A Fir-Tree said boastingly to the Bramble, "You are useful for nothing at all; while I am everywhere used for roofs and houses." The Bramble answered: 'You poor creature, if you would only call to mind the axes and saws which are about to hew you down, you would have reason to wish that you had grown up a Bramble, not a Fir-Tree."
Better poverty without care, than riches with.
Chapter 72
desired effect—the three oaks—winifred—things of time—with god's will—the preacher—creature comforts—croesaw—welsh and english—chester
The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubtful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that period the man said that with the blessing of God he would answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I could bear to be removed from the place in which we were; 'for I like it not,' he continued, 'as something within me tells me that it is not good for any of us to be here.' I told him, as well as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place; whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me in the cart; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber; on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped the earth—we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through the middle of which ran a small brook; it stood between two rising grounds; that on the left, which was on the farther side of the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what appeared to be a farm-house.
Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a canopy; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the stranger said to me, 'This is the spot where my wife and myself generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what else you could do under present circumstances.' After receiving my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak.
Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, with a composed yet cheerful expression of countenance; her dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. 'I am glad to see thee moving about, young man,' said she, in a soft, placid tone; 'I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be wondrous strong; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say?—Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast this day undergone; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance?' I made no answer, and the woman, after a pause, said, 'Excuse me, young man, but do you know anything of God?' 'Very little,' I replied, 'but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say nothing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and will live twenty times as long.' The woman was silent for some moments, and then said, 'I scarcely know in what spirit thy words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thyself—they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be one of joy or sorrow.'
Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from the other side of the tree, 'Winifred, it is getting late, you had better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our arrival, or they will have retired for the night.' 'True,' said Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by the name of Mary; the woman replied in the same tongue, but almost immediately said, in English, 'We hoped to have heard you speak to-night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, as Winifred tells me; nothing remains for you to do now but to sup—to-morrow, with God's will, we shall hear you.' 'And to-night, also, with God's will, provided you be so disposed. Let those of your family come hither.' 'They will be hither presently,' said Mary, 'for knowing that thou art arrived, they will, of course, come and bid thee welcome.' And scarcely had she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moonlit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we were; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed like a plain country farmer; this was, I soon found, the husband of Mary; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and expressed their joy at seeing him. After which he said, 'Now, friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you.' A stool was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart.
The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest symptom of weariness; on the contrary, the hope of each individual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse the whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed, 'I shall soon be back, Peter; I go but to make arrangements for the supper of thyself and company'; and, in effect, she presently returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her hands. 'Set it down, Jessy,' said the mistress to the girl, 'and then betake thyself to thy rest, I shall remain here for a little time to talk with my friends.' The girl departed, and the preacher and the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he exclaimed, 'Ay, truly, we were both forgetful'; and then getting up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning against the wheel of my cart; and, taking me by the hand, he said, 'Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our own creature-comforts, that we forgot thee, but it is not too late to repair our fault; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and milk?' 'I cannot eat,' I replied, 'but I think I could drink a little milk'; whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying, '"Croesaw." That,' added he, with a smile, 'is Welsh for welcome.'
The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, consisting of bread, cheese, milk, and curds. My two friends partook with a good appetite. 'Mary,' said the preacher, addressing himself to the woman of the house, 'every time I come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?' 'The two eldest understand a few words,' said the woman, 'but my husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it does not please him to have Welsh children. Who, I have heard him say, would be a Welshman, if he could be an Englishman?' 'I for one,' said the preacher, somewhat hastily; 'not to be king of all England would I give up my birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced.' 'You do him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person,' said the woman; 'as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are almost as bad as two kings.' 'That's no bad observation,' said the preacher, 'and it is generally the case; yet, thank God, the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account.' 'They jog on very well now,' said the woman; 'but I have heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that once they hanged the mayor of Chester.' 'Ha, ha!' said the preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; 'he told you that, did he?' 'Yes,' said Mary; 'once, when the mayor of Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and the English, and the Welsh beat the English, and hanged the mayor.' 'Your husband is a clever man,' said Peter, 'and knows a great deal; did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No! then I will: the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was —— ——. He was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt them all. That —— was a very fine, noble—God forgive me, what was I about to say!—a very bad, violent man; but, Mary, this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding it we set a very bad example to the young man here—let us change the subject.'
They then began to talk on religious matters. At length Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife retired to their tilted cart.
'Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had bidden me farewell for the night.
