Peter was the first to reach the mushroom. He flung himself on it and pressed it; and, click! the little lift was there! The door was flung open, and the mole, stepping out, said sharply: ‘Now then! hurry up, please, if you’re going down! Any more for the lift?’
Hurry up indeed! There was no need to say that. They flung themselves on the seat, breathless and exhausted; the mole slammed the door and pulled the rope, and they sank downwards.
Then the mole looked them over and grinned. ‘Had a pleasant evening?’ he inquired.
Bertie would not answer, he was too sulky; but Peter replied sarcastically: ‘O yes, first rate. My friend here’s a popular carol singer. They make him welcome wherever he goes, and give him the best of everything.’
‘Now don’t you start pulling my leg, Peter,’ said Bertie, ‘for I won’t stand it. I’ve been a failure to-night, and I admit it; and I’ll tell you what I will do to make up for it. You two come back to my sty, and I’ll give you a first-rate supper, the best you ever had!’
‘O ah, first-rate cabbage-stalks,’ said Benjie. ‘We know your suppers!’
‘Not at all,’ said Bertie earnestly. ‘On the contrary. There’s a window in Mayfield that I can get into the house by, at any time. And I know where Mr. Grahame keeps his keys — very careless man, Mr. Grahame. Put your trust in me and you shall have cold chicken, tongue, pressed beef, jellies, trifle, and champagne — at least; perhaps more, but that’s the least you’ll have!’
Here the lift stopped with a jerk. ‘Tumble out, all of you,’ said the mole, flinging the door open. ‘And look sharp, for it’s closing time, and I’m going home.’
‘No you’re not, old man,’ said Bertie affectionately. ‘You’re coming along to have supper with us.’
The mole protested it was much too late; but in the end they persuaded him.
IV
When they got back to Mayfield, the rabbits took the mole off to wash his hands and brush his hair; while Bertie disappeared cautiously round a corner of the house. In about ten minutes he appeared at the pigsty, staggering under the weight of two large baskets. One of them contained all the eatables he had already mentioned, as well as apples, oranges, chocolates, ginger, and crackers. The other contained ginger-beer, soda-water, and champagne.
The supper was laid in the inner pigsty. They were all very hungry, naturally; and when everything was ready they sat down, and stuffed, and drank, and told stories, and all talked at once; and when they had stuffed enough, they proposed toasts, and drank healths— ‘The King’— ‘Our host Bertie’— ‘Mr. Grahame’— ‘The Visitors, coupled with the name of Mole’— ‘Absent friends, coupled with the name of Mr. Stone’ — and many others. Then there were speeches, and songs, and then more speeches, and more songs; and it was three o’clock in the morning before the mole slipped through the palings and made his way back to his own home, where Mrs. Mole was sitting up for him, in some uneasiness of mind.
Mr. Grahame’s night was a very disturbed one, owing to agitating dreams. He dreamt that the house was broken into by burglars, and he wanted to get up and go down and satch them, but he could not move hand or foot. He heard them ransacking his pantry, stealing his cold chicken and things, and plundering his wine-cellar, and still he could not move a muscle. Then he dreamt that he was at one of the great City Banquets that he used to go to, and he heard the Chairman propose the health of ‘The King’ and there was great cheering. And he thought of a most excellent speech to make in reply — a really clever speech. And he tried to make it, but they held him down in his chair and wouldn’t let him. And then he dreamt that the Chairman actually proposed his own health — the health of Mr. Grahame! and he got up to reply, and he couldn’t think of anything to say! And so he stood there, for hours and hours it seemed, in a dead silence, the glittering eyes of the guests — there were hundreds and hundreds of guests — all fixed on him, and still he couldn’t think of anything to say! Till at last the Chairman rose, and said ‘He can’t think of anything to say! Turn him out!’ Then the waiters fell upon him, and dragged him from the room, and threw him into the street, and flung his hat and coat after him; and as he was shot out he heard the whole company singing wildly ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow — !’
He woke up in a cold perspiration. And then a strange thing happened. Although he was awake — he knew he was awake — he could distinctly hear shrill little voices, still singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fe-e-llow, and so say all of us!’ He puzzled over it for a few minutes, and then, fortunately, he fell asleep.
