Фредерик Марриет
Japhet in Search of a Father
Part 3—Chapter XIX
Contains much learned Argument upon Broad Brims and Garments of grey—I get the best of it—The one great Wish of my Life is Granted—I meet my Father, and a cold Reception, very indicative of much After-Heat.
We arrived in good time at Reading, and, as soon as we alighted at the inn, we ordered dinner, and then walked down to the shop, where we found Timothy very busy tying down and labelling. He was delighted to see Mr Masterton; and perceiving that I had laid aside the Quaker’s dress, made no scruple of indulging in his humour, making a long face, and thee-ing and thou-ing Mr Masterton in a very absurd manner. We desired him to go to Mr Cophagus, and beg that he would allow me to bring Mr Masterton to drink tea, and afterwards to call at the inn and give us the answer. We then returned to our dinner.
“Whether they will ever make a Quaker of you, Japhet, I am very doubtful,” observed Mr Masterton, as we walked back; “but as for making one of that fellow Timothy, I’ll defy them.”
“He laughs at everything,” replied I, “and views everything in a ridiculous light—at all events, they never will make him serious.”
In the evening, we adjourned to the house of Mr Cophagus, having received a message of welcome. I entered the room first. Susannah came forward to welcome me, and then drew back, when she perceived the alteration in my apparel, colouring deeply. I passed her, and took the hand of Mrs Cophagus and her husband, and then introduced Mr Masterton.
“We hardly knew thee, Japhet,” mildly observed Mrs Cophagus.
“I did not think that outward garments would disguise me from my friends,” replied I; “but so it appeareth, for your sister hath not even greeted me in welcome.”
“I greet thee in all kindness, and all sincerity, Japhet Newland,” replied Susannah, holding out her hand. “Yet did I not imagine that, in so short a time, thou wouldst have dismissed the apparel of our persuasion, neither do I find it seemly.”
“Miss Temple,” interposed Mr Masterton, “it is to oblige those who are his sincere friends, that Mr Newland has laid aside his dress. I quarrel with no creed—everyone has a right to choose for himself, and Mr Newland has perhaps not chosen badly, in embracing your tenets. Let him continue steadfast in them. But, fair young lady, there is no creed which is perfect, and, even in yours, we find imperfection. Our religion preaches humility, and therefore we do object to his wearing the garb of pride.”
“Of pride, sayest thou? hath he not rather put off the garb of humility, and now appeareth in the garb of pride?”
“Not so, young madam: when we dress as all the world dress, we wear not the garb of pride; but when we put on a dress different from others, that distinguishes us from others, then we show our pride, and the worst of pride, for it is the hypocritical pride which apes humility. It is the Pharisee of the Scriptures, who preaches in high places, and sounds forth his charity to the poor; not the humility of the Publican, who says, ‘Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner.’ Your apparel of pretended humility is the garb of pride, and for that reason have we insisted that he discards it, when with us. His tenets we interfere not with. There can be no religion in dress; and that must indeed be weak in itself, which requires dress for its support.”
Susannah was astonished at this new feature of the case, so aptly put by the old lawyer. Mrs Cophagus looked at her husband, and Cophagus pinched my arm, evidently agreeing with him. When Mr Masterton had finished speaking, Susannah waited a few seconds, and then replied, “It becomes not one so young and weak as I am, to argue with thee, who art so much my senior. I cannot cavil at opinions which, if not correct, at least are founded on the holy writings; but I have been otherwise instructed.”
“Then let us drop the argument, Miss Susannah, and let me tell you, that Japhet wished to resume his Quaker’s dress, and I would not permit him. If there is any blame, it is to be laid to me; and it’s no use being angry with an old man like myself.”
“I have no right to be angry with anyone,” replied Susannah.
“But you were angry with me, Susannah,” interrupted I.
“I cannot say that it was anger, Japhet Newland: I hardly know what the feeling might have been; but I was wrong, and I must request thy forgiveness;” and Susannah held out her hand.
“Now you must forgive me too, Miss Temple,” said old Masterton, and Susannah laughed against her wishes.
