by T. F. Powys
Susie laughed, and John held her nearer to him. All the power of a thinking creature went from her; she appeared to be swallowed up in him, and he in her. This feeling was one of the most exquisite joy. She lost herself in her desire to find him alone. All that she had been went out of her, and only joy was left.
No such wonderful feeling had ever come to her as she talked to Joe Bridle. Though John only thought of pleasure, that pleasure went very deep; his carnal merriment was monstrous; he could, she knew, drink all of her and leave nothing but a mere husk.
Bridle was different. He wanted her as a helpmate, to be but his property, her sweet flesh to bear children to him, to live, to suckle, and to rear them, and to be always to him his loving spouse. Joe Bridle wanted her for himself, his jealousy was Godlike. He was all hope and gloom, and he often troubled her.
As Death had told a story or two, Susie thought she would begin too. She began to invent tales from what Mrs. Moggs had told her. She pretended that she had been out with the boys and told John what they had done to her. She told these tales to prevent John being shy. They were all lies.
Then she said that she believed that she would soon be married to Mr. Mere. When she said his name she spoke proudly. But Death only smiled; he did not take his arm from her or turn away, as Joseph would have done.
“Ah!” he said, smiling upon her, “I rather like Mr. Mere.” He grew thoughtful for a moment, and then observed gaily, “I believe, one of these days, Mr. Mere and I may become better acquainted.”
“It’s nice to be happy,” said Susie.
“Why, even the dead think so,” cried Death, “and though Mr. Hayhoe does say that all will rise at the Last Judgment, yet old Barker and Nancy Prim wish to rise no farther than the charnel grass, and to rise there only for naughtiness.”
John mocked at every one. He observed that Lord Bullman never went to bed without lamenting that young girls and religion were far too much neglected in these modern days, and that both the one and the other ought to be more easy to obtain.
“And, as to my lord’s own fancies,” cried John, “why, he owns himself that all his children were only begotten to please Mr. Titball. Those two,” observed John, “would often talk together like brothers when they visited the cellars. Mr. Titball would guide his lord by the light of a large lantern, and would show him the vast bin where Sir Thomas Bullman—my lord’s great-grandfather—used to keep his wine. ‘Every day he drank three bottles,’ Lord Bullman once observed, ‘but the bin was never empty.’
“‘Miracle!’ cried Mr. Titball. ‘And his family? He had more than one son, I trust?’
“‘He had many children,’ replied Lord Bullman, sadly, taking up a bottle to examine the cork.
“‘I knew it,’ replied Mr. Titball, and led his master to the cellar door.…”
XXX
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The Large Quiet
We have not wrought an outrage upon Nature. Merriment does often follow in the wake of despair. After every mortal sin that is committed runs Puck a-laughing. The gay rogue skips merrily, trundling a hoop. The ugly sin hobbles on, the hoop gets between its legs, and the sin falls flat. Then the little jester performs a mock burial. He names the sin Despair, lays it in the grave, and dances on its body.
Puck calls himself Wanton Dalliance.
He dances for a while upon the grave and then he turns his back and runs off. Despair, seeing that his enemy is gone, leaps out of the ground, and takes the nearest path to the tavern; then he mingles wine and pours it into a cup. He gives this cup to man.
“Listen,” he cries, “and drink. There is Death in the cup; there is also complete forgetfulness. Drink ye all of it. The drink is good. The wine warms the man, and he does not know that, by means of this cup, he is going to be destroyed.”
The man leaves the tavern in a happy manner. The summer sun warms every green bank, the large trees bless the man with their soft shadows. He is gay and frolicsome and climbs a smooth hill. He gives chase to a little butterfly, a chalk-hill blue.
That butterfly is his own life. He wishes to catch and to keep it; he grows tired with the chase and lies down upon a bank of yellow flowers. The flowers are his days—a few yet live, but many are already dead, faded and gone.
He lies amongst them and watches those that yet live wither and die. Then he leaves them, and it is night.…
John Death led Susie into Joe Bridle’s field. As he opened the gate for her, Susie, who was laughing at a merry word of his, began to tremble. Sounds that were not happy came from the middle of the field where the pond was. They were the groans, yelps, and horrid snarls of a beast in awful agony.
Susie put her hands to her ears, and begged Death to hurry. John merely stroked his beard and continued the same pace. They walked through the field, and came near to the pond. The grass was soft and green, the summer wind blew, a holy sigh came from the great elm.
The wounded dog yelped pitifully; it bit the grass in its agony. The knotted stick had cut its skin into ribands, one eye was beaten out of its head, and yet it lived.
John came to where the dog lay.
“Kill him quickly,” cried Susie. She went a little apart, threw herself upon the grass, and buried her face. She waited trembling, expecting something awful to happen—the same fearful outcries that she had often heard when her father killed his neighbour’s cat with a club, so that he might have the skin to sell.
