The Devil's GardenMaxwell, W. B. (William Babington)
General
The Devil's Garden
Maxwell, W. B. (William Babington)
Fiction
And again he felt self-pity, but of another kind than that which had
stirred him an hour ago. Now it was clear-sighted, analytical, almost
free from weakness. He thought: "It is a bit rough--it is rather hard,
rather cruel on me, all said and done. For I know that I might have
bin a good man. The good lay in me--it only wanted drawing out." He
remembered the elevating effect of his love for Mavis, how through all
the time of his belief in her purity he had tried to purify himself,
to purge away all the grossness and sensualness that, as he vainly
fancied, made him unworthy to be the mate of so immaculate a creature;
but he was not allowed to continue the purifying process; her horrible
revelation ended it--knocked the sense out of it, made it
preposterously absurd. "If Mavis had been in the beginning what she
has come to be at last, she would have kept me on the highroad to
Heaven." But all the chances had gone against him. "My father failed
me, my mother failed me, my wife failed me."
"The worst faults I had in my prime were conceit and uppishness, but
they only came from my ignorance. They'd have been wiped out of me at
the start, if I'd had the true advantages of education; regular
school training, such as gentlemen's sons enjoy, would have made all
the difference. It's all very well to talk about educating yourself
and rising in the world at the same time, but it can't be done.
There's a season for everything, and the best part of education must
be over before you begin to fight for a position. Otherwise the
handicap is too heavy."
His pity for himself became more poignant; yet still there was nothing
weakening in it, at least nothing that tended to alter his
determination. "No," he thought, "take me all round, I couldn't
originally have bin meant to turn out a wrong un. I've never bin mean
or sneaking or envious in my dealings with other people. I've never
spared myself to give a helping hand to those who treated me decently.
And no one will ever guess the kindly sentiments I entertained for
many other men, or the pleasure I derived the few times I could feel:
'This chap is one I respect, and he seems to like me.' I wanted to be
liked, but the gift o' making myself liked was denied me. Yet, except
for being cast down into sin, I should have got over _that_
difficulty. I was on the right road there too. By enlarging my mind
I'd become more sympathetic. Though always a shy man really and truly,
I was learning to smother the false effects of my shyness."
Thinking thus of his mind, and his long-continued efforts to improve
its powers, he felt: "To go and extinguish all this is an awful thing
to have to do."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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