The Pandervils Read Online Free PDF

Armada. He knew that there were rivers in Europe called the Danube, the Rhine, the Seine, and the Volga—the last because it was the same as a word used by the schoolmaster in rebuking a mannerless boy. He knew, further, that Queen Mary had had ‘Calais’ written on her heart, and that to describe this queen as ‘bloody’ was not swearing. He knew: ‘Not Angles but angels!’ and ‘Take away that empty bauble!’; and he knew that the English Channel divides England from France, and that his good fortune in having been born on the right side of that same Channel made him the equal of any three Froggies. These titbits had given him no appetite for the larger meal of education; and his schooling, what there was of it, being now at an end, he had turned with a certain eagerness to more significant matters. The habits of birds interested him, and the queerlook in the eyes of the farm animals set him speculating curiously. He often wondered what it would feel like to be something or somebody else —a cow or a tree or the elderly vicar of his parish; but if ever such a question concerning his father presented itself he shrank from it hastily, the mystery being too dark and dreadful. In the fields he was happy, giving no thought to books or to the dull difficult alien gentility they stood for; but here in his father’s study he was suddenly ashamed of his ignorance, thinking himself despised for it. This shame for one instant distracted him from the memory of his crime and its impending punishment. He was further distracted by the queerness of his father’s attitude.
    Pandervil senior was leaning forward in his chair, his thin vague face sunk between hunched shoulders and resting in the cup of two twitching hands. Staring at a spot on the carpet, and seeing nothing, he was a man lost, utterly remote. He did not look up at his son’s entry.
    Egg remembered his errand. He remembered, too, that Fang had been shot by command of this man. He blurted out: ‘I called you a beast, sir.’
    Mr Pandervil emerged from his reverie. He gazed at his visitor with puzzled, patient, weary eyes.
    â€˜Please?’ said Mr Pandervil, using one of the rare locutions he retained of his native Guernsey speech.
    â€˜Downstairs,’ stammered Egg, ‘I said youwere a beast, sir. Mother’s sent me to be whipped.’
    Mr Pandervil seemed more than ever puzzled. ‘You said I was a beast. But why?’ His manner, mild and courteous, had not changed.
    â€˜I said you were a beast,’ repeated Egg stubbornly. He fancied that this clever educated stranger was sneering at him. Only so could his mildness be accounted for. The boy felt inconceivably clumsy and stupid. Yes, he was stupid; he had made a fool of himself, and everybody despised him for it, everybody was laughing at him, most of all his father. But, stupid or not, he was not going to be tricked into an argument about whys and wherefores.
    Mr Pandervil repeated his question: ‘But why? Why did you call me a beast?’
    A look of mulish and cunning obstinacy disfigured Egg’s face; he himself was aware of it, and he fancied it to be his best defence. ‘I’ve come to be punished,’ he insisted. To be punished, not to be sneered at and made game of by the man who had read all those books. ‘Shall I bend over?’ For besides the knowledge acquired at school he had learned the inevitable consequences of such wickedness as his. He had committed a grave offence in the sight of God and man. He knew himself to be a wicked boy, and he knew that if he were struck several times across the buttocks with a stick or switch he would be miraculously made good again, the soreness behind redeeming him from the corruption within.Whether or not he understood the theory of the matter, of the practice there could be no doubt. If you put your hand in the fire your fingers were burnt; if you called your father a beast,