by T. F. Powys
Young Mere took hold of Sarah, but he did not rape her. He had other ends in view. Every one knew of Sarah’s fears for herself and of her mother’s warnings. The young man examined her with his hands, and shook his head dubiously; he evidently supposed her to be a very curious animal.
“They be grow’d wrong,” he said, “they two humps.” And, leaving her, he went his way.
After that Sarah hid herself, and for many months she was seen by no one. When she appeared again, she was mad. She told whoever came to her home, that she was a camel. Not like the one at the circus, but different—deformed.
When Sarah’s parents died, Joseph Bridle, her nephew, took her to live with him. Except for his uncle, Joe was alone in the world too, and needed a housekeeper. Certainly, no one better could have been found for him than his Aunt Sarah. Mr. Solly used to say that it was a pity that all women were not crazed.
If a woman thinks of herself as a camel, her pride must be humbled. Then each woman would think of herself as merely a burden-bearing creature, and be happy at work.
A camel only wants to drink water. Sarah Bridle loved her master and served him faithfully. Her only fear was that he would drive her to the market-place at Aleppo, and sell her for gold.
At first when she came to Joseph, her behaviour was a little strange. She would go out into his field, and try to drink all the water in the pond. Once she fell in, but Joseph—hearing a splash—pulled her out. After that day, she began to drink tea.
Kindness is the best teacher, and Joe Bridle soon got his aunt into better habits. Besides giving her plenty to do in the house, there were other ways in which he amused her. Joseph was very clever with his hands. He could use a knife cunningly; he made a fine Noah’s Ark for his aunt to play with. All the animals were there—and some insects, too—but there was only one camel, so that Sarah herself made up the pair.
Sarah grew quieter; she began to behave like an ordinary person, and no one—unless he were told of it—would have thought her mad. It was only when a word was said about the marketing or sale of beasts, that she would show her strange delusion. Then she would lean her head upon the tea-table, expecting some one to come and put a rope round her neck and lead her away to Persia. And all that Joseph could do was to pat and make much of her, and take her into her bedroom, that she thought was her stable.
When something like this had happened that upset her, Joe Bridle would hear her talking to herself in the night. She would turn heavily in her bed, give a groan, and begin to talk. She would lament and cry out that she was but a brute beast, that had no soul to be saved.
“I shall never go to Heaven,” she used to moan, “where mother be”—Sarah had loved her mother. She would then call upon Jesus to pity her. “Though I be but a beast, I do love ’Ee,” she would say, and begin to moan and weep.
XII
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Mr. Solly Is Polite to Turnips
Besides his Aunt Sarah, who thought herself a camel, and lived in his house, Mr. Bridle had a particular friend, who came there too. This was Mr. Solly, who was called in Dodder—“Joseph’s Sunday companion.”
If poor Sarah was regarded by some people as being a little queer, others thought that Mr. Solly was not much better. Mr. Solly had sworn always to despise Love; he hated the very name of the god, and so he must have been more mad than a poor woman, who only fancied herself a beast.
Mr. Solly had lived at Madder, in a quiet sort of way, and he could not help growing older there, for the four seasons that are harnessed to the chariot of a man’s days never stop to rest.
Madder Hill lay between Joe Bridle’s house and Mr. Solly’s and, when Mr. Solly came to Dodder, he would often climb the hill.
Love loiters in hedgerows and small grassy pits. If one hears a sort of scuffle with gasps and sighs in those places, then Love is there. Mr. Solly avoided such places. He might meet Death upon Madder Hill, but Love’s doings were not suited to so high a place, where the winds blew shrewdly. Mr. Solly considered that Death was the lesser evil of the two.
He knew that—however much Love may pester mankind—Death always makes full amends. Death must come in the end, but Love can always be left out. In order to protect himself against Love, Mr. Solly planted a grove of nut-trees round his house.
But that was not all that he did to protect himself, for he knew that Love is very sly, and that young women are everywhere. Others had fallen; Solomon and David had been taken, and so he might be caught too. In every direction there was sure to be danger. Suppose that he walked quietly in Madder, tapping with his stick upon the road, or went round by the main thoroughfare to Shelton, he might meet a girl.
To keep his eyes shut would not help matters, for the girl might shut hers too, and then they would walk into one another. And what, after that had happened, could they do unless be married? So Mr. Solly thought of another way to protect himself from Love.
All appearances deceive; when one sees one thing, it may be another. If that is so, one only has to stare a little to see something quite different from the object one looks at. “A green skirt,” thought Mr. Solly, “might be a leaf, and though leaves are generally green, they are not always so—nor are frocks all one colour.”
Mr. Solly opened his eyes, and saw all women and young girls as turnips, mangold-wurzels, and other vegetables.
They walked out sometimes, or rode bicycles, but that did not prevent him from being certain that their roots were still in the mud. They were probably tossed and flung about by some earthquake, or the mad shaking of the planet by some god, but, as long as he kept them out of his garden, they would do him no harm. Mr. Solly’s idea was really a very humane one. For what man is there living, who is always, in every act and fancy, as kind to women as he would wish to be?