Next morning, when Miss S. and A. G. went to call on the rabbits, they found a disgraceful state of things. The hutch in a most untidy mess, clothes flung about anyhow, and Peter and Benjie sprawling on the floor, fast asleep and snoring frightfully. They tried to wake them, but the rabbits only murmured something about ‘jolly good fellows’, and fell asleep again.
‘Well, we never!’ said Miss S. and A. G.
When Albert King went to take Bertie his dinner, you cannot imagine the state he found the pigsty in. Such a litter of things of every sort, and Bertie in the midst of it all, fast asleep. King poked him with a stick, and said, ‘Dinner, Bertie!’ But even then he didn’t wake. He only grunted something that sounded like ‘ — God — save — King — Wenceslas!’
‘Well!’ said King. ‘Of all the animals!’
THE END
And here is a ‘Hunting Song’, written, I imagine (from the topical allusion to Women’s Suffrage) when Alastair, the author, was nine years old:
‘Ye Huntsman winds ye clarion horn,
Ye dappled hound doth yap,
Ye poacher plods his weary way,
To set ye rabbit trap.
‘Ye rabbits leap o’er thorn and bryre,
Ye poacher to avoid,
Ye wrathful keeper seezes him,
Ye poacher is annoyed.
‘Ye angler waiteth patiently,
To catch ye bonny trout.
His patience is rewarded,
And he hooks him by the snout.
‘Ye Scottish Laird to pot ye grouse,
His neighbours all doth ask.
Ye canny Scottish gillie
Doth drain ye whiskey flask.
‘Ye fat red-faced policemen,
Ye suffragette pursue,
Ye magistrate says “fourteen days”,
Ye suffragette says “Booh!”
‘Ye huntsman Cupid shooteth
At lovers with his dart,
It never pierceth through the head,
But always through the heart.
‘I pause, for now ye angry mob
Disturbs ye poet’s peace,
“Ye stocks, ye horse pond,” is the cry,
And I perforce must cease.’
And, also by Alastair, I find a play of which the title and characters are:
BEAUTY BORN
Characters
JOHN CHIFFIELDS: A labourer.
GEORGE LEE: King of the Gypsies.
MR. MARSDEN: The Vicar.
MR. JONES: The Undertaker.
BEAUTY BORN: Daughter of John Chiffields.
MARY CHIFFIELDS: Mother of Beauty Born.
GYPSIES, neighbours, &c. &c.
The prologue, or short first act, goes thus:
ACT I Scene. Inside the Chiffields’ cottage. Mrs. Chiffields is making tea. Enter John Chiffields.
Mary Chiffields: Why, John, how late you are to-day And only guess who’s come to stay? John: I hope it’s not my uncle Jim I simply hate the sight of him, I hope it’s not your fat Aunt Prout You know she always put me out; I want no visitors, not me, Now do make haste and get my tea.
Mary (drawing a curtain and showing a cradle with a baby in it):
This visitor’s a different thing And fit enough for any king.
John: — A baby boy? That’s not so bad He looks a pretty little lad.
Mary: — But it’s a girl!
John: — Dash!
Mary: — Do no
t mourn I tell you she’s a Beauty Born; She’ll do to sew your buttons on And cook when I am dead and gone So look upon the brighter side.
John (beginning his tea):
Well, since she’s here she’d better bide.
The play proceeds to relate how Beauty Born, growing up, is beloved by Lee — the Gypsy King. Beauty does not reciprocate his affection so Lee attempts to kidnap her. John Chiffields comes to his daughter’s aid and fights with Lee who, finding himself worsted, falls down and pretends to be dead. Lulled into a false security Beauty Born thereupon goes for a walk alone. Lee, following her, now succeeds in his design. John Chiffields traces Lee and Beauty to the gypsy encampment. John is taken prisoner. But Beauty helps him and they both escape. On arriving home they find that Mrs. Chiffields has died of a very natural alarm. They give her a handsome funeral which is largely attended, and there we meet Mr. Jones, the undertaker, who comforts Beauty thus:
Mr. Jones: — Young lady, kindly do not cry But take my arm and wipe your eye.
