For myself, I am best, my friends say, when I am laughing at the world and playing somewhat the buffoon. And, of course, I am naturally anxious to appear at my best. Besides, I must confess that I do not think this world is an affair to be treated with a too great gravity; not, at least, if one can help it. Frequently it makes itself ridiculous even in the partial eyes of its own inhabitants. How much more frequently if one could sit outside—upon a passing shower, for instance—and see it as we look upon a play? Ten to one, some of our most sententious friends would seem no different from those amusing sparrows discussing the law of property in a bread-crumb, or from my dog playing the solemn comedy of the buried bone. Therefore I always think it safer to assume that there is some unseen cynic, some creature in the fourth dimension, looking over my shoulder as I write, and exclaiming, when I grow too sensible, “Oh, the wise fool!”
Yet for all this excellent philosophy, and in spite of a most reasonable desire to say those things that are instantly rewarded by a smile, rather than those an audience receives in silence, and perhaps approves, perhaps condemns—despite all this, the rubbing of the world upon a set of nerves does not always make one merry; and in that humor I should sometimes like to perpetrate a serious sentence. If ever I succumb to this temptation of the writer's devil, please turn the page and do not linger over the indiscretion.
Therefore I shall pass quickly over the thin ice of sentiment, the days when I felt lonely on my comfortable ledge, the hours I spent looking at the fire. More amusing to tell you of the bright lining to my clouds; of the sitting-room, for instance, low in the ceiling, commodious, and shaped, I think, to fit the chimneys or the stairs or the water-butt outside; at any rate, to suit something that required two unequal recesses and three non-rectangular corners. It was on the ground-floor, and had two French windows (of which the adjective cheered me, I think, as much as the noun). These opened upon a little, stone-paved space, shaded by a high tree in the park, and which I called my garden.
Rejecting some articles of my landlord's furniture as too splendid for an untitled tenant—a plush-covered settee, for instance, and an alabaster tea-table, adorned with cut-glass trophies from the drawing-room of a bankrupt alderman—I replaced them by a bookcase, three easy-chairs, and an inviting sofa of my own; I bought substitutes for the engravings of “The Child's First Prayer” and “The Last Kiss,” and the colored plates representing idyllic passages from the lives of honest artisans, which had regaled my predecessor; I recurtained the dear French windows.
Neither Mr. Titch nor his good wife entirely approved of these changes. In fact, I suspect they would have given such a Goth notice to quit in a month had it not been for the reflection that, after all, such eccentricities were only to be expected of a foreigner. The English have a most amusing contempt for the rest of mankind, accompanied by an equally amusing toleration for the peculiarities that are naturaly associated with such degenerates. The Chinese, I understand, have an equal national modesty, but their contempt for the foreigner finds expression in a desire to decapitate his mangled remains. John Bull, on the other hand, will not only allow but expect you to walk upon your head, eat rats and mice, maintain a staff of poisonous serpents, and even play the barrel-organ. This goes to such a length that supposing you beat him at something he most prides himself upon, such as rowing, boxing, or manufactures, he will but smile and shake his head and say, “These are, indeed, most remarkable animals.”
Mr. and Mrs. Titch were no exceptions to this rule, and I think that in time they even came to have an affection for and a pride in their preposterous tenant, much like an enthusiastic savant who handicaps himself with a half-tamed cobra.
Mr. Titch was a little, gray-haired man, with a respectful manner overlaid upon a consequential air. He had enjoyed varied experience as footman and butler in several families of distinction, and my Halfred had been but a short time in the house before he became tremendously impressed by Mr. Titch's reminiscences of the great, and his vast knowledge of Halfred's own profession.
“Wonderful man, Mr. Titch, sir,” he would say to me. “What 'e don't know about our Henglish haristocracy ain't worth knowing. You'd 'ardly believe it, sir, but he seed the Dook of Balham puttin' his arm round Lady Sarah Elcey's waist three months before their engagement was in the papers, and the Dook 'e says to 'im, 'Titch,' says he, ''ere's a five-pun' note; you're a man of discretion, you are, and what you sees you keeps to yourself, don't you? I mean no 'arm,' he says. 'I'll hundertake to marry the lady if you only gives me time.' And Mr. Titch, he lay low three 'ole months a-knowing a secret like that.”
Mr. Titch's caution and advice were certainly serviceable to Halfred, who was rapidly becoming transformed from the cheerful 'bus-driver into the obliging valet. Whether the world did not lose more than I gained by this change I shall not undertake to say; but I can always console myself for depriving society of a friend, and Halfred of his “hinderpendence,” by picturing the little man, poorly protected by his nondescript rug, driving his 'bus all day through the wind and the rain, he, at least, enjoyed the transformation; and one result is worth a hundred admirable theories. Besides, the virtues of Halfred remained the virtues of Halfred through all the polishings of circumstances and Mr. Titch.
For the good Mrs. Titch, my discerning servant expressed a respect only a shade less profound than his homage to her spouse. Now this excellent lady, though motherly in appearance and wonderfully dignified in the black silk in which she rustled to church of a Sunday, was not remarkable either for acuteness of mind or that wide knowledge of the world enjoyed by Mr. Titch. She knew little of the aristocracy except through his reminiscences, though I am bound to say her respect for that august institution was as profound as Major Pendennis himself could have desired. Also her observations on that portion of the world she had met were distinguished by an erroneous and solemn foolishness that cannot have passed unnoticed by Halfred.