by T. F. Powys
Copyright © 1931 by T. F. Powys
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Published by arrangement with the Estate of T. F. Powys, represented by Peters, Frasers & Dunlop, Ltd., London
Manufactured in the United States of America
First published as a New Directions Paperbook (NDP1427) in 2018
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Powys, Theodore Francis, 1875–1953, author.
Title: Unclay / by T. F. Powys.
Description: New York, NY : New Directions Publishing, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018025667 (print) | LCCN 2018040839 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780811228206 (ebook) | ISBN 9780811228190 (alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Death (Personification)—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6031.O873 (ebook) | LCC PR6031.O873 U43 2018 (print) | DDC 823/.912—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025667
New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin
by New Directions Publishing Corporation
80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011
CONTENTS
I. Daisies
II. Mr. Hayhoe Opens the Gate
III. Mr. Hayhoe Hears Footsteps
IV. Mr. Hayhoe Makes a New Friend
V. Death Has No Memory
VI. John Reads a Notice
VII. Priscilla Answers a Question
VIII. An Old Woman’s Eye
IX. Joseph Bridle
X. The Name
XI. A Queer Mistake
XII. Mr. Solly Is Polite to Turnips
XIII. Mr. Dawe Likes to See
XIV. Hidden Treasure
XV. Joe Bridle Sees a Shadow
XVI. A Laugh from a Camel
XVII. One as High as the Almighty
XVIII. A Tale Told to Mr. Dawe
XIX. Mr. Dawe Names His Price
XX. Mr. Dady Opens the Window
XXI. Strange Music
XXII. The Old Fox Trapped
XXIII. Winnie Huddy Runs a Race
XXIV. Mr. Hayhoe Receives a Command
XXV. This Time Mr. Hayhoe Looks
XXVI. A Dead Rat
XXVII. Susie Dawe
XXVIII. Mr. Mere Makes a Beginning
XXIX. Signs and Wonders
XXX. The Large Quiet
XXXI. Susie Lights the Lamp
XXXII. Susie Hides in a Lane
XXXIII. Love Defeats Mr. Solly
XXXIV. A Trade for John
XXXV. Death and the Farmer
XXXVI. The Best Liquor
XXXVII. Love Never Pities
XXXVIII. Susie Wishes to Hurt
XXXIX. Death Wishes to Kill
XL. Winnie Insulted
XLI. A Debt Paid
XLII. A Strange Sweetness
XLIII. Mr. Balliboy and the Beast
XLIV. The Assignation
XLV. Mr. Hayhoe Shakes His Head
XLVI. Lord Bullman Walks to the Window
XLVII. A Bed of Begonias
XLVIII. Winnie Sees the Policeman
XLIX. The Greed of a Collector
L. Droit de Seigneur
LI. Death No Enemy
LII. A Bridal Weapon
LIII. Joe Bridle Turns to the Wall
LIV. Winnie Brings a Message
Landmarks
Cover
UNCLAY
I
* * *
* * *
* * *
Daisies
There was a hedge in the way and, behind the hedge, a very narrow lane.
A fox, who was hidden in the meadow amongst some high rushes, intending to sleep until the evening came, and then to take a roosting fowl from a cartshed nearby, being smelt out by the hounds, sneaked to the hedge, crept through a little hole between the thorns—the way he had come—and, giving his tail a determined whisk to rid it of a dead bramble, ran nimbly up the lane.
He was an old dog-fox who had been hunted many times before. He understood the ways of hounds as well as any kitchen cat, and though—according to an established custom in his family—he always ran away from them, yet he by no means feared them. His cunning had always outwitted their blundering onslaughts, and he never failed to reach his earth safely, that went deep into a rocky hill.
The fox belonged to the country party in politics and always praised the landed gentry to his cubs, but all the farmers he wished dead because, having no manners, they sometimes shot or trapped the foxes.
When the fox slunk away, the hounds—not being accustomed to use their eyes—took him for a weasel. However, they soon discovered the scent and, making their usual sound, wagged their tails, rushed, pushed, and scrambled, and at last found a way through the hedge, and followed the fox.
If the hounds were surprised at the sudden appearance of what they had intended all the day to look for, the hunt—as the riders and runners after such a proceeding are called—were far more so, and all looked excitedly for a gate.
The chief whip, who was steward to the estate, and whose name was Mr. Pix, being called for by the company, pointed out to his master where the gate was which led into the lane.
Mr. Pix’s master, who was also master of the hunt, was Lord Bullman. His Lordship had been even more astonished than the hounds at the fox being discovered so near to the Hall, for he had not expected a find any nearer to home than Madder Hill. He blamed his ill-luck that the find should be made in a small meadow surrounded by high hedges. The fox, he believed, must have had a personal grudge against him, and had chosen this very spot in order to trap the whole hunt, and make the Master look foolish.
Even though that was not the direction in which the fox had gone, Lord Bullman—giving a very modest “Halloo!”—rode directly to the gate that had been pointed out to him. He even made his horse gallop, giving the beast a sharp stab with his spurs, and, coming quickly to the gate, he endeavoured to open it.
