Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Come from London! Look at their boots! said the red-bearded under-keeper. We have walked to-day from —

  I’ve forgotten the name of the village. Do you remember it, Hugh? You’ll remember the name at the police station and you can tell the story to the sergeant, the underkeeper answered, laying hands upon Percy, who flung the glass of ale he was drinking in the man’s face. The under-keeper answered with a blow and Hugh, who went to Percy’s help, was seized by the keepers and their men.

  There were many friends of Mrs. Jones, the landlady, in the kitchen at the time, and these at once pushed through the keepers, blocking the doorway, and an ugly scrimmage might have begun if it had not been stopped by old Ellen, who rose from her chair with a shriek, crying: What is this stir, this broil, awaking me from my dream? It is gone, it is gone! And what dream were you dreaming, ma’am? asked the cockle-seller. What dream would I be dreaming, Ellen answered, but my son, who was killed in the war, and was here a minute ago as plain as any of you before me, telling of the battle in which he fell and where he is now lying in a field in Flanders — where three trees grow together in an angle. I can’t miss it, he says, and before I go will you all join me in a prayer that I may find him. Without knowing rightly what they were doing, all fell on their knees, with Hugh amongst them, so lost in amazement at the ghostly return of the son to his mother, that he could not do else but pray that he rest; and it was not till he rose from his knees that he remembered Percy, whom he found lying on the floor stunned by the blow. Percy, Percy! he cried, and then turning to those who were crowding round old Ellen, he asked for help. Will nobody fetch a glass of water? Not the man who dealt the blow, who may have killed him. I’ll go and fetch you a glass of water, answered the cockle-seller. What beasts you all are, Hugh cried to the others, what beasts! Hush, hush, let’s hear what she says, they answered him. Tell us, ma’am, how he was killed. Did he tell you that? He did, troth and faith! He lifted his shirt and showed me a great gash in his side made by a shell. You were on your knees, ma’am, before you awoke. Was I now? she answered. Shed no more tears, mother, he said, for if you do my wound will never heal; and I said: Son, son, how is that? and I might have had his answer to tell if you hadn’t awoke me with your shouting. A row about partridges! she cried and looked round the kitchen, her eyes still full of her dream. Now what have we here? said somebody. Murder may have been done here, replied Hugh, and you listen to a ghost tale whilst my friend dies! When I asked ’im, said the under-keeper, to tell me where ’e got the partridges ’e flung a glass of ale in my face. So it was you that struck the blow? asked Hugh. You know these men, Mrs. Jones? They are Sir Charles Williams’s keepers, sir. Will none of you help me to carry my friend upstairs? The under-keeper came forward. No, not you, not you; it was you that struck him. Is there nobody here who will go to the doctor for me? You are the keepers of Sir Charles Williams, my neighbour in Essex? The same, answered the head-keeper. I, too, have keepers in Essex, as many as he has. Your friend is coming to, sir, said the keeper. He is only a bit dazed, and what can you expect from my mate, who got all the beer in his face? No man can keep still and ‘ave ale thrown in ’is face, the under-keeper answered. Has anybody gone for the doctor? Hugh asked, and on being told that the doctor had been sent for he bade Sir Charles Williams’s keepers make way for him, and hoisting Percy over his shoulder he carried him upstairs; and having laid him, on his bed he called from the stairhead that brandy should be brought to him.

  To put Percy to bed was Hugh’s task evidently, and he had just finished unlacing Percy’s boots when Mrs. Jones came into the room. Open the knapsack, Hugh said, and give me his nightshirt, and whilst Mrs. Jones unstrapped the knapsack and sought for the garment, Hugh tried vainly to get Percy’s arm out of his coat. But to disentangle a fainting man from a coat is not easy for anybody, and Hugh called to Mrs. Jones. With her help this was done and Percy’s shirt and collar unfastened and the nightshirt poised over his shoulders. Poor young man, said the landlady, as delicate and as white as a girl! How that brute could have struck him! Hugh cried, but he shall pay for it. He shall, he shall! he muttered as Mrs. Jones raised the bedclothes and Percy was laid between the sheets. Percy, are you feeling better? Speak a word. Look at his face! he cried. How swollen it is. Yes, sir, his face is swollen from the blow, but he’d have come to long ago if he hadn’t been worn out. I think you said you had come fifteen miles? Yes indeed, Hugh muttered, I am much to blame, and he begged Percy to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup; and the tray was scarcely off his bed when the cockle-seller, who had gone for the doctor, returned saying that the doctor had gone away to attend a patient and would not be back till late, but she had left a message for him and he would come on at once if he got it, and if he didn’t he would come early in the morning for certain. Why should he be out to-night of all nights? Hugh cried. Another piece of had luck! Can I do anything more for you, sir? asked Mrs. Jones. No, there’s nothing to be done now but to wait. Won’t you have anything to eat, sir? Hugh shook his head.

