One girl, a dear, wholesome creature named Janet, stayed with us for months and might have stayed years, but for her addiction to strong language. The only and well-beloved child of the captain of the barge "Nancy Jane," trading between Purfleet and Ponder's End, her conversation was at once my terror and delight.
"Janet," my mother would exclaim in agony, her hands going up instinctively to guard her ears, "how can you use such words?"
"What words, mum?"
"The things you have just called the gas man."
"Him! Well, did you see what he did, mum? Walked straight into my clean kitchen, without even wiping his boots, the--" And before my mother could stop her, Janet had relieved her feelings by calling him it--or rather them--again, without any idea that she had done aught else than express in fitting phraseology a natural human emotion.
We were good friends, Janet and I, and therefore it was that I personally undertook her reformation. It was not an occasion for mincing one's words. The stake at issue was, I felt, too important.
I told her bluntly that if she persisted in using such language she would inevitably go to hell.
"Then where's my father going?" demanded Janet.
"Does he use language?"
I gathered from Janet that no one who had enjoyed the privilege of hearing her father could ever again take interest in the feeble efforts of herself.
"I am afraid, Janet," I explained, "that if he doesn't give it up--"
"But it's the only way he can talk," interrupted Janet. "He don't mean anything by it."
I sighed, yet set my face against weakness. "You see, Janet, people who swear do go there."
But Janet would not believe.
"God send my dear, kind father to hell just because he can't talk like the gentlefolks! Don't you believe it of Him, Master Paul. He's got more sense."
I hope I pain no one by quoting Janet's common sense. For that I should be sorry. I remember her words because so often, when sinking in sloughs of childish despond, they afforded me firm foothold. More often than I can tell, when compelled to listen to the sententious voice of immeasurable Folly glibly explaining the eternal mysteries, has it comforted me to whisper to myself: "I don't believe it of Him.
He's got more sense."
And about that period I had need of all the comfort I could get. As we descend the road of life, the journey, demanding so much of our attention, becomes of more importance than the journey's end; but to the child, standing at the valley's gate, the terminating hills are clearly visible. What lies beyond them is his constant wonder. I never questioned my parents directly on the subject, shrinking as so strangely we all do, both young and old, from discussion of the very matters of most moment to us; and they, on their part, not guessing my need, contented themselves with the vague generalities with which we seek to hide even from ourselves the poverty of our beliefs. But there were foolish voices about me less reticent; while the literature, illustrated and otherwise, provided in those days for serious-minded youth, answered all questionings with blunt brutality.
If you did wrong you burnt in a fiery furnace for ever and ever. Were your imagination weak you could turn to the accompanying illustration, and see at a glance how you yourself would writhe and shrink and scream, while cheerful devils, well organised, were busy stoking. I had been burnt once, rather badly, in consequence of live coals, in course of transit on a shovel, being let fall upon me. I imagined these burning coals, not confined to a mere part of my body, but pressing upon me everywhere, not snatched swiftly off by loving hands, the pain assuaged by applications of soft soap and the blue bag, but left there, eating into my flesh and veins. And this continued for eternity. You suffered for an hour, a day, a thousand years, and were no nearer to the end; ten thousand, a million years, and yet, as at the very first, it was for ever, and for ever still it would always be for ever! I suffered also from insomnia about this period.
"Then be good," replied the foolish voices round me; "never do wrong, and so avoid this endless agony."
But it was so easy to do wrong. There were so many wrong things to do, and the doing of them was so natural.
"Then repent," said the voices, always ready.
But how did one repent? What was repentance? Did I "hate my sin," as I was instructed I must, or merely hate the idea of going to hell for it? Because the latter, even my child's sense told me, was no true repentance. Yet how could one know the difference?
Above all else there haunted me the fear of the "Unforgivable Sin."
What this was I was never able to discover. I dreaded to enquire too closely, lest I should find I had committed it. Day and night the terror of it clung to me.
"Believe," said the voices; "so only shall you be saved." How believe? How know you did believe? Hours would I kneel in the dark, repeating in a whispered scream:
"I believe, I believe. Oh, I do believe!" and then rise with white knuckles, wondering if I really did believe.
Another question rose to trouble me. In the course of my meanderings I had made the acquaintance of an old sailor, one of the most disreputable specimens possible to find; and had learned to love him.
Our first meeting had been outside a confectioner's window, in the Commercial Road, where he had discovered me standing, my nose against the glass, a mere palpitating Appetite on legs. He had seized me by the collar, and hauled me into the shop. There, dropping me upon a stool, he bade me eat. Pride of race prompted me politely to decline, but his language became so awful that in fear and trembling I obeyed.