'I am afraid he is,' said Winifred, 'yet my heart warms to the poor lad, he seems so forlorn.' '
Chapter 73
morning hymn—much alone—john bunyan—beholden to nobody—sixty-five—sober greeting—early sabbaths—finny brood—the porch—no fortune telling—the master's niece—doing good—the groans and voices—pechod ysprydd glan
I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and then left my tent. 'Good morning,' said Peter, 'how dost thou feel?' 'Much better,' said I, 'than I could have expected.' 'I am glad of it,' said Peter. 'Art thou hungry? yonder comes our breakfast,' pointing to the same young woman I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the hill bearing the tray upon her head.
'What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?' said Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. 'Do,' said I; 'as I do other days, what I can.' 'And dost thou pass this day as thou dost other days?' said Peter. 'Why not?' said I; 'what is there in this day different from the rest? it seems to be of the same colour as yesterday.' 'Art thou aware,' said the wife, interposing, 'what day it is? that it is Sabbath? that it is Sunday?' 'No,' said I, 'I did not know that it was Sunday.' 'And how did that happen?' said Winifred, with a sigh. 'To tell you the truth,' said I, 'I live very much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time.' 'And yet of what infinite importance is time,' said Winifred. 'Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy end?' 'I do not think,' said I, 'that I am so near my end as I was yesterday.' 'Yes, thou art,' said the woman; 'thou wast not doomed to die yesterday; an invisible hand was watching over thee yesterday; but thy day will come, therefore improve the time; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday; and, oh! reflect on one thing; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst thou have been now?' 'Cast into the earth, perhaps,' said I. 'I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth is the natural end of man.' 'Who is Mr. Petulengro?' said Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. 'Master of the horse-shoe,' said I; 'and, according to his own account, king of Egypt.' 'I understand,' said Peter, 'head of some family of wandering Egyptians—they are a race utterly godless. Art thou of them?—but no, thou art not, thou hast not their yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wandering artisans called ——. I do not like you the worse for belonging to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that family.' 'Who was he?' said I. 'John Bunyan,' replied Peter, reverently, 'and the mention of his name reminds me that I have to preach this day; wilt thou go and hear? the distance is not great, only half a mile.' 'No,' said I, 'I will not go and hear.' 'Wherefore?' said Peter. 'I belong to the church,' said I, 'and not to the congregations.' 'Oh! the pride of that church,' said Peter, addressing his wife in their own tongue, 'exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant of its members. Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to church,' said Peter, again addressing me; 'there is a church on the other side of that wooded hill.' 'No,' said I, 'I do not mean to go to church.' 'May I ask thee wherefore?' said Peter. 'Because,' said I, 'I prefer remaining beneath the shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves and the tinkling of the waters.'
'Then thou intendest to remain here?' said Peter, looking fixedly at me. 'If I do not intrude,' said I; 'but if I do, I will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody—perhaps you wish me to go?' 'On the contrary,' said Peter, 'I wish you to stay. I begin to see something in thee which has much interest for me; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place of preaching; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish to ask thee a question—Didst thou seek thy own destruction yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?' 'No,' said I; 'had I known there had been poison in the cake I certainly should not have taken it.' 'And who gave it thee?' said Peter. 'An enemy of mine,' I replied. 'Who is thy enemy?' 'An Egyptian sorceress and poison-monger.' 'Thy enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate thee—of what did she complain?' 'That I had stolen the tongue out of her head.' 'I do not understand thee—is she young?' 'About sixty-five.'
Here Winifred interposed. 'Thou didst call her just now by hard names, young man,' said she; 'I trust thou dost bear no malice against her.' 'No,' said I, 'I bear no malice against her.' 'Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of what is called justice?' 'By no means,' said I; 'I have lived long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of the roads; one of those to which those who travel are occasionally subject.' 'In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?' 'Both now and for ever,' said I. 'Truly,' said Winifred, 'the spirit which the young man displayeth pleases me much; I should be loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true Christian before he leaveth us.' 'My exhortation!' said Peter, and a dark shade passed over his countenance; 'thou forgettest what I am—I—I—but I am forgetting myself; the Lord's will be done; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends are coming to attend us to the place of meeting.'
Again the family which I had seen the night before descended the hill from their abode. They were now dressed in their Sunday's best. The master of the house led the way. They presently joined us, when a quiet sober greeting ensued on each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me.
And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of the old church at pretty D---, the dignified rector, and yet more dignified clerk. I thought of England's grand Liturgy, and Tate and Brady's sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother—a quiet sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath day without having done anything to profane it. And how soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very good throughout the day.
