world, “Go your several ways in peace ! Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn-sleeves, put pens behind your ears, wear aprons ; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only—let Harold Skimpole live !”
All this, and a great deal more, he told us, not only with the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candor—speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as if Skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had his singularities, but still had his claims too, which were the general business of the community and must not be slighted. He was quite enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time, in endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding why he was free of them. That he was free of them, I scarcely doubted ; he was so very clear about it himself.
“I covet nothing,” said Mr. Skimpole, in the same light way. “Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce′s excellent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch it, and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient possession of it, and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. My steward′s name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can′t cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business-detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardor ! I don′t regret that I have not a strong will and an immense power of business-detail, to throw myself into objects with surprising ardor. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathise with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down on the grass—in fine weather—and float along an African river, embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence, and sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately, as if I were there. I don′t know that it′s of any direct use my doing so, but it′s all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven′s sake, having Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking horse !”
It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful of the adjuration. Mr. Skimpole′s general position there would have rendered it so, without the addition of what he presently said.
“It′s only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy,” said Mr. Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. “I envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should level in, myself. I don′t feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if you ought to be grateful to me, for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a benefactor to you, by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs, when it leads to such pleasant consequences ? I don′t regret it therefore.”