The conversation then became general. Mr Masterton explained to Mr Cophagus what he required of him, and Mr Cophagus immediately acceded. It was arranged that he should go to town by the mail the next day. Mr Masterton talked a great deal about my father, and gave his character in its true light, as he considered it would be advantageous to me so to do. He then entered into conversation upon a variety of topics, and was certainly very amusing. Susannah laughed very heartily before the evening was over, and Mr Masterton retired to the hotel, for I had resolved to sleep in my own bed.
I walked home with Mr Masterton: I then returned to the house, and found them all in the parlour. Mrs Cophagus was expressing her delight at the amusement she had received, when I entered with a grave face. “I wish that I had not left you,” said I to Mrs Cophagus; “I am afraid to meet my father; he will exact the most implicit obedience. What am I to do? Must not I obey him?”
“In all things lawful,” replied Susannah, “most certainly, Japhet.”
“In all things lawful, Susannah! now tell me, in the very case of my apparel: Mr Masterton says, that he never will permit me to wear the dress. What am I to do?”
“Thou hast thy religion and thy Bible for thy guide, Japhet.”
“I have; and in the Bible I find written on tablets of stone by the prophet of God, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother;’ there is a positive commandment: but I find no commandment to wear this or that dress. What think you?” continued I, appealing to them all.
“I should bid thee honour thy father, Japhet,” replied Mrs Cophagus, “and you, Susannah—”
“I shall bid thee good night, Japhet.”
At this reply we all laughed, and I perceived there was a smile on Susannah’s face as she walked away. Mrs Cophagus followed her, laughing as she went, and Cophagus and I were alone.
“Well, Japhet—see old gentleman—kiss—shake hands—and blessing—and so on.”
“Yes, sir,” replied I; “but if he treats me ill I shall probably come down here again. I am afraid that Susannah is not very well pleased with me.”
“Pooh, nonsense—wife knows all—die for you—Japhet, do as you please—dress yourself—dress her—any dress—no dress like Eve—sly puss—won’t lose you—all right—and so on.”
I pressed Mr Cophagus to tell me all he knew, and I found from him that his wife had questioned Susannah soon after my departure, had found her weeping, and that she had gained from her the avowal of her ardent affection for me. This was all I wanted, and I wished him good night, and went to bed happy. I had an interview with Susannah Temple before I left the next morning, and, although I never mentioned love, had every reason to be satisfied. She was kind and affectionate; spoke to me in her usual serious manner, warned me against the world, acknowledged that I should have great difficulties to surmount, and even made much allowance for my peculiar situation. She dared not advise, but she would pray for me. There was a greater show of interest and confidence towards me than I had ever yet received from her: when I parted from her I said, “Dear Susannah, whatever change may take place in my fortunes or in my dress, believe me, my heart shall not be changed, and I shall ever adhere to those principles which have been instilled into me since I have been in your company.”
This was a phrase which admitted of a double meaning, and she replied, “I should wish to see thee perfect, Japhet; but there is no perfection now on earth; be therefore as perfect as you can.”
“God bless you, Susannah.”
“May the blessing of the Lord be on you always, Japhet,” replied she.
I put my arm round her waist, and slightly pressed her to my bosom. She gently disengaged herself, and her large eyes glistened with tears as she left the room. In a quarter of an hour I was with Mr Masterton on the road to London.
“Japhet,” said the old gentleman, “I will say that you have been very wise in your choice, and that your little Quaker is a most lovely creature: I am in love with her myself, and I think that she is far superior in personal attractions to Cecilia de Clare.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes, indeed; her face is more classical, and her complexion is unrivalled; as far as my present knowledge and experience go, she is an emblem of purity.”
“Her mind, sir, is as pure as her person.”
“I believe it; she has a strong mind, and will think for herself.”
“There, sir, is, I am afraid, the difficulty; she will not yield a point in which she thinks she is right, not even for her love for me.”
“I agree with you that she will not, and I admire her for it; but, Japhet, she will yield to conviction, and depend upon it, she will abandon the outward observances of her persuasion. Did you observe what a spoke I put in your wheel last night, when I stated that outward forms were pride. Leave that to work, and I’ll answer for the consequences: she will not long wear that Quaker’s dress. How beautiful she would be if she dressed like other people! I think I see her now entering a ball-room.”
“But what occasions you to think she will abandon her persuasion?”
