The first time, all goes well. It is simply an amusing thing that I should have the cent; and the skipping-rope is still fresh in his memory, because of the pangs which he underwent before its purchase. Next Sunday, already the thing is not quite so pleasant and, when the fourth instalment falls due, my little boy's face looks very gloomy:
"Is anything the matter?" I ask.
"I should so much like a stick of chocolate," he says, without looking at me.
"Is that all? You can get one in a fortnight. By that time, you will have paid for the skipping-rope and the cent will be your own again."
"I should so much like to have the stick of chocolate now."
Of course, I am full of the sincerest compassion, but I can't help it. What's gone is gone. We saw it with our own eyes and we know exactly where it has gone to. And, that Sunday morning, we part in a dejected mood.
Later in the day, however, I find him standing over the drawer with raised eyebrows and a pursed-up mouth. I sit down quietly and wait. And I do not have to wait long before I learn that his development as an economist is taking quite its normal course.
"Father, suppose we moved the cent now from here into this Sunday's place and I took it and bought the chocolate-stick.."
"Why, then you won't have your cent for the other Sunday."
"I don't mind that, Father.."
We talk about it, and then we do it. And, with that, as a matter of course, we enter upon the most reckless peculations.
The very next Sunday, he is clever enough to take the furthest cent, which lies just before the summer holidays. He pursues the path of vice without a scruple, until, at last, the blow falls and five long Sundays come in a row without the least chance of a cent.
Where should they come from? They were there. We know that. They are gone. We have spent them ourselves.
But, during those drab days of poverty, we sit every morning over the empty drawer and talk long and profoundly about that painful phenomenon, which is so simple and so easy to understand and which one must needs make the best of.
And we hope and trust that our experience will do us good, when, after our trip, we start a new set of cents.
IX
My little boy is engaged to be married.
She is a big, large-limbed young woman, three years his senior, and no doubt belongs to the minor aristocracy. Her name is Gertie. By a misunderstanding, however, which is pardonable at his age and moreover quite explained by Gertie's appearance, he calls her Dirty – little Dirty – and by this name she will be handed down to history.
He met her on the boulevard, where he was playing, in the fine spring weather, with other children. His reason for the engagement is good enough:
"I wanted a girl for myself," he says.
Either I know very little of mankind or he has made a fortunate choice. No one is likely to take Dirty from him.
Like the gentleman that he is, he at once brings the girl home to us and introduces her. In consequence of the formality of the occasion, he does not go in by the kitchen way, as usual, but rings the front-door bell. I open the door myself. There he stands on the mat, hand in hand with Dirty, his bride, and, with radiant eyes:
"Father," he says, "this is little Dirty. She is my sweetheart. We are going to be married."
"That is what people usually do with their sweethearts," I answer, philosophically. "Pray, Dirty, come in and be welcomed by the family."
"Wipe your feet, Dirty," says my little boy.
The mother of my little boy does not think much of the match. She has even spoken of forbidding Dirty the house.
"We can't do that," I say. "I am not in ecstasies over it either, but it is not at all certain that it will last."
"Yes, but."
"Do you remember what little use it was when your mother forbade me the house? We used to meet in the most incredible places and kiss each other terribly. I can quite understand that you have forgotten, but you ought to bear it in mind now that your son's beginning. And you ought to value the loyalty of his behaviour towards his aged parents."
"My dear!."
"And then I must remind you that it is spring. The trees are budding. You can't see it, perhaps, from the kitchen-window or from your work-table, but I, who go about all day, have noticed it. You know what Byron says:
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine."
And so Dirty is accepted.
But, when she calls, she has first to undergo a short quarantine, while the mother of my little boy washes her and combs her hair thoroughly.
Dirty does not like this, but the boy does. He looks on with extraordinary interest and at once complains if there is a place that has escaped the sponge. I can't make out what goes on within him on these occasions. There is a good deal of cruelty in love; and he himself hates to be washed. Perhaps he is rapt in fancies and wants to see his sweetheart rise daily from the waves, like Venus Anadyomene. Perhaps it is merely his sense of duty: last Friday, in cold blood, he allowed Dirty to wait outside, on the step, for half an hour, until his mother came home.
