The Last Chronicle of Barset [335]
cleaving still to all its grander, nobler possessions, he was now to be rent in pieces and scattered to the winds, as being altogether vile, worthless, and worse than worthless. It was thus that he thought of himself, pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate, while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders.
He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite of its truth. It was the fault of the man that he was imbued too strongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two. He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash all the courage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth should ruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could do justice though the heaven should fall. But he could not forget to pay tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions; nor, when accepting with an effort of meekness the small payment made by the world to him, in return for his great works, could he forget the great payments made to others for small work. It was not sufficient for him to remember that he knew Hebrew, but he must remember also that the dean did not.
Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mind with a clearness that certainly had in it nothing of that muddiness of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect of this man was essentially clear. It was simply that his memory that would play him tricks--his memory as to things which at the moment were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money was very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the money, and its form, at a moment in which he had flattered himself that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been important to him. Now, he resolved that he would go to Dr Tempest, and that he would tell Dr Tempest that there was not occasion for any further inquiry. He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop's decision be what it might. Things were different since the day on which he had refused Mr Thumble admission to his pulpit. At that time people believed him to be innocent, and he so believed of himself. Now, people believed him to be guilty, and it could not be right that a man held in such slight esteem could exercise the functions of a parish priest, let his own opinion of himself be what it might. He would submit himself, and go anywhere--to the galleys or the workhouse, if they wished it. As for his wife and children, they would, he said to himself, be better without him than with him. The world would never be so hard to a woman or to children as it had been to him.
He was sitting saturated with rain--saturated also with thinking --and quite unobservant of anything around him, when he was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom he was well acquainted. 'Thee be wat, Master Crawley,' said the old man.
'Wet!' said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life. 'Well--yes. I am wet. That's because it's raining.'
'Thee be teeming o'wat. Hadn't thee better go home?'
'And are you not wet also,' said Mr Crawley, looking at the old man, who had been at work in the brickfield, and who was soaked with mire, and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist.
'Is it me, yer reverence? I'm wat of course. The loikes of us is always wat--that is barring the insides of us. It comes to us natural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help hisself against having on 'em? But there ain't no call for the loikes of you to have the rheumatics.'
'My friend,' said Crawley, who was now standing on the road--and as he spoke he put out his arm and took the brickmaker by the hand, 'there is a worse complaint than rheumatism--there is, indeed.'
'There's what they calls the collerer,' said Giles Hoggett, looking up into Crawley's face. 'That ain't a-got hold of yer?'
'Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he is struck with pride--and yet he lives.'
'Maybe that's bad enough too,' said Giles, with his hand still held by the other.
'It is bad enough,'
He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spite of its truth. It was the fault of the man that he was imbued too strongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two. He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash all the courage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth should ruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could do justice though the heaven should fall. But he could not forget to pay tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions; nor, when accepting with an effort of meekness the small payment made by the world to him, in return for his great works, could he forget the great payments made to others for small work. It was not sufficient for him to remember that he knew Hebrew, but he must remember also that the dean did not.
Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mind with a clearness that certainly had in it nothing of that muddiness of mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellect of this man was essentially clear. It was simply that his memory that would play him tricks--his memory as to things which at the moment were not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him money was very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of the money, and its form, at a moment in which he had flattered himself that he might have strength to leave it unused, had not been important to him. Now, he resolved that he would go to Dr Tempest, and that he would tell Dr Tempest that there was not occasion for any further inquiry. He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop's decision be what it might. Things were different since the day on which he had refused Mr Thumble admission to his pulpit. At that time people believed him to be innocent, and he so believed of himself. Now, people believed him to be guilty, and it could not be right that a man held in such slight esteem could exercise the functions of a parish priest, let his own opinion of himself be what it might. He would submit himself, and go anywhere--to the galleys or the workhouse, if they wished it. As for his wife and children, they would, he said to himself, be better without him than with him. The world would never be so hard to a woman or to children as it had been to him.
He was sitting saturated with rain--saturated also with thinking --and quite unobservant of anything around him, when he was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom he was well acquainted. 'Thee be wat, Master Crawley,' said the old man.
'Wet!' said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life. 'Well--yes. I am wet. That's because it's raining.'
'Thee be teeming o'wat. Hadn't thee better go home?'
'And are you not wet also,' said Mr Crawley, looking at the old man, who had been at work in the brickfield, and who was soaked with mire, and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist.
'Is it me, yer reverence? I'm wat of course. The loikes of us is always wat--that is barring the insides of us. It comes to us natural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help hisself against having on 'em? But there ain't no call for the loikes of you to have the rheumatics.'
'My friend,' said Crawley, who was now standing on the road--and as he spoke he put out his arm and took the brickmaker by the hand, 'there is a worse complaint than rheumatism--there is, indeed.'
'There's what they calls the collerer,' said Giles Hoggett, looking up into Crawley's face. 'That ain't a-got hold of yer?'
'Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he is struck with pride--and yet he lives.'
'Maybe that's bad enough too,' said Giles, with his hand still held by the other.
'It is bad enough,'