And Mr. Marsden, a clergyman, who says, helpfully:
This is indeed a doleful day For better times we all must pray.
And presently we find Beauty Born and John Chiffields at home again. (Lee has apparently resigned himself to the loss of Beauty) and we reach the final curtain thus:
Beauty Born (setting John’s tea before him):
There, Father, isn’t it a joy That I’m a girl and not a boy?
John Chiffields (eating bread and jam):
Yes, Beauty Born, I’m very glad That you’re a lass and not a lad.
It seems that a little boy who, barely out of the nursery, could perpetrate such a plot and action might have gone far. Beauty Born remains for me as remarkable a piece of ‘child literature’ as ever I read.
Mr. F. Anstey Guthrie (F. Anstey) writes to Mrs. Grahame of her son as follows:
‘He must have been about seven, when, on calling one day at Durham Villas, I was first introduced to him. I have never never met a boy with such natural distinction, or a more fascinating personality. It was rather like being presented to a young prince. He was a handsome little boy, tall for his age, with rather long brown hair, a singularly clear and beautiful voice, a subtle smile and an air of complete self-possession.
‘He did not suffer visitors at all gladly. One afternoon when some people were calling he was observed to run about the drawing-room with extraordinary activity during the whole of their visit, his explanation being: “I thought if I kept moving I might escape being kissed.” It is not likely, however, that they had any suspicion of the reason, for his manner towards all visitors had an invariable grace and charm.
‘From our first meeting I had been struck by a certain maturity, not in the least priggish, in his choice of words, and a delicate sense of humour which was far beyond his years.
‘I like to think that I was admitted to his friendship. We had some interests in common at all events; toys being one of them, and just then Mouse had a passion for any kind of mechanical toy. I remember a clockwork pianist who, on being wound up, elicited a faint and tiny sound from his instrument. He was no Paderewski, but Mouse was quite well satisfied by his performance.
‘It is so many years ago now that I have few recollections of anything that Mouse said at our meetings. The circus was, however, one of our subjects, for he fully shared his father’s love for it. Once about this time a telegram arrived, which Mouse eyed with eager expectation, only to be told that it was on some business matter. “Oh,” he said in a crestfallen voice, “I thought perhaps it was to invite us all up to a Circus!”
‘We also compared notes on Kensington Gardens, which I had known at a much earlier age than his. But he did not divulge to me the private opinion of that pleasure ground which he expressed later on going to live in the country. “Kensington Gardens!” he said disdainfully, “simply starchy with perambulators!”
‘Even then I realized that, in addition to a charming and lovable nature, Mouse had ability and originality that in all probability would develop into genius. I know now that as he grew up, he never lost his charm, and as a boy and a young man, was fearless, generous, kindly and gracious to all he met, while there were already indications that he would eventually be among those who leave Literature the richer for their existence. I myself believe that he would have been a very great writer.’
Alastair was, as the son of his father, a true lover of Christmas and of Christmas trees and, when a few Christmases had made him connoisseur, his parent took thought and decorated for him the finest Christmas tree in Christendom.
He chose first a bulgy bay-window in the hall at Cookham Dene so that the tree, when lighted up, might be seen, by those who approached the house, at all its gorgeously pink-candled angles. He chose his tree (a spruce fir, of course) and stood it within the window upon a carpet, thick, orderly and square, of red beech leaves, dusted on with a hoar-frost of ‘diamond-dust’. Above the tree he hung a shepherd’s star to sparkle. On the top of the tree he caused, gold-crowned, an angel to stand. Within the angel was a mechanism that made it revolve whilst it emitted a tinkling carol in praise of Christmas. There were icicles of glass upon the dark and symmetrical branches, there were pink candles, there were guns and pop-guns in the old classic colours — magenta and scarlet and crude yellow. There was Father Noah and his Ark. There were horses and riders in red, there were sabres and monkeys and fruits of wax whose cheeks were the one of scarlet and the other of yellow. There were gilded walnuts and silver boats, small boats rigged in cobweb of silver. There was even, without, a slight snowfall to be seen through the window. It was the perfect tree and when lighted up it looked like the Queen of Sheba in a ball dress of peacock tails, only far finer.