All who know his kind can truly say that, if a great man tries to do any self-imposed task, it’s best to leave him alone to do it. Seeing Lord Bullman ride up to the gate, his mounted servants and the rest of the hunt held back a little.
It is well known in all the countryside near West Dodder Hall that his Lordship’s tenants are advised to fasten all the gates through which the hunt may wish to ride so that they may open easily, or else they may incur his displeasure.
This order—that Mr. Pix never forgot to give to a newcomer—was, in most cases, obeyed, but in the meadow where the fox had been found it had often happened in the summer months that young people—happy in one another’s company—would wander in upon a Sunday and lie down upon the grass, making less room—it was supposed—for Farmer Mere’s cows. Thus it came about that Farmer Mere had fastened this particular gate, that led into the lane, with barbed wire.
There is always—as religious teachers in the last century knew—mischief ready for idle hands or for idle mouths. Lord Bullman grew impatient.
A fine gentleman, who had recently made a fortune by trading in picture-halls and had bought an estate near to Dodder, wishing to show his general unconcern about all common events—as well as to call attention to his good horsemanship�
��took a golden case out of his red coat and lit a cigarette. He hoped and expected that his horse would caper. But, instead of showing off the proficiency of his master as a rider, to all who might see, the horse—observing that the green grass looked tempting to one fed only on oats and beans—suddenly lowered its head and began to bite. The young man, in a hurry to chastise the unmannerly beast, dropped his gold case.
A woman laughed.
Lord Bullman pulled at the gate.
The remainder of the field sat idly upon their horses and chatted with one another. They had come into the meadow by one gate, and they intended to go out by another, and at least they sat safe and would not get dirtied if they remained where they were.
In every part of the British Empire, and in other places, too, of less repute, it is well known that an English gentleman never likes to be beaten. Neither does he care to commence a task that he is unable to finish. Lord Bullman might easily have called to his mounted lackeys, or else have delivered command to Mr. Pix that the gate should be pulled down. But he did not do so. He had his own character to think of—his own honour.
There were strangers present, onlookers from the village, and the rest of the hunt. Amongst the riders there were a few who were as well-bred and as rich as himself. To show these that he could not open a paltry gate, made of wood, would be an insult to his own noble ancestry.
Mr. Pix looked worried. He leaned down to get the ear of a friend who was walking, and whispered that they would soon hear something. And so they did—Lord Bullman was beginning to swear.
He swore first at Farmer Mere—who unfortunately was not there to hear him—for shutting the gate so tight, and then damned the gate to Hell because it would not open, and after that, gave his horse to the Devil because it would not stand still. But, for all his loud words, the gate remained closed.
Though some may argue otherwise, wealthy people, we affirm, are bad idlers. They do not like to be kept waiting. When matters grow dull and things come to a standstill, people of quality soon begin to fret. When the rich—and there is no mob like that mob—see a house a-burning, they like the flames to rise high; if the fire slackens and only black smoke appears, they begin to lose faith in the gaiety of the elements, and in themselves too. Even at a funeral fine people often become impatient, for they do not like any restraint.
But others, besides the gentry in the meadow, soon grew dissatisfied with the entertainment. Three little children, who had walked from Dodder village that was two miles away, considered that they were being cheated of their sport. They had hoped at least to see a man or two thrown or a woman’s leg broken. That was what they had come out to see. One of them, Winnie Huddy—for want of anything better to do—suggested a game by themselves. They soon forgot all about the hunt and Lord Bullman, and began to play touch in a corner of the field.
Besides this disrespectful gesture made by the children towards the noblest of country sports, there were other signs, too, that the kingdom of England was fast going to the Devil, or, what would be far worse for the landowners, to God. Two young and beautiful ladies, well-mounted, the daughters of an honourable knight, slipped—shameless hussies—from their horses, and began to gather daisies, their wish being that, during these moments when there was nothing doing in the way of murder, they might make a daisy-chain. The field was a sunny one, and the daisies plentiful, and the young ladies, with an entire disregard for what went on about them, picked greedily.
They might have accomplished their object, and decorated one another like two goddesses, if some one had not appeared to help Lord Bullman to open the gate.
It was certainly high time that he received assistance. My lord had a large income, and his oaths were like his guineas. He was justly and properly incensed against the gate.
The gate reminded him of his wife. She was the only other thing in the world that had ever withstood his will, and, seeing the gate in that fashion, he became more angry.
Lord Bullman had already broken his crop and torn his gloves, and his curses could have been heard upon Madder Hill, but the only one who seemed to heed them at all was Mr. Pix—a man religiously minded—who was forced to console himself, at a little distance away, with a flask of brandy.
II
* * *
* * *
* * *
Mr. Hayhoe Opens the Gate
The gentleman who stepped forward from the lane to help so usefully was a poor clergyman—the Reverend Francis Hayhoe—who had recently been taking the duty at Dodder, because the late incumbent, Canon Dibben, had been preferred, being a man most zealous in forward works, to the town of Stonebridge.
