of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the boss’s desk as a
baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to
be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his ...
stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day
of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed up and brushed and
allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there
the wife and girls couldn’t imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his
friends, they supposed.... Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to
our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat
old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss,
who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he,
and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him.
Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, “It’s snug in here, upon my
word!”
“Yes, it’s comfortable enough,” agreed the boss, and he flipped the
_Financial Times_ with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of
his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It
gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the
midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.
“I’ve had it done up lately,” he explained, as he had explained for the
past—how many?—weeks. “New carpet,” and he pointed to the bright red
carpet with a pattern of large white rings. “New furniture,” and he
nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted
treacle. “Electric heating!” He waved almost exultantly towards the five
transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan.
But he did not draw old Woodifield’s attention to the photograph over the
table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral
photographers’ parks with photographers’ storm-clouds behind him. It was
not new. It had been there for over six years.
“There was something I wanted to tell you,” said old Woodifield, and his
eyes grew dim remembering. “Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I
started out this morning.” His hands began to tremble, and patches of red
showed above his beard.
Poor old chap, he’s on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling
kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, “I tell you what.
I’ve got a little drop of something here that’ll do you good before you
go out into the cold again. It’s beautiful stuff. It wouldn’t hurt a
child.” He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his
desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. “That’s the medicine,” said
he. “And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came
from the cellars at Windsor Cassel.”
Old Woodifield’s mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn’t have looked
more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit.
“It’s whisky, ain’t it?” he piped, feebly.
The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it
was.
“D’you know,” said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, “they won’t
let me touch it at home.” And he looked as though he was going to cry.
“Ah, that’s where we know a bit more than the ladies,” cried the boss,
swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the
water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. “Drink it down.
It’ll do you good. And don’t put any water with it. It’s sacrilege to
tamper with stuff like this. Ah!” He tossed off his, pulled out his
handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old
Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps.
The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, “It’s
nutty!”
But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain—he remembered.
“That was it,” he said, heaving himself out of his chair. “I thought
you’d like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at
poor Reggie’s grave, and they happened to come across your boy’s. They’re
quite near each other, it seems.”
Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his
eyelids showed that he heard.
“The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept,” piped the old
voice. “Beautifully looked after. Couldn’t be better if they were at
home. You’ve not been across, have yer?”
“No, no!” For various reasons the boss had not been across.
“There’s miles of it,” quavered old Woodifield, “and it’s all as neat as
a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.” It was
plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.
The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.
“D’you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?” he
piped. “Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude
says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn’t taken more than a
spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away
with her to teach ’em a lesson. Quite right, too; it’s trading on our
feelings. They think because we’re over there having a look around we’re
ready to pay anything. That’s what it is.” And he turned towards the door.
“Quite right, quite right!” cried the boss, though what was quite right
he hadn’t the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the
shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield
was gone.
For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the
grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his
cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: “I’ll see
nobody for half an hour, Macey,” said the boss. “Understand? Nobody at
all.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the fat
body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss
covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged
to weep....
It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that
remark upon him about the boy’s grave. It was exactly as though the earth
had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield’s girls
staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had
passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged,
unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. “My son!” groaned the boss.
But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years
after the boy’s death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by
such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve
him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no
difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down,
but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his
birth the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no
other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no
other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept
going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the
boy’s stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off?
And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in
the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning
they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And
what congratulations he had received as the boy’s father! No wonder; he
had taken to it marvellously. As to his popularity with the staff, every
man jack of them down to old Macey couldn’t make enough of the boy. And
he wasn’t in the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright, natural self,
with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of
saying, “Simply splendid!”
But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day
had come when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought the whole
place crashing about his head. “Deeply regret to inform you....” And he
had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins.
Six years ago, six years.... How quickly time passed! It might have
happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he was
puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn’t feeling as
he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy’s
photograph. But it wasn’t a favorite photograph of his; the expression
was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked
like that.