And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed and said to myself, I am much altered since then; am I altered for the better? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the Sabbath day.
For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes; and then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable.
Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late hard life and by Mrs. Herne's drow. I wonder if there is any harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when she comes home; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can find a fitting place.
But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook, I left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my languid and exhausted frame.
Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which stood the farm-house; it was a large and commodious building built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself.
'Good-day,' said I, 'pretty damsel, sitting in the farm porch.'
'Good-day,' said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and then fixing her eyes on her book.
'That's a nice book you are reading,' said I.
The girl looked at me with surprise. 'How do you know what book it is?' said she.
'How do I know—never mind; but a nice book it is—no love, no fortune-telling in it.'
The girl looked at me half offended. 'Fortune-telling!' said she, 'I should think not. But you know nothing about it'; and she bent her head once more over the book.
'I tell you what, young person,' said I, 'I know all about that book; what will you wager that I do not?'
'I never wager,' said the girl.
'Shall I tell you the name of it,' said I, 'O daughter of the dairy?'
The girl half started. 'I should never have thought,' said she, half timidly, 'that you could have guessed it.'
'I did not guess it,' said I, 'I knew it; and meet and proper it is that you should read it.'
'Why so?' said the girl.
'Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than the Dairyman's Daughter?'
'Where do you come from?' said the girl.
'Out of the water,' said I. 'Don't start, I have been bathing; are you fond of the water?'
'No,' said the girl, heaving a sigh; 'I am not fond of the water, that is, of the sea'; and here she sighed again.
'The sea is a wide gulf,' said I, 'and frequently separates hearts.'
The girl sobbed.
'Why are you alone here?' said I.
'I take my turn with the rest,' said the girl, 'to keep at home on Sunday.'
'And you are—,' said I.
'The master's niece!' said the girl. 'How came you to know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your friends?'
'Who are those you call my friends?' said I.
'Peter and his wife.'
'And who are they?' said I.
'Do you not know?' said the girl; 'you came with them.'
'They found me ill by the way,' said I; 'and they relieved me: I know nothing about them.'
'I thought you knew everything,' said the girl.
'There are two or three things which I do not know, and this is one of them. Who are they?'
'Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter Williams?'
'Never,' said I.
'Well,' said the girl, 'this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They frequently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.'
'And what is their reason for doing so?' said I; 'would it not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof?'
'I know not their reasons,' said the girl, 'but so it is; they never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon his mind; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a kind—'
'Thank you,' said I, 'I will now depart.'
'Hem!' said the girl, 'I was wishing—'
'What? to ask me a question?'
'Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you mentioned, I think, fortune-telling.'
'Do you wish me to tell your fortune?'
'By no means; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and I should wish to know—'
'When he will come back? I have told you already there are two or three things which I do not know—this is another of them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come back some of these days; I would if I were in his place. In the meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the Dairyman's Daughter when you have nothing better to do.'
It was late in the evening when the party of the morning returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else; he appeared sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as silent as my friends; after a little time we retired to our separate places of rest.
About midnight I was awakened by a noise; I started up and listened; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In a moment I had issued from my tent—all was silent—but the next moment I again heard groans and voices; they proceeded from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay; I drew near, again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim, 'Pechod Ysprydd Glan—O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' and then he uttered a deep groan. Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness of that night. I did not understand all she said—she spoke in her native language, and I was some way apart; she appeared to endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all comfort, and, with many groans, repeated—'Pechod Ysprydd Glan—O pechod Ysprydd Glan!' I felt I had no right to pry into their afflictions, and retired.
Now 'pechod Ysprydd Glan,' interpreted, is the sin against the Holy Ghost.
art by C.C. Beck - Captain Marvel Adventures #43 - Fawcett, February 1945.
Milton Wheeler's thick-set body shivered as he put a match to the wick of the oil heater, noting mechanically that the reservoir was almost empty. Before he could get more oil, he would have to settle that already large bill owing the grocer.
He paced the floor to stir his torpid circulation, rubbing his stubby hands together briskly.
His gray suit was much too light for November, and his undergarments —repeatedly darned and patched by Agnes’ hands—too thin to yield their original warmth. He owed the tailor for that new black overcoat; as for the underwear, he would first have to pay for last summer’s things and for the new black hat, before ordering other garments. A black suit he had not quite dared to order. Not that the tailor had actually asked for money, but he had observed casually that he wouldn’t send in his little bill until after the funeral.
After the funeral! Milton shivered again, this time not with cold. Everything was coming in—after the funeral.
