THE CYNIC EXAGGERATES
Easter is past and spring has burst upon us in all her glory. The
landscape is painted in the freshest and daintiest tints: the beeches
are a sight to make glad the heart of man; the chestnuts with their
cones of cream and pink look in the distance like huge,
newly-replenished candelabra; the slender birches, decked in silvery
white and vivid green, stand gracefully erect, veritable "ladies of the
woods," as Coleridge called them. Here and there a blackthorn bends
beneath its burden of snowy blossom, and calls a challenge to the
hedgerows which have wakened late, and are slow in their dressing.
Occasionally primroses may be seen, though they are not common in these
parts; but on the banks of the lower lane modest violets peep out shyly
from the shadows, and the dull purple flowers of a species of nettle
offer their bashful welcome to spring. The gardens are gorgeous with
daffodils, and the woods with celandine and wild hyacinth; whilst our
humble friends, the buttercups, daisies, and dandelions, have sprung up
in abundance, the merry children of field and wayside charming us all
with their simple beauty.
I spend almost all my leisure time in watching the birds, an occupation
which is in itself a never-failing delight, and I puzzle myself with
questions which no man can answer, but which are imperatively asked all
the same.
Who guides these flocks of tiny travellers, who have journeyed by
trackless routes from distant lands hundreds of miles away, depending
only on the strength of their own wings, and the mysterious vital power
with which God has endowed them? How do they recognise the familiar
haunts of a year ago? How do they know that the woods in these
northern regions are ready for habitation?
I give it up; but I love to see them approach from the distance like a
swiftly-moving cloud, and disappear into the haze again after circling
over the trees which surround the Hall; and I love to walk through the
meadows and see how my feathered brothers and sisters are making the
most of the sunshine and the softened soil.
The blackbird is in full song now, and it darts past, me with its
chirpy "tuck-tuck-tuck"; whilst the lark soars upwards into the azure
with quivering song, full-throated, inimitable.
The sagacious rooks have been busy for days past with household cares,
and have gone about thieving (with a clear conscience, I trust) for
strictly domestic purposes; and the thrushes are just as industrious in
their search for dainties hidden in Mother Earth.
East winds prevail, and rheumatism holds some of my neighbours in
prison and in torment, but to me they bring exhilaration, a voracious
appetite, and the joy of life. Mother Hubbard looks upon me with
loving envy and sighs for the days that are beyond recall.
Poor Mother Hubbard! The hard winter has tried her severely, but she
never complains and is always sweet and cheerful, and promises herself
and me that she will be all right when summer comes. I hope so, for
she has grown inexpressibly dear to her adopted daughter whom she does
her level best to spoil, and if we were parted now we should miss each
other sorely.
I have discovered that she is an excellent chaperon, and enjoys the
role beyond my power of description. What a remarkable little woman
she is! She knows that I keep a record of my experiences, and has got
it into her head that I am writing a book, and she is therefore always
on the look-out for the appearance of the hero. She has given me to
understand that if she can only be in at the _denouement_, when the
hero leads the blushing bride to the altar amid the ill-restrained
murmur of admiration from the crowd, she will be then ready to depart
in peace. Needless to say, it is _I_ who am to be the blushing bride!
It is no doubt a very pleasing fancy, but I am afraid the dear old lady
will have to find contentment in an abstraction.
What amuses me most is her well-founded misgiving as to my ability to
deal adequately with such a situation in my "book."
"You are not very romantic, love," she said to me one evening, when she
had been making unusually large demands upon her imagination, to my
considerable amusement, "and I don't think you will ever be equal to
the greatest writers unless you cultivate that side of your nature.
You know, love, you are rather practical and common-sense and all that
sort of thing, and the men might not know how very nice you are." She
came across and kissed me, hoping I did not mind her candour.
"You see, love, I was always rather romantic myself, and I think I
could help you a bit; though, of course, I am not clever like you. But
I could just tell you what I think ought to be put in, and you could
find suitable language for it.... Now you're laughing at me!"
I believe she thought the hero had arrived when the Cynic turned up on
Easter Monday.
