education.
At the end of the second year, a prize was instituted for the bestproficient at a very severe examination; two months before it took placewe went home for a few days. After dinner my uncle asked me to walk withhim in the park. I did so: we strolled along to the margin of a rivuletwhich ornamented the grounds. There my uncle, for the first time, brokesilence.
"Morton," said he, looking down at his left leg, "Morton, let me see;thou art now of a reasonable age,--fourteen at the least."
"Fifteen, if it please you, sir," said I, elevating my stature as muchas I was able.
"Humph! my boy; and a pretty time of life it is, too. Your brotherGerald is taller than you by two inches."
"But I can beat him for all that, uncle," said I, colouring, andclenching my fist.
My uncle pulled down his right ruffle. "'Gad so, Morton, you're a bravefellow," said he; "but I wish you were less of a hero and more of ascholar. I wish you could beat him in Greek as well as in boxing. I willtell you what Old Rowley said," and my uncle occupied the next quarterof an hour with a story. The story opened the good old gentleman'sheart; my laughter opened it still more. "Hark ye, sirrah!" said he,pausing abruptly, and grasping my hand with a vigorous effort of loveand muscle, "hark ye, sirrah,--I love you,--'Sdeath, I do. I love youbetter than both your brothers, and that crab of a priest into thebargain; but I am grieved to the heart to hear what I do of you. Theytell me you are the idlest boy in the school; that you are alwaysbeating your brother Gerald, and making a scurrilous jest of your motheror myself."
"Who says so? who dares say so?" said I, with an emphasis that wouldhave startled a less hearty man than Sir William Devereux. "They lie,Uncle; by my soul they do. Idle I am; quarrelsome with my brother Iconfess myself; but jesting at you or my mother--never--never. No, no;_you_, too, who have been so kind to me,--the only one who ever was. No,no; do not think I could be such a wretch:" and as I said this the tearsgushed from my eyes.
My good uncle was exceedingly affected. "Look ye, child," said he, "I donot believe them. 'Sdeath, not a word; I would repeat to you a good jestnow of Sedley's, 'Gad, I would, but I am really too much moved just atpresent. I tell you what, my boy, I tell you what you shall do: thereis a trial coming on at school--eh?--well, the Abbe tells me Gerald iscertain of being first, and you of being last. Now, Morton, you shallbeat your brother,
and shame the Jesuit. There; my mind's spoken; dryyour tears, my boy, and I'll tell you the jest Sedley made: it was inthe Mulberry Garden one day--" And the knight told his story.
I dried my tears, pressed my uncle's hand, escaped from him as soon as Iwas able, hastened to my room, and surrendered myself to reflection.
When my uncle so good-naturedly proposed that I should conquer Geraldat the examination, nothing appeared to him more easy; he was pleasedto think I had more talent than my brother, and talent, according tohis creed, was the only master-key to unlock every science. A problem inEuclid or a phrase in Pindar, a secret in astronomy or a knotty passagein the Fathers, were all riddles, with the solution of which applicationhad nothing to do. One's mother-wit was a precious sort of necromancy,which could pierce every mystery at first sight; and all the gifts ofknowledge, in his opinion, like reading and writing in that of the sageDogberry, "came by nature." Alas! I was not under the same pleasurabledelusion; I rather exaggerated than diminished the difficulty of mytask, and thought, at the first glance, that nothing short of a miraclewould enable me to excel my brother. Gerald, a boy of naturaltalent, and, as I said before, of great assiduity in the orthodoxstudies,--especially favoured too by the instruction of Montreuil,--hadlong been esteemed the first scholar of our little world; and thoughI knew that with some branches of learning I was more conversant thanhimself, yet, as my emulation had been hitherto solely directedto bodily contention, I had never thought of contesting with him areputation for which I cared little, and on a point in which I had beenearly taught that I could never hope to enter into any advantageouscomparison with the "genius" of the Devereuxs.
A new spirit now passed into me: I examined myself with a jealousand impartial scrutiny; I weighed my acquisitions against those of mybrother; I called forth, from their secret recesses, the unexercisedand almost unknown stores I had from time to time laid up in my mentalarmoury to moulder and to rust. I surveyed them with a feeling that theymight yet be polished into use; and, excited alike by the stimulus ofaffection on one side and hatred on the other, my mind worked itselffrom despondency into doubt, and from doubt into the sanguineness ofhope. I told none of my design; I exacted from my uncle a promise not tobetray it; I shut myself in my room; I gave out that I was ill; I saw noone, not even the Abbe; I rejected his instructions, for I looked uponhim as an enemy; and, for the two months before my trial, I spent nightand day in an unrelaxing application, of which, till then, I had notimagined myself capable.
