From the Angle of Seventeen

by Eden Phillpotts

To argue with this sort of thing was, of course, no work for me. I listened in silence, and concealed the pity combined with annoyance that was surging in my breast. I hated hiding from this religious-minded but parochial man that I was going on the stage, for it seemed mean to do so; but I also felt it was no good putting him to needless pain and very likely spoiling the effect of the May Meetings and doing him harm. So I changed the subject and asked him about the prizes. He had been to the Army and Navy Stores for these, and had bought Longfellow’s Poems, and Robinson Crusoe, and St. Winifred’s, and Masterman Ready, and Hours with a Microscope and Hours with a Telescope, and Eyes and no Eyes, and many another fine, old, crusted work, familiar enough to me in the past. In fact, I realised with interest that the Doctor’s mind was standing still, and though there was something grand in a small way to see this steadfast attitude, like a light-house, to use a poetical simile, casting its unchanging beam over the tumultuous seas of Merivale, yet, somehow, in the atmosphere of the Strand, London (for “The Bishop’s Keys” were merely round a corner from the main thoroughfare), the beam of the Doctor was reduced to a mere night-light.

By good luck he was going to an evening May Meeting at nine o’clock, and he invited me to accompany him to hear an eminent Colonial Bishop on the Spread of Christianity in the Frigid Zone; but with unexpected courage I withstood him, pleaded an engagement, which was true, as it was a Dramatic School night, and left him at the threshold of Exeter Hall. Our parting was marked by a cordiality that both of us were far from feeling; for I knew that I had disappointed the Doctor; and though, of course, he little knew that he had disappointed me, he had; and I felt an overpowering wish not to see him again. I had, in fact, now broken definitely with my past, and when, therefore, Aunt Augusta suggested that my week’s holiday should be spent at Merivale, I negatived the idea without a division, as they say.

Aunt Augusta then rose to the occasion, with her usual kindness and generosity, and proposed a few days at a place familiar to her in Brittany.

“It is wild and lonely,” she said, “but it is very beautiful, and I can do some sketching if the weather permits, and you can practise elocution among the sand dunes and shout yourself hoarse.”

This offer of seeing a foreign country was far too good to refuse, and though financially such a thing was beyond my private resources, I had now made an arrangement with Aunt Augusta by which it was definitely understood that any advances which she might be good enough to make for the moment should be amply recognised at a later period in my career, when money ceased to be the vital object it was at present.

She had not much, but still, far more than I, having made a niche for herself on the pinnacle of fame, and often selling a work of creative art for eight or even ten pounds. She promised, therefore, that when the time came for me to earn money on the boards and draw a salary in keeping with the dignity of a London actor, she would let me take the financial lead, so to speak, and richly reward her for her generosity of the past. In fact, it was understood that if Aunt Augusta cast her bread upon the waters, in scriptural language, it would return to her after many days—not like the talent hidden in the napkin, but more like the widow’s cruse of oil, that increased a thousand-fold. I knew of course that this must happen, and I think she felt there was more than an off-chance of it. At any rate, she went on hopefully casting.

So we visited Brittany, and I enjoyed the interesting experience of a foreign land and a foreign language in my ears, together with foreign food and foreign money. A volume, of course, might be written about Brittany, and, as a matter of fact, many volumes have been; but it is not my intention to say anything on the subject here; because, upon my return to London, much happened of a very abnormal character, and my recollection of the peaceful days, when I practised elocution in the sand dunes and Aunt Augusta painted pictures of the rather tame scenery, was speedily swept away to limbo.

Moreover, I had now reached within a week of my eighteenth birthday and, by a rather curious coincidence, the dreadful events now convulsing the metropolis culminated on that anniversary. But I must not anticipate. Though the proletariat was getting a good deal out of hand when I came back from France, no actual collision had taken place with Law and Order; but, to use a well-known figure of speech, the lion was aroused and roaring, though he had not yet emerged from his den. To drop metaphor, I may say that Labour was up in arms against Capital, and Political Economy was at the last gasp.

At this grave crisis I found myself summoned once again to assist our West-End Branch, and then discovered, to my astonishment, that the proletariat had selected Trafalgar Square as a sort of rallying-ground for their forces. Indeed, scenes of great unrest were daily enacted in that famous centre of civilisation.

Needless to say, the staff at our West-End Branch was deeply excited at the turn of affairs, and Mr. Bright seemed to think the problem the most serious that had arisen in politics for fifty years. He was not, however, entirely on the side of the masses, but felt rather doubtful of their leaders were guiding them aright. Mr. Walter never found much time to devote to politics, though a sound Liberal at heart; but what interested him was the artistic and dramatic aspect of Trafalgar Square when the horny-handed masses swept through it. As for Mr. Bewes, he went on eating his daily chop as though we were not on the edge of a volcano. Of course, as a stern Roman Catholic he was bound to believe that all that happens is for the best. This enabled him to keep his nerve in a way that was a lesson to us.