And the poet who had made it for the little boy made this poem to go with it:
‘The time is drawing nigh when Trees
Shall rustle in the parlour breeze;
And Pines and Firs shall wave indoors,
Scattering their needles on the floors.
Then we shall wander ‘neath the boughs
That whisper in the scented house;
And, looking up for Stars, shall see
Pink candles twinkle bashfully!
‘O noble steed, with Rider red!
O Ark, that sailest overhead!
Dolls, in the branches blossoming,
Whence Trumpet, Drums, and Sabres swing!
Strewn on the carpet’s sward so green
Strange gold and silver fruits are seen;
While from a Box sweet tinklings flow,
Like Robin fluting in the snow!
‘And then — the Story-Teller comes!
— Let fall the Trumpets, hush the Drums!
Wolves in the street may howl and wait —
The Camp-Fire glows within the Grate!
Round it we Pirates, Scouts and Trappers
(Hugging our Presents in their wrappers)
Spell-bound, in semi-circle snug,
Drink the enchantment, on the rug!’
And when the stories were told the carol-singers came (very like the carol-singers, ‘villagers all in The Wind in the Willows) and the Mummers came too, just as they came in The Golden Age, stamping and crossing and declaiming, ‘till all was whirl and riot and shout And altogether it was the merriest Christmas that ever was. And here I should like to leave little Alastair Grahame, a happy day behind him and heir-apparent, one would have said, to many happy days.
Yet I will add that his bigger boyhood (though the latter part of it was lived in the War years) seems to have been a happy time too although the literary promise, so marked in nursery and schoolroom days, is now only to be noticed in his letters. There develops, however, a passion for acting and for swimming. And a character for kindness, courtesy and courage in all things. His letters are full of a gay and spritely humour — occasionally expressed in Latin verse or in English Limericks — such as
‘There was a young Frenchman called Jules
Who jobbed as a waiter at Buol’s
The customers said That his Welsh Rabbit’s head
Was as hard as an Indian Mule’s.’
In a letter from his private school he writes: ‘I and Jennings discovered a ripping cave in the quarry. We are having a ripping game there. The cave is on a desert island and there is buried treasure (doubloons, Louis d’ors, pieces of eight). Also cannibals and a pirate ship. Need I say that Jennings is Rupert of Hentzau and that I am Dick Lawless, the Bloody Buccaneer? On Tuesday I swam over the ledge and into the open sea. On Wednesday we played Durlston Court and won by about 100. On Friday was The Parents’ Match. The Parents were as numerous, as arogant (sic) and as over-dressed as they always are. On Saturday we went down to the ledge and had a look at the sea. The waves were magnificent. Even on the cliff-top we could feel the spray in our faces. I think a stormy sea is one of the finest sights one can see anywhere. Afterwards we went down to Swanage and I bought a sixpenny edition of George Borrow’s Bible in Spain. Borrow seems to have been a tireless traveller and as a linguist he was simply extraordinary.... Daddy’s verses move me to break into song too:
‘Once I met a fellow
Tramping down the road
A truss of straw, bright yellow,
Was all that bumpkin’s load.’
The Impressions of a Clodhopper.
‘Yours affectionately,
‘A. GRAHAME (Titwillow)’
‘P.S. — I am glad to hear that Uncle Harold has been made Mayor of Westminster. May his period of office be as prolonged as that of Sir R. Whittington of feline fame.’ After leaving Eton, Alastair (he had been too young to undertake personal war service) went to Oxford. About then his father writing of him to a friend says, ‘It was most awfully good of you to give the boy such a splendid time. He seems to have enjoyed every minute of it. Owing to the War he has been simply starved on the social side of him and this visit was just what he wanted and what was best for him. For he is a “social animal” really. I dare say you discovered what a passion he has for abstract discussion and first principles as opposed to anything concrete. He would, for instance, sit up all night discussing the principles that went to the drawing up of the American Constitution, while being languidly indifferent to personal details concerning any President.’
Complete Works of Kenneth Grahame Page 88