Another of his joys is to see Dirty eat.
I can quite understand that. Here, as at her toilet, there is something worth looking at. The mother of my little boy and I would be glad too to watch her, if there were any chance of giving Dirty her fill. But there is none. At least, not with my income.
When I see all that food disappear, without as much as a shade of satisfaction coming into her eyes, I tremble for the young couple's future. But he is cheerful and unconcerned.
Of course, there are also clouds in their sky.
A few days ago, they were sitting quietly together in the dining-room and talking of their wedding. My little boy described what the house would be like and the garden and the horses. Dirty made no remarks and she had no grounds for doing so, for everything was particularly nice. But, after that, things went wrong:
"We shall have fourteen children," said the boy.
"No," said Dirty. "We shall only have two: a boy and a girl."
"I want to have fourteen."
"I won't have more than two."
"Fourteen."
"Two."
There was no coming to an agreement. My little boy was speechless at Dirty's meanness. And Dirty pinched her lips together and nodded her head defiantly. Then he burst into tears.
I could have explained to him that Dirty, who sits down every day as the seventh at the children's table at home, cannot look upon children with his eyes, as things forming an essential part of every well-regulated family, but must regard them rather as bandits who eat up other people's food. But I did not feel entitled to discuss the young lady's domestic circumstances unasked.
One good thing about Dirty is that she is not dependent upon her family nor they upon her. It has not yet happened that any inquiries have been made after her, however long she remained with us. We know just where she lives and what her father's name is. Nothing more.
However, we notice in another way that our daughter-in-law is not without relations.
Whenever, for instance, we give her a pair of stockings or some other article of clothing, it is always gone the next day; and so on until all the six brothers and sisters have been supplied. Not till then do we have the pleasure of seeing Dirty look neat. She has been so long accustomed to going shares that she does so in every conceivable circumstance.
And I console the mother of my little boy by saying that, should he fall out with Dirty, he can take one of the sisters and that, in this way, nothing would be lost.
X
My little boy confides to me that he would like a pear.
Now pears fall within his mother's province and I am sure that he has had as many as he is entitled to. And so we are at once agreed that what he wants is a wholly irrelevant, uncalled-for, delightful extra pear.
Unfortunately, it also appears that the request has already been laid before Mamma and met with a positive refusal.
The situation is serious, but not hopeless. For I am a man who knows how mean is the supply of pears to us poor wretched children of men and how wonderful an extra pear tastes.
And I am glad that my little boy did not give up all hope of the pear at the first obstacle. I can see by the longing in his green eyes how big the pear is and I reflect with lawful paternal pride that he will win his girl and his position in life when their time comes.
We now discuss the matter carefully.
First comes the prospect of stomach-ache:
"Never mind about that," says he.
I quite agree with his view.
Then perhaps Mother will be angry.
No, Mother is never angry. She is sorry; and that is not nice. But then we must see and make it up to her in another way.
So we slink in and steal the pear.
I put it to him whether, perhaps – when we have eaten the pear – we ought to tell Mother. But that does not appeal to him:
"Then I shan't get one this evening," he says.
And when I suggest that, possibly, Mother might be impressed with such audacious candour, he shakes his head decisively:
"You don't know Mother," he says.
So I, of course, have nothing to say.
Shortly after this, the mother of my little boy and I are standing at the window laughing at the story.
We catch sight of him below, in the courtyard.
He is sitting on the steps with his arm round little Dirty's neck. They have shared the pear. Now they are both singing, marvellously out of tune and with a disgustingly sentimental expression on their faces, a song which Dirty knows:
For riches are only a lo-oan from Heaven
And poverty is a reward.
And we are overcome with a great sense of desolation.
We want to make life green and pleasant for our little boy, to make his eyes open wide to see it, his hands strong to grasp it. But we feel powerless in the face of all the contentment and patience and resignation that are preached from cellar to garret, in church and in school: all those second-rate virtues, which may lighten an old man's last few steps as he stumbles on towards the grave, but which are only so many shabby lies for the young.