Aren’t you very fond of your bedroom now, my uncle continued. Why
don’t you study in the dining-room here where the ink is and where there is
a good book-case for your books? Boys but you make a great secret about your
studies.
My bedroom is quiet, convenient and I have my books there. I prefer to
work in my bedroom, I answered.
My bedroom was small and indifferently lighted but it contained most of
the things I deemed essential for existence -my bed, a chair which was rarely
used, a table and a washstand. The washstand had a ledge upon which I had
arranged a number of books. Each of them was generally recognized as
indispensable to all who aspire to an appreciation of the nature of
contemporary literature and my small collection contained works ranging from
those of Mr Joyce to the widely read books of Mr A. Huxley, the eminent
English writer. In my bedroom also were certain porcelain articles related
more to utility than ornament. The mirror at which I shaved every second day
was the type supplied gratis by Messrs Watkins, Jameson and Pim and bore brief
letterpress in reference to a proprietary brand ale between the words of which
I had acquired considerable skill in inserting the reflection of my
countenance. The mantelpiece contained forty buckskin volumes comprising a
Conspectus of the Arts and Natural Sciences. They were published in 1854 by a
reputable Bath house for a guinea the volume. They bore their years bravely
and retained in their interior the kindly seed of knowledge intact and without
decay.
I know the studying you do in your bedroom, said my uncle. Damn the
studying you do in your bedroom.
I denied this.
My uncle drained away the
remainder of his tea and arranged his cup and saucer in the center of his
bacon plate in a token that his meal was at an end. He then blessed himself
and sat for a time drawing air into his mouth with a hissing sound in an
attempt to extract foodstuff from the crevices of his dentures. Subsequently
he pursed his mouth and swallowed something.
A
boy of your age, he said at last, who gives himself up to the sin of sloth
–what in God’s name is going to happen to him when he goes out to face the
world? Boys but I often wonder what the world is coming to, I do indeed. Tell
me this, do you ever open a book at all?