In Mr. Solly’s case he found it easy to be polite. He knew that it was altogether an impossible thing to quarrel with—or to be rude to—roots. A sharp word, an oath, or even a blow, could do them no good. They would be no better for cattle after such usage. The sheep would not nibble, nor pigs munch them easier for unkindness.
But, even with these precautions, Mr. Solly could not be quite sure of his safety. He knew that Love, when put to it, has odd tricks. Love, if left by himself, has strange imaginations. He was afraid of young turnips, and had more than once climbed a bank to get out of their way. He was very careful how he walked, for if he tripped over a carrot, something unpleasant might happen.
In Madder few people heeded Mr. Solly. He was but regarded as a poor gentleman, who appeared—for some reason—to be a little ashamed of himself. That was because he always looked upon the ground. He walked quietly, and his clothes were never untidy, and so he was not much to stare at.
It was only when Mr. Solly planted his nut-bushes that he received a little more notice. That any one should grow nuts, instead of potatoes, was a strange thing. It showed a tendency to madness, or else was it that Mr. Solly thought to live upon nut pudding? He had once been seen reading a cookery book—the Madder people looked at him more suspiciously.
When Joe Bridle first brought Mr. Solly to his home, his one fear was that his aunt might regard him as a camel-merchant. So that she might not think so, Joseph had told her about him, and of what he had planted in his garden to defend himself from Love.
When Solly arrived, Miss Bridle looked at him curiously, and shook her head. Mr. Solly behaved with the utmost politeness, but she only looked at him the more curiously, because she thought that he fancied that she was a nut-tree and wished to crack the buttons of her blouse, believing them to be nuts. That was why she shook her head at him, trying to explain that she was only a camel.
Solly always liked Miss Bridle; he would sit beside her and arrange the animals upon the tablecloth with the greatest solemnity. He was particularly fond of the beetles. He would put them behind, allowing these two to
go last into the Ark, for fear the others might tread upon them.
Miss Bridle would watch him with interest. As Joseph had only made animals, she supposed—at first—that Solly must be Noah, then, looking at him again, she believed that he was a Persian cat. She must make sure; so she found a little bird in the garden—that had broken its wing—and brought it to him, in order to see what he did with it. But when Solly stroked and tamed the bird, and fed it with crumbs, she was sure that he was no cat, but Noah, the man whom God loved.
Every Sunday, Mr. Solly would come over Madder Hill, to walk out with Joseph Bridle. He used to arrive at three, and they would go off together, like two friends whom no calamity could separate.
No one who lived in Dodder, and saw these two, could forget how they looked. They always walked slowly. Mr. Solly carried his hat in his hand and—in almost every kind of weather—wore an overcoat. Joe Bridle, the taller of the two, walked with his hands in his pockets. Joe’s voice was easy to be heard; Mr. Solly talked quietly.
They never varied their ways, but first they would bid farewell to Miss Bridle, as though they were starting off to Peking. They always began their walk by going into Joseph’s field, and looking into the pond. Then they would be silent for a while and gaze into the water.
Mr. Solly had often observed that cool, still water is the best sanctifier of human thought, and that to look for only a few moments into a deep pond, must calm and ease all those wayward flutterings of a man’s folly, and give to him instead the holy and blessed thought of an everlasting peace.
After staying for a while upon the bank of the pond, they would traverse the lane that led to the down, in order to visit the two other little fields that belonged to Bridle.
When one walks out upon a Sunday, at always the same time, one generally meets the same people.
Mr. Solly and Joseph usually met James Dawe and Farmer Mere.
XIII
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Mr. Dawe Likes to See
A man is often hated without knowing why. As one begets a child, so one begets an enemy—unknowingly. The more harmless and docile a nature may be, the more easy to dislike.
James Dawe, as well as Farmer Mere, hated Joe Bridle. Joe never boasted, his ideas were humble, and his crops—with the exception of his one good meadow—were always worse than other people’s. No one would have thought of Joe as being a man who was important enough to be disliked. His bad luck, every one knew; but his cleverness in cutting out of wood so many creatures with a mere knife, no one talked of—and yet James Dawe and Mr. Mere hated him.
Of the two Mr. Mere hated him the most, but perhaps that was because Joe Bridle was always the first to help Mr. Mere. For when one of the farmer’s cows fell into a ditch, Joe would bring a rope to pull it out, and when all Mere’s sheep—with a great clamour of voices—broke pasture in the night, Joseph roused himself, dressed, and drove them safely to the fold.
It was said at Dodder that to curse a man at one spot upon the downs, where a fairy circle always was, would mean his death. In this magic spot, Mr. Mere—as well as James Dawe—had often cursed Bridle, and both hoped to see him buried while they yet lived.
A part of the down belonged to Mr. Mere. He would often go there upon a Sunday afternoon, in order to try and catch the Dodder children, who would sometimes in fine weather run up and down a tumulus. When he caught them, he would beat them with his stick.
When the children were not there, he would hunt the rabbits with his dog. When he caught a rabbit, he would watch his dog gnaw and devour it. Mere was a cunning hunter. He would appear when you least expected to see him. When the children were all happy playing, he would run suddenly upon them, with his fierce dog at his heels. He would have killed the children, as well as the rabbits, had he dared. To hurt was his pleasure, it was an act that he liked. He liked to see a creature in torment.