“I do not say that she will abandon it, nor do I wish her to do it, nor do I wish you to do it, Japhet. There is much beauty and much perfection in the Quaker’s creed. All that requires to be abandoned are the dress and the ceremonies of the meetings, which are both absurdities. Recollect, that Miss Temple has been brought up as a Quaker; she has, from the exclusiveness of the sect, known no other form of worship, and never heard any opposition to that which has been inculcated; but let her once or twice enter the Established Church, hear its beautiful ritual, and listen to a sound preacher. Let her be persuaded to do that, which cannot be asking her to do wrong, and then let her think and act for herself, and my word for it, when she draws the comparison between what she has then heard and the nonsense occasionally uttered in the Quaker’s conventicle, by those who fancy themselves inspired, she will herself feel that, although the tenets of her persuasion may be more in accordance with true Christianity than those of other sects, the outward forms and observances are imperfect. I trust to her own good sense.”
“You make me very happy by saying so.”
“Well, that is my opinion of her, and if she proves me to be correct, hang me if I don’t think I shall adopt her.”
“What do you think of Mrs Cophagus, sir?”
“I think she is no more a Quaker in her heart than I am. She is a lively, merry, kind-hearted creature, and would have no objection to appear in feathers and diamonds to-morrow.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you that Mr Cophagus still sighs after his blue cotton net pantaloons and Hessian boots.”
“More fool he! but, however, I am glad of it, for it gives me an idea which I shall work upon by-and-by; at present we have this eventful meeting between you and your father to occupy us.”
We arrived in town in time for dinner, which Mr Masterton had ordered at his chambers. As the old gentleman was rather tired with his two days’ travelling, I wished him good night at an early hour.
“Recollect, Japhet, we are to be at the Adelphi hotel to-morrow at one o’clock—come in time.”
I called upon Mr Masterton at the time appointed on the ensuing day, and we drove to the hotel in which my father had located himself. On our arrival, we were ushered into a room on the ground floor, where we found Mr Cophagus and two of the governors of the Foundling Hospital.
“Really, Mr Masterton,” said one of the latter gentlemen, “one would think that we were about to have an audience with a sovereign prince, and, instead of conferring favours, were about to receive them. My time is precious: I ought to have been in the city this half hour, and here is this old nabob keeping us waiting as if we were petitioners.”
Mr Masterton laughed and said, “Let us all go up stairs, and not wait to be sent for.”
He called one of the waiters, and desired him to announce them to General De Benyon. They then followed the waiter, leaving me alone. I must say, that I was a little agitated; I heard the door open above, and then an angry growl like that of a wild beast; the door closed again and all was quiet. “And this,” thought I, “is the result of all my fond anticipations, of my ardent wishes, of my enthusiastic search. Instead of expressing anxiety to receive his son, he litigiously requires proofs, and more proofs, when he has received every satisfactory proof already. They say his temper is violent beyond control, and that submission irritates instead of appeasing him: what then if I resent? I have heard that people of that description are to be better met with their own weapons:—suppose I try it;—but no, I have no right:—I will however be firm, and keep my temper under every circumstance: I will show him, at least, that his son has the spirit and the feelings of a gentleman.”
As these thoughts passed in my mind the door opened, and Mr Masterton requested me to follow him. I obeyed with a palpitating heart; and when I had gained the landing-place up stairs, Mr Masterton took my hand and led me into the presence of my long-sought-for and much-dreaded parent. I may as well describe him and the whole tableau. The room was long and narrow, and, at the farther end, was a large sofa, on which was seated my father with his injured leg reposing on it, his crutches propped against the wall. On each side of him were two large poles and stands, each with a magnificent macaw. Next to the macaws were two native servants, arrayed in their muslin dresses, with their arms folded. A hookah was in advance of the table before the sofa; it was magnificently wrought in silver, and the snake passed under the table, so that the tube was within my honoured father’s reach. On one side of the room sat the two governors of the Foundling Hospital, on the other was seated Mr Cophagus in his Quaker’s dress; the empty chair next to him had been occupied by Mr Masterton. I looked at my father: he was a man of great size, apparently six feet three or four inches, and stout in proportion, without being burdened with fat: he was gaunt, broad-shouldered and muscular, and I think, must have weighed seventeen or eighteen stone. His head was in proportion to his body, and very large; so were all his features upon the same grand scale. His complexion was of a brownish-yellow, and his hair of a snowy white. He wore his whiskers very large and joined together under the throat, and these, which were also white, from the circle which they formed round his face, and contrasting with the colour of his skin, gave his tout ensemble much more the appearance of a royal Bengal tiger than a gentleman. General De Benyon saw Mr Masterton leading me forward to within a pace or two of the table before the general.—“Allow me the pleasure of introducing your son, Japhet.”