He felt that Agnes had dealt him almost a personal blow by dying; without her co-operation, how could he keep up his pretenses? It would be a few days only, before his hated rival would learn upon how small a foundation had been built Milton’s house of sham. That Benson, who had in everything but the winning of Agnes triumphed over him, should learn of his failure to make a success financially, was to Milton a frightful tragedy.
Milton had had a few thousand dollars in bank, and a fair salary at the laboratory, when he married Agnes, winning her from Benson, who had large private means. (It was the first time since they two had been boys in school together that Milton had. triumphed over the other man.) It had been indescribably galling to him to think that Benson would ever learn how much Agnes had lost in marrying a poorer man. Agnes had rebelled at this deception in the beginning; she did not care, she said. But then she saw how keenly Milton felt about it—how his every thought was turned in the one direction. Poor girl! Her first unkind act had been her desertion of him at this critical moment.
Milton had managed to fool every-body. He had kept up a lavish establishment, spending his principal freely. He had bought Agnes everything that could make the impression of unlimited means upon the rejected Benson, whose keen eyes he fancied were always upon him. Agnes’ death, however, found him penniless; without a position; confronting a mountain of unpaid bills. Rent, unsettled for four months; groceries, the sum was almost staggering; butcher, how could they have consumed such quantities of meat?
The doctor—somehow this account had mounted up to much more than Milton had anticipated. There must have been many visits to the office of which Agnes' husband was ignorant; she must have kept her sickness from him a much longer time than he had realized. To the doctor’s statement Milton had pinned, with sardonic humor, bills from the druggist, the florist, the undertaker.
Then there were coal bills; laundry bills; ice bills. The sum of those items marshaled itself before him with malignant triumph, conveying to his shrinking spirit the overwhelming prevision of defeat.
Men were being turned away everywhere. He might be months finding another such position as he had been holding for four years. He might raise money to settle that appalling total of debt by paying the exorbitant interest rate of some loan shark, but even this would be only a temporary relief. Discovery of his castle of pretense was inevitable, and to him disclosure of the real facts meant such complete, such utter ruin, that the bare idea bowed him down into the very dust of humiliation. He could see Benson’s smile. . . .
There was only one way out. Death! It was distasteful to him, because his death under present circumstances would mean the disclosure of what he had for three years been struggling to conceal. His death, with the revelation of that appalling sum total of debt, would make him the subject of derision for his rival.
If there were only some way to escape without baring his sordid secret to the world! He whipped his dulled mind into unwilling concentration. And then—suddenly—he had it! Within the dusk the little heater cast a circle of friendly radiance. Milton threw a glance upward. . . The lamp hook in that great beam across the middle of the ceiling looked strong enough. In the laundry there was always plenty of good rope. He would bring up a stepladder. . . .
Half an hour later he jimmied open from the outside one of the study windows giving on the garden; the gusty November air swirled into the room, setting the curtains a-flutter. Upon the floor under his writing desk he laid a ten-dollar bill as if it had been accidentally dropped by hurried fingers. The balance of his last week’s salary he tore carefully into small pieces and burned, scattering the ashes on the night wind from the open window. He pulled out both desk drawers, tossing their contents upon table and floor as if some unlicensed intruder had gone through them hastily.
Upon the bronze tray on his desk he laid a sheet of paper, inscribed with a few terse, carefully thought out words. He had disposed of all his securities, he wrote, to charities in which he and his wife had been interested, but had left sufficient cash in the desk drawer to settle all outstanding accounts against his estate. He chuckled as he wrote, a humorless sound, and then, shrugging his thick shoulders, finished: "I cannot live without Agnes. I am going to join her."
In those last moments he was capping the edifice of sham with the most marvelous of cupolas; he was putting the finishing touch to a work which for three years had been the driving force of his life. From boyhood he had had the worst of it with Benson, always; now Benson would be unable to smile in that slow, exasperating way of his. No, Benson would be obliged to think of him with astonished admiration.
He felt malicious enjoyment as he surveyed the indications of burglary, and the note that so well covered the traces of his supposed wealth. The fools would believe he had killed himself out of grief at the loss of his wife; they would continue to admire and envy him—and his secret would remain undiscovered.
Everything was ready. He lighted a cigarette contentedly. When he had finished this last smoke, he would climb the ladder, adjust the rope. . . . It would be the greatest triumph of his life, after all—this death. His only regret was that he could not be there to enjoy the effect of the stupendous climax.
