Every one has noticed the odd vividness with which certain apparently
unmemorable episodes stand out among one's recollections, though the
details of far more important occasions have become merged in the huge
and nebulous mist of the things one has forgotten. (Memory is a
longish gallery, but the mass of that which is unremembered, how
enormous this is!)
I recall a Sunday evening in Dursley. I had been to church, a rare
thing for me, of an evening, to hear a strange, visiting parson; a man
who had done missionary work in east London and in Northern
Queensland. I remember nothing that he said, and nothing occurred that
night to make it memorable for me. And yet ...
The aftermath of the sunset beyond Dursley valley was very beautiful.
It often was. Venus shone out with mellow brilliance a little to the
right of the church. The air was full of bush scents, and somewhere,
not far from where I stood, dead brushwood was burning and diffusing
abroad the aromatic pungency that fire draws from eucalyptus leaves.
Gradually, I was overcome by that sense of the infinitely romantic
potentialities of life which I suppose overpowers all young people at
times; and, more especially, rather lonely young people. The main
events of my short life filed past before me in review against the
background of an exquisitely melancholy evening sky, illumined by one
perfect star. Even this dim light was further softened for me
presently by the moisture that gathered in my eyes; tears that pricked
with a pain that was almost intolerably sweet. I recalled how, as a
child, I had longed to see strange and far-off lands; how I had
bragged to servants and childish companions that I would travel. And
then, how I had travelled--the _Ariadne_, my companions, my father,
the derelict, Livorno Bay. And then, the blow that cut off all I had
held by, and made of me an unconsidered scrap, owning nothing, and
owned by nobody.
I had been very miserable at the Orphanage. Yes, there was distinct
pleasure in recalling and weighing the sum of my unhappiness at St.
Peter's. I had longed to be quit of it; I had willed to be out in the
open world, free to make what I could of my own life. And, behold, I
was free. My will had accomplished this, had brushed aside the
restraining bonds of the whole organisation supervised by Father
O'Malley. I, a friendless, bare-legged orphan had done this, because I
desired to do it. And now I was a recognised and respectable unit in a
free community, earning and paying my way with the best. (I was
pleasantly conscious of my blue serge suit, the satin tie, and the
multi-coloured silk handkerchief.) I was possessed of Capital--more
than twenty pounds; quite a substantial little sum in excess of twenty
pounds, even without the interest shortly to be added thereto.
Finally, that very evening, had I not been addressed as 'Mister
Freydon,' I, the erstwhile bare-footed 'inmate' of St. Peter's? There
was nothing of bathos, nothing in the least ludicrous, to me in this
last reflection.
'It's nothing, of course,' I told myself, with proud deprecation; 'and
he's only a shop assistant. But there it is. It does show something
after all. And, besides, he is a member of the School of Arts
Committee!'
The 'he' in this case was, of course, the person who had shown
discernment enough to address me as 'Mister Freydon.' And, deprecate
as I might, the thing had given me a thrill of deep and real
satisfaction. Merely recalling the sound of it added to the exaltation
of my mood, and to my obsession by the wonder, the romance of the
various transitions of my life.
The hazards of life, the wonder of it all--this it was that filled my
mind. How would Ted be struck by it? I thought. And there and then I
composed in my mind the letter which should accompany my return of the
pound he had given me when I could find an address to which it could
be sent. There should be no flinching here, no blinking the exact
truth. I may have been an insufferable young prig and snob. Very
likely I was. As I recall it that letter, composed while I gazed
across the valley at the evening star, was informed by a sort of easy
condescension and friendly patronage. Grateful, yes, but with a faint
hint, too, that Ted had been rather fortunate, a little honoured
perhaps in having enjoyed the privilege of assisting, however
slightly, in the launch of my career. At one time I had gladly
regarded it as a present. That, it seemed, was a blunder of my remote
infancy. Honest Ted's pound was a loan, of course, and like any other
honourable man I should naturally repay the loan!
Musing in this wise I turned away from the evening star, and walked
very slowly past the dairy and the wash-house to my own little room.