  The door closed, and remembering that he had always lived without giving grievous offence to God (he dared not think that he had lived without sin, but without grievous offence, outside of mortal sin), he fell upon his knees to pray that God might not take his friend from him, saying: God is good, of that we are sure, else he would not be God, and therefore I pray thee, O my God, to spare his life, for I need him and cannot live without him. I am lonely in my life, as thou knowest well. O God, be merciful, be merciful this once to me. I have asked nothing of thee ever before, only that I might love and obey thy will, but this thing I pray, I pray thee to grant. All we know of thee, O my God, is thy goodness, which is infinite, and it is to thy infinite goodness that I appeal now in my great need; for I am weak, as thou knowest, and if all things be taken from me. I may have no strength to live, no strength to love thee as I would love thee, no strength to obey thee, but shall be a thing worthless in this world. We are here to win a place in the next world, and I shall have no strength, or fear I shall have none. I would not give way to despair, O my God, and despair is nigh when I think of his death. But every Christian has hope in his God. Didst thou not send thy son here to suffer death in atonement for our sins? Therefore thou wilt not deny my prayer, to grant a few years of life to us both that we may love and honour and glorify thee. Thou hearest me, for thou hearest all things. Thou seest me by his bedside praying, for thou seest all things. O my God, I am sorely stricken; be merciful, be merciful to me, for I need thy mercy. Let him live, let him live, let him live, and all my life shall be devoted to thee and in thanksgiving shall be spent, I swear it. Thou, who didst create my life, shall have it all, here and hereafter. He rose from his knees and stood in a sort of dazed stupor looking at Percy, his face laid against the pillow still and white like a piece of sculpture on a tomb. If he were to die to-night and I watching! I might be driven to — but the suicide dies in mortal sin and hell is his punishment. But in a moment of madness..., and again he fell on his knees. O my God, I have had little joy in my life; only money have I had, which I did not want and which gives me nothing. I have always loved and feared thee. O God, I have, I have, and thou knowest I have. My mother, who is hard, for that is her way, I have stood by, for she stood by me. I have tried to be a dutiful son, for thou hast said: Love thy parents as thyself. And thou, whose eyes and ears are upon all and every thing, without whose will not a sparrow falls, spare him to me. Why take back what thou hast given? No, dear God, thou wilt not do that, for I could not bear it, and thou dost not lay on anybody a heavier burden than may be borne.

  He ceased, he knew not why, for much more was in his heart, but he ceased, and the long, weary night of watching began to go by very slowly. At intervals it seemed to him that Percy ceased to breathe, and he would then steal round the bed to the other side, frightened. But no, he still breathed, and Hugh returned to his chair pursued by the same fears, asking himself again and again if God would take Percy to himself in the night and if he (Hug
h) in his hopelessness would be able to bear with the divine will. I cannot live without him; therefore I may hope that God will not take him, for God disposes our chances according to his wisdom.... Out of nothingness he awoke, to lose himself again in another round of sad thoughts, remembering that he had been averse from the purchase of the partridges, knowing them to be stolen. But he had lacked courage, and was this his punishment? He could not think that Percy was stricken for the purchase of partridges, nor he for his acquiescence in the purchase. He sat watching the circle of light on the ceiling, asking himself how this terrible mishap had come about, till a grey light began in the windows and the distant crowing of cocks was heard. Soon after a cart rattled down the village street, but without awakening Percy, and Hugh said: The longer he sleeps the better. There came a patter of sheep in the road; a dog began to bark, and he thought: A shepherd taking his flock to market; and then the crowing of the cocks became so loud that he whispered: Percy will awaken surely, and he passed round the bedside to listen for Percy’s breathing. He breathes softly like a child; and he returned to his chair, and overcome by his instinct he fell upon his knees and thanked God that Percy’s life had been spared. What may happen to-morrow we do not know, but Percy has been spared this night, he muttered, and for this mercy his soul poured itself out in incoherent words of rapture and thankfulness, after which he must have dozed a little in his chair, for he was awakened by the sound of footsteps and doors opening; and these were welcome sounds, for the house was now awake