His duty towards his neighbour was
another bugbear. It seemed to him that he had duties towards
everybody, lying in wait for him upon every side, but that nobody
had any duties towards him. Then there was that awful and mysterious
word 'business.' What did it all mean? What was 'business'? His papa
was a wonderfully good man of business, his mamma had often told him
so- but he should never be one. It was hopeless, and very awful, for
people were continually telling him that he would have to earn his own
living. No doubt, but how- considering how stupid, idle, ignorant,
self-indulgent, and physically puny he was? All grown-up people were
clever, except servants- and even these were cleverer than ever he
should be. Oh, why, why, why, could not people be born into the
world as grown-up persons? Then he thought of Casabianca. He had
been examined in that poem by his father not long before. 'When only
would he leave his position? To whom did he call? Did he get an
answer? Why? How many times did he call upon his father? What happened
to him? What was the noblest life that perished there? Do you think
so? Why do you think so?' And all the rest of it.
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