His cigarette finished, he flung the butt away and mounted the ladder. He felt gingerly of the rope knotted about his neck, shuddering involuntarily. If it were not that by dying he was making his secret secure for all time—. After all, it was the only way.
Setting his teeth, he pushed against the ladder with both feet. It toppled to the floor with a crash.
As his body was whirled about by the tautening rope, a flare from the bronze tray on the desk caught Milton’s eye.
In that last poignant moment he had the mortification of observing that the cigarette butt had fallen upon and ignited the suicide note, that curled—crisped—blackened to a indecipherable ash before his agonized eyes.
Vestiu uma camisa listada e saiu por aí
Em vez de tomar chá com torrada ele bebeu Parati
Levava um canivete no cinto e um pandeiro na mão
E sorria quando o povo dizia: sossega leão, sossega leão
Tirou o anel de doutor para não dar o que falar
E saiu dizendo eu quero mamar
Mamãe eu quero mamar, mamãe eu quero mamar
Levava um canivete no cinto e um pandeiro na mão
E sorria quando o povo dizia: sossega leão, sossega leão
Levou meu saco de água quente pra fazer chupeta
Rompeu minha cortina de veludo pra fazer uma saia
Abriu o guarda-roupa e arrancou minha combinação
E até do cabo de vassoura ele fez um estandarte
Para seu cordão
E agora que a batucada já vai começando não
Deixo e não consinto o meu querido debochar de mim
Porque ele pega as minhas coisas vai dar o que falar
Se fantasia de Antonieta e vai dançar na Bola Preta
Até o sol raiar.
XIII. L’osteria del «Gambero Rosso».
Cammina, cammina, cammina, alla fine sul far della sera arrivarono stanchi morti all’osteria del Gambero Rosso.
— Fermiamoci un po’ qui, — disse la Volpe, — tanto per mangiare un boccone e per riposarci qualche ora. A mezzanotte poi ripartiremo per essere domani, all’alba, nel Campo dei miracoli. —
Entrati nell’osteria, si posero tutt’e tre a tavola: ma nessuno di loro aveva appetito.
Il povero Gatto, sentendosi gravemente indisposto di stomaco, non potè mangiare altro che trentacinque triglie con salsa di pomodoro e quattro porzioni di trippa alla parmigiana: e perchè la trippa non gli pareva condita abbastanza, si rifece tre volte a chiedere il burro e il formaggio grattato!
La Volpe avrebbe spelluzzicato volentieri qualche cosa anche lei: ma siccome il medico le aveva ordinato una grandissima dieta, così dovè contentarsi di una semplice lepre dolce e forte, con
un leggerissimo contorno di pollastre ingrassate e di galletti di primo canto. Dopo la lepre si fece portare per tornagusto un cibreino di pernici, di starne, di conigli, di ranocchi, di lucertole e d’uva paradisa; e poi non volle altro.
Aveva tanta nausea per il cibo, diceva lei, che non poteva accostarsi nulla alla bocca.
Quello che mangiò meno di tutti fu Pinocchio. Chiese uno spicchio di noce e un cantuccino di pane e lasciò nel piatto ogni cosa. Il povero figliuolo, col pensiero sempre fisso al Campo dei miracoli, aveva preso un’indigestione anticipata di monete d’oro.
Quand’ebbero cenato, la Volpe disse all’oste:
— Datemi due buone camere, una per il signor Pinocchio e un’altra per me e per il mio compagno. Prima di ripartire stiacceremo un sonnellino. Ricordatevi, però, che a mezzanotte vogliamo essere svegliati per continuare il nostro viaggio.
— Sissignore — rispose l’oste, e strizzò l’occhio alla Volpe e al Gatto, come dire: « Ho mangiato la foglia e ci siamo intesi!… » —
Appena che Pinocchio fu entrato nel letto, si addormentò a colpo, e principiò a sognare. E sognando gli pareva di essere in mezzo a un campo, e questo campo era pieno di arboscelli carichi di grappoli, e questi grappoli erano carichi di zecchini d’oro che, dondolandosi mossi dal vento, facevano zin, zin, zin, quasi volessero dire: « Chi ci vuole, venga a prenderci. » Ma quando Pinocchio fu sul più bello, quando cioe allungò la mano per prendere a manciate tutte quelle belle monete e mettersele in tasca, si trovò svegliato all’improvviso da tre violentissimi colpi dati nella porta di camera.
Era l’oste che veniva a dirgli che la mezzanotte era sonata.
— E i miei compagni sono pronti? — gli domandò il burattino.
— Altro che pronti! son partiti due ore fa.
— Perchè mai tanta fretta?