It was a truly beautiful day, typically April, except that the showers
were wanting, and the much-abused clerk who controls the Weather
Department must have been unusually complaisant when he crowded so many
pleasing features into his holiday programme. Until the long shadows
began to creep across the fields it was warm enough to sit out in the
sunshine, whilst there was just sufficient "bite" in the air to make
exercise agreeable.
Every cottage garden had on its gala clothing and smiled a friendly
welcome to the passer-by, and a sky that was almost really blue bent
over a landscape of meadow, moor, and wood that was a perfect fantasy
in every delicate shade of green. And the beasts of the field and the
fowls of the air lifted up their voices in their several degrees of
melody.
It had been a glorious Easter Day, and perhaps on that account I had
risen early on the Monday and gone out bareheaded to catch the Spirit
of the Morning. Farmer Goodenough passed as I stood at the gate, and
threw one of his hearty greetings over his shoulder without pausing in
his walk.
"Look out for customers to-day, Miss 'Olden! There'll be scores in t'
village this afternoon from Broadbeck way."
"But suppose I don't want them, Mr. Goodenough," I replied; "it's
holiday to-day."
"That 'ud be a sin," he shouted; "'make hay while t' sun shines,' as t'
Owd Book says, holiday or no holiday."
There was sense in this. Customers had so far been scarce enough, for
I had been favoured with the patronage of only three paying sitters,
although I had been established in business for eight months. My total
takings from the portraiture branch had not totalled thirty shillings;
and if my neighbours had not grown accustomed to it, the sign at the
bottom of the garden must have appeared very ridiculous indeed. I
therefore anticipated the arrival of excursionists with no little eager
interest.
Half a dozen houses in the village had got out brand new boards
indicating that Teas were provided within, and I knew that from this
date forward until the autumn a very brisk trade would be done on sunny
Saturday afternoons and holidays.
Soon after half-past twelve I caught sight of the advance guard
approaching. The footpaths between Windyridge and Marsland Moor became
dotted with microscopic moving figures which materialised usually into
male and female, walking two and two, even as they went into the ark,
as Widow Robertshaw might have observed.
When they reached the village street the sight of my studio seemed to
astonish them and tickle their fancy. "In the spring a young man's
fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love"--and portraiture. Quite a
group of young people gathered about my sign before two o'clock, and
from that time until five I never sat down for one minute. As fast as
I bowed out one couple another entered, amid a fusillade of
good-humoured chaff and curtly-expressed injunctions to "be quick about
it." I took so much money, comparatively speaking, in three short
hours that I began to see visions and dream dreams--but the Cynic
dispelled them.
He was standing in the garden, talking to Mother Hubbard, when I locked
up the studio, and although he was in shorts I recognised him at once,
for thus had I seen him in my dream. I involuntarily glanced at myself
to make sure that I was correctly garbed and that it was really the
key, and not Madam Rusty's teapot, that I held in my hand.
He came forward smilingly and held out his hand. "How do you do, Miss
Holden? I had intended asking you to take my photograph, but
competition for your favour was so keen that the modesty which has
always been my curse forced me to the background."
"If it had forced you to the background you would have entered my
studio, Mr. Derwent," I replied; "all those who have competed
successfully for my favour were not deterred by dread of the
background. I fear, however, it is now too late to endeavour to
encourage you to overcome your bashfulness."
"Indeed, yes:
"'The shadows of departing day
Creep on once more,'
as the poet hath it, and when one has walked eight or nine miles across
the moors the man within cries out for food and drink even more than
for art. And therefore I have ventured to introduce myself to Mrs.
Hubbard and to inquire if she would make me a cup of tea, and she has
very kindly consented to do so."
I looked at Mother Hubbard, who had sufficient sense of the appropriate
to blush very becomingly.
"You old sinner!" I said, "how dare you impose upon my good nature!
Are there so few neighbours of ours who cater professionally for the
requirements of these 'men within' that we must needs enter into
competition with them?"