Coming from Dodder, that was about two miles from West Dodder Hall, Mr. Hayhoe, walking softly along the lane, heard the buzz of horrid oaths, like hornets swarming; and, being sure that a devil had escaped out of Hell and was doing some one a mischief, he began to run.
Arriving quickly at the spot from whence the sounds came, he found Lord Bullman struggling in unequal combat with the five-barred gate.
Mr. Hayhoe hoped to be of use. That, he childishly thought, was the reason why he existed in the world. Indeed, he never went out a-walking without the wish being quick in his heart that he might, with God’s help, be the means of assisting some one in distress. Once he had been more kind than wise. He had found a flock of sheep all clamouring to enter a field of rich clover ready to be mown. Mr. Hayhoe had opened the hurdles for them.
In the present emergency, wire was the trouble. Whenever Mr. Hayhoe saw barbed wire it reminded him of sin. Sin, he knew, has ugly spikes and twists itself round the heart of man to his eternal hurt.
Lord Bullman swore at Mr. Hayhoe. The clergyman, noticing where the knot was, unbound the wire, and the gate opened easily.
As Lord Bullman rode through the gate, he nodded gratefully to Mr. Hayhoe and, addressing him as though he were a poor dog who had earned a piece of liver, he called out, “As Dibben has gone to Stonebridge, if you want Dodder you may have the living.”
Mr. Hayhoe raised his hat, and replied thankfully that he was very pleased with the gift. He had always wished, he said, to live at Dodder. His young child was buried in the Dodder churchyard, and his wife—Priscilla—never liked to be far away from the small grave. And never had a village, he believed, a clearer air, nor was there one anywhere better suited for peaceful reading.
Before Mr. Hayhoe had finished his thanks to his patron and his praise of Dodder, Lord Bullman had ridden out of sight, and the rest of the field was gone too, including the two graceless young ladies, who had been forced to mount and follow the others before they had finished the daisy-chain, which they dropped near to the clergyman. In a moment the lane was utterly deserted, except for Mr. Hayhoe, a blackbird, a wren, a mouse, and the first swallow.
In a northerly climate, every human being is gladly surprised and not a little relieved when the cold winter days change into warm spring ones. For who can tell when the winter creeps round him what his fate will be? Those last days in September, when the blue summer sky gives a caressing farewell, are sad and ominous, and appear like days that one has already lived, and are but come again to tantalize us with their sweet warmth, and so vanish in mist.
With the October rains, there comes a sad doubt. Who can tell what will happen? The next year may bring again the vernal glory, but we may not see it. Those holy scents of a July evening, that add so much to the beauty of the green hills, will another summer bring them to us?
In the autumn, sickness gathers like the clouds, and many troubles, that the warmth of the summer has laid to sleep, revive again. Out of the damp places in the earth, out of the hollow tree in the wood, where the night-bird broods, stepping upon pale and stricken leaves, there come the imps of darkness to harvest their winter carrion. And, as each winter day becomes more sodden and weary, so man’s heart saddens and faints. Upon every side, when our own vitality is lessened by the w
ant of sunshine, signs are heard and seen of what our own fate may be.
The church bell tolls: some one has been raised up for the last time, to be laid low. A coffin is being put into the ground.
Though a man does see each autumn as a season that he has already lived through, the spring is always a new birth. And Mr. Hayhoe—no less than we—could be glad in it.
The spring had come early to Dodder and, even though the day was only the last of March, bees were already busy in the soft flowers of the willow. The swallows had come, and a cuckoo had called.
The sun was more than usually kind for the time of year—its warmth could be felt—and Mr. Solly, who lived at Madder, and was an enemy to love, had seen signs already that the year would be good for nuts.
Winter troubles are soon forgotten when the sun rises with healing in its wings, bidding the hopes of a new summer enter the heart of man.
The Reverend Francis Hayhoe, though he shaved every morning, and read and preached, had never really understood worldly manners. He still held the oddest of ideas. He believed that men had souls, that men sinned, and that all men might be saved if they repented of their sins and believed in Jesus. “Jane,” he sometimes said first, but fortunately he always corrected himself just in time and named Jesus.
Mr. Hayhoe was poor; his God had not given him any money, and what estate he had once possessed Farmer Beerfield had taken away from him. Mr. Hayhoe had been sold up for a debt of thirty pounds. That was how he had lost a small cure that once had been his own. When they were turned out, Mr. Beerfield had the church bells rung, and the Hayhoes, with their little son, took lodgings at Shelton.
Soon after they came there, the child died, and Mr. Hayhoe—who had begun to take the duty at Dodder—buried his son there.
Mr. Hayhoe had even odder ideas than the mere belief that mankind might be saved. All the doctrines expressed by the Church of England were true to him, and every word written by Jane Austen he believed to be almost as necessary to salvation. And so—by bringing Amos and Emma together, and considering their observations upon mankind—Mr. Hayhoe learned to love others more than himself.