There was no hand extended to welcome me. My father fixed his proud grey eyes upon me for a moment, and then turned to the governors of the hospital.
“Is this the person, gentlemen, whom you received as an infant and brought up as Japhet Newland?”
The governors declared I was the same person; that they had bound me to Mr Cophagus, and had seen me more than once since I quitted the Asylum.
“Is this the Japhet Newland whom you received from these gentlemen and brought up to your business?”
“Yea, and verily—I do affirm the same—smart lad—good boy—and so on.”
“I will not take a Quaker’s affirmation—will you take your oath, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Cophagus, forgetting his Quakership; “take oath—bring Bible—kiss book—and so on.”
“You, then, as a Quaker, have no objection to swear to the identity of this person?”
“Swear,” cried Cophagus, “yes, swear—swear now—not Japhet!—I’m damned—go to hell—and so on.”
The other parties present could not help laughing at this explosion from Cophagus, neither could I. Mr Masterton then asked the general if he required any more proofs.
“No,” replied the general discourteously; and speaking in Hindostanee to his attendants, they walked to the door and opened it. The hint was taken, Mr Masterton saying to the others in an ironical tone, “After so long a separation, gentlemen, it must be natural that the general should wish to be left alone, that he may give vent to his paternal feelings.”
Part 3—Chapter XX
Father and I grow warm in our Argument—Obliged to give him a little Schooling to show my Affection—Takes it at last very kindly, and very dutifully owns himself a Fool.
In the mean time, I was left standing in the middle of the room: the gentlemen departed, and the two native servants resumed their stations on each side of the sofa. I felt humiliated and indignant, but waited in silence; at last, my honoured parent, who had eyed me for some time, commenced:—
“If you think, young man, to win my favour by your good looks, you are very much mistaken: you are too like your mother, whose memory is anything but agreeable.”
The blood mounted to my forehead at this cruel observation; I folded my arms and looked my father steadfastly in the face, but made no reply. The choler of the gentleman was raised.
“It appears that I have found a most dutiful son.”
I was about to make an angry answer, when I recollected myself, and I courteously replied, “My dear general, depend upon it that your son will always be ready to pay duty to whom duty is due; but excuse me, in the agitation of this meeting you have forgotten those little attentions which courtesy demands: with your permission I will take a chair, and then we may converse more at our ease. I hope your leg is better.”
I said this with the blandest voice and the most studied politeness, and drawing a chair towards the table, I took my seat; as I expected, it put my honoured father in a tremendous rage.
“If this is a specimen, sir, of your duty and respect, sir, I hope to see no more of them. To whom your duty is due, sir!—and pray to whom is it due, sir, if not to the author of your existence?” cried the general, striking the table before him with his enormous fist, so as to make the ink fly out of the stand some inches high and bespatter the papers near it.
“My dear father, you are perfectly correct: duty, as you say, is due to the author of our existence. If I recollect right, the commandment says, ‘Honour your father and your mother;’ but at the same time, if I may venture to offer an observation, are there not such things as reciprocal duties—some which are even more paramount in a father than the mere begetting of a son?”
“What do you mean, sir, by these insolent remarks?” interrupted my father.
“Excuse me, my dear father, I may be wrong, but if so, I will bow to your superior judgment; but it does appear to me, that the mere hanging me in a basket at the gate of the Foundling Hospital, and leaving me a bank note of fifty pounds to educate and maintain me until the age of twenty-four, are not exactly all the duties incumbent upon a parent. If you think that they are, I am afraid that the world, as well as myself, will be of a different opinion. Not that I intend to make any complaint, as I feel assured that now circumstances have put it in your power, it is your intention to make me amends for leaving me so long in a state of destitution, and wholly dependent upon my own resources.”