At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad
inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again.
Help! help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were
wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The boss took
up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of
blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch
that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling
its small sodden body up it began the immense task of cleaning the ink
from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing,
as the stone goes over and under the scythe. Then there was a pause,
while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand
first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting
down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could
imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly,
joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; it was ready for
life again.
But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the
ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting paper, and as the fly tried
its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that? What
indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid
to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully,
it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more
slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.
He’s a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real
admiration for the fly’s courage. That was the way to tackle things;
that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of....
But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just
time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned
body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of
suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss
felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly,
“You artful little b....” And he actually had the brilliant notion of
breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was
something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that
this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen into the inkpot.
It was. The last blot on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly
lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the
front legs were not to be seen.
“Come on,” said the boss. “Look sharp!” And he stirred it with his pen—in
vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.
The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it
into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness
seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and
pressed the bell for Macey.
“Bring me some fresh blotting-paper,” he said, sternly, “and look sharp
about it.” And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it
was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was.... He took
out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him
he could not remember.
THE CANARY
... You see that big nail to the right of the front door? I can scarcely
look at it even now and yet I could not bear to take it out. I should
like to think it was there always even after my time. I sometimes hear
the next people saying, “There must have been a cage hanging from there.”
And it comforts me; I feel he is not quite forgotten.
... You cannot imagine how wonderfully he sang. It was not like the
singing of other canaries. And that isn’t just my fancy. Often, from the
window, I used to see people stop at the gate to listen, or they would
lean over the fence by the mock-orange for quite a long time—carried
away. I suppose it sounds absurd to you—it wouldn’t if you had heard
him—but it really seemed to me that he sang whole songs with a beginning
and an end to them.
For instance, when I’d finished the house in the afternoon, and changed
my blouse and brought my sewing on to the veranda here, he used to hop,
hop, hop from one perch to another, tap against the bars as if to attract
my attention, sip a little water just as a professional singer might, and
then break into a song so exquisite that I had to put my needle down to
listen to him. I can’t describe it; I wish I could. But it was always the
same, every afternoon, and I felt that I understood every note of it.
... I loved him. How I loved him! Perhaps it does not matter so very
much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must.
Of course there was always my little house and the garden, but for some
reason they were never enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they
don’t sympathize. Then I loved the evening star. Does that sound foolish?
I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until it
shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper “There you are, my
darling.” And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me
alone. It seemed to understand this ... something which is like longing,
and yet it is not longing. Or regret—it is more like regret. And yet
regret for what? I have much to be thankful for.
... But after he came into my life I forgot the evening star; I did not
need it any more. But it was strange. When the Chinaman who came to
the door with birds to sell held him up in his tiny cage, and instead
of fluttering, fluttering, like the poor little goldfinches, he gave a
faint, small chirp, I found myself saying, just as I had said to the star
over the gum tree, “There you are, my darling.” From that moment he was
mine.
... It surprises me even now to remember how he and I shared each other’s
lives. The moment I came down in the morning and took the cloth off his
cage he greeted me with a drowsy little note. I knew it meant “Missus!
Missus!” Then I hung him on the nail outside while I got my three young
men their breakfasts, and I never brought him in until we had the house
to ourselves again. Then, when the washing-up was done, it was quite a
little entertainment. I spread a newspaper over a corner of the table and
when I put the cage on it he used to beat with his wings despairingly,
as if he didn’t know what was coming. “You’re a regular little actor,”
I used to scold him. I scraped the tray, dusted it with fresh sand,
filled his seed and water tins, tucked a piece of chickweed and half a
chili between the bars. And I am perfectly certain he understood and
appreciated every item of this little performance. You see by nature he
was exquisitely neat. There was never a speck on his perch. And you’d
only to see him enjoy his bath to realize he had a real small passion
for cleanliness. His bath was put in last. And the moment it was in he
positively leapt into it. First he fluttered one wing, then the other,
then he ducked his head and dabbled his breast feathers. Drops of water
were scattered all over the kitchen, but still he would not get out. I
used to say to him, “Now that’s quite enough. You’re only showing off.”
