AND PANKY
My father found the ascent more fatiguing than he remembered it to have
been. The climb, he said, was steady, and took him between four and
five hours, as near as he could guess, now that he had no watch; but it
offered nothing that could be called a difficulty, and the watercourse
that came down from the saddle was a sufficient guide; once or twice
there were waterfalls, but they did not seriously delay him.
After he had climbed some three thousand feet, he began to be on the
alert for some sound of ghostly chanting from the statues; but he heard
nothing, and toiled on till he came to a sprinkling of fresh snow--part
of the fall which he had observed on the preceding day as having
whitened the higher mountains; he knew, therefore, that he must now be
nearing the saddle. The snow grew rapidly deeper, and by the time he
reached the statues the ground was covered to a depth of two or three
inches.
He found the statues smaller than he had expected. He had said in his
book--written many months after he had seen them--that they were about
six times the size of life, but he now thought that four or five times
would have been enough to say. Their mouths were much clogged with
snow, so that even though there had been a strong wind (which there
was not) they would not have chanted. In other respects he found them
not less mysteriously impressive than at first. He walked two or three
times all round them, and then went on.
The snow did not continue far down, but before long my father entered
a thick bank of cloud, and had to feel his way cautiously along the
stream that descended from the pass. It was some two hours before
he emerged into clear air, and found himself on the level bed of an
old lake now grassed over. He had quite forgotten this feature of
the descent--perhaps the clouds had hung over it; he was overjoyed,
however, to find that the flat ground abounded with a kind of quail,
larger than ours, and hardly, if at all, smaller than a partridge. The
abundance of these quails surprised him, for he did not remember them
as plentiful anywhere on the Erewhonian side of the mountains.
The Erewhonian quail, like its now nearly, if not quite, extinct New
Zealand congener, can take three successive flights of a few yards
each, but then becomes exhausted; hence quails are only found on ground
that is never burned, and where there are no wild animals to molest
them; the cats and dogs that accompany European civilisation soon
exterminate them; my father, therefore, felt safe in concluding that
he was still far from any village. Moreover he could see no sheep or
goat’s dung; and this surprised him, for he thought he had found signs
of pasturage much higher than this. Doubtless, he said to himself,
when he wrote his book he had forgotten how long the descent had been.
But it was odd, for the grass was good feed enough, and ought, he
considered, to have been well stocked.
Tired with his climb, during which he had not rested to take food, but
had eaten biscuits, as he walked, he gave himself a good long rest, and
when refreshed, he ran down a couple of dozen quails, some of which he
meant to eat when he camped for the night, while the others would help
him out of a difficulty which had been troubling him for some time.
What was he to say when people asked him, as they were sure to do,
how he was living? And how was he to get enough Erewhonian money to
keep him going till he could find some safe means of selling a few of
his nuggets? He had had a little Erewhonian money when he went up in
the balloon, but had thrown it over, with everything else except the
clothes he wore and his MSS., when the balloon was nearing the water.
He had nothing with him that he dared offer for sale, and though he had
plenty of gold, was in reality penniless.
When, therefore, he saw the quails, he again felt as though some
friendly spirit was smoothing his way before him. What more easy than
to sell them at Coldharbour (for so the name of the town in which he
had been imprisoned should be translated), where he knew they were a
delicacy, and would fetch him the value of an English shilling a piece?
It took him between two and three hours to catch two dozen. When he
had thus got what he considered a sufficient stock, he tied their legs
together with rushes, and ran a stout stick through the whole lot. Soon
afterwards he came upon a wood of stunted pines, which, though there
was not much undergrowth, nevertheless afforded considerable shelter
and enabled him to gather wood enough to make himself a good fire. This
was acceptable, for though the days were long, it was now evening, and
as soon as the sun had gone the air became crisp and frosty.