But though Susie had not covered her ears, she heard no sound. Soon she knew nothing, for the breath of life that so troubles the children of men was for a few moments withdrawn from Joseph Bridle’s field.
The pond lay dim, as if it were again become a part of those burning waters that were the earth before life came. All the summer grass withered in one moment; the sweet flowers were gone. A lark, that had only just risen from its nest to sing its evening song, fell headlong and lay as though dead. The tall elm tree, heavy with green leaves, became like dead and blasted wood, the leaves shrunk to naught.
But life went not all alone, when it left Joseph’s field. Pain and terror, joy and torment vanished too. Another state ruled and had its being instead of these—Death. The Large Quiet was come—the great inaction, the uttermost release, eternal peace.
Nothing moved; all things partook of the holy stillness of Madder Hill. The hill brooded silently, and bowed low to Death.
But even during those moments of silence, a murmur deeper than silence could be heard—the murmur of all those that are at rest. A joy, unknown to any living thing, was in the field—not life, but a joy unspeakable, the joy of everlasting sleep.…
Susie lay still. The peace of Death had been with her, and after that was gone the field and she lived again. She had lain there for an hour.
Susie sat up and rubbed her eyes; Death was nowhere to be seen. Only Joseph Bridle was there. Joe had taken off his coat, and was busy filling in a grave where Tom had been buried. He told Susie that Death had called him, and that when he came into the field he found Mr. Mere’s dog Tom lying dead, and fetching his spade, he had dug a grave for him. He supposed that Susie, who was lying on the grass with her head turned away, would not wish to look round until all was over.
The dog’s death hardly appeared to be of any moment to Joseph Bridle. He would have gladly buried all the dogs in the world if, after doing so, he might be with Susie alone in his field.
As soon as he had patted down the grass upon the grave, he went quickly to Susie. He looked upon her with the greatest delight. She rested there like the fair bloom of a splendid flower, that for the first time had opened to receive the glorious beams of the sun.
Her beauty, too, was even more wonderful than he had ever beheld it before; she appeared to have awakened out of a deep sleep. Her eyes looked upon Joe with a strange sweetness and love, and her body trembled with hope and joy.
/>
She could not please Joe enough. She kissed him joyfully, and between her kisses she looked lovingly into his eyes. Then a laugh was heard beside the field gate, and Susie was changed. She leaped from the grass lightly and remembered Death.
She began to tease Joe. She told him that he had nothing to say for himself, she called him a stupid fellow, a mere doorpost.
He had certainly been very silent with her of late, for love made him dumb and had blinded him to all things except love. Such a state of mind is made to be tormented, and is only sent into the world for one good purpose alone—to fall easily into the arms of Death.
“Oh, Joseph,” cried Susie, “do you know what is going to happen in Dodder in a month’s time? There is going to be a fine wedding. Who do you think is going to be married?”
Bridle made no reply. In the gathering darkness Susie thought that he looked strangely at her, and she noticed, too, that he touched something that was hidden in his bosom with his hand. Would he beat her with his strap, or would he lay hands upon her in another manner?
But Joseph Bridle did nothing.
XXXI
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Susie Lights the Lamp
Susie had gone to Joe Bridle’s field, as a girl likes to go—in company with a man who pleased her. She had gone there in the evening sunlight that was then warm and pleasant, but now that she was returning, all was dimness.
She shivered uneasily. What had happened to her in the field she hardly knew, though she remembered, with pleasure, that Death had been with her. She believed that, in some way or other—she really could not tell how it was—this man had made her completely happy. But now she knew that she lacked something. Perhaps Bridle had taken her happiness from her, coming into his field when he was least required there. It was like Joe to disturb a girl’s pleasure. The love that he had for her was so persistent—as dark and heavy as the night.
While she had been with John, Susie had not even thought of the evil treatment that she had received from Mr. Mere. And had she thought of it, she would only have found excuses for the farmer. But, now that she walked home with Joe, the wound in her shoulder began to pain her, and she wondered what Mere had meant in setting his dog at her. He had certainly acted very wickedly. And why, when she had seen him in the parlour, had the dog’s eyes a look so full of pity for her? She had noticed that look before in an animal, a look that expressed a profound pity. Perhaps the dog knew that Mr. Mere was a bad man, who really wished to hurt her.
“But with all his money,” thought Susie, “Mr. Mere must be good.” And if she did not marry Mr. Mere now, all Dodder would laugh at her. Of course she might take Joseph. But he could do nothing for her; he had not enough to keep her alive. He had always been an unlucky man with that field of his.
Susie had run out excitedly from her gate; she now returned dolefully, and felt as though she could cry. Her father was not there to see her, and so she could cry by herself, and her tears did her good.
Feeling better, she lit the lamp. The light gave the parlour a more cheerful look, and Susie was happier. Some one walked past the cottage singing