Fate And The Artist
The workmen's dwellings stood in the northwest of London, inquaint rivalry with the comfortable ugliness of the Maida Vale blocksof flats. They were fairly new and very well built, with wide stonestaircases that echoed all day to the impatient footsteps of children,and with a flat roof that served at once as a playground for them anda drying-ground for their mothers' washing. In hot weather it waspleasant enough to play hide-and-seek or follow-my-leader up and downthe long alleys of cool white linen, and if a sudden gust of wind orsome unexpected turn of the game set the wet sheets flapping in thechildren's faces, their senses were rather tickled than annoyed.
To George, mooning in a corner of the railings that seemed to keep allLondon in a cage, these games were hardly more important than theshoutings and whistlings that rose from the street below. It seemed tohim that all his life--he had lived eleven years--he had been standingin a corner watching other people engaging in meaningless ploys andantics. The sun was hot, and yet the children ran about and madethemselves hotter, and he wondered, as when he had been in bed withone of his frequent illnesses he had wondered at the grown-up folk whocame and went, moving their arms and legs and speaking with theirmouths, when it was possible to lie still and quiet and feel themoments ticking themselves off in one's forehead. As he rested in hiscorner, he was conscious of the sharp edge of the narrow stone ledgeon which he was sitting and the thin iron railings that pressed intohis back; he smelt the evil smell of hot London, and the soapy odourof the washing; he saw the glitter of the dust, and the noises of theplace beat harshly upon his ears, but he could find no meaning in itall. Life spoke to him with a hundred tongues, and all the while hewas longing for silence. To the older inhabitants of the tenements heseemed a morbid little boy, unhappily too delicate for sense tobe safely knocked into him; his fellow-children would have ignored himcompletely if he had not had strange fancies that made interestingstories and sometimes inspired games. On the whole, George was lonelywithout knowing what loneliness meant.
All day long the voice of London throbbed up beyond the bars, andGeorge would regard the chimneys and the housetops and the section oflively street that fell within his range with his small, keen eyes,and wonder why the world did not forthwith crumble into silent,peaceful dust, instead of groaning and quivering in continual unrest.But when twilight fell and the children were tired of playing, theywould gather round him in his corner by the tank and ask him to tellthem stories. This tank was large and open and held rain water for theuse of the tenants, and originally it had been cut off from the restof the roof by some special railings of its own; but two of therailings had been broken, and now the children could creep through andsit round the tank at dusk, like Eastern villagers round the villagewell.
And George would tell them stories--queer stories with twistedfaces and broken backs, that danced and capered merrily enough as arule, but sometimes stood quite still and made horrible grimaces. Thechildren liked the cheerful moral stories better, such as Arthur'sBoots.
"Once upon a time," George would begin, "there was a boy calledArthur, who lived in a house like this, and always tied hisbootlaces with knots instead of bows. One night he stood on theroof and wished he had wings like a sparrow, so that he couldfly away over the houses. And a great wind began, so that everybodysaid there was a storm, and suddenly Arthur found he had a littlepair of wings, and he flew away with the wind over the houses. Andpresently he got beyond the storm to a quiet place in the sky, andArthur looked up and saw all the stars tied to heaven with littlebits of string, and all the strings were tied in bows. And thiswas done so that God could pull the string quite easily when Hewanted to, and let the stars fall. On fine nights you can see themdropping. Arthur thought that the angels must have very neatfingers to tie so many bows, but suddenly, while he was looking,his feet began to feel heavy, and he stooped down to take off hisboots; but he could not untie the knots quick enough, and soon hestarted falling very fast. And while he was falling, he heard thewind in the telegraph wires, and the shouts of the boys who sellpapers in the street, and then he fell on the top of a house. Andthey took him to the hospital, and cut off his legs, and gave himwooden ones instead. But he could not fly any more because theywere too heavy."
For days afterwards all the children would tie their bootlaces inbows.
Sometimes they would all look into the dark tank, and George wouldtell them about the splendid fish that lived in its depths. If thetank was only half full, he would whisper to the fish, and thechildren would hear its indistinct reply. But when the tank was fullto the brim, he said that the fish was too happy to talk, and he woulddescribe the beauty of its appearance so vividly that all the childrenwould lean over the tank and strain their eyes in a desperate effortto see the wonderful fish. But no one ever saw it clearly exceptGeorge, though most of the children thought they had seen its taildisappearing in the shadows at one time or another.
It was doubtful how far the children believed his stories; probably,not having acquired the habit of examining evidence, they werecontent to accept ideas that threw a pleasant glamour on life. But thecoming of Jimmy Simpson altered this agreeable condition of mind.Jimmy was one of those masterful stupid boys who excel at games andphysical contests, and triumph over intellectual problems by sheerbraggart ignorance. From the first he regarded George with contempt,and when he heard him telling his stories he did not conceal hisdisbelief.
"It's a lie," he said; "there ain't no fish in the tank."
"I have seen it, I tell you," said George.
Jimmy spat on the asphalt rudely.
"I bet no one else has," he said.
George looked round his audience, but their eyes did not meet his.They felt that they might have been mistaken in believing thatthey had seen the tail of the fish. And Jimmy was a very good man withhis fists. "Liar!" said Jimmy at last triumphantly, and walked away.Being masterful, he led the others with him, and George brooded by thetank for the rest of the evening in solitude.
Next day George went up to Jimmy confidently. "I was right about thefish," he said. "I dreamed about it last night."
"Rot!" said Jimmy; "dreams are only made-up things; they don't meananything."
George crept away sadly. How could he convince such a man? All daylong he worried over the problem, and he woke up in the middle of thenight with it throbbing in his brain. And suddenly, as he lay in hisbed, doubt came to him. Supposing he had been wrong, supposing he hadnever seen the fish at all? This was not to be borne. He crept quietlyout of the flat, and tiptoed upstairs to the roof. The stone was verycold to his feet.
There were so many things in the tank that at first, George could notsee the fish, but at last he saw it gleaming below the moon and thestars, larger and even more beautiful than he had said. "I knew Iwas right," he whispered, as he crept back to bed. In the morning hewas very ill.
Meanwhile blue day succeeded blue day, and while the water grew lowerin the tank, the children, with Jimmy for leader, had almost forgottenthe boy who had told them stories. Now and again one or other of themwould say that George was very, very ill, and then they would go onwith their game. No one looked in the tank now that they knew therewas nothing in it, till it occurred one day to Jimmy that the dryweather should have brought final confirmation of his scepticism.Leaving his comrades at the long jump, he went to George's neglectedcorner and peeped into the tank. Sure enough it was almost dry, and,he nearly shouted with surprise, in the shallow pool of sooty waterthere lay a large fish, dead, but still gleaming with rainbow colours.
Jimmy was strong and stupid, but not ill-natured, and, recallingGeorge's illness, it occurred to him that it would be a decent thingto go and tell him he was right. He ran downstairs and knocked on thedoor of the flat where George lived. George's big sister openedit, but the boy was too excited to see that her eyes were wet. "Oh,miss," he said breathlessly, "tell George he was right about the fish.I've seen it myself!"
"Georgy's dead," said the girl.
The Ghost Ship Page 19