— Perchè il Gatto ha ricevuto un’imbasciata che il suo gattino maggiore, malato di geloni ai piedi, stava in pericolo di vita.
— E la cena l’hanno pagata?
— Che vi pare? Quelle lì sono persone troppo educate, perchè facciano un affronto simile alla signoria vostra.
— Peccato! Quest’affronto mi avrebbe fatto tanto piacere! — disse Pinocchio, grattandosi il capo. Poi domandò:
— E dove hanno detto di aspettarmi quei buoni amici?
— Al Campo dei miracoli, domattina, allo spuntare del giorno. ―
Pinocchio pagò uno zecchino per la cena sua e per quella dei suoi compagni, e dopo partì.
Ma si può dire che partisse a tastoni, perchè fuori dell’osteria c’era un buio così buio, che non ci si vedeva da qui a lì. Nella campagna all’intorno non si sentiva alitare una foglia. Solamente alcuni uccellacci notturni, traversando la strada da una siepe all’altra, venivano a sbattere le ali sul naso di Pinocchio, il quale, facendo un salto indietro per la paura, gridava: — Chi va là? — e l’eco delle colline circostanti ripeteva in lontananza: — Chi va là? chi va là? chi va là?
Intanto, mentre camminava, vide sul tronco di un albero un piccolo animaletto, che riluceva di una luce pallida e opaca, come un lumino da notte dentro una lampada di porcellana trasparente.
— Chi sei? — gli domandò Pinocchio.
— Sono l’ombra del Grillo-parlante, — rispose l’animaletto con una vocina fioca fioca, che pareva venisse dal mondo di là.
— Che vuoi da me? — disse il burattino.
— Voglio darti un consiglio. Ritorna indietro e porta i quattro zecchini, che ti sono rimasti, al tuo povero babbo, che piange e si dispera per non averti più veduto.
— Domani il mio babbo sarà un gran signore, perchè questi quattro zecchini diventeranno duemila.
— Non ti fidare, ragazzo mio, di quelli che promettono di farti ricco dalla mattina alla sera. Per il solito o sono matti o imbroglioni! Dài retta a me, ritorna indietro.
— E io invece voglio andare avanti.
— L’ora è tarda!…
— Voglio andare avanti.
— La nottata è scura…
— Voglio andare avanti.
— La strada è pericolosa…
— Voglio andare avanti.
— Ricordati che i ragazzi che vogliono fare di loro capriccio e a modo loro, prima o poi se ne pentono.
— Le solite storie. Buona notte, Grillo.
— Buona notte, Pinocchio, e che il cielo ti salvi dalla guazza e dagli assassini. ―
Appena dette queste ultime parole, il Grillo-parlante si spense a un tratto, come si spenge un lume soffiandoci sopra, e la strada rimase più buia di prima.
XIV. Pinocchio, per non aver dato retta ai buoni consigli del Grillo-parlante, s’imbatte negli assassini.
— Davvero.... — disse fra sè il burattino rimettendosi in viaggio — come siamo disgraziati noialtri poveri ragazzi! Tutti ci sgridano, tutti ci ammoniscono, tutti ci dànno consigli. A lasciarli dire, tutti si metterebbero in capo di essere i nostri babbi e i nostri maestri; tutti; anche i Grilli-parlanti. Ecco qui: perchè io non ho voluto dar retta a quell’uggioso di Grillo, chi lo sa quante disgrazie, secondo lui, mi dovrebbero accadere! Dovrei incontrare anche gli assassini! Meno male che agli assassini io non ci credo, nè ci ho creduto mai. Per me gli assassini sono stati inventati apposta dai babbi, per far paura ai ragazzi che vogliono andare fuori la notte. E poi, se anche li trovassi qui sulla strada, mi darebbero forse soggezione? Neanche per sogno, anderei loro sul viso, gridando: «Signori assassini, che cosa vogliono da me? Si rammentino che con me non si scherza! Se ne vadano dunque per i fatti loro, e zitti!». A questa parlantina fatta sul serio, quei poveri assassini, mi par di vederli, scapperebbero via come il vento. Caso poi fossero tanto ineducati da non voler scappare, allora scapperei io, e così la farei finita… ―
Ma Pinocchio non potè finire il suo ragionamento, perchè in quel punto gli parve di sentire dietro di sè un leggerissimo fruscìo di foglie.
Si voltò a guardare, e vide nel buio due figuracce nere, tutte imbacuccate in due sacchi da carbone, le quali correvano dietro a lui a salti e in punta di piedi, come se fossero due fantasmi.