and the doctor would not much longer be delayed. An hour later Mrs. Jones came to the door, which Hugh opened to her, and in reply to her question how the young gentleman had passed the night, she heard that he had slept without awakening once. A night like that is the best of doctors, she answered, and coming over to the bedside and speaking in a whisper she remarked that his face was badly swollen. Percy opened his eyes and after staring about him vaguely, trying to collect his thoughts, he began to remember the circumstance of overnight. He asked what time it was and spoke of getting dressed. But the young gentleman isn’t thinking of leaving his bed! I am afraid he is thinking of continuing our tour on foot, Hugh answered derisively, but the doctor — The doctor will have something to say about that! growled Percy. Why have you sent for the doctor? And falling back upon his pillow and staring at Hugh, he said: You look as if you had not been asleep, Hugh. What’s the matter? You did not think, Percy, that I could have slept and you lying, for aught I knew, between life and death? So you have watched all night by my bedside? Hugh, give me your hand; and the hand-clasp was not relaxed till Mrs. Jones brought in Percy’s breakfast. I am afraid our bacon is too fat, sir. He was a nice pig, but my children overdid him and he’s mostly grease; but you’ll find some nice bits of lean. And whilst Percy sought in the tide of grease that almost overflowed the rim of the plate, Mrs. Jones’s daughter brought in the doctor, who, after a brief examination of his patient’s head, remarked: There was a scrimmage here last night — It was no fault of mine, Mrs. Jones interrupted; my house is well known as the quietest and best conducted — We will leave the patient with the doctor, Mrs. Jones, Hugh said, and prepare a statement downstairs of what happened. If you take out a summons, sir, you may be certain that the keeper will take out a cross summons. After all, it was your friend who began it — No, no, Mrs. Jones; the keeper laid his hands on Percy, saying he must come to the station. That is not how I remember it, Mrs. Jones answered, and to get rid of her Hugh had to leave the house, and was walking to and fro under the lime trees when the doctor joined him.

  He expected the doctor to speak but he seemed tongue-tied, or was it Hugh’s natural anxiety that made the pause seem so long? At last, helped by a few questions, the doctor bubbled into talk, telling that the blow amounted to no more than a black eye. A blow that fells a man to the ground unconscious seems to me a blow from which we may expect evil effects, but of course, doctor, if you think — Hugh stopped suddenly in the middle of the footpath and stared at the doctor, barely distinguishing him; and they proceeded into the village side by side, the doctor telling Hugh that the young man was tired, worn out after a long day’s tramping. Mrs. Jones mentioned fifteen miles, he said, whereupon Hugh expostulated, saying that only once or twice had they walked fifteen miles, their usual tramp being ten or twelve. Ten or twelve under a heavy knapsack! the doctor muttered, and Hugh reproached himself whilst the doctor spoke of fifteen miles a day under a knapsack as putting a great strain on a lad of seventeen or eighteen who was in himself not very strong. A blow given under these conditions, he said, would stun him. You said: who is not in himself very strong, Hugh replied, breaking the pause, and barely able to find the needed words, so afraid was he of them, he mentioned that a few days before Percy had stopped by the wayside to spit. The fact that there was a little blood does not mean lung trouble, not necessarily, he said, and waited for the doctor’s answer, which was that a little blood might be regarded as symptomatic, a portent of a severe haemorrhage later on, or as merely accidental, proceeding from local causes. And which do you think likely, doctor? The doctor answered that no one could predict, but that the young man should be careful, and relieved of his great anxiety (he had not dared to hope for so favourable a report), Hugh’s eyes opened to the spectacle of a village street so wide that it seemed almost like the country. An old village, he said, passing into a new town, and began to wonder down which side street (they had passed several) the doctor would turn. He had already begun to imagine him as a little bachelor living alone in a villa with a small garden in front, iron railings and a wicket, and his imaginings were not ended when they came to the end of the high street, the doctor doing most of the talking, Hugh observing him and wondering between his thoughts of Percy how the thin, stooping little man by his side, a soft, black hat on his head and a well-worn, shiny morning coat on his back, had come to be a doctor in this village. He walked briskly, thumping his thick stick on the pavement, his eyes upon the ground, his face so well hidden under his hat