Here he resolved to pass the night. He chose a part where the trees
were thickest, lit his fire, plucked and cleaned four quails, filled
his billy with water from the stream hard by, made tea in his pannikin,
grilled two of his birds on the embers, ate them, and when he had done
all this, he lit his pipe and began to think things over. “So far so
good,” said he to himself; but hardly had the words passed through
his mind before he was startled by the sound of voices, still at some
distance, but evidently drawing towards him.
He instantly gathered up his billy, pannikin, tea, biscuits, and
blanket, all of which he had determined to discard and hide on the
following morning; everything that could betray him he carried full
haste into the wood some few yards off, in the direction opposite to
that from which the voices were coming, but he let his quails lie where
they were, and put his pipe and tobacco in his pocket.
The voices drew nearer and nearer, and it was all my father could do to
get back and sit down innocently by his fire, before he could hear what
was being said.
“Thank goodness,” said one of the speakers (of course in the Erewhonian
language), “we seem to be finding somebody at last. I hope it is not
some poacher; we had better be careful.”
“Nonsense!” said the other. “It must be one of the rangers. No one
would dare to light a fire while poaching on the King’s preserves. What
o’clock do you make it?”
“Half after nine.” And the watch was still in the speaker’s hand as he
emerged from darkness into the glowing light of the fire. My father
glanced at it, and saw that it was exactly like the one he had worn on
entering Erewhon nearly twenty years previously.
The watch, however, was a very small matter; the dress of these two
men (for there were only two) was far more disconcerting. They were
not in the Erewhonian costume. The one was dressed like an Englishman
or would- be Englishman, while the other was wearing the same kind
of clothes but turned the wrong way round, so that when his face was
towards my father his body seemed to have its back towards him, and
_vice verso_. The man’s head, in fact, appeared to have been screwed
right round; and yet it was plain that if he were stripped he would be
found built like other people.
What could it all mean? The men were about fifty years old. They were
well-to-do people, well clad, well fed, and were felt instinctively by
my father to belong to the academic classes. That one of them should
be dressed like a sensible Englishman dismayed my father as much as
that the other should have a watch, and look as if he had just broken
out of Bedlam, or as King Dagobert must have looked if he had worn all
his clothes as he is said to have worn his breeches. Both wore their
clothes so easily--for he who wore them reversed had evidently been
measured with a view to this absurd fashion--that it was plain their
dress was habitual.
My father was alarmed as well as astounded, for he saw that what little
plan of a campaign he had formed must be reconstructed, and he had no
idea in what direction his next move should be taken; but he was a
ready man, and knew that when people have taken any idea into their
heads, a little confirmation will fix it. A first idea is like a strong
seedling; it will grow if it can.
In less time than it will have taken the reader to get through the last
foregoing paragraphs, my father took up the cue furnished him by the
second speaker.
“Yes,” said he, going boldly up to this gentleman, “I am one of the
rangers, and it is my duty to ask you what you are doing here upon the
King’s preserves.”
“Quite so, my man,” was the rejoinder. “We have been to see the statues
at the head of the pass, and have a permit from the Mayor of Sunch’ston
to enter upon the preserves. We lost ourselves in the thick fog, both
going and coming back.”
My father inwardly blessed the fog. He did not catch the name of the
town, but presently found that it was commonly pronounced as I have
written it.
“Be pleased to show it me,” said my father in his politest manner. On
this a document was handed to him.
I will here explain that I shall translate the names of men and places,
as well as the substance of the document; and I shall translate all
names in future. Indeed I have just done so in the case of Sunch’ston.
As an example, let me explain that the true Erewhonian names for Hanky
and Panky, to whom the reader will be immediately introduced, are
Sukoh and Sukop--names too cacophonous to be read with pleasure by the
English public. I must ask the reader to believe that in all cases I am
doing my best to give the spirit of the original name.
I would also express my regret that my father did not either uniformly
keep to the true Erewhonian names, as in the cases of Senoj Nosnibor,
Ydgrun, Thims, &c.--names which occur constantly in Erewhon--or
else invariably invent a name, as he did whenever he considered
the true name impossible. My poor mother’s name, for example, was
really Nna Haras, and Mahaina’s Enaj Ysteb, which he dared not face.
