Riderless the horse was, and with none to hold his bridle. But he
waited patiently, submissively, there where I saw him, at the shabby
corner of a certain shabby little street in Chelsea. 'My beautiful, my
beautiful, thou standest meekly by,' sang Mrs. Norton of her Arab
steed, 'with thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, thy dark and fiery
eye.' Catching the eye of this other horse, I saw that such fire as
might once have blazed there had long smouldered away. Chestnut though
he was, he had no mettle. His chestnut coat was all dull and rough,
unkempt as that of an inferior cab-horse. Of his once luxuriant mane
there were but a few poor tufts now. His saddle was torn and
weather-stained. The one stirrup that dangled therefrom was red with
rust.
I never saw in any creature a look of such unutterable dejection.
Dejection, in the most literal sense of the word, indeed was his. He
had been cast down. He had fallen from higher and happier things. With
his 'arched neck,' and with other points which not neglect nor
ill-usage could rob of their old grace, he had kept something of his
fallen day about him. In the window of the little shop outside which he
stood were things that seemed to match him--things appealing to the
sense that he appealed to. A tarnished French mirror, a strip of faded
carpet, some rows of battered, tattered books, a few cups and saucers
that had erst been riveted and erst been dusted--all these, in a
gallimaufry of other languid odds and ends, seen through this
mud-splashed window, silently echoed the silent misery of the horse.
They were remembering Zion. They had been beautiful once, and
expensive, and well cared for, and admired, and coveted. And now...
They had, at least, the consolation of being indoors. Public
laughing-stock though they were, they had a barrier of glass between
themselves and the irreverent world. To be warm and dry, too, was
something. Piteous, they could yet afford to pity the horse. He was
more ludicrously, more painfully, misplaced than they. A real
blood-horse that has done his work is rightly left in the open
air--turned out into some sweet meadow or paddock. It would be cruel to
make him spend his declining years inside a house, where no grass is.
Is it less cruel that a fine old rocking-horse should be thrust from
the nursery out into the open air, upon the pavement?
Perhaps some child had just given the horse a contemptuous shove in
passing. For he was rocking gently when I chanced to see him. Nor did
he cease to rock, with a slight creak upon the pavement, so long as I
watched him. A particularly black and bitter north wind was blowing
round the corner of the street. Perhaps it was this that kept the horse
in motion. Boreas himself, invisible to my mortal eyes, may have been
astride the saddle, lashing the tired old horse to this futile
activity. But no, I think rather that the poor thing was rocking of his
own accord, rocking to attract my attention. He saw in me a possible
purchaser. He wanted to show me that he was still sound in wind and
limb. Had I a small son at home? If so, here was the very mount for
him. None of your frisky, showy, first-hand young brutes, on which no
fond parent ought to risk his offspring's bones; but a sound,
steady-going, well-mannered old hack with never a spark of vice in him!
Such was the message that I read in the glassy eye fixed on me. The
nostril of faded scarlet seemed for a moment to dilate and quiver. At
last, at last, was some one going to inquire his price?
Once upon a time, in a far-off fashionable toy-shop, his price had been
prohibitive; and he, the central attraction behind the gleaming
shop-window, had plumed himself on his expensiveness. He had been in no
hurry to be bought. It had seemed to him a good thing to stand there
motionless, majestic, day after day, far beyond the reach of average
purses, and having in his mien something of the frigid nobility of the
horses on the Parthenon frieze, with nothing at all of their unreality.
A coat of real chestnut hair, glossy, glorious! From end to end of the
Parthenon frieze not one of the horses had that.
From end to end of the toy-shop that exhibited him not one of the
horses was thus graced. Their flanks were mere wood, painted white,
with arbitrary blotches of grey here and there. Miserable creatures! It
was difficult to believe that they had souls. No wonder they were
cheap, and 'went off,' as the shopman said, so quickly, whilst he
stayed grandly on, cynosure of eyes that dared not hope for him. Into
bondage they went off, those others, and would be worked to death,
doubtless, by brutal little boys.
When, one fine day, a lady was actually not shocked by the price
demanded for him, his pride was hurt. And when, that evening, he was
packed in brown paper and hoisted to the roof of a four-wheeler, he
faced the future fiercely. Who was this lady that her child should dare
bestride him? With a biblical 'ha, ha,' he vowed that the child should
not stay long in saddle: he must be thrown--badly--even though it was
his seventh birthday. But this wicked intention vanished while the
child danced around him in joy and wonder. Never yet had so many
compliments been showered on him. Here, surely, was more the manner of
a slave than of a master. And how lightly the child rode him, with
never a tug or a kick! And oh, how splendid it was to be flying thus
through the air! Horses were made to be ridden; and he had never before
savoured the true joy of life, for he had never known his own strength
and fleetness. Forward! Backward! Faster, faster! To floor! To ceiling!
Regiments of leaden soldiers watched his wild career. Noah's quiet
sedentary beasts gaped up at him in wonderment--as tiny to him as the
gaping cows in the fields are to you when you pass by in an express
train. This was life indeed! He remembered Katafalto--remembered
Eclipse and the rest nowhere. Aye, thought he, and even thus must Black
Bess have rejoiced along the road to York. And Bucephalus, skimming
under Alexander the plains of Asia, must have had just this glorious
sense of freedom. Only less so! Not Pegasus himself can have flown more
swiftly. Pegasus, at last, became a constellation in the sky. 'Some
day,' reflected the rocking-horse, when the ride was over, 'I, too,
shall die; and five stars will appear on the nursery ceiling.'
Alas for the vanity of equine ambition! I wonder by what stages this
poor beast came down in the world. Did the little boy's father go
bankrupt, leaving it to be sold in a 'lot' with the other toys? Or was
it merely given away, when the little boy grew up, to a poor but
procreative relation, who anon became poorer? I should like to think
that it had been mourned. But I fear that whatever mourning there may
have been for it must have been long ago discarded. The creature did
not look as if it had been ridden in any recent decade. It looked as if
it had almost abandoned the hope of ever being ridden again. It was but
hoping against hope now, as it stood rocking there in the bleak
twilight. Bright warm nurseries were for younger, happier horses. Still
it went on rocking, to show me that it could rock.
The more sentimental a man is, the less is he helpful; the more loth is
he to cancel the cause of his emotion. I did not buy the horse.
A few days later, passing that way, I wished to renew my emotion; but
lo! the horse was gone. Had some finer person than I bought it?--towed
it to the haven where it would be? Likelier, it had but been relegated
to some mirky recess of the shop... I hope it has room to rock there.