Wings of Wax

It is a very beautiful thing to see young ladies enriching themselves in the activity of reading. It is a very quaint and homey pastime – how calming it is to listen to sweet female voices, speaking the old-fashioned words aloud, knowing they are rapt in attention to the story (even if they may not always understand it, frivolous creatures!), and quite unconscious of their admiring listeners!

The Misses Pecksniff loved to read. It was Miss Charity's greatest consolation to select a book, of an evening, from the extensive Pecksniffian library. Would she read Shakespeare, or Chaucer, or Milton, perhaps? (Milton! That very wonderful author, who spoke so poetically of Heaven and Hell, and so keenly described the natural and correct outcomes of virtue and vice! He was a favorite among the modest Pecksniffs.) No, tonight Miss Charity selected a very fine leather-bound and gilt copy of Ovid, and sat herself down to read for the benefit of her dear sister, and beloved parent.

She had come to the tale of the unfortunate Icarus, and was reading that story in an impressive tone, as her sister leant upon her own knee (what confidence!), and her father dozed – wait, that is an injustice and a falsehood. Mr. Pecksniff did not doze. His mind was too industrious for dozing. He was simply perusing his newspaper, with his languid eyes half-shut, and presented the appearance of dozing; but he was very alert, and listening to Cherry read, when he observed the door to the parlor open, timidly, and reveal the shining head of Tom Pinch.

Tom never liked to intrude on the family's reading hour – and they never liked it either – but he had unfortunately run out of ink in his work, and had come to fetch a spare inkwell from the front room. He paused, at the door, quite unaware of Mr. Pecksniff's glance, and listened to Charity as she read the final lines.

"He waved his naked arms instead of wings, with no more feathers to sustain his FLIGHT," she cried, "And as he called upon his father's name, his voice was smothered in the dark blue sea, now called ICARIAN from the dead…boy's…name." Miss Charity looked up; Miss Mercy looked up; and then, following their father's look, they all three looked at Tom Pinch, until the poor fellow was stared quite out of countenance.

"That is a very tragic story," he remarked, dashing over to the desk, and trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. But at this simple statement, Miss Mercy burst into a peal of Laughter for which he could not at all account.

He was quickly enlightened by the fair Cherry. "Tragic?" she echoed, severely, over her sister's laughter.

"That story is not tragic!" Merry agreed – and judging from her display, she very clearly believed her own words.

Tom hesitated, very much confused, and wondering if he had misheard Charity's reading. "Oh…isn't it? I...I thought Icarus fell into the sea and drowned, did he not?"

"He did drown." The eldest Miss Pecksniff retorted, as she thumbed away to the story of Dido. "But it was not a tragedy – the man was an absolute fool!"

"Quite a fool!" Mercy agreed.

Tom returned a faint "oh," and was very uneasy, until Mr. Pecksniff broke the silence he had hitherto maintained, on his younger pupil's behalf. "Girls," he said – in a very melancholy voice, and Mr. Pecksniff was not often melancholy. "It is not kind of us to speak in such a manner to Mr. Pinch."

Mercy left off her laughing at once. "Really, Pa?" Miss Charity lifted her nose to greet the ceiling plaster. "Indeed, Pa?"

"Indeed, my loves. We are so used to communing amongst ourselves, that we forget Thomas Pinch is unfamiliar with the intricacies of the Greek tradition. I am sure I would not desire to be laughed at, myself, for…let us say…improperly cleaning a stable! Would you want someone to laugh at me for blundering in a subject or task on which I know absolutely nothing about?"

"Never!" cried his attached daughters, in horror – and Miss Mercy shed a tear.

"Then please extend Mr. Pinch the same courtesy," Mr. Pecksniff returned, with a beatific smile, which improved the emotional atmosphere of the room, very much. It did Tom Pinch very good, and clutching the vial of ink in his hand, he thanked his benefactor, and apologized for the interruption.

"Do not go, Mr. Pinch," Mr. Pecksniff entreated that young man, as he turned to leave. Tom paused, and Mr. Pecksniff pursued, sweetly, "It would not do to let you remain ignorant of the Moral of Icarus' sad plight!"

"Oh, oh no, Mr. Pecksniff." Tom shook his head vigorously. "I – I wonder perhaps if I was thinking of the wrong story," he suggested, "when I said Icarus was a tragedy. For you see, I thought Icarus was the one who disobeyed his father, and made the wings of wax, and, so happy of his freedom, flew too close to the sun, and drowned when his wings melted."

"That," said Mr. Pecksniff, calmly, "is the story."

"But – isn't that very sad? Mr. Icarus had at last had his chance at freedom, for which he had waited so long, and in looking too closely at the sun, the bright sun he thought so beautiful, his future hopes were ruined forever. Perhaps he was a little foolish – he should have known better than to fly so close – but surely it is a sad story?"

Tom looked into the face of Mr. Pecksniff, who serenely looked into the faces of his daughters. "You see, my dears? Mr. Pinch misunderstands the Moral, that is all." Fortunately, Mr. Pecksniff was a moral man, and, unlike the cleaning out of stables (on which he was terribly ignorant), he knew this subject pretty well. "Mr. Pinch, the story of Icarus is not so very romantic," he explained, "as educational. Icarus was no hero, as you mistakenly suppose; he was, in fact, a reprobate, a most ungrateful son! His father cautioned him against impulsivity – his good father, who had walked many years on this earth and had, perhaps, some claim to wisdom! He told his beloved son to fly where he was meant to, where it was right to fly, not too high, not too low, but somewhere in the middle – but Icarus' impatience and ambition were his own undoing. If he had listened to the one who knew better, and had said to himself, 'Soaring too high (for my modest abilities) will be my ruin!' he might have lived a long and happy life. But he did not, and perished like the miserable fool he was. At least we may learn by his fate, and remember to keep our proper stations, and not strive for things greater than ourselves, lest we lose everything in trying." With this conclusion, the modest Mr. Pecksniff folded his hands, and contemplated this very moral himself.

What a happy explanation! How clear, and in what simple, gratifying terms Mr. Pecksniff put it! His daughters thought so. They believed even Mr. Pinch should have no difficulty understanding that moral.

"I hope you do understand it, Mr. Pinch," Mr. Pecksniff smiled, patiently waiting for that young man to leave before resuming his newspaper, though he did glance at it, discreetly, once or twice.

Mr. Pinch nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Pecksniff. I – I think I understand it better now. I wish you all a good evening," he added, quietly, and ducked himself out of the door.

-x-

As the eldest Miss Pecksniff returned to her reading, and related the woes of the queen of Carthage, and he resulting demise, in the parlour, Mr. Pinch sat in the dim office, and found himself absently sketching gentlemen with wings, in pencil, on the margins of his paper.

"Why – how silly of me!" he thought, suddenly noticing. He began to scrub out the simple drawings, almost as absently as he had drawn them, for he was still busy, thinking. "I ought to be very grateful to Mr. Pecksniff," he thought, "for his kindness in explaining the moral of Icarus to me. I must be very ignorant in Greek myth indeed, for I evidently misunderstand that tale a great deal. I suppose…that Icarus was rash, and didn't act as he should have. But I do not know if he should have been punished so terribly. I would imagine a desire for freedom would be…rather natural for someone who had been so long imprisoned. But I suppose I am being foolish again." After all, he himself had never been imprisoned – so how could he have any opinion on the subject, either way? He looked at the remnant of wings, on his paper, for a moment.

"At least, before he died, he saw the sun, and knew its light."

And the poor fool scrubbed out the wings on the paper, and returned to his work, like the dutiful young man he was.