— Eccoli davvero! — disse dentro di sè: e non sapendo dove nascondere i quattro zecchini, se li nascose in bocca e precisamente sotto la lingua.
Poi si provò a scappare. Ma non aveva ancor fatto il primo passo, che sentì agguantarsi per le braccia e intese due voci orribili e cavernose, che gli dissero:
— O la borsa o la vita! ―
Pinocchio non potendo rispondere con le parole a motivo delle monete che aveva in bocca, fece mille salamelecchi e mille pantomime, per dare ad intendere a quei due incappati, di cui si vedevano soltanto gli occhi attraverso i buchi dei sacchi, che lui era un povero burattino e che non aveva in tasca nemmeno un centesimo falso.
— Via via! Meno ciarle e fuori i denari — gridarono minacciosamente i due briganti.
E il burattino fece col capo e colle mani un segno, come dire: « Non ne ho ».
— Metti fuori i denari o sei morto; — disse l’assassino più alto di statura.
— Morto! — ripetè l’altro.
— E dopo ammazzato te, ammazzeremo anche tuo padre!
— Anche tuo padre!
— No, no, no, il mio povero babbo no! — gridò Pinocchio con accento disperato: ma nel gridare così, gli zecchini gli sonarono in bocca.
— Ah furfante! dunque i denari te li sei nascosti sotto la lingua? Sputali subito! ―
E Pinocchio, duro.
— Ah! tu fai il sordo? Aspetta un po’, che penseremo noi a farteli sputare! ―
Difatti uno di loro afferrò il burattino per la punta del naso e quell’altro lo prese per la bazza, e lì cominciarono a tirare screanzatamente uno per in qua l’altro per in là, tanto da costringerlo a spalancare la bocca: ma non ci fu verso. La bocca del burattino pareva inchiodata e ribadita.
Allora l’assassino più piccolo di statura, cavato fuori un coltellaccio, provò a conficcarglielo a guisa di leva e di scalpello fra le labbra: ma Pinocchio, lesto come un lampo, gli azzannò la mano coi denti, e dopo avergliela con un morso staccata di netto, la sputò e figuratevi la sua maraviglia quando, invece di una mano, si accòrse di aver sputato in terra uno zampetto di gatto.
Incoraggito da questa prima vittoria, si liberò a forza dalle unghie degli assassini, e saltata la siepe della strada, cominciò a fuggire per la campagna. E gli assassini a correre dietro a lui, come due cani dietro a una lepre: e quello che aveva perduto uno zampetto correva con una gamba sola, nè si è saputo mai come facesse.
Dopo una corsa di quindici chilometri, Pinocchio non ne poteva più. Allora vistosi perso, si arrampicò su per il fusto di un altissimo pino e si pose a sedere in vetta ai rami. Gli assassini tentarono di arrampicarsi anche loro, ma giunti a metà del fusto sdrucciolarono, e ricascando a terra, si spellarono le mani e i piedi.
Non per questo si dettero per vinti: che anzi, raccolto un fastello di legna secche a piè del pino, vi appiccarono il fuoco. In men che non si dice, il pino cominciò a bruciare e a divampare, come una candela agitata dal vento. Pinocchio, vedendo che le fiamme salivano sempre più, e non volendo far la fine del piccione arrosto, spiccò un bel salto di vetta all’albero, e via a correre daccapo attraverso i campi e ai vigneti. E gli assassini dietro, sempre dietro, senza stancarsi mai.
Intanto cominciava a baluginare il giorno e si trovò improvvisamente sbarrato il passo da un fosso largo e profondissimo, tutto pieno di acquaccia sudicia, color del caffè e latte. Che fare? « Una, due, tre! » gridò il burattino, e slanciandosi con una gran rincorsa, saltò dall’altra parte. E gli assassini saltarono anche loro, ma non avendo preso bene la misura, patatunfete!… cascarono giù nel bel mezzo del fosso. Pinocchio che sentì il tonfo e gli schizzi dell’acqua, urlò ridendo e seguitando a correre:
— Buon bagno, signori assassini. ―
E già si figurava che fossero bell’e affogati, quando invece, voltandosi a guardare, si accòrse che gli correvano dietro tutt’ e due, sempre imbacuccati nei loro sacchi, e grondanti acqua come due panieri sfondati.