James Dawe was different. He did not go to the down to hurt, but only to find. He moved like his schemes—a slow, steady pace—always looking for something. If the children were there, he would watch until they ran away, then he would search the grass where they had been—hoping to find a penny. He would also look out for a rabbit in a snare, in order to carry it home under his coat.
Sometimes James Dawe and Mere would be on the down together. They would only pass one another, and rarely spoke. From a distance, they looked like beasts. Mere crawled upon the earth—he always seemed to be stooping in order that he might not be seen. James Dawe grovelled; he moved upon the ground, as if he wished to sink into it.
When Joseph and Mr. Solly passed either of these men, they knew that they cursed them. Had not Mr. Bridle been a very trustful and simple man, he would have feared James Dawe, even more than Mr. Mere.
Nothing was ever hidden from the miser; he was aware of all that went on in Dodder. He had a hawk’s eye for anything of value, and often—for a few pence—purchased what was worth pounds. If one man hates another, nothing that the hated one does escapes notice. His every movement is known. James Dawe knew the exact moment when Joe Bridle first thought of Susie. He also knew when Joe first spoke to her.
To bring Joe Bridle to sorrow was his hope. For a while, he considered how that could be done, and then he knew. He learned from the Bible what it was that brought sorrow into the world. God could set a gin, as well as he. God had given a fine apple as a bait, and Dawe knew a trick worth two of that.
If a woman likes an apple, a man likes a woman. Though Dawe hated Bridle, he spoke to him now and again, in a friendly manner. He hoped that Susie might marry a good man. “Some folk,” he said, “do only think of money, but I bain’t like that.” He saw hope in Joe’s eyes.
Nothing escaped James Dawe. He knew his own cottage, as well as he knew other people’s. He knew the spyhole that, from his own bedroom, looked into his child’s. This hole was behind a large photograph of Susie’s mother, that had no frame—a wedding photograph. The hole, that a nail had torn out, was behind the woman’s eye. And through this hole it was easy to see into Susie’s bedroom.
Mr. Dawe was a father; he was also a man who liked to see.
XIV
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Hidden Treasure
Some say that a miser is an odd contortion—that his mind is twisted. That is not so. A miser is a mathematical figure, an exact computation. But he always counts in low numbers. He likes to begin to gain and never to finish. He will say to his money, “Lie down, oddity!”
He believes in unity; if he holds one penny in his hand, it is all that he thinks he has. He hoards only units. He believes that his belly is a bank, and his guts hiding-places for gold. What passes from him, he regards as lost. His most constant fear is that his store may go into the belly of another. When he has lent anything, he would like to rip up his neighbour’s body and find his gold again.
A miser is aware of certain great truths. However far he runs forward, he always knows that he never really leaves the same spot. Nowhere does he see anything that he can call his own. He is altogether an unbeliever in concrete fact. If he does not take care to save more, he will have nothing. Of all earthly pleasures, a miser’s are the most sure. He is certain of earthly content, for he has only to gain one penny in order to be happy.
To take—in order to hide—is his wish. He hides his money by putting it out to breed.
A miser’s joys never fail him; he pretends he has little, then he counts his bags. From every man’s estate he takes something. From not spending himself, he gains by the waste of others.
He not only hoards money, but saves days and years too. A miser usually lives to be very old.
Where another would see nothing, he sees a great deal. A little coaldust in a shed, a despised heap of small sticks—these he sees as a fine estate. Nothing escapes his wary eye. He will not pass by the smallest nail, o
r piece of string. What other people throw away, he could live upon. He lives by adding one to one. He is a fine leveller.
He goes from one sale to another. He buys at one, a great house; at another, a rotten mattress. He sees these two purchases as the same, but the mattress pleases him the best. A bug in it is a good omen; when he rips up the mattress, he finds money.…
As James Dawe spent so little and saved so much, it was hard to understand how Susie could have grown so prettily. Perhaps she was loved by Madder Hill. One would like to know what the ground thinks when a girl steps upon it. Sometimes Madder Hill smiles like the Pope.
But, whoever else smiled, James Dawe never did. He did not smile, but he liked to see. Some possessions are worth looking at. When Susie had a bath, Mr. Dawe would watch her through his spyhole.
What he owned, he liked to see grow into money. For some years James Dawe had looked at her. He saw now that the apple was ripe. What price could he ask?
Mr. Dawe examined the market. He looked out for a buyer. Having a girl to part with, Mr. Dawe became all at once interested in the behaviour of men. He regretted that all men were not chaste. If men were allowed to misbehave with women, then Susie’s price would be lowered. With women common, a girl would go cheap. James Dawe hated a harlot.
Mr. Mere went to see Daisy Huddy, and it was Mr. Mere that James Dawe had thought of as a husband for Susie.
But Mr. Mere was the one to cheapen other folk’s goods. He did that and Daisy Huddy did more. She sold herself for a mere nothing, and people said that it took seven visits from Mr. Mere to provide Daisy with a thin summer frock.