Mother Hubbard's nods and winks became so alarmingly expressive,
however, during the course of my speech, that I was in real danger of
becoming confused, so I turned to our guest and extricated myself.
"Be pleased to enter our humble abode, to which we make you heartily
welcome. And in return for such poor hospitality as we can offer you,
you shall regulate the clock, which has lately developed certain
eccentricities, and nail up the creeper on the gable end. Then if time
permits you shall rest your limbs on the wicker chair in the garden and
enlighten us as to what is going on in the world of men."
"With all my heart," he agreed, "and I promise to make so good a tea
that the debt will not be easily repaid."
He did pretty well, I must admit, and when it was over Mother Hubbard,
with a self-conscious cough, and a look that was eloquence itself,
expressed her fixed determination to clear away without my help.
"It's just a little fancy I have, love," she protested, as I tied on my
apron; "I really would like to do it all myself. I am tired of
sitting, and knitting seems to try my eyes to-day."
"Mother Hubbard," I replied, "you are a hypocritical old humbug, and
you are wanting to persuade Mr. Derwent that I am not domesticated,
which is too bad of you. And you know that I take my share of the
work."
"Really, love," said Mother Hubbard, who was almost in tears at the
denseness of my intelligence, "I'm sure Mr. Derwent will understand my
meaning."
I am only too much afraid that he did, for he looked at me out of the
corners of his eyes and said, with a merry twinkle which was provoking:
"I shall certainly need some information about the clock, and a little
assistance with the creeper. Miss Holden, you had better yield to Mrs.
Hubbard's wishes."
"If you cannot regulate a clock without a woman standing over you, or
hold a bit of jasmine in one hand and a hammer in the other without a
woman's assistance, you deserve to remain in your ridiculous
background. You will find the tools in the top drawer of the dresser.
If you will be good enough to get them and go on with your work, Mother
Hubbard and I will soon finish ours."
He grinned, and Mother Hubbard groaned; but before long we were sitting
together in the garden, with the knitting needles making music as usual.
The Cynic leaned back in his chair and watched the blue smoke curl
lazily from his cigarette. The laughter of the visitors had ceased in
the streets, but the voice of song was wafted occasionally to our ears
from the fields below. How is it that homeward-bound excursionists
always sing?
"I take it, Miss Holden, that you are a Prototype, which I spell in
capitals. But I venture to predict that you will not have a large
following. The modern craze is for kudos, and in this particular the
success of an enterprise like yours is not likely to be remarkable."
"What, exactly, is my enterprise?" I inquired. "Please interpret me to
myself."
"The surface reading is easy," he replied, "but the significance is
hieroglyphic. Who can read the riddle of woman's motives? They are
past finding out, and man can only grope for the meaning with
half-blind observation, having eyes indeed, but seeing not; hearing,
but not understanding."
"As, for instance?" I again inquired.
"I will come to your case shortly," he continued, "and meantime I will
speak in parables. I went into a fashionable draper's shop the other
day, as I had business with one of the principals. He was engaged, and
I elected to wait and was accommodated with a seat near the glove
counter. My experiences were distinctly interesting, but I cannot yet
read the riddle they offered me. Before I was summoned to the office
three customers had approached the counter at separate times, and the
procedure was in all three cases on approximately similar lines.
"The lady sailed up to the counter, deposited her parcels upon it,
seated herself upon the waiting chair, adjusted her skirt, and then,
turning to the deferential young gentleman whose head was inclined
artistically to one side in the way that is characteristic of the most
genteel establishments, murmured languidly: 'Gloves, please.'
"The deferential young gentleman brought his head to the perpendicular
and replied: 'Gloves! Yes, madam,' and proceeded to reach down a
half-dozen boxes from the shelves at his back.
"'This, madam,' he said, bringing forth a pair of grey suedes, 'is a
beautiful glove. One of Flint's very best make, and they are produced
specially for our firm. Every pair is guaranteed. We can very
strongly recommend them.'
"The lady took the gloves in her hand, stretched them, and examined
them slowly and critically, whilst the D.Y.G.'s head dropped to the
artistic angle again.