He, therefore, gave these characters the first names that euphony
suggested, without any attempt at translation. Rightly or wrongly, I
have determined to keep consistently to translation for all names not
used in my father’s book; and throughout, whether as regards names or
conversations, I shall translate with the freedom without which no
translation rises above construe level.
Let me now return to the permit. The earlier part of the document was
printed, and ran as follows:-
“Extracts from the Act for the afforesting of certain lands lying
between the town of Sunchildston, formerly called Coldharbour, and the
mountains which bound the kingdom of Erewhon, passed in the year
Three, being the eighth year of the reign of his Most Gracious Majesty
King Well-beloved the Twenty-Second.
“Whereas it is expedient to prevent any of his Majesty’s subjects from
trying to cross over into unknown lands beyond the mountains, and in
like manner to protect his Majesty’s kingdom from intrusion on the
part of foreign devils, it is hereby enacted that certain lands, more
particularly described hereafter, shall be afforested and set apart as
a hunting-ground for his Majesty’s private use.
“It is also enacted that the Rangers and Under-rangers shall be
required to immediately kill without parley any foreign devil whom
they may encounter coming from the other side of the mountains. They
are to weight the body, and throw it into the Blue Pool under the
waterfall shown on the plan hereto annexed; but on pain of
imprisonment for life they shall not reserve to their own use any
article belonging to the deceased. Neither shall they divulge what
they have done to any one save the Head Ranger, who shall report the
circumstances of the case fully and minutely to his Majesty.
“As regards any of his Majesty’s subjects who may be taken while
trespassing on his Majesty’s preserves without a special permit signed
by the Mayor of Sunchildston, or any who may be convicted of poaching
on the said preserves, the Rangers shall forthwith arrest them and
bring them before the Mayor of Sunchildston, who shall enquire into
their antecedents, and punish them with such term of imprisonment,
with hard labour, as he may think fit, provided that no such term be
of less duration than twelve calendar months.
“For the further provisions of the said Act, those whom it may concern
are referred to the Act in full, a copy of which may be seen at the
official residence of the Mayor of Sunchildston.”
Then followed in MS. “XIX. xii. 29. Permit Professor Hanky, Royal
Professor of Worldly Wisdom at Bridgeford, seat of learning, city
of the people who are above suspicion, and Professor Panky, Royal
Professor of Unworldly Wisdom in the said city, or either of them”
[here the MS. ended, the rest of the permit being in print] “to pass
freely during the space of forty-eight hours from the date hereof,
over the King’s preserves, provided, under pain of imprisonment with
hard labour for twelve months, that they do not kill, nor cause to
be killed, nor eat, if another have killed, any one or more of his
Majesty’s quails.”
The signature was such a scrawl that my father could not read it,
but underneath was printed, “Mayor of Sunchildston, formerly called
Coldharbour.”
What a mass of information did not my father gather as he read, but
what a far greater mass did he not see that he must get hold of ere he
could reconstruct his plans intelligently.
“The year three,” indeed; and XIX. xii. 29, in Roman and Arabic
characters! There were no such characters when he was in Erewhon
before. It flashed upon him that he had repeatedly shewn them to
the Nosnibors, and had once even written them down. It could not be
that . . . No, it was impossible; and yet there was the European dress,
aimed at by the one Professor, and attained by the other. Again “XIX.”
what was that? “xii.” might do for December, but it was now the 4th of
December not the 29th. “Afforested” too? Then that was why he had seen
no sheep tracks. And how about the quails he had so innocently killed?
What would have happened if he had tried to sell them in Coldharbour?
What other like fatal error might he not ignorantly commit? And why had
Coldharbour become Sunchildston?