“You do, do you, sir? well, now, I’ll tell you my resolution, which is—There is the door—go out, and never let me see your face again.”
“My dear father, as I am convinced this is only a little pleasantry on your part, or perhaps a mere trial whether I am possessed of the spirit and determination of a De Benyon, I shall, of course, please you by not complying with your humorous request.”
“Won’t you, by Gad?” roared my father; then turning to his two native servants, he spoke to them in Hindostanee. They immediately walked to the door, threw it wide open, and then coming back to me, were about to take me by the arms. I certainly felt my blood boil, but I recollected how necessary it was to keep my temper. I rose from my chair, and advancing to the side of the sofa I said—
“My dear father, as I perceive that you do not require your crutches at this moment, you will not perhaps object to my taking one. These foreign scoundrels must not be permitted to insult you through the person of your only son.”
“Turn him out,” roared my father.
The natives advanced, but I whirled the crutch round my head, and in a moment they were both prostrate. As soon as they gained their feet, I attacked them again, until they made their escape out of the room; I then shut the door and turned the key.
“Thank you, my dear sir,” said I, returning the crutch to where it was before. “Many thanks for thus permitting me to chastise the insolence of these black scoundrels, whom, I take it for granted, you will immediately discharge;” and I again took my seat in the chair, bringing it closer to him.
The rage of the general was now beyond all bounds; the white foam was spluttered out of his mouth, as he in vain endeavoured to find words. Once he actually rose from the sofa, to take the law in his own hands, but the effort seriously injured his leg, and he threw himself down in pain and disappointment.
“My dear father, I am afraid that, in your anxiety to help me, you have hurt your leg again,” said I, in a soothing voice.
“Sirrah, sirrah,” exclaimed he at last, “if you think that this will do, you are very much mistaken. You don’t know me. You may turn out a couple of cowardly blacks, but now I’ll show you that I am not to be played with. I discard you for ever—I disinherit—I disacknowledge you. You may take your choice, either to quit this room, or be put into the hands of the police.”
“The police, my dear sir! What can the police do? I may call in the police for the assault just committed by your servants, and have them up to Bow Street, but you cannot charge me with an assault.”
“But I will, by Gad, sir, true or not true.”
“Indeed you would not, my dear father. A De Benyon would never be guilty of a lie. Besides, if you were to call in the police;—I wish to argue this matter coolly, because I ascribe your present little burst of ill-humour to your sufferings from your unfortunate accident. Allowing, then, my dear father, that you were to charge me with an assault, I should immediately be under the necessity of charging you also, and then we must both go to Bow Street together. Were you ever at Bow Street, general?” The general made no reply, and I proceeded. “Besides, my dear sir, only imagine how very awkward it would be when the magistrate put you on your oath, and asked you to make your charge. What would you be obliged to declare? That you had married when young, and finding that your wife had no fortune, had deserted her the second day after your marriage. That you, an officer in the army, and the Honourable Captain De Benyon, had hung up your child at the gates of the Foundling Hospital—that you had again met your wife, married to another, and had been an accomplice in concealing her capital offence of bigamy, and had had meetings with her, although she belonged to another. I say meetings, for you did meet her, to receive her directions about me. I am charitable, and suspect nothing—others will not be so. Then, after her death, you come home and inquire about your son. His identity is established,—and what then? not only you do not take him by the hand, in common civility, I might say, but you first try to turn him out of the house, and to give him in charge of the police; and then you will have to state for what. Perhaps you will answer me that question, for I really do not know.”
By this time, my honoured father’s wrath had, to a certain degree, subsided: he heard all I had to say, and he felt how very ridiculous would have been his intended proceedings, and, as his wrath subsided, so did his pain increase: he had seriously injured his leg, and it was swelling rapidly—the bandages tightened in consequence, and he was suffering under the acutest pain. “Oh, oh!” groaned he.
“My dear father, can I assist you?”
“Ring the bell, sir.”
“There is no occasion to summon assistance while I am here, my dear general. I can attend you professionally, and if you will allow me, will soon relieve your pain. Your leg has swollen from exertion, and the bandages must be loosened.”
