Part 39 (1/2)
”Here is one at your hand,” said the Doctor. ”Take me.”
”My dear friend,” said the Major, jumping up, ”I would not have dared to ask such a thing. If you would undertake him for a short time?”
”I will undertake the boy's education altogether. Potztausend, and why not! It will be a labour of love, and therefore the more thoroughly done. What shall he learn, now?”
”That I must leave to you.”
”A weighty responsibility,” said the Doctor. ”No Latin or Greek, I suppose? They will be no use to him here.”
”Well--no; I suppose not. But I should like him to learn his Latin grammar. You may depend upon it there's something in the Latin grammar.”
”What use has it been to you, Major?”
”Why, the least advantage it has been to me is to give me an insight into the construction of languages, which is some use. But while I was learning the Latin grammar, I learnt other things besides, of more use than the construction of any languages, living or dead. First, I learnt that there were certain things in this world that MUST be done. Next, that there were people in this world, of whom the Masters of Eton were a sample, whose orders must be obeyed without question. Third, I found that it was pleasanter in all ways to do one's duty than to leave it undone. And last, I found out how to bear a moderate amount of birching without any indecent outcry.”
”All very useful things,” said the Doctor. ”Teach a boy one thing well, and you show him how to learn others. History, I suppose?”
”As much as you like, Doctor. His mother has taught him his catechism, and all that sort of thing, and she is the fit person, you know. With the exception of that and the Latin grammar, I trust everything to your discretion.”
”There is one thing I leave to you, Major, if you please, and that is corporal chastis.e.m.e.nt. I am not at all sure that I could bring myself to flog Sam, and, if I did, it would be very inefficiently done.”
”Oh, I'll undertake it,” said the Major, ”though I believe I shall have an easy task. He won't want much flogging.”
At this moment Mrs. Buckley approached with a basketful of fresh-gathered flowers. ”The roses don't flower well here, Doctor,” she said, ”but the geraniums run mad. Here is a salmon-coloured one for your b.u.t.ton-hole.”
”He has earned it well, Agnes,” said her husband. ”He has decided the discussion we had last night by offering to undertake Sam's education himself.”
”And G.o.d's blessing on him for it!” said Mrs. Buckley warmly. ”You have taken a great load off my mind, Doctor. I should never have been happy if that boy had gone to school. Come here, Sam.”
Sam came bounding into the verandah, and clambered up on his father, as if he had been a tree. He was now eleven years old, and very tall and wellformed for his age. He was a good-looking boy, with regular features, and curly chestnut hair. He had, too, the large grey-blue eye of his father, an eye that never lost for a moment its staring expression of kindly honesty, and the lad's whole countenance was one which, without being particularly handsome, or even very intelligent, won an honest man's regard at first sight.
”My dear Sam,” said his mother, ”leave off playing with your father's hair, and listen to me, for I have something serious to say to you.
Last night your father and I were debating about sending you to school, but Doctor Mulhaus has himself offered to be your tutor, thereby giving you advantages, for love, which you never could have secured for money.
Now, the least we can expect of you, my dear boy, is that you will be docile and attentive to him.”
”I will try, Doctor dear,” said Sam. ”But I am very stupid sometimes, you know.”
So the good Doctor, whose head was stored with nearly as much of human knowledge as mortal head could hold, took simple, guileless little Sam by the hand, and led him into the garden of knowledge. Unless I am mistaken, these two will pick more flowers than they will dig potatoes in the aforesaid garden, but I don't think that two such honest souls will gather much unwholesome fruit. The danger is that they will waste their time, which is no danger at all, but a certainty.
I believe that such an education as our Sam got from the Doctor would have made a slattern and a faineant out of half the boys in England. If Sam had been a clever boy, or a conceited boy, he would have ended with a superficial knowledge of things in general, imagining he knew everything when he knew nothing, and would have been left in the end, without a faith either religious or political, a useless, careless man.
This danger the Doctor foresaw in the first month, and going to the Major abruptly, as he walked up and down the garden, took his arm, and said,--
”See here, Buckley. I have undertaken to educate that boy of yours, and every day I like the task better, and yet every day I see that I have undertaken something beyond me. His appet.i.te for knowledge is insatiable, but he is not an intellectual boy; he makes no deductions of his own, but takes mine for granted. He has no commentary on what he learns, but that of a dissatisfied idealist like me, a man who has been thrown among circ.u.mstances sufficiently favourable to make a prime minister out of some men, and yet who has ended by doing nothing.
Another thing: this is my first attempt at education, and I have not the schoolmaster's art to keep him to details. Every day I make new resolutions, and every day I break them. The boy turns his great eyes upon me in the middle of some humdrum work, and asks me a question. In answering, I get off the turnpike road, and away we go from lane to lane, from one subject to another, until lesson-time is over, and nothing done. And, if it were merely time wasted, it could be made up, but he remembers every word I say, and believes in it like gospel, when I myself couldn't remember half of it to save my life. Now, my dear fellow, I consider your boy to be a very sacred trust to me, and so I have mentioned all this to you, to give you an opportunity of removing him to where he might be under a stricter discipline, if you thought fit. If he was like some boys, now, I should resign my post at once but, as it is, I shall wait till you turn me out, for two reasons. The first is, that I take such delight in my task, that I do not care to relinquish it; and the other is, that the lad is naturally so orderly and gentle, that he does not need discipline, like most boys.”
”My dear Doctor,” replied Major Buckley, ”listen to me. If we were in England, and Sam could go to Eton, which, I take it you know, is the best school in the world, I would still earnestly ask you to continue your work. He will probably inherit a great deal of money, and will not have to push his way in the world by his brains; so that close scholars.h.i.+p will be rather unnecessary. I should like him to know history well and thoroughly; for he may mix in the political life of this little colony by and by. Latin grammar, you know,” he said, laughing, ”is indispensable. Doctor, I trust my boy with you because I know that you will make him a gentleman, as his mother, with G.o.d's blessing, will make him a Christian.”
So, the Doctor buckled to his task again, with renewed energy; to Euclid, Latin grammar, and fractions. Sam's good memory enabled him to make light of the grammar, and the fractions too were no great difficulty, but the Euclid was an awful trial. He couldn't make out what it was all about. He got on very well until he came nearly to the end of the first book, and then getting among the parallelogram ”props,” as we used to call them (may their fathers' graves be defiled!), he stuck dead. For a whole evening did he pore patiently over one of them till A B, setting to C D, crossed hands, poussetted, and whirled round ”in Sahara waltz” through his throbbing head.