Mary Olivier: a Life Part 27

"'Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made, Those are pearls that were his eyes.

Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange.'"

Between the lovely lines she could hear Mamma say, "They all scamp their work. You would require a resident carpenter and a resident glazier--"

And Mrs. Farmer's soft drawl spinning out the theme: "And a resident plumber. Yes, Mrs. Olivier, you really wou-ould."

Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had called and stayed to tea. Across the room you could see his close, hatchet nose and straggly beard. Every now and then his small, greenish eyes lifted and looked at you.

Impossible that you had ever enjoyed going to Mrs. Farmer's to see the baby. It was like something that had happened to somebody else, a long time ago. Mrs. Farmer was always having babies, and always asking you to go and see them. She couldn't understand that as you grew older you left off caring about babies.

"'--We are such stuff As dreams are made of--'"

"The Bishop--Confirmation--opportunity."

Even Mamma owned that Mr. Farmer never knew when it was time to go.

"'As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep--'"

The universe is nothing but the spectacle of the dreams of G.o.d. Or was it the thoughts of G.o.d?

"Confirmation--Parish Church--Bishop--"

Confirmation. She had seen a Confirmation once, years ago. Girls in white dresses and long white veils, like brides, shining behind the square black windows of the broughams. Dora and Effie Draper. Effie leaned forward. Her pretty, piercing face looked out through the black pane, not seeing anything, trying greedily to be seen. Big boys and girls knelt down in rows before the Bishop, and his sleeves went flapping up and down over them like bolsters in the wind.

Mr. Farmer was looking at her again, as if he had an idea in his head.

IX.

The Church Service was open at the Thirty-Nine Articles. Mamma had pushed Dr. Smith's "History of England" away.

"Do you think," she said, "you could say the Catechism and the Athanasian Creed straight through without stopping?"

"I daresay I could if I tried. Why?"

"Because Mr. Farmer will want to examine you."

"Whatever for?"

"Because," her mother said, "there's going to be a Confirmation. It's time you were thinking about being confirmed."

"Confirmed? _Me_?"

"And why not you?"

"Well--I haven't got to be, have I?"

"You will have, sooner or later. So you may as well begin to think about it now."

Confirmation. She had never thought about it as a real thing that might happen to her, that would happen, sooner or later, if she didn't do something to stop Mr. Farmer and Mamma.

"I _am_ thinking. I'm thinking tight."

Tight. Tight. Her mind, in agony, pinned itself to one point: how she could stop her mother without telling her.

Beyond that point she couldn't see clearly.

"You see--you see--I don't _want_ to be confirmed."

"You don't want? You might as well say you didn't want to be a Christian."

"Don't worry, Mamma darling. I only want to stay as I am."

"I must worry. I'm responsible for you as long as you're not confirmed.

You forget that I'm your G.o.dmother as well as your mother."

She had forgotten it. And Papa and Uncle Victor were her G.o.dfathers.

"What did your G.o.dfathers and G.o.dmothers then for you?--They did promise and vow three things in my name--" they had actually done it. "First: that I should renounce"--renounce--renounce--"Secondly: that I should believe all the Articles of the Christian Faith--"

The Christian Faith--the Catholic Faith. "Which Faith except everyone do keep whole and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly"--

--"And the Catholic Faith is this: That we worship one G.o.d in Trinity and Trinity in Unity."

They had promised and vowed all that. In her name. What right had they?

What right had they?

"You're not a baby any more," her mother said.

"That's what I mean. I was a baby when you went and did it. I knew nothing about it. You _can't_ make me responsible."

"It's we who are responsible," her mother said.

"I mean for your vows and promises, Mamma darling. If you'll let me off my responsibility I'll let you off yours."

"Now," her mother said, "you're prevaricating."

"That means you'll never let me off. If I don't do it now I'll have to do it next year, or the next?"

"You may feel more seriously about it next year. Or next week," her mother said. "Meanwhile you'll learn the Thirty-Nine Articles. Read them through first."

"--'Nine. Of Original or Birth-sin. Original Sin ... is the fault and corruption of the Nature of every man ... whereby man is far gone from original righteousness and is of his own nature inclined to evil, so that the flesh l.u.s.teth always contrary to the spirit; and therefore in every person born into this world it deserveth G.o.d's wrath and d.a.m.nation.'"

"Don't look like that," her mother said, "as if your wits were wool-gathering."

"Wool?" She could see herself smiling at her mother, disagreeably.

Wool-gathering. Gathering wool. The room was full of wool; wool flying about; hanging in the air and choking you. Clogging your mind. Old grey wool out of pew cushions that people had sat on for centuries, full of dirt.

Wool, spun out, wound round you, woven in a net. You were tangled and strangled in a net of unclean wool. They caught you in it when you were a baby a month old. Mamma, Papa and Uncle Victor. You would have to cut and tug and kick and fight your way out. They were caught in it themselves, they couldn't get out. They didn't want to get out. The wool stopped their minds working. They hated it when their minds worked, when anybody's mind worked. Aunt Lavvy's--yours.