Though inattentive to the school exercises, I had never been whollyidle. I was a lover of abstruser researches than the hackneyed subjectsof the school, and we had really received such extensive and judiciousinstructions from the Abbe during our early years that it would havebeen scarcely possible for any of us to have fallen into a thoroughdistaste for intellectual pursuits. In the examination I foresawthat much which I had previously acquired might be profitablydisplayed,--much secret and recondite knowledge of the customs andmanners of the ancients, as well as their literature, which curiosityhad led me to obtain, and which I knew had never entered into theheads of those who, contented with their reputation in the customaryacademical routine, had rarely dreamed of wandering into less beatenpaths of learning. Fortunately too for me, Gerald was so certain ofsuccess that latterly he omitted all precaution to obtain it; and asnone of our schoolfellows had the vanity to think of contesting withhim, even the Abbe seemed to imagine him justified in his supineness.
The day arrived. Sir William, my mother, the whole aristocracy of theneighbourhood, were present at the trial. The Abbe came to my room a fewhours before it commenced: he found the door locked.
"Ungracious boy," said he, "admit me; I come at the earnest requestof your brother Aubrey to give you some hints preparatory to theexamination."
"He has indeed come at my wish," said the soft and silver voice ofAubrey, in a supplicating tone: "do admit him, dear Morton, for mysake!"
"Go," said I, bitterly, from within, "go: ye are both my foes andslanderers; you come to insult my disgrace beforehand; but perhaps youwill yet be disappointed."
"You will not open the door?" said the priest.
"I will not; begone."
"He will indeed disgrace his family," said Montreuil, moving away.
"He will disgrace himself," said Aubrey, dejectedly.
I laughed scornfully. If ever the consciousness of strength is pleasant,it is when we are thought most weak.
The greater part of our examination consisted in the answering ofcertain questions in writing, given to us in the three days immediatelyprevious to the grand and final one; for this last day was reservedthe paper of composition (as it was termed) in verse and prose, and thepersonal examination in a few showy, but generally understood, subjects.When Gerald gave in his paper, and answered the verbal questions, abuzz of admiration and anxiety went round the room. His person was sohandsome, his address so graceful, his voice so assured and clear,that a strong and universal sympathy was excited in his favour. Thehead-master publicly complimented him. He regretted only the deficiencyof his pupil in certain minor but important matters. I came next, for Istood next to Gerald in our class. As I walked up the hall, I raised myeyes to the gallery in which my uncle and his party sat. I saw thatmy mother was listening to the Abbe, whose eye, severe, cold, andcontemptuous, was bent upon me. But my uncle leaned over the railing ofthe gallery, with his plumed hat in his hand, which, when he caught mylook, he waved gently,--as if in token of encouragement, and with an airso kind and cheering, that I felt my step grow prouder as I approachedthe conclave of the masters.
"Morton Devereux," said the president of the school, in a calm, loud,austere voice, that filled the whole hall, "we have looked over yourpapers on the three previous days, and they have given us no lesssurprise than pleasure. Take heed and time how you answer us now."
At this speech a loud murmur was heard in my uncle's party, whichgradually spread round the hall. I again looked up: my mother's face wasaverted; that of the Abbe was impenetrable; but I saw my uncle wipinghis eyes, and felt a strange emotion creeping into my own, I turnedhastily away, and presented my paper; the head master received it, and,putting it aside, proceeded to the verbal examination. Conscious of theparts in which Gerald was likely to fail, I had paid especial attentionto the minutiae of scholarship, and my forethought stood me in goodstead at the present moment. My trial ceased; my last paper was read. Ibowed, and retired to the other end of the hall. I was not so popular asGerald; a crowd was assembled round him, but I stood alone. As I leanedagainst a column, with folded arms, and a countenance which I feltbetrayed little of my internal emotions, my eye caught Gerald's. Hewas very pale, and I could see that his hand trembled. Despite of ourenmity, I felt for him. The worst passions are softened by triumph, andI foresaw that mine was at hand.
The whole examination was over. Every boy had passed it. The mastersretired for a moment; they reappeared and reseated themselves. The firstsound I heard was that of my own name. I was the victor of the day: Iwas more; I was one hundred marks before my brother. My head swam round;my breath forsook me. Since then I have been placed in many trials oflife, and had many triumphs; but never was I so overcome as at thatmoment. I left the hall; I scarcely listened to the applauses with whichit rang. I hurried to my own chamber, and threw myself on the bed in adelirium of intoxicated feeling, which had in it more of rapture thananything but the gratification of first love or first vanity can bestow.
