Seven Tales and Alexander Read online

  After what seemed an interminable silence, the old woman held up one finger and shook it admonishingly at Uncle Bishop for a long time. ‘You must never do that’, she said. ‘I never allow that—I never allow a naked light, not even in the garden, not anywhere. Did you want to frighten my life out?’

  ‘Let me pay you what I owe. That’s enough. God damn it, what next, what else?’ he muttered. ‘Let me pay you!’

  ‘You might have been the death of me!’ she quavered.

  He did not heed, however, and began to shout with increased impatience:

  ‘Never mind that, let’s pay you and be off; we shall have dark on us.’

  Still she remained unenlightened, muttering constantly about life, fire, and death, until the man mustered suddenly a thunderous shout:

  ‘Let me pay you, do you hear, let me pay you!’

  When she heard at last, there was a change in her demeanour. After an abrupt jerk of her head towards the table and a rapid fluttering of her hands about the bills and leather money-bags, an excited, almost skilful motion, as if she were working on a lace-pillow, she suddenly looked up at Alexander almost gratefully and asked him to add up a little column of figures.

  ‘Add them carefully,’ she warned him, however. ‘Be very careful, your uncle’s money isn’t to be thrown away.’

  ‘Never mind her. Add them up quickly,’ urged his uncle. ‘She’s scared out of her life because we might cheat her. But it’s all right, never mind, you just tell her what it amounts to .…’

  ‘Three pounds, seven and a penny,’ said Alexander after a feverish interval.

  ‘Tell her. Shout!’

  Urged on by his uncle, he found something delightful in shouting, deliberately:

  ‘Three pounds, seven shillings and a penny,’ several times over.

  His uncle began to count out the money, the woman nodding her head with a sort of feverish anticipation. When the three notes, the silver and the odd penny were being passed across the table, he kept shouting:

  ‘Are you satisfied? Are you satisfied?’

  ‘If you are,’ she said. ‘I am if you are.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  ‘Shall I get the reins untied?’ asked Alexander.

  ‘Yes, off you go! I’ll be there before very long!’

  As he left the room and hurried along the gloomy passage he was overcome by a sense of great relief, followed by elation. Reaching the yard, he heard a sound and turned to see all the seven fat dogs following him. He clapped his hands loudly, hastening them into retreat. He felt he was sick of dogs, money, the dark house and the rasping voice and ever-quivering head and fingers of the old woman. He touched the apricot in his pocket repeatedly, feeling very happy. Aroused by his approach, the little horse began to show signs of joy too, stamping one foot, tossing its head and tinkling the harness. Alexander stroked the horse’s nose and then untied the reins and climbed into the cart.

  Five minutes later all was ready. Surrounded by the seven dogs, who crawled about like huge beetles in the approaching twilight, the old woman muttered a few departing words:

  ‘You must come again,’ she said, and it almost seemed as if she regretted their departure. ‘It’s a bad year, and there’s no peace from the boys, but there’s a few black plums, and if anyone does have them it shall be you. They’re very good … Shall I expect you?’

  ‘Yes, you can expect us!’ shouted the man, impatient to flick the whip.

  ‘Here, little one,’ she then said.

  And into the boy’s outstretched hand she reached up and put first a small apple, on which already birds had been feeding, then a piece of cake, this time made with fruit and baked very hard, and lastly a penny. Then she looked up at him rather softly and nicely and said:

  ‘God bless you.’

  And these words seemed to transport him into a rare, trance-like frame of mind, so that he was hardly conscious of her face, the grey house and the seven stupid faces of the dogs slipping gradually away from him, and of the cart beginning to move forward smoothly and steadily, into the summer twilight.

  IV

  They drove forward at an even more leisurely pace than that of the morning. Frequently the little horse walked, the man not using the whip except to flick the air. The baskets creaked under their great weight and the wheels made a monotonous, grinding sound. Elsewhere the same tranquil, almost sleepy hush prevailed as in the early morning and at noon, and the same summer odours remained and the same sense of overbearing, lovely fruitfulness; only outlines and colours were changed; everything shaped itself by degrees of shadow and not light, and it seemed as if flowers and leaves were resting after intense toil, colourless and drooping, simply releasing breaths of heavy perfume.

