described as the page-boy, and afterwards in his
vacations as the odd man about the house. Everything centred round
their mother. She made a good deal of work, because of being so
anxious not to give trouble. She wouldn't get out of the way of
evil, but bleakly accepted it. She wouldn't get out of a
draught, but sat in it till one or other of her children remembered
they hadn't shut the door. When the inevitable cold was upon
her and she was lamentably coughing, she would mention the door for
the first time, and quietly say she hadn't liked to trouble
them to shut it, they had seemed so busy with their own
affairs.
But after he had been in the engineering firm a little while, a
further change came over Mr. Twist. He was there to make money,
more money, for his mother. The first duty of an American male had
descended on him. He wished earnestly to fulfil it creditably, in
spite of his own tastes being so simple that his income of
£5000--it was his, not his mother's, but it didn't feel as
if it were--would have been more than sufficient for him. Out of
engineering, then, was he to wrest all the things that might
comfort his mother. He embarked on his career with as determined an
expression on his mouth as so soft and friendly a mouth could be
made to take, and he hadn't been in it long before he passed
out altogether beyond the line of thinking his mother had laid down
for him, and definitely grew up.
The office was in New York, far enough away from Clark for him
to be at home only for the Sundays. His mother put him to board
with her brother Charles, a clergyman, the rector of the Church of
Angelic Refreshment at the back of Tenth Street, and the teapot out
of which Uncle Charles poured his tea at his hurried and
uncomfortable meals--for he practised the austerities and had no
wife--dribbled at its spout. Hold it as carefully as one might it
dribbled at its spout, and added to the confused appearance of the
table by staining the cloth afresh every time it was used.
Mr. Twist, who below the nose was nothing but kindliness and
generosity, his slightly weak chin, his lavishly-lipped mouth,
being all amiability and affection, above the nose was quite
different. In the middle came his nose, a nose that led him to
improve himself, to read and meditate the poets, to be tenacious in
following after the noble; and above were eyes in which simplicity
sat side by side with appreciation; and above these was the
forehead like a dome; and behind this forehead were inventions.
He had not been definitely aware that he was inventive till he
came into daily contact with Uncle Charles's teapot. In his
boyhood he had often fixed up little things for Edith,--she was
three years older than he, and was even then canning and preserving
and ironing,--little simplifications and alleviations of her
labour; but they had been just toys, things that had amused him to
put together and that he forgot as soon as they were done. But the
teapot revealed to him clearly what his forehead was there for. He
would not and could not continue, being the soul of
considerateness, to spill tea on Uncle Charles's table-cloth at
every meal--they had tea at breakfast, and at luncheon, and at
supper--and if he were thirsty he spilled it several times at every
meal. For a long time he coaxed the teapot. He was thoughtful with
it. He handled it with the most delicate precision. He gave it
time. He never hurried it. He never filled it more than half full.
And yet at the end of every pouring, out came the same devastating
dribble on to the cloth.
Then he went out and bought another teapot, one of a different
pattern, with a curved spout instead of a straight one.
The same thing happened.
Then he went to Wanamaker's, and spent an hour in the teapot
section trying one pattern after the other, patiently pouring
water, provided by a tipped but languid and supercilious assistant,
out of each different make of teapot into cups.
They all dribbled.
Then Mr. Twist went home and
vacations as the odd man about the house. Everything centred round
their mother. She made a good deal of work, because of being so
anxious not to give trouble. She wouldn't get out of the way of
evil, but bleakly accepted it. She wouldn't get out of a
draught, but sat in it till one or other of her children remembered
they hadn't shut the door. When the inevitable cold was upon
her and she was lamentably coughing, she would mention the door for
the first time, and quietly say she hadn't liked to trouble
them to shut it, they had seemed so busy with their own
affairs.
But after he had been in the engineering firm a little while, a
further change came over Mr. Twist. He was there to make money,
more money, for his mother. The first duty of an American male had
descended on him. He wished earnestly to fulfil it creditably, in
spite of his own tastes being so simple that his income of
£5000--it was his, not his mother's, but it didn't feel as
if it were--would have been more than sufficient for him. Out of
engineering, then, was he to wrest all the things that might
comfort his mother. He embarked on his career with as determined an
expression on his mouth as so soft and friendly a mouth could be
made to take, and he hadn't been in it long before he passed
out altogether beyond the line of thinking his mother had laid down
for him, and definitely grew up.
The office was in New York, far enough away from Clark for him
to be at home only for the Sundays. His mother put him to board
with her brother Charles, a clergyman, the rector of the Church of
Angelic Refreshment at the back of Tenth Street, and the teapot out
of which Uncle Charles poured his tea at his hurried and
uncomfortable meals--for he practised the austerities and had no
wife--dribbled at its spout. Hold it as carefully as one might it
dribbled at its spout, and added to the confused appearance of the
table by staining the cloth afresh every time it was used.
Mr. Twist, who below the nose was nothing but kindliness and
generosity, his slightly weak chin, his lavishly-lipped mouth,
being all amiability and affection, above the nose was quite
different. In the middle came his nose, a nose that led him to
improve himself, to read and meditate the poets, to be tenacious in
following after the noble; and above were eyes in which simplicity
sat side by side with appreciation; and above these was the
forehead like a dome; and behind this forehead were inventions.
He had not been definitely aware that he was inventive till he
came into daily contact with Uncle Charles's teapot. In his
boyhood he had often fixed up little things for Edith,--she was
three years older than he, and was even then canning and preserving
and ironing,--little simplifications and alleviations of her
labour; but they had been just toys, things that had amused him to
put together and that he forgot as soon as they were done. But the
teapot revealed to him clearly what his forehead was there for. He
would not and could not continue, being the soul of
considerateness, to spill tea on Uncle Charles's table-cloth at
every meal--they had tea at breakfast, and at luncheon, and at
supper--and if he were thirsty he spilled it several times at every
meal. For a long time he coaxed the teapot. He was thoughtful with
it. He handled it with the most delicate precision. He gave it
time. He never hurried it. He never filled it more than half full.
And yet at the end of every pouring, out came the same devastating
dribble on to the cloth.
Then he went out and bought another teapot, one of a different
pattern, with a curved spout instead of a straight one.
The same thing happened.
Then he went to Wanamaker's, and spent an hour in the teapot
section trying one pattern after the other, patiently pouring
water, provided by a tipped but languid and supercilious assistant,
out of each different make of teapot into cups.
They all dribbled.
Then Mr. Twist went home and
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