These thoughts raced through my poor father’s brain as he slowly
perused the paper handed to him by the Professors. To give himself time
he feigned to be a poor scholar, but when he had delayed as long as he
dared, he returned it to the one who had given it him. Without changing
a muscle he said--
“Your permit, sir, is quite regular. You can either stay here the night
or go on to Sunchildston as you think fit. May I ask which of you two
gentlemen is Professor Hanky, and which Professor Panky?”
“My name is Panky,” said the one who had the watch, who wore his
clothes reversed, and who had thought my father might be a poacher.
“And mine Hanky,” said the other.
“What do you think, Panky,” he added, turning to his brother Professor,
“had we not better stay here till sunrise? We are both of us tired, and
this fellow can make us a good fire. It is very dark, and there will
be no moon this two hours. We are hungry, but we can hold out till we
get to Sunchildston; it cannot be more than eight or nine miles further
down.”
Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said, “My
man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress? Why are you not in
ranger’s uniform, and what is the meaning of all those quails?” For his
seedling idea that my father was in reality a poacher was doing its
best to grow.
Quick as thought my father answered, “The Head Ranger sent me a message
this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston by
to-morrow afternoon. As for the dress, we can run the quails down
quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear out
old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town. My uniform
is in the ranger’s shelter an hour and a half higher up the valley.”
“See what comes,” said Panky, “of having a whippersnapper not yet
twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger. As for this
fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him.”
“The man is all right, Panky,” said Hanky, “and seems to be a decent
fellow enough.” Then to my father, “How many brace have you got?” And
he looked at them a little wistfully.
“I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight brace. I
must run down ten more brace to-morrow.”
“I see, I see.” Then, turning to Panky, he said, “Of course, they are
wanted for the Mayor’s banquet on Sunday. By the way, we have not yet
received our invitation; I suppose we shall find it when we get back to
Sunchildston.”
“Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!” groaned my father inwardly; but he changed
not a muscle of his face, and said stolidly to Professor Hanky, “I
think you must be right, sir; but there was nothing said about it to
me, I was only told to bring the birds.”
Thus tenderly did he water the Professor’s second seedling. But Panky
had his seedling too, and, Cain-like, was jealous that Hanky’s should
flourish while his own was withering.
“And what, pray, my man,” he said somewhat peremptorily to my father,
“are those two plucked quails doing? Were you to deliver them plucked?
And what bird did those bones belong to which I see lying by the fire
with the flesh all eaten off them? Are the under-rangers allowed not
only to wear the forbidden dress but to eat the King’s quails as well?”
The form in which the question was asked gave my father his cue.
He laughed heartily, and said, “Why, sir, those plucked birds are
landrails, not quails, and those bones are landrail bones. Look at this
thigh-bone; was there ever a quail with such a bone as that?”
I cannot say whether or no Professor Panky was really deceived by the
sweet effrontery with which my father proffered him the bone. If he was
taken in, his answer was dictated simply by a donnish unwillingness to
allow any one to be better informed on any subject than he was himself.
My father, when I suggested this to him, would not hear of it. “Oh no,”
he said; “the man knew well enough that I was lying.” However this may
be, the Professor’s manner changed.
“You are right,” he said, “I thought they were landrail bones, but was
not sure till I had one in my hand. I see, too, that the plucked birds
are landrails, but there is little light, and I have not often seen
them without their feathers.”
“I think,” said my father to me, “that Hanky knew what his friend
meant, for he said, ‘Panky, I am very hungry.’”
“Oh, Hanky, Hanky,” said the other, modulating his harsh voice till it
was quite pleasant. “Don’t corrupt the poor man.”
“Panky, drop that; we are not at Bridgeford now; I am very hungry, and
I believe half those birds are not quails but landrails.”
My father saw he was safe. He said, “Perhaps some of them might prove
to be so, sir, under certain circumstances. I am a poor man, sir.”
“Come, come,” said Hanky; and he slipped a sum equal to about
half-a-crown into my father’s hand.
“I do not know what you mean, sir,” said my father, “and if I did,
half-a- crown would not be nearly enough.”
“Hanky,” said Panky, “you must get this fellow to give you lessons.”