And at last out he hopped and, standing on one leg, he began to peck
himself dry. Finally he gave a shake, a flick, a twitter and he lifted
his throat—Oh, I can hardly bear to recall it. I was always cleaning the
knives at the time. And it almost seemed to me the knives sang too, as I
rubbed them bright on the board.
... Company, you see—that was what he was. Perfect company. If you have
lived alone you will realize how precious that is. Of course there were
my three young men who came in to supper every evening, and sometimes
stayed in the dining-room afterwards reading the paper. But I could not
expect them to be interested in the little things that made my day. Why
should they be? I was nothing to them. In fact, I overheard them one
evening talking about me on the stairs as “the Scarecrow.” No matter. It
doesn’t matter. Not in the least. I quite understand. They are young. Why
should I mind? But I remember feeling so especially thankful that I was
not quite alone that evening. I told him, after they had gone out. I said
“Do you know what they call Missus?” And he put his head on one side and
looked at me with his little bright eye until I could not help laughing.
It seemed to amuse him.
... Have you kept birds? If you haven’t all this must sound, perhaps,
exaggerated. People have the idea that birds are heartless, cold little
creatures, not like dogs or cats. My washerwoman used to say on Mondays
when she wondered why I didn’t keep “a nice fox terrier,” “There’s no
comfort, Miss, in a canary.” Untrue. Dreadfully untrue. I remember
one night. I had had a very awful dream—dreams can be dreadfully
cruel—even after I had woken up I could not get over it. So I put on my
dressing-gown and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was
a winter night and raining hard. I suppose I was still half asleep, but
through the kitchen window, that hadn’t a blind, it seemed to me the dark
was staring in, spying. And suddenly I felt it was unbearable that I had
no one to whom I could say “I’ve had such a dreadful dream,” or—or “Hide
me from the dark.” I even covered my face for a minute. And then there
came a little “Sweet! Sweet!” His cage was on the table, and the cloth
had slipped so that a chink of light shone through. “Sweet! Sweet!” said
the darling little fellow again, softly, as much as to say, “I’m here,
Missus! I’m here!” That was so beautifully comforting that I nearly cried.
... And now he’s gone. I shall never have another bird, another pet of
any kind. How could I? When I found him, lying on his back, with his eye
dim and his claws wrung, when I realised that never again should I hear
my darling sing, something seemed to die in me. My heart felt hollow,
as if it was his cage. I shall get over it. Of course. I must. One can
get over anything in time. And people always say I have a cheerful
disposition. They are quite right. I thank my God I have.
... All the same, without being morbid, and giving way to—to memories and
so on, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life.
It is hard to say what it is. I don’t mean the sorrow that we all know,
like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is
there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one’s breathing. However
hard I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there,
waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know.
But isn’t it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing it
was just this sadness—ah, what is it?—that I heard?
A MARRIED MAN’S STORY
It is evening. Supper is over. We have left the small, cold dining-room,
we have come back to the sitting-room where there is a fire. All is as
usual. I am sitting at my writing table which is placed across a corner
so that I am behind it, as it were, and facing the room. The lamp with
the green shade is alight; I have before me two large books of reference,
both open, a pile of papers ... all the paraphernalia, in fact, of an
extremely occupied man. My wife, with her little boy on her lap, is in
a low chair before the fire. She is about to put him to bed before she
clears away the dishes and piles them up in the kitchen for the servant
girl to-morrow morning. But the warmth, the quiet, and the sleepy baby,
have made her dreamy. One of his red woollen boots is off, one is on. She
sits, bent forward, clasping the little bare foot, staring into the glow,
and as the fire quickens, falls, flares again, her shadow—an immense
_Mother and Child_—is here and gone again upon the wall....
