Obeying a domestic mandate, Padna wrapped a pair of boots in paper and
took them to the shoemaker, who operated behind a window in a quiet
street.
The shoemaker seemed to Padna a melancholy man. He wore great
spectacles, had a white patch of forehead, and two great bumps upon it.
Padna concluded that the bumps had been encouraged by the professional
necessity of constantly hanging his head over his knees.
The shoemaker invited Padna to sit down in his workshop, which he did.
Padna thought it must be very dreary to sit there all day among old and
new boots, pieces of leather, boxes of brass eyelets, awls, knives, and
punchers. No wonder the shoemaker was a melancholy-looking man.
Padna maintained a discreet silence while the shoemaker turned his
critical glasses upon the boots he had brought him for repair. Suddenly
the great glasses were turned upon Padna himself, and the shoemaker
addressed him in a voice of amazing pleasantness.
"When did you hear the cuckoo?" he asked.
Padna, at first startled, pulled himself together. "Yesterday," he
replied.
"Did you look at the sole of your boot when you heard him?" the
shoemaker asked.
"No," said Padna.
"Well," said the shoemaker, "whenever you hear the cuckoo for the first
time in the spring always look at the sole of your right boot. There you
will find a hair. And that hair will tell you the kind of a wife you
will get."
The shoemaker picked a long hair from the sole of Padna's boot and held
it up in the light of the window.
"You'll be married to a brown-haired woman," he said. Padna looked at
the hair without fear, favour, or affection, and said nothing.
The shoemaker took his place on his bench, selected a half-made shoe,
got it between his knees, and began to stitch with great gusto. Padna
admired the skilful manner in which he made the holes with his awl and
drew the wax-end with rapid strokes. Padna abandoned the impression that
the shoemaker was a melancholy man. He thought he never sat near a man
so optimistic, so mentally emancipated, so detached from the indignity
of his occupation.
"These are very small shoes you are stitching," said Padna, making
himself agreeable.
"They are," said the shoemaker. "But do you know who makes the smallest
shoes in the world? You don't? Well, well!... The smallest shoes in the
world are made by the clurichaun, a cousin of the leprechaun. If you
creep up on the west side of a fairy fort after the sun has set and put
your ear to the grass you'll hear the tapping of his hammer. And do you
know who the clurichaun makes shoes for? You don't? Well, well!... He
makes shoes for the swallows. Oh, indeed they do, swallows wear shoes.
Twice a year swallows wear shoes. They wear them in the spring, and
again at the fall of the year. They wear them when they fly from one
world to another. And they cross the Dead Sea. Did you ever hear tell of
the Dead Sea? You did. Well, well!... No bird ever yet flew across the
Dead Sea. Any of them that tried it dropped and sank like a stone. So
the swallows, when they come to the Dead Sea, get down on the bank, and
there the clurichauns have millions of shoes waiting for them. The
swallows put on their shoes and walk across the Dead Sea, stepping on
bright yellow and black stepping-stones that shine across the water like
a lovely carpet. And do you know what the stepping-stones across the
Dead Sea are? They are the backs of sleeping frogs. And when the
swallows are all safe across the frogs waken up and begin to sing, for
then it is known the summer will come. Did you never hear that before?
No? Well, well!"
A cat, friendly as the shoemaker himself, leapt on to Padna's lap. The
shoemaker shifted the shoe he was stitching between his knees, putting
the heel where the toe had been.
"Do you know where they first discovered electricity?" he asked.
"In America," Padna ventured.
"No. In the back of a cat. He was a big buck Chinese cat. Every hair on
him was seven inches long, in colour gold, and thick as copper wire. He
was the only cat who ever looked on the face of the Empress of China
without blinking, and when the Emperor saw that he called him over and
stroked him on the back. No sooner did the Emperor of China stroke the
buck cat than back he fell on his plush throne, as dead as his
ancestors. So they called in seven wise doctors from the seven wise
countries of the East to find out what it was killed the Emperor. And
after seven years they discovered electricity in the backbone of the
cat, and signed a proclamation that it was from the shock of it the
Emperor had died. When the Americans read the proclamation they decided
to do whatever killing had to be done as the cat had killed the Emperor
of China. The Americans are like that--all for imitating royal
families."
"Has this cat any electricity in her?" Padna asked.
"She has," said the shoemaker, drawing his wax-end. "But she's a
civilised cat, not like the vulgar fellow in China, and civilised cats
hide their electricity much as civilised people hide their feelings. But
one day last summer I saw her showing her electricity. A monstrous black
rat came prowling from the brewery, a bald patch on his head and a piece
missing from his left haunch. To see that fellow coming up out of a
gullet and stepping up the street, in the middle of the broad daylight,
you'd imagine he was the county inspector of police."
"And did she fight the rat?" Padna asked.
The shoemaker put the shoe on a last and began to tap with his hammer.
"She did fight him," he said. "She went out to him twirling her
moustaches. He lay down on his back. She lay down on her side. They kept
grinning and sparring at each other like that for half an hour. At last
the monstrous rat got up in a fury and come at her, the fangs stripped.
She swung round the yard, doubled in two, making circles like a
Catherine-wheel about him until the old blackguard was mesmerised. And
if you were to see the bulk of her tail then, all her electricity gone
into it! She caught him with a blow of it under the jowl, and he fell in
a swoon. She stood over him, her back like the bend of a hoop, the tail
beating about her, and a smile on the side of her face. And that was the
end of the monstrous brewery rat."
Padna said nothing, but put the cat down on the floor. When she made
some effort to regain his lap he surreptitiously suggested, with the tip
of his boot, that their entente was at an end.
A few drops of rain beat on the window, and the shoemaker looked up, his
glasses shining, the bumps on his forehead gleaming. "Do you know the
reason God makes it rain?" he asked.
Padna, who had been listening to the conversation of two farmers the
evening before, replied, "I do. To make turnips grow."
"Nonsense!" said the shoemaker, reaching out for an awl. "God makes it
rain to remind us of the Deluge. And I don't mean the Deluge that was
at all at all. I mean the Deluge that is to come. The world will be
drowned again. The belly-band of the sky will give, for that's what the
rainbow is, and it only made of colours. Did you never know until now
what the rainbow was? No? Well, well!... As I was saying, when the
belly-band of the sky bursts the Deluge will come. In one minute all the
valleys of the earth will be filled up. In the second minute the
mountains will be topped. In the third minute the sky will be emptied
and its skin gone, and the earth will be no more. There will be no ark,
no Noah, and no dove. There will be nothing only one great waste of grey
water and in the middle of it one green leaf. The green leaf will be a
sign that God has gone to sleep, the trouble of the world banished from
His mind. So whenever it rains remember my words."
Padna said he would, and then went home.