Ah! it would be worth stimulating our passions if it were only for thepleasure of remembering their effect; and all violent excitement shouldbe indulged less for present joy than for future retrospection.
My uncle's step was the first thing which intruded on my solitude.
"Od's fish, my boy," said he, crying like a child, "this is finework,--'Gad, so it is. I almost wish I were a boy myself to have a matchwith you,--faith I do,--see what it is to learn a little of life! Ifyou had never read my play, do you think you would have done half sowell?--no
, my boy, I sharpened your wits for you. Honest George Etheregeand I,--we were the making of you! and when you come to be a great man,and are asked what made you so, you shall say, 'My uncle's play;' 'Gad,you shall. Faith, boy, never smile! Od's fish, I'll tell you a story as_a propos_ to the present occasion as if it had been made onpurpose. Rochester and I and Sedley were walking one day, and--_entrenous_--awaiting certain appointments--hem!--for my part I was a littlemelancholy or so, thinking of my catastrophe,--that is, of my play'scatastrophe; and so, said Sedley, winking at Rochester, 'Our friend issorrowful.' 'Truly,' said I, seeing they were about to banter me,--foryou know they were arch fellows,--'truly, little Sid' (we called SedleySid), 'you are greatly mistaken;'--you see, Morton, I was thus sharpupon him because when you go to court you will discover that it does notdo to take without giving. And then Rochester said, looking roguishlytowards me, the wittiest thing against Sedley that ever I heard; it wasthe most celebrated _bon mot_ at court for three weeks; he said--no,boy, od's fish, it was so stinging I can't tell it thee; faith, I can't.Poor Sid; he was a good fellow, though malicious,--and he's dead now.I'm sorry I said a word about it. Nay, never look so disappointed, boy.You have all the cream of the story as it is. And now put on your hat,and come with me. I've got leave for you to take a walk with your olduncle."
That night, as I was undressing, I heard a gentle rap at the door, andAubrey entered. He approached me timidly, and then, throwing his armsround my neck, kissed me in silence. I had not for years experiencedsuch tenderness from him; and I sat now mute and surprised. At lastI said, with the sneer which I must confess I usually assumed towardsthose persons whom I imagined I had a right to think ill of:--
"Pardon me, my gentle brother, there is something portentous in thissudden change. Look well round the room, and tell me at your earliestleisure what treasure it is that you are desirous should pass from mypossession into your own."
"Your love, Morton," said Aubrey, drawing back, but apparently in pride,not anger; "your love: I ask nothing more."
"Of a surety, kind Aubrey," said I, "the favour seems somewhat slight tohave caused your modesty such delay in requesting it. I think you havebeen now some years nerving your mind to the exertion."
"Listen to me, Morton," said Aubrey, suppressing his emotion; "you havealways been my favourite brother. From our first childhood my heartyearned to you. Do you remember the time when an enraged bull pursuedme, and you, then only ten years old, placed yourself before it anddefended me at the risk of your own life? Do you think I could everforget that,--child as I was?--never, Morton, never!"
Before I could answer the door was thrown open, and the Abbe entered."Children," said he, and the single light of the room shone fullupon his unmoved, rigid, commanding features--"children, be as Heavenintended you,--friends and brothers. Morton, I have wronged you, I ownit; here is my hand: Aubrey, let all but early love, and the presentpromise of excellence which your brother displays, be forgotten."
With these words the priest joined our hands. I looked on my brother,and my heart melted. I flung myself into his arms and wept.
"This is well," said Montreuil, surveying us with a kind of grimcomplacency, and, taking my brother's arm, he blest us both, and ledAubrey away.
That day was a new era in my boyish life. I grew henceforth both betterand worse. Application and I having once shaken hands became very goodacquaintance. I had hitherto valued myself upon supplying the frailtiesof a delicate frame by an uncommon agility in all bodily exercises. Inow strove rather to improve the deficiencies of my mind, and becameorderly, industrious, and devoted to study. So far so well; but as Igrew wiser, I grew also more wary. Candour no longer seemed to methe finest of virtues. I thought before I spoke: and second thoughtsometimes quite changed the nature of the intended speech; in short,gentlemen of the next century, to tell you the exact truth, the littleCount Devereux became somewhat of a hypocrite!