He is sitting on the steps with his arm round little Dirty's neck. They have shared the pear. Now they are both singing, marvellously out of tune and with a disgustingly sentimental expression on their faces, a song which Dirty knows:
For riches are only a lo-oan from Heaven
And poverty is a reward.
And we are overcome with a great sense of desolation.
We want to make life green and pleasant for our little boy, to make his eyes open wide to see it, his hands strong to grasp it. But we feel powerless in the face of all the contentment and patience and resignation that are preached from cellar to garret, in church and in school: all those second-rate virtues, which may lighten an old man's last few steps as he stumbles on towards the grave, but which are only so many shabby lies for the young.
XI
Dirty is paying us a visit and my little boy is sitting at her feet.
She has buried her fingers in her hair and is reading, reading, reading. . . .
She is learning the Ten Commandments by heart. She stammers and repeats herself, with eyes fixed in her head and a despairing mouth:
"Thou shalt . . . Thou shalt not . . . Thou shalt . . ."
The boy watches her with tender compassion.