Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - Kenelm Chillingly — Complete

“But you are not married to Lady Chillingly. And now let us go into the garden and look at your dahlias.”

THE youthful confuter of Locke was despatched to Merton School, and ranked, according to his merits, as lag of the penultimate form. When he came home for the Christmas holidays he was more saturnine than ever; in fact, his countenance bore the impression of some absorbing grief. He said, however, that he liked school very well, and eluded all other questions. But early the next morning he mounted his black pony and rode to the Parson’s rectory. The reverend gentleman was in his farmyard examining his bullocks when Kenelm accosted him thus briefly,—

“Sir, I am disgraced, and I shall die of it if you cannot help to set me right in my own eyes.”

“My dear boy, don’t talk in that way. Come into my study.”

As soon as they entered that room, and the Parson had carefully closed the door, he took the boy’s arm, turned him round to the light, and saw at once that there was something very grave on his mind. Chucking him under the chin, the Parson said cheerily, “Hold up your head, Kenelm. I am sure you have done nothing unworthy of a gentleman.”

“I don’t know that. I fought a boy very little bigger than myself, and I have been licked. I did not give in, though; but the other boys picked me up, for I could not stand any longer; and the fellow is a great bully; and his name is Butt; and he’s the son of a lawyer; and he got my head into chancery; and I have challenged him to fight again next half; and unless you can help me to lick him, I shall never be good for anything in the world,—never. It will break my heart.”

“I am very glad to hear you have had the pluck to challenge him. Just let me see how you double your fist. Well, that’s not amiss. Now, put yourself into a fighting attitude, and hit out at me,—hard! harder! Pooh! that will never do. You should make your blows as straight as an arrow. And that’s not the way to stand. Stop,—so: well on your haunches; weight on the left leg; good! Now, put on these gloves, and I’ll give you a lesson in boxing.”

Five minutes afterwards Mrs. John Chillingly, entering the room to summon her husband to breakfast, stood astounded to see him with his coat off, and parrying the blows of Kenelm, who flew at him like a young tiger. The good pastor at that moment might certainly have appeared a fine type of muscular Christianity, but not of that kind of Christianity out of which one makes Archbishops of Canterbury.

“Good gracious me!” faltered Mrs. John Chillingly; and then, wife-like, flying to the protection of her husband, she seized Kenelm by the shoulders, and gave him a good shaking. The Parson, who was sadly out of breath, was not displeased at the interruption, but took that opportunity to put on his coat, and said, “We’ll begin again to-morrow. Now, come to breakfast.” But during breakfast Kenelm’s face still betrayed dejection, and he talked little and ate less.

As soon as the meal was over, he drew the Parson into the garden and said, “I have been thinking, sir, that perhaps it is not fair to Butt that I should be taking these lessons; and if it is not fair, I’d rather not—”

“Give me your hand, my boy!” cried the Parson, transported. “The name of Kenelm is not thrown away upon you. The natural desire of man in his attribute of fighting animal (an attribute in which, I believe, he excels all other animated beings, except a quail and a gamecock) is to beat his adversary. But the natural desire of that culmination of man which we call gentleman is to beat his adversary fairly. A gentleman would rather be beaten fairly than beat unfairly. Is not that your thought?”

“Yes,” replied Kenelm, firmly; and then, beginning to philosophize, he added, “And it stands to reason; because if I beat a fellow unfairly, I don’t really beat him at all.”

“Excellent! But suppose that you and another boy go into examination upon Caesar’s Commentaries or the multiplication table, and the other boy is cleverer than you, but you have taken the trouble to learn the subject and he has not: should you say you beat him unfairly?”

Kenelm meditated a moment, and then said decidedly, “No.”

“That which applies to the use of your brains applies equally to the use of your fists. Do you comprehend me?”

“Yes, sir; I do now.”

“In the time of your namesake, Sir Kenelm Digby, gentlemen wore swords, and they learned how to use them, because, in case of quarrel, they had to fight with them. Nobody, at least in England, fights with swords now. It is a democratic age, and if you fight at all, you are reduced to fists; and if Kenelm Digby learned to fence, so Kenelm Chillingly must learn to box; and if a gentleman thrashes a drayman twice his size, who has not learned to box, it is not unfair; it is but an exemplification of the truth that knowledge is power. Come and take another lesson on boxing to-morrow.”

Kenelm remounted his pony and returned home. He found his father sauntering in the garden with a book in his hand. “Papa,” said Kenelm, “how does one gentleman write to another with whom he has a quarrel, and he don’t want to make it up, but he has something to say about the quarrel which it is fair the other gentleman should know?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Well, just before I went to school I remember hearing you say that you had a quarrel with Lord Hautfort, and that he was an ass, and you would write and tell him so. When you wrote did you say, ‘You are an ass’? Is that the way one gentleman writes to another?”

“Upon my honour, Kenelm, you ask very odd questions. But you cannot learn too early this fact, that irony is to the high-bred what Billingsgate is to the vulgar; and when one gentleman thinks another gentleman an ass, he does not say it point-blank: he implies it in the politest terms he can invent. Lord Hautfort denies my right of free warren over a trout-stream that runs through his lands. I don’t care a rush about the trout-stream, but there is no doubt of my right to fish in it. He was an ass to raise the question; for, if he had not, I should not have exercised the right. As he did raise the question, I was obliged to catch his trout.”

“And you wrote a letter to him?”

“Yes.”

“How did you write, Papa? What did you say?”

“Something like this. ‘Sir Peter Chillingly presents his compliments to Lord Hautfort, and thinks it fair to his lordship to say that he has taken the best legal advice with regard to his rights of free warren; and trusts to be forgiven if he presumes to suggest that Lord Hautfort might do well to consult his own lawyer before he decides on disputing them.’”

“Thank you, Papa. I see.”

That evening Kenelm wrote the following letter:—

Mr. Chillingly presents his compliments to Mr. Butt, and thinks it fair to Mr. Butt to say that he is taking lessons in boxing; and trusts to be forgiven if he presumes to suggest that Mr. Butt might do well to take lessons himself before fighting with Mr. Chillingly next half.

“Papa,” said Kenelm the next morning, “I want to write to a schoolfellow whose name is Butt; he is the son of a lawyer who is called a serjeant. I don’t know where to direct to him.”

“That is easily ascertained,” said Sir Peter. “Serjeant Butt is an eminent man, and his address will be in the Court Guide.”

The address was found,—Bloomsbury Square; and Kenelm directed his letter accordingly. In due course he received this answer,—

You are an insolent little fool, and I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life.

After the receipt of that polite epistle, Kenelm Chillingly’s scruples vanished, and he took daily lessons in muscular Christianity.