Testimonies: A Novel by Patrick O'Brian

quick at figures. Before, the old man had always had to take his tax papers and all the Ministry forms—there were so many of them—to the schoolmaster, who was very kind, but it meant giving away everything about the farm, which came hard. By the time Emyr was fifteen he could understand them and write the letters, and he could settle with the people at the Grading and write to England for hay and cake and read the instructions on the bottles of medicine for liver-fluke and all the things for the sheep. He was wonderful with sheep, Emyr. The old man was good with cows, but he never really loved the sheep, and he was not fortunate with them; and of course the farm lived on sheep. The milk was just a small thing for spending-money, like the poultry, specially as we often had to buy hay in the winter, because of the bad weather. It was the same with Mrs. Vaughan and the hens: she did her best, but she was never lucky with them. It was not for want of care or hard work, but something always happened. The rats had the eggs and the chicks, or it was the fox (the foxes were terrible in Cwm Bugail). Or there were too many on the ground and they poisoned it, or half of them were broody—there was always something. The marten-cat killed sixty-four in one night.
    Q . But Emyr?
    A . Yes; I was coming back to Emyr. They used to tell him how clever he was, and of course he saw what a difference it made when he came to be the one who worked the farm and made improvements. If he had not had a lot of real goodness they must have spoiled him: Mr. Lloyd the schoolmaster was very good for him and often stopped him when he talked too much like a grandfather, and Emyr took it well from him, though he was touchy as a rule.
    Q . Did you and Emyr quarrel much to begin with? It often happens at the beginning of a marriage.
    A . No, not at first. I tried so hard not to quarrel; I hated hard words and the feeling of crossness. At home we hardly ever quarreled, and I never heard my father and mother say anything unkind to one another. I can remember every one of the times when my father was angry with me, and how it hurt.
    No, at first I would not quarrel, and in those days Emyr was so kind that we never wanted to, much.
    Q . You did not think Emyr was so fine as his parents did. What was it that made you think that way?
    A . I saw his faults, I suppose; and they did not think he had any.
    Q . What were they? What could an enemy say truly of him?
    A . He did not treat his parents right. That was the thing I saw first. He loved them, of course, but he said what was to be done and he worked them hard. He worked very hard too and they thought it quite natural that they should, but they were old, and I hated to hear him say to his father, “No, this year we will have oats in Cefn Bach,” or “You will build up the wall by Hafod if I go to the sale this afternoon, isn’t it?” He took the nice jobs, like going to the sales: he did that much better than the old man (he was a far better judge of sheep) but the old man loved to go, and meet his friends and talk. I did not like that: and I had never heard a young man contradict his father before. Then Emyr was mean: he knew it and tried hard to overcome it sometimes, so that he spent more or gave away more than was necessary. But it was the real meanness, not like his father, who had been so frightened by not having money that a pound to him was like twenty to another man (when he started farming there was nothing if you failed, and in a hard year it could really be the workhouse or starvation, and the old ones of those days did starve sometimes). With Emyr it was something different and worse: I could see it in his face, over a sixpence perhaps that the servant thought he should have, or over some little thing broken. His voice would change, and he looked horrible: I was ashamed to see him then.
    The other thing was with animals. He was as tender and gentle with them as a woman nearly always; very good