Now the odd thing was that, though I seemed to have given not one
single thought to the future, though I seemed to have made no plan,
but, on the contrary, to have confined myself exclusively to the
idlest sort of musing upon the past, yet, as I walked into my dark
room, I knew that I had definitely decided to leave Dursley at once,
and take the next step in my career. I actually whispered to myself:
'It's a good little room. I shall miss this room. I shall often think
of the nights I've spent here.'
All this, as though my few belongings had been packed, and I had
arranged to depart next morning; though, in fact, I had not given a
single conscious thought to the matter of leaving Dursley until I
turned my back on the evening star.
Next morning at breakfast I told Mrs. Gabbitas I meant to leave and
make for Sydney; and Mrs. Gabbitas gave me to understand that, with
all their infinite varieties of foolishness, most young fellows shared
one idiosyncrasy in common: they none of them had sense enough to know
when they were well off. I spoke of my shorthand, and said I had not
been working at it for nothing. Mrs. Gabbitas sniffed, and expressed
very plainly the doubts she felt about shorthand ever providing me
with meals of the kind I enjoyed at her kitchen table.
'I suppose the fact is gardening isn't good enough for you, and you
want to be a gentleman,' the good soul said, with sounding irony. And,
whilst I made some modestly deprecatory sound in reply, my thoughts
said: 'You are precisely right.'
With news in hand I have no doubt Mrs. Gabbitas took an early
opportunity of a chat with Mrs. Perkins. At all events I had no sooner
got my lawn-mower to work that morning than the mistress called me to
her where she lay on the verandah.
'Is it true we're going to lose you, Nick?' she said very kindly. And,
as my irritating way still was, I blushed confusedly as I endorsed the
report.
'Well, of course, we knew we should, sooner or later; and, though
we'll be sorry to lose you, you are right to go; quite right. I am
sure of that, and so is Geo--so is Mr. Perkins. But have you got a
situation to go to, Nick?'
I told her I had not, and that I did not think I could secure a berth
in Sydney while I was still in Dursley.
'No, no, perhaps not,' she said musingly. 'You must talk to Mr.
Perkins about it, and I will, too. What made you decide on going now,
Nick?'
'I--I don't know,' I replied awkwardly. And then the sweet kindliness
of her face emboldened me to add: 'I was just thinking last
night--thinking about my life as I looked at the sky where the sunset had
been, and--somehow, I found I was decided.' Then, as if to justify if
possible the exceeding lameness of my explanation: 'You see, Mrs.
Perkins, I've got the hang of the shorthand pretty well now,' I added.
She nodded sympathetically. 'Well, I'm sure you'll succeed, Nick, I'm
sure you will; for you're a good lad, and very persevering. The main
thing is being a good lad, Nick; that's the main thing. It's sad for
you, having lost your parents, and--and everything. But when you go
away, Nick, just try to think of me as if I were your mother, will
you? I'll be thinking quite a lot of you, you know. Don't you go and
fancy there's nobody cares about you. We shall all be thinking a lot
about you. And, Nick, if ever you find yourself in any trouble, if you
begin to feel you're going wrong in any way, if you feel like doing
anything you know is wrong, or if you feel downhearted and lonesome--you
just get into a train and come to Dursley, Nick. Come straight
here to me, and tell me everything about it, and--and I think I'll be
able to help you. I'll try, anyhow; and you'll know I should want to.
And if it isn't easy to come tell me just the same; write and tell me
all about it. Promise me that, Nick.'
I promised her. She held out her white, thin hand and clasped my hard
hand in it; and I went off to my mowing very conscious of my eyes
because they smarted and pricked, but little indebted to them because
they failed to show me anything more definite than a blur of greenery
at my feet, and a blur of sunlight above.
A fortnight elapsed before I did really leave that place; but for me
most of the emotion of leaving, of parting with my kindly employers
and friends, and with pretty, peaceful Dursley, was epitomised in that
little conversation on the verandah with Mrs. Perkins. I know now that
there are many other sweet and kindly women in the world. At that time
no one among them had ever been so sweet and kind to me.