He made no reply, but his features were distorted with extreme pain. I went to him, and proceeded to unloose the bandages, which gave him considerable relief. I then replaced them, secundum artem, and with great tenderness, and going to the sideboard, took the lotion which was standing there with the other bottles, and wetted the bandages. In a few minutes he was quite relieved. “Perhaps, sir,” said I, “you had better try to sleep a little. I will take a book, and shall have great pleasure in watching by your side.”
Exhausted with pain and violence, the general made no reply; he fell back on the sofa, and, in a short time, he snored most comfortably. “I have conquered you,” thought I, as I watched him as he lay asleep. “If I have not yet, I will, that I am resolved.” I walked gently to the door, unlocked it, and opening it without waking him, ordered some broth to be brought up immediately, saying that the general was asleep, and that I would wait for it outside. I accomplished this little manoeuvre, and reclosed the door without waking my father, and then I took my seat in the chair, and resumed my book, having placed the broth on the side of the fire grate to keep it warm. In about an hour he awoke, and looked around him.
“Do you want anything, my dearest father?” inquired I.
The general appeared undecided as to whether to recommence hostilities; but at last he said, “I wish the attendance of my servants, sir.”
“The attendance of a servant can never be equal to that of your own son, general,” replied I, going to the fire, and taking the basin of broth, which I replaced upon the tray containing the et cetera on a napkin. “I expected you would require your broth, and I have had it ready for you.”
“It was what I did require, sir, I must acknowledge,” replied my father, and without further remark he finished the broth.
I removed the tray, and then went for the lotion, and again wetted the bandages on his leg. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” said I.
“Nothing—I am very comfortable.”
“Then, sir,” replied I, “I will now take my leave. You have desired me to quit your presence for ever; and you attempted force. I resisted that, because I would not allow you to have the painful remembrance that you had injured one who had strong claims upon you, and had never injured you. I resented it also, because I wished to prove to you that I was a De Benyon, and had spirit to resist an insult. But, general, if you imagine that I have come here with a determination of forcing myself upon you, you are much mistaken. I am too proud, and happily am independent by my own exertions, so as not to require your assistance. Had you received me kindly, believe me, you would have found a grateful and affectionate heart to have met that kindness. You would have found a son, whose sole object, through life has been to discover a father, after whom he has yearned, who would have been delighted to have administered to his wants, to have yielded to his wishes, to have soothed him in his pain, and to have watched him in his sickness. Deserted as I have been for so many years, I trust that I have not disgraced you, General De Benyon; and if ever I have done wrong, it has been from a wish to discover you. I can appeal to Lord Windermear for the truth of that assertion. Allow me to say, that it is a very severe trial—an ordeal which few pass through with safety—to be thrown as I have been upon the world, with no friend, no parent to assist or to advise me, to have to bear up against the contingency of being of unacknowledged and perhaps disgraceful birth. It is harder still, when I expected to find my dearest wishes realised, that, without any other cause than that of my features resembling those of my mother, I am to be again cast away. One thing, General De Benyon, I request, and I trust it will not be denied, which is, that I may assume the name which I am entitled to. I pledge you that I never will disgrace it. And now, sir, asking and expecting no more, I take my leave, and you may be assured, that neither poverty, privation, nor affliction of any kind, will ever induce me to again intrude into your presence. General De Benyon, farewell for ever.” I made my father a profound bow, and was quitting the room.
“Stop, sir,” said the general. “Stop one moment, if you please.” I obeyed.
“Why did you put me out of temper? Answer me that.”
“Allow me to observe, sir, that I did not put you out of temper; and what is more, that I never lost my own temper during the insult and injury which I so undeservedly and unexpectedly have received.”
“But that very keeping your temper made me more angry, sir.”
“That is very possible; but surely I was not to blame. The greatest proof of a perfect gentleman is, that he is able to command his temper, and I wished you to acknowledge that I was not without such pretensions.”
“That is as much as to say that your father is no gentleman; and this, I presume, is a specimen of your filial duty,” replied the general, warmly.
“Far from it, sir; there are many gentlemen who, unfortunately, cannot command their tempers, and are more to be pitied than blamed for it; but, sir, when such happens to be the case, they invariably redeem their error, and amply so, by expressing their sorrow, and offering an apology.”