"After having eyed them in silence for a minute or more, and half
conveyed the impression that they were the very gloves she was seeking,
the lady placed them without a word on the counter, and the D.Y.G. with
perfect understanding replaced them in the box.
"He opened another box containing suede gloves in tan.
"'This also is an excellent glove, madam,' he repeated, with all the
precision of a gramophone; 'it is one of our best selling lines, and
its wearing qualities are unsurpassed. You may buy more expensive
gloves, but none of better value.'
"This pair is subjected to the same slow and critical examination,
after which the lady inquires:
"'What is the price?'
"'The price of these gloves, madam, is seven-and-six.' Professing to
confirm his statement by minutely examining the ticket, though, of
course, he is perfectly well aware that there is no mistake, he
repeats: 'Yes, madam, seven-and-six.'
"Again the gloves are laid upon the counter, and again the D.Y.G.
replaces the lid and attacks another box! Meanwhile the lady's gaze is
wandering abstractedly around the shop; picking out an acquaintance
here and there she smiles a recognition; and she seems a little vexed
when a third pair of gloves is placed before her. The same performance
follows, with the same serenity on both sides, but the price has
dropped to five shillings.
"Then the kids are produced, in all shades and at all prices, and are
in turn deposited upon the counter without comment.
"At last the D.Y.G. has exhausted his stock and his familiar
recitations, but fortunately not his urbanity, and he looks at his
customer with deprecation in his eyes.
"'You had some white kid gloves in the window a week or two ago,' she
murmurs, smiling sweetly; 'ten buttons; they were a special price, I
think.'
"'Two-and-eleven, madam?' he asks, hopefully.
"'I believe they were. Yes, two-and-eleven,' she responds, as though
consideration had confirmed her recollection; and in two minutes more
her wants are satisfied, and she departs to another counter to the
performance of Scene 2 in the same act."
"And this is typical of woman's methods?" I ask.
"It serves to show," he replies, "how unfathomable her methods are to
mere man. When _we_ unimaginative mortals enter a shop for a similar
purpose we say:
"'I want a pair of tan kids, seven and three-quarters, about
three-and-six,' and before the current of cold air which came in with
us has circulated round the shop, we are going out with the little
parcel in our pocket. Now why does not woman do the same? _You_ don't
know--nobody knows; nobody really wants to know, or to see her act
otherwise."
"It is a very silly exaggeration," I said, "and if it is characteristic
of _your_ methods they are certainly not past finding out."
The Cynic is really a very irritating person. He has a way of ignoring
your rejoinders which is most annoying, and makes you want to rise up
and shake him. Besides, it isn't courteous.
"Now to return to your own case, Miss Holden. It is not typical and
therefore I call it prototypical. _Why_ you have forsaken London
society (which in this case I spell with a small 's,' to guard against
possible repudiation) is possibly known to yourself, though personally
I doubt it. Why, having found the hermitage and the simple life, you
have adopted photography as a profession in a village where you will be
fortunate if you make an annual profit of ten pounds is another enigma.
But kudos is not everything, and I see in you the archetype of a race
of women philosophers of whom the world stands sorely in need."
"You talk like a book," I said, "and use mighty big words which in my
case need the interpretation of a dictionary, but I'm afraid they cover
a good deal of rubbish, which is typical, if I may say so, of the
ordinary conversation of the modern smart man."
"Nay," said he, "but I am in downright earnest. For every effect there
must be an adequate cause. You may not understand yourself. The why
and wherefore of your action may be hard to discover, but I was wrong
when I said that it was unfathomable. Given skill and perseverance,
the most subtle compound must yield its analysis, but it is not given
to every man to submit a woman's actions to the test, and I beg you to
believe that I was not impertinent enough to make any such suggestion."
"Nevertheless," I said, "I may some day allow you to put my actions
into the crucible, and see if you can find my real motives. I confess
I do not understand myself, and I have nothing to conceal. I think I
should rather like to be analysed."
"Then I may come again?" he asked.
"You may come to be photographed, of course," I replied.
I wonder how old he is, and what he does!