XV. Gli assassini inseguono Pinocchio; e dopo averlo raggiunto lo impiccano a un ramo della Quercia grande.
Allora il burattino, perdutosi d’animo fu proprio sul punto di gettarsi a terra e di darsi per vinto, quando nel girare gli occhi all’intorno, vide fra mezzo al verde cupo degli alberi biancheggiare in lontananza una casina candida come la neve.
— Se io avessi tanto fiato da arrivare fino a quella casa, forse sarei salvo! — disse dentro di sè.
E senza indugiare un minuto, riprese a correre per il bosco a carriera distesa. E gli assassini sempre dietro.
E dopo una corsa disperata di quasi due ore, finalmente, tutto trafelato, arrivò alla porta di quella casina e bussò.
Nessuno rispose.
Tornò a bussare con maggior violenza, perchè sentiva avvicinarsi il rumore dei passi e il respiro grosso e affannoso dei suoi persecutori.
Lo stesso silenzio.
Avvedutosi che il bussare non giovava a nulla, cominciò per disperazione a dare calci e zuccate nella porta. Allora si affacciò alla finestra una bella Bambina, coi capelli turchini e il viso bianco come un’immagine di cera, gli occhi chiusi e le mani incrociate sul petto, la quale senza muover punto le labbra, disse con una vocina che pareva venisse dall’altro mondo:
— In questa casa non c’è nessuno; sono tutti morti.
— Aprimi almeno tu! — gridò Pinocchio piangendo e raccomandandosi.
— Sono morta anch’io.
— Morta? e allora che cosa fai costì alla finestra?
— Aspetto la bara che venga a portarmi via. -
Appena detto così, la Bambina disparve e la finestra si richiuse senza far rumore.
— O bella bambina dai capelli turchini, — gridava Pinocchio, — aprimi per carità! Abbi compassione di un povero ragazzo inseguìto dagli assass… —
Ma non potè finir la parola, perchè sentì afferrarsi per il collo, e le solite due vociacce che gli brontolarono minacciosamente:
— Ora non ci scappi più! —
Il burattino, vedendosi balenare la morte dinanzi agli occhi, fu preso da un tremito così forte, che nel tremare, gli sonavano le giunture delle sue gambe di legno e i quattro zecchini che teneva nascosti sotto la lingua.
— Dunque? — gli domandarono gli assassini — vuoi aprirla la bocca, sì o no? Ah! non rispondi?… Lascia fare: che questa volta te la faremo aprir noi!… —
E cavati fuori due coltellacci lunghi lunghi e affilati come rasoi, zaff e zaff… gli affibbiarono due colpi nel mezzo alle reni.
Ma il burattino per sua fortuna era fatto d’un legno durissimo, motivo per cui le lame, spezzandosi, andarono in mille schegge e gli assassini rimasero col manico dei coltelli in mano, a guardarsi in faccia.
— Ho capito; — disse allora uno di loro — bisogna impiccarlo. Impicchiamolo!
— Impicchiamolo — ripetè l’altro.
Detto fatto gli legarono le mani dietro le spalle, e passatogli un nodo scorsoio intorno alla gola, lo attaccarono penzoloni al ramo di una grossa pianta detta la Quercia grande.
Poi si posero là, seduti sull’erba, aspettando che il burattino facesse l’ultimo sgambetto: ma il burattino, dopo tre ore, aveva sempre gli occhi aperti, la bocca chiusa e sgambettava più che mai.
Annoiati finalmente di aspettare, si voltarono a Pinocchio e gli dissero sghignazzando:
— Addio a domani. Quando domani torneremo qui, si spera che ci farai la garbatezza di farti trovare bell’e morto e con la bocca spalancata. ―
E se ne andarono.
Intanto s’era levato un vento impetuoso di tramontana, che soffiando e mugghiando con rabbia, sbatacchiava in qua e in là il povero
impiccato, facendolo dondolare violentemente come il battaglio d’una campana che suona a festa. E quel dondolìo gli cagionava acutissimi spasimi, e il nodo scorsoio, stringendosi sempre più alla gola, gli toglieva il respiro.
A poco a poco gli occhi gli si appannarono; e sebbene sentisse avvicinarsi la morte, pure sperava sempre che da un momento a un altro sarebbe capitata qualche anima pietosa a dargli aiuto. Ma quando, aspetta aspetta, vide che non compariva nessuno, proprio nessuno, allora gli tornò in mente il suo povero babbo… e balbettò quasi moribondo:
— Oh babbo mio! se tu fossi qui!… ―
E non ebbe fiato per dir altro. Chiuse gli occhi, aprì la bocca, stirò le gambe, e dato un grande scrollone, rimase lì come intirizzito.