that Hugh had to peep to discover a short, thin, straggling grey beard covering cheeks and chin, a great nose with a red end; and when the doctor said: We turn to the left here, he looked up, and Hugh saw two small eyes kind almost to silliness, yet not unintelligent. And his curiosity now stirred, he began to ask the doctor questions about the town, and these proving fruitless (the doctor did not seem to know very clearly whether he was living in a town or the country), he asked him as a last resource what language was spoken, Welsh or English, and soon began to perceive that he had struck a springhead. In a very few moments it became clear that behind the doctor was a man of letters, whose mind was divided between his patients’ ailments and the Welsh language; the old Welsh language of the Middle Ages, pure, unadulterated with English idiom, was his chief interest, but he was not neglectful of the language which is still the home language of nearly every Welsh house, and Hugh learnt from him that the Welsh spoken in South Wales was not the best Welsh. Or rather I should say, said the doctor, it’s looked down upon by Anglesey; but there is good Welsh and bad Welsh, and the good is spoken north, south, east and west by the minority, and the bad is spoken north, south, east and west by the Majority. Just as the English language is, Hugh replied, and the doctor, now fully roused, rattled off much accumulated information, interspersed with the names of many great poets. Forgetful that Hugh did not know Welsh, he lost himself in the beauty of a celebrated passage so completely that he passed his own house by without seeing it, not discovering his mistake for fifty or sixty yards. I think we have passed my house, he said. looking round like one who was trying to remember the neighbourhood. Ah, here we are, he continued, pushing the gate open, the very gate that Hugh had foreseen. But he had not thought that the garden it enclosed would have been allowed to run to waste (only two dying laurels survived in it), and he had not thought that the house the doctor lived in would be so bare of furniture, nor so full of books. The surprise of the room he was led into was a grand piano covered with scores and manuscript music
. It was not to these, however, that the doctor first directed Hugh’s attention, but to the books on the walls, rare editions of the Welsh poets, which he took down from the shelves and held with great care in his thin, bony hands. His skull was small, round, and shiny, a bare skull with a rim of hair, and he continued to talk of ancient Welsh till Hugh, wearying a little of a subject of which he knew nothing, asked him if he had always lived in Wales; and it was through this question that the talk returned to Percy, the doctor telling that in his youth he had been ordered to a warm climate, but dropping, as he talked, into a long and rather tiresome digression regarding the most suitable climate for the cure of lung trouble; but he emerging, however, from it at last. He had not been able to go to Davos or to South Africa for lack of money, but owing to some knowledge of Arabic he had gone to Palestine in connection with a Society interested in the excavation of ancient Palestinian cities, especially that of Gaza. And Hugh listened amazed to the doctor, who told that whilst engaged in this work of excavation his leisure time was given to the writing of a grammar of a language spoken by a tribe of gipsies that wandered through Western Asia, visiting Europe rarely, if ever. It seemed to Hugh that he was listening to a fairy tale, but the doctor drew the library steps forward and descended with a volume in his hand, putting the thought into Hugh’s mind of the sharp muzzle and half-blind eyes of a ferret. As the grammar was entirely unintelligible to him, he returned it to the doctor quickly, and to carry on the conversation he remarked that the piano seemed a very fine one. Does your wife play? I am not married, the doctor answered. Who is it then that plays the piano? Hugh asked innocently, unsuspicious that an interest in ancient Welsh and the writing of the grammar of a language spoken by an almost unknown tribe of gipsies, could be associated with music. I play the piano myself, the doctor said. There is a friend of mine in the town and we play Beethoven together. And the manuscript music I see — do you write music? Yes, the doctor answered. I have touched a right note again, Hugh thought, and immediately afterwards the score of an oratorio which the doctor had composed, and which he hoped would be played at the next Eisteddfod, was put into his hands. A perilous moment this was for Hugh, for the doctor might ask him to sit down and listen to the oratorio, and to ward off this evil he took out his cheque-book. Whereupon the doctor laid aside his score, and giving his mind once more to his patient, he answered Hugh’s questions with precision, speaking, so it seemed to Hugh, out of much knowledge of the subject.