Outside it is raining. I like to think of that cold drenched window
behind the blind, and beyond, the dark bushes in the garden, their
broad leaves bright with rain, and beyond the fence, the gleaming road
with the two hoarse little gutters singing against each other, and the
wavering reflections of the lamps, like fishes’ tails. While I am here,
I am there, lifting my face to the dim sky, and it seems to me it must
be raining all over the world—that the whole earth is drenched, is
sounding with a soft quick patter or hard steady drumming, or gurgling
and something that is like sobbing and laughing mingled together, and
that light playful splashing that is of water falling into still lakes
and flowing rivers. And all at one and the same moment I am arriving
in a strange city, slipping under the hood of the cab while the driver
whips the cover off the breathing horse, running from shelter to shelter,
dodging someone, swerving by someone else. I am conscious of tall houses,
their doors and shutters sealed against the night, of dripping balconies
and sodden flower-pots. I am brushing through deserted gardens and
falling into moist smelling summer-houses (you know how soft and almost
crumbling the wood of a summer-house is in the rain), I am standing on
the dark quayside, giving my ticket into the wet red hand of the old
sailor in an oilskin. How strong the sea smells! How loudly the tied-up
boats knock against one another! I am crossing the wet stackyard, hooded
in an old sack, carrying a lantern, while the house-dog, like a soaking
doormat, springs, shakes himself over me. And now I am walking along a
deserted road—it is impossible to miss the puddles, and the trees are
stirring—stirring.
But one could go on with such a catalogue for ever—on and on—until one
lifted the single arum lily leaf and discovered the tiny snails clinging,
until one counted ... and what then? Aren’t those just the signs, the
traces of my feeling? The bright green streaks made by someone who walks
over the dewy grass? Not the feeling itself. And as I think that, a
mournful glorious voice begins to sing in my bosom. Yes, perhaps that
is nearer what I mean. What a voice! What power! What velvety softness!
Marvellous!
Suddenly my wife turns round quickly. She knows—how long has she
known?—that I am not “working.” It is strange that with her full, open
gaze, she should smile so timidly—and that she should say in such a
hesitating voice, “What are you thinking?”
I smile and draw two fingers across my forehead in the way I have.
“Nothing,” I answer softly.
At that she stirs, and still trying not to make it sound important, she
says, “Oh, but you must have been thinking of something!”
Then I really meet her gaze, meet it fully, and I fancy her face quivers.
Will she never grow accustomed to these simple—one might say—everyday
little lies? Will she never learn not to expose herself—or to build up
defences?
“Truly, I was thinking of nothing.”
There! I seem to see it dart at her. She turns away, pulls the other red
sock off the baby, sits him up, and begins to unbutton him behind. I
wonder if that little soft rolling bundle sees anything, feels anything?
Now she turns him over on her knee, and in this light, his soft arms and
legs waving, he is extraordinarily like a young crab. A queer thing is
I can’t connect him with my wife and myself; I’ve never accepted him as
ours. Each time when I come into the hall and see the perambulator, I
catch myself thinking: “H’m, someone has brought a baby!” Or, when his
crying wakes me at night, I feel inclined to blame my wife for having
brought the baby in from outside. The truth is, that though one might
suspect her of strong maternal feelings, my wife doesn’t seem to me the
type of woman who bears children in her own body. There’s an immense
difference! Where is that ... animal ease and playfulness, that quick
kissing and cuddling one has been taught to expect of young mothers? She
hasn’t a sign of it. I believe that when she ties its bonnet she feels
like an aunt and not a mother. But of course I may be wrong; she may be
passionately devoted ... I don’t think so. At any rate, isn’t it a trifle
indecent to feel like this about one’s own wife? Indecent or not, one has
these feelings. And one other thing. How can I reasonably expect my wife,
_a broken-hearted woman_, to spend her time tossing the baby? But that is
beside the mark. She never even began to toss when her heart was whole.