GRAYSMILL, October 23d.
You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend. I have a
great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call him, who,
by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or I.
Well, I went last Thursday. It took me some time to find the
cottage. After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded
part of the Common, in a slight hollow. It is a sort of double
cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden. I marched
through a rickety gate, and made for the house door. The garden is
one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, luxuriant
still, in spite of the late season. I was just bending over a
chrysanthemum when I heard a startling "Hulloa!" and found myself
accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in hand, at the opposite
end of the gravel walk. He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy
trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw
hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his
head.
"Hulloa!" he cried again.
I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting,
whether Miss Norton were at home.
"She is at home," replied the man, "and who may you be?"
"Perhaps you will kindly tell her," said I, making up by my civility
for his lack of it, "that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her."
Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.
"God bless my soul!" he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers,
"so it's you, is it?"
He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so
I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.
"Come on indoors," said he; "let's surprise them; Gabriel will be
delighted," and he set off at a trot, I after him. He was not a
grand runner. I conjectured at once that his health is not good, and
that he probably looks ten years older than he really is. His hair
is almost white, his face deeply wrinkled.
When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I
found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room. There was a table
in the centre covered with bundles, books, and papers, on the summit
of which, precariously poised on the lid of a biscuit-tin, stood a
jug and some glasses; piles of books lay on the floor; in one corner
stood a stack of brooms, rakes, guns, fishing-rods, sticks, and
umbrellas; and a marvellous medley of coats and hats, baskets,
cords, etc., loaded a groaning row of pegs.
"Wait here," said the old man, tilting the only chair in such a way
that a Bible, a match-box, and a cocoa-tin filled with nails were
safely deposited on the floor. He then popped his head in at three
several doors that opened on to the apartment (it was intended, I
afterwards discovered, for the hall), and finally disappeared behind
one of them which led straight on to a flight of stairs. Suddenly I
heard a scuffling, a sound as of some one coming down head foremost,
and my friend appeared, book and forelock and all.
"This is nice of you!" he cried; then his father stumped downstairs
again, followed by a tall, sweet-faced woman.
"There, Jane," said he, "there she is."
I went up to her; she was, indeed, very shy. "Dear, dear," was all
she said; "deary me, think of this, it's very kind of you, I'm
sure," squeezing my hand the while as if it had been a sponge.
She led me off through the door to the right, into a comparatively
presentable parlour; but her brother took my other hand and pulled
me in the opposite direction.
"No, no," he said; "no, no, we'll go into the kitchen and have tea."
"Yes, come," said Gabriel; "I'm hungry, aren't you? Let's go and
find something to eat."
So we recrossed the hall and passed through a good-sized room which
looked like a second-hand bookshop. Books overflowed the shelves,
and lay in piles in every available corner,--the floor, the table,
the old upright piano, the very chairs, were covered with dusty
volumes. Out of this room led the kitchen, which at least looked
clean. A rosy little maid was leaving after the day's work as we
entered.
"Sit down," said Gabriel's father to me; "sit down, my dear; you
shall have some tea in a minute." And he began taking plates down
from the dresser. Miss Norton, meanwhile, had disappeared, and
presently returned with a loaf, dragging Gabriel after her.
"I can't keep that boy out of the larder," she said plaintively.
Gabriel laughed and fetched the teapot, also a jug and two paper
bags. I thought I had better help, too. I discovered some knives in
the drawer of the table, and set them out.
"Tea or cocoa?" asked Richard Norton, pointing his finger at tea-pot
and jug in turn. I chose cocoa, I can't think why.
"That's lucky," sighed Gabriel; "there's no tea in the bag."
He made the cocoa, Jane Norton cut the bread; at last we sat down. I
don't think I ever enjoyed a meal so much in my life. They ate
voraciously, and we talked meanwhile in the silliest fashion, about
nothing at all, laughing until the tears rolled down our cheeks.
My friend is very funny, but his fun is of the kind that cannot bear
repeating; taken away from himself, separated from his personality,
it would sound merely foolish. You know what I mean. I sat next Miss
Norton during tea. When we had done, Gabriel stood up, chair and
all, and came beside me.
"What do you think of us?" he asked. "Aren't we rather nice?"
"Yes, indeed," I replied; "and the funny part of it is that I feel
as though I'd known you all my life."
"That's just how I feel with you," said Gabriel, and Richard Norton
added,--
"I like you; you're a nice girl; you don't turn up your nose at us
because we live in our own way. You're a nice girl."
"I like your way of living," said I, then. "From what I can see, it
seems to me you are about as free as any one can be in this world,
and that is the best of all things,--freedom."
"You've hit it!" cried Richard Norton, bringing his flat hand down
on the table. "We are free!"
"Now I'll tell you," said Gabriel. "This time last year we had
horrible lodgings in Bloomsbury. Father went every day to drudgery
in a dirty office, helping another man to rob his fellow-creatures;
aunt there gave lessons,--she can't teach a bit; she was only
putting nonsense into the heads of future men and women, and, such
as it was, putting it there wrong. I was doing likewise, and I teach
worse than she does. Of an evening I wrote drivel for the papers. We
were, every one of us, useless and miserable. At last one day I
said--"
"You did!" interrupted his father. "You may live to be a hundred,
you'll never say anything so wise again."
"I said: 'Look here! How many lives have we?' 'One,' replied father.
'What are we alive for?' 'I don't know,' replied father. 'Neither do
I; only I know that life's not worth living as we live it. Let's go
into the country.'"
"I beg your pardon, Gabriel," interrupted his father again; "it was
not quite so, it was better than that. The boy lectured me, Miss
Fletcher,--pitched into me, and I deserved it. He told me I was
fifty-five and a fool for my years. So I was. There was I, grinding
away,--what for? We never saw each other, we never saw the fields,
we were selling all the joys of life for three farthings. So we
decided to drudge no more. Gabriel would have continued, but I could
not allow that; I wanted him here. We found we should have just
enough money to rent a cottage, buy body-covering and plain food. So
here we are. And we are happy. As Gabriel said, What is the use of
toiling for more, when the unprofitable work that brings us a few
extra shillings takes away our capacities for enjoying life? Here we
are, happy all day, eh, Gabriel? He writes his poetry and devours
his books, I devour mine, Jane devours hers; we are learning now all
the beauties of Nature, and man's best thoughts. We are very happy."
A vision of my present life flitted across me, like a cloud on a
sunlit field.
"Oh!" said I, "how I envy you! Nothing useless, not a clog about
you, no stupid formalities, stifling luxuries, no daily lies and
false duties."
"Have you all these?" asked Gabriel.
"Not so badly as some people, but badly enough. I have money, and no
end of respectable relations."
He laughed, and made a wry face.
When I found that it was time to wend my way home, Gabriel offered
to walk with me. I was very glad. On the way out, he stopped in the
hall and knocked half the things off the pegs.
"Beloved aunt!" he cried, "there used to be a hat somewhere!"
I assured him that he need not discomfort himself for my sake, and
he bounded forth bareheaded, with a yell of exultation. On the road
we had a long and somewhat warm discussion on suicide, which was
started by an essay of Montaigne's he happened to be reading. Every
now and again he pulled the book from his pocket and read me
extracts, until it was too dark to see; even then he once struck a
match to find a passage.
For the sake of argument we occasionally took opposite sides, but,
in fact, we were both agreed upon the principal point; namely, that
although man enters the world against his will, he may surely choose
the time and the manner of his exit. That this is every one's right
we both believe, yet believe, also, that the right should be
sparingly used. For although suicide might almost be considered an
act of duty on the part of those suffering from incurable disease,
mental or physical, most of us, however useless and superfluous we
may at times believe ourselves to be, have, willy-nilly, the fate of
some fellow-creature bound up with our own; and it is surely an act
of unpardonable cowardice to make our escape from a world of
difficulties, leaving others to bear the burden of our faults.
But, really, I must put an end to this letter; I never wrote such a
long one in my life, not even I, not even to you. My friend left me
as we approached Graysmill, saying that he dared not set foot on the
confines of respectability.
That was Thursday, and I have not seen him since.
Good-bye, my dearest; I kiss your sweet eyes.