  Ever since morning the boy had been conscious of casting his thoughts forward to this time. Now, as he began to arrive near the fulfilment of them, he felt a desire to travel as swiftly as they had done. To sit still and not surge recklessly on at the pace of thought was an agony. And before long he could not resist asking:

  ‘Let me drive .…’

  ‘You! It’s too dark. You sit still and eat the old tit’s cake.’

  ‘Shall we be long?’

  ‘We’re almost in the wood.’

  There was something calm and reassuring about these words. He saw the dark belt of trees grow closer and vaster, as though it would wrap itself about him, as though it would reassure and protect him. The singing season was almost past, and owls and jays alone would call in the twilight, but there seemed to him something singing and jubilant in the silence and half-darkness, and gradually his mind filled itself with thoughts and images of a singing, dream-like quality also. And so the distance was obscured, the fading sky retreated and solitary trees standing like dark ghosts seemed to creep away or dissolve where they stood, and nothing remained but the wood standing ready to receive them into its bosom. The little horse slowed to a walk, its feet padding the dust as softly as if shod with leather. The wheels scarcely turned. Nothing called, nothing seemed to happen .… Alexander’s hand crept to his pocket and closed about the apricot. And then, simultaneously, to the accompaniment of myriads of echoes rising like a confusion of voices, the wood closed about him, and the air he breathed became cooler, sharply sweet with a scent of damp leaves and of evening-time and decay.

  They drove on and on. Sounds became more numerous and the wood seemed to be quivering with life. In the echoes of hoofs and wheels, in the stirring branches, in the rustle of invisible creatures over dead leaves, in passing moths, in the cries of birds, in his own breathing, there was something urgent and vital. Sounds seemed to run on before him, heralding his coming.

  More and more, however, he became troubled by the thought that this coming might signify nothing. He was oppressed by uncertainty and he dared not ask if they might stop in the wood.

  All he dared to say, in a casual tone as if he had half-forgotten its existence, was:

  ‘Isn’t this where we stopped at a house?’

  But there was no answer. He waited, and not daring to repeat his question, looked cautiously at his uncle’s face, and seeing something passive and pre-occupied about it, looked away quickly without a word, lapsing into a mood of half-painful, half-joyful expectancy.

  He was astonished a moment later by feeling the cart suddenly come to a standstill. No house was visible and he did not understand the reason of it all until his uncle climbed out and began striking matches for the lamps.

  In order to relieve his wonder completely, he half-whispered, however:

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  There was a low grunt in answer. Then, as he watched the lamp-light swell into a soft circle in the surrounding darkness, he felt unresistingly borne upon him an image of the girl’s young, sweet face, filling him with an exuberance of happiness mingled with pain and longing, all the sublime emotion of first ecstasy, transforming him, filling his soul with something so fresh, so joyous and amazing that he felt he could not h
ave spoken or that he could scarcely have looked at her even had she suddenly appeared in the lamplight. He felt that he would suffer deeply if he never saw her again, knowing at last, and for the first time in his life, the meaning of suffering as he already knew the meaning of joy.

  He was scarcely conscious of the cart moving forward again, the lamplight floating constantly before them like a yellow cloud, the air growing cooler under the trees. His mood of ecstasy resembled a tide, flowing in upon him wave after wave, and his thoughts became tangled and he gained only an impression of trees, very dark and monarchal, endlessly passing and passing.

  A light appeared in the wood at last, and startled him abruptly from this mood of entrancement. He became alert and conscious of realities, sitting upright and tense. As he saw the light approaching and enlarging, he felt himself seized with sudden courage, and he said quickly and almost sharply, as if afraid his voice would break:

  ‘Are we going to stop here?’

  ‘Good Lord, what should we stop for?’ came the answer. ‘At this time of night? God bless me, we’ve nothing to stop for; we’ve long enough to go without that. What’s the matter? Eat the cake she gave you if you’re hungry. Fill your belly a bit. It’s a long way, my lad, out of the wood and through the valley. A long way yet.’

  It seemed as if he did not listen to these words. He became aware of them instead as one becomes aware of a flock of birds flying from an horizon. The character of each word is lost in the whole as the individuality of each bird is lost in the flock; only about their meaning, as of the species of bird, there remains no doubt. And he did not answer, feeling once again that he could not trust himself to speak, and also that perhaps he would have cried if he had begun to speak. A white moth flew past, and he felt that just as swiftly and irrevocably had the light of the house flown by before he could raise a hand to catch it. A great oak stumbled towards them like a malformed creature and lurched into darkness. All things retreated or moved endlessly on and on. Only he himself, clinging to his precious thoughts, remained un-moving, not able to resist the wretchedness overpowering him.

  Again the little horse fell into the same unbroken leisurely pace as in the early morning. Soon they passed out of the wood, reaching open fields under a calm deep-blue sky sown with stars. A smell of harvest would come, pass away, and be renewed, stronger and stronger.

  His uncle began to murmur some old song, as he had done under the plum-trees.

  His wretchedness became complete and his thoughts raced backward to the morning. With strange sharpness he saw the sunshine begin to beautify everything again, the golden, unfamiliar countryside, the harvesters, the distant woods, the dew clinging to the leaves—and at last the house, the hot, sweet garden, the unbroken stillness into which the girl had come like a vision, silently too.

  The song went on. And to the boy it seemed that nothing so beautiful or memorable had ever taken place in his life, and as he recalled the moments by the pond, under the sloe-tree, his unhappiness was mingled suddenly with an ecstatic joy. He felt that there was a strange sharp pleasure even in disappointment, even in the pain of not seeing her again.

  The sleepy voice of his uncle sang drowsily on for long afterwards. Something in it alternately pained and fortified him. Then he would feel half-ashamed, half-foolish as he remembered all his secret thoughts, all his idealizing of the girl throughout the long day. Once he caught an image of her face, beautifully fresh and enchanting in all its detail, and filled with an agony of bliss he asked himself over and over again:

  ‘Why didn’t we stop there? Shall I ever see her again? Will she remember me?’

  When this mood, like all others, had exhausted itself, he passed into a long tranquillity. Familiar fields and trees appeared in the darkness and the horse began travelling a little faster, as if sensing home. He brooded quietly now on the day that had passed, turning it over and over in his mind like some legend almost too wonderful to believe, mingling with it strange tales he had heard, things he had treasured up in his soul long, long ago, and he thought with special pleasure of the little house, the woman whose name was Cilia, the great fruit garden, the dogs, the little sharp man who had told him wonderful lies, and the old woman saying ‘God bless you’ as they drove away, his mind filling moment by moment with a mysterious elation and joy.

  Soon they drove into a street by the river and so into a little yard. He saw the familiar sycamore-tree, obscure sheds, low black stables, and then the house, throwing a stream of light on the tree.

  At the sound of their approach a door opened, and there appeared first an old fat woman with a shawl over her head, then his aunt, a little shrewd, quick person who ran hither and thither like an ant, and lastly his mother, plump, rosy-faced and looking rather like a kind, soft-hearted nurse.

  They began to pour out a stream of arguments and questions and to remonstrate severely with his uncle, who did not once reply.

  ‘Where have you been, what’s been happening to you? Oh! dear, keeping the boy out in that cart, I wonder you don’t die of shame. What’s been happening, Alexander? Aren’t you cold riding in the cart? I wonder he isn’t perished. Hot, did you say? Yes, in day-time I’ll own, but the dews are so heavy. It’s not sense—I’d be ashamed. Jump you down, my lamb. Lord, there’s dew on the cart, bless me if there isn’t. Jump you down and come in doors. Lord love us!’

  To all this he said nothing. He felt that the three women, particularly Ursula and even his mother, were being foolish. In the cart it had been peaceful and he had dreamed. Not to relinquish this peace or these dreams seemed everything to him. He turned slowly and walked away.

  Ursula hobbled after him to the house. As he reached the door and she ushered him into the light, she broke out again:

  ‘What happened, my lamb? Did you stop anywhere?’

  He shook his head; a sharp feeling half of wretchedness, half of aching joy, swept over him; with difficulty he murmured: ‘No, we didn’t stop anywhere.’

  With these words he heard the little horse walking away to its stable and the last tinkle of chains, and with the cry of an owl, with the closing of a door somewhere, with his uncle’s voice asking if all were locked for the night, he felt that the strange long eventfulness of the day was closing, was being shut away from him like a book. He sat motionless, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with overwhelming happiness and pain.

  And suddenly, his heart very full, he felt that everything which had filled and beautified the day had at last slipped away into the past, and lay in his mind like a clearly remembered dream.

  He could only sit silent, in wonder. The day had passed, the journey was at an end.

  When would another begin?

  The Barber

  Jonah’s saloon was not very big. It resembled more than anything a dirty blue bathroom fitted with a mirror large enough for ten fat men to preen themselves, and with seats looking for all the world like stolen church pews, none of them decently wide enough for the skinniest customer.

  But we thought it very big—very big, very smoky, and very gloomy. In those days we were hardly tall enough to reach the stiff brass latch of the door, and we used to wriggle and squirm at the thought of a haircut there. Nevertheless we had to go.

  For some reason there was always an army of men in Jonah’s when we arrived: black-necked, poaching, shoemaking, prizefighting, often stinking men; men like brigands, men as bald as pigs, men with waistcoatfuls of silver medals, men with violet dragons and unicorns tattooed on their arms, even men like skeletons. Each man stood between us and the barber. There would be no haircut for us until the last man had gone.

  We used to sit down, very still, like unaccustomed guests. Jonah presided, and of course we watched Jonah. He was an enormous man. In his hands a pair of grass shears would have looked like button scissors. His moustache was villainous, a symmetrical black sweep of pride, as sharp at the ends as a thorn on a sloe. When he held the razor above his head, it gleamed like a scimitar in the hands of an A
rab, and its downward swoop was diabolical in its fierce accuracy.

  ‘Zip-scrape! Zip-scrape!’ went that razor. ‘Zip-scrape!’

  We were awed. We could hardly ask each other:

  ‘How many men can you count this morning?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Golly, seven!’

  It seemed like an invincible horde. We would whisper dolefully.

  Then suddenly, terrifyingly, Jonah would bawl like a sea lion:

  ‘No whispering!’

  He would glare sternly down on us. It was difficult to understand if it were all part of some joke. But he was grave as a picture, and I suppose we never saw his winks at the men.

  ‘What do you want?’ he would demand next in his awful bass.

  ‘Haircuts,’ we would timidly whisper.

  ‘Haircuts! Ha, ha! What next? Haircuts! Ha, ha!’ White flicks of lather would fly from his great fingers. ‘Ha, ha! Who told you to say that? Eh? What’s your name? John Willy?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Wha-a-at? Speak up! Did you say John Willy?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Burn my buttons, whoever heard of that? What’s your father?’

  ‘A butcher.’

  ‘A butcher, is he? Ha, ha!’ He would glower. ‘Tell him to send me a pound of sheep’s lights and liver!’

  Lights and liver! We cackled like two young drakes.

  ‘No laughing!’ he ordered. ‘You wouldn’t do to eat sausage with the queen, you two!’

  His tone was terrible, so that we crouched a little lower into the benches that were like pews, except that they were littered with comic newspapers, not knowing what to make of the old fool. ‘Zip-scrape! chip-chip!’ he went on. One by one the poaching, tattooed, shoemaking, stinking men would shuffle out, Jonah richer by twopence and threepence a time, until only one remained. We would begin pushing the pink and green papers under our bare thighs in readiness.

  Then, suddenly, a tremendous roar in the empty room: ‘Up you come for the guillotine!’