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  XII

  "If my father hadn't met with reverses--" the Idiot began.

  "Did you really have a father?" interrupted the School-master. "Ithought you were one of these self-made Idiots. How terrible it must befor a man to think that he is responsible for you!"

  "Yes," rejoined the Idiot; "my father finds it rather hard to stand upunder his responsibility for me; but he is a brave old gentleman, and hemanages to bear the burden very well with the aid of my mother--for Ihave a mother, too, Mr. Pedagog. A womanly mother she is, too, with allthe natural follies, such as fondness for and belief in her boy. Why, itwould soften your heart to see how she looks on me. She thinks I am themost everlastingly brilliant man she ever knew--excepting father, ofcourse, who has always been a hero of heroes in her eyes, because henever rails at misfortune, never spoke an unkind word to her in hislife, and just lives gently along and waiting for the end of allthings."

  "'HIS FAIRY STORIES WERE TOLD HIM IN WORDS OF TENSYLLABLES'"]

  "Do you think it is right in you to deceive your mother in thisway--making her think you a young Napoleon of intellect when you knowyou are an Idiot?" observed the Bibliomaniac, with a twinkle in his eye.

  "Why certainly I do," returned the Idiot, calmly. "It's my place to makethe old folks happy if I can; and if thinking me nineteen differentkinds of a genius is going to fill my mother's heart with happiness, I'mgoing to let her think it. What's the use of destroying other people'sidols even if we do know them to be hollow mockeries? Do you think youdo a praiseworthy act, for instance, when you kick over the heathen'sstone gods and leave him without any at all? You may not have noticedit, but I have--that it is easier to pull down an idol than it is torear an ideal. I have had idols shattered myself, and I haven't foundthat the pedestals they used to occupy have been rented since. They arethere yet and empty--standing as monuments to what once seemed good tome--and I'm no happier nor no better for being disillusioned. So it iswith my mother. I let her go on and think me perfect. It does her good,and it does me good because it makes me try to live up to that idea ofhers as to what I am. If she had the same opinion of me that we all haveshe'd be the most miserable woman in the world."

  "We don't all think so badly of you," said the Doctor, rather softenedby the Idiot's remarks.

  "No," put in the Bibliomaniac. "You are all right. You breathe normally,and you have nice blue eyes. You are graceful and pleasant to look upon,and if you'd been born dumb we'd esteem you very highly. It is only yourmanners and your theories that we don't like; but even in these we aredisposed to believe that you are a well-meaning child."

  "That is precisely the way to put it," assented the School-master. "Youare harmless even when most annoying. For my own part, I think the mostobjectionable feature about you is that you suffer from thatunfortunately not uncommon malady, extreme youth. You are young for yourage, and if you only wouldn't talk, I think we should get on famouslytogether."

  "You overwhelm me with your compliments," said the Idiot. "I am sorry Iam so young, but I cannot be brought to believe that that is my ownfault. One must live to attain age, and how the deuce can one live whenone boards?"

  As no one ventured to reply to this question, the force of which veryevidently, however, was fully appreciated by Mrs. Smithers, the Idiotcontinued:

  "'I THOUGHT MY FATHER A MEAN-SPIRITED ASSASSIN'"]

  "Youth is thrust upon us in our infancy, and must be endured until sucha time as Fate permits us to account ourselves cured. It swoops downupon us when we have neither the strength nor the brains to resent it.Of course there are some superior persons in this world who never wereyoung. Mr. Pedagog, I doubt not, was ushered into this world with allthree sets of teeth cut, and not wailing as most infants are, butdiscussing the most abstruse philosophical problems. His fairy storieswere told him, if ever, in words of ten syllables; and his father'sfirst remark to him was doubtless an inquiry as to his opinion on thesubject of Latin and Greek in our colleges. It's all right to be thiskind of a baby if you like that sort of thing. For my part, I rejoice tothink that there was once a day when I thought my father a mean-spiritedassassin, because he wouldn't tie a string to the moon and let me makeit rise and set as suited my sweet will. Babies of Mr. Pedagog's sortare fortunately like angel's visits, few and far between. In spite ofhis stand in the matter, though, I can't help thinking there was a greatdeal of truth in a rhyme a friend of mine got off on Youth. It fits thecase. He said:

  "'Youth is a state of being we attain In early years; to some 'tis but a crime-- And, like the mumps, most aged men complain, It can't be caught, alas! a second time."'

  "Your rhymes are interesting, and your reasoning, as usual, is faulty,"said the School-master. "I passed a very pleasant childhood, though itwas a childhood devoted, as you have insinuated, to serious rather thanto flippant pursuits. I wasn't particularly fond of tag andhide-and-seek, nor do I think that even as an infant I ever cried forthe moon."

  "It would have expanded your chest if you had, Mr. Pedagog," observedthe Idiot, quietly.

  "So it would, but I never found myself short-winded, sir," retorted theSchool-master, with some acerbity.

  "That is evident; but go on," said the Idiot. "You never passed achildish youth nor a youthful childhood, and therefore what?"

  "Therefore, in my present condition, I am normally contented. I have noyouthful follies to look back upon, no indiscretions to regret; I neverknowingly told a lie, and--"

  "All of which proves that you never were young," put in the Idiot; "andyou will excuse me if I say it, but my father is the model for me ratherthan so exalted a personage as yourself. He is still young, thoughturned seventy, and I don't believe on his own account there ever was aboy who played hookey more, who prevaricated oftener, who purloinedothers' fruits with greater frequency than he. He was guilty of everycrime in the calendar of youth; and if there is one thing that delightshim more than another, it is to sit on a winter's night before thecrackling log and tell us yarns about his youthful follies and hisboyhood indiscretions."

  "But is he normally a happy man?" queried the School-master.

  "No."

  "Ah!"

  "No. He's an _ab_normally happy man, because he's got his follies andindiscretions to look back upon and not forward to."

  "Ahem!" said Mrs. Smithers.

  "Dear me!" ejaculated Mr. Whitechoker.

  Mr. Pedagog said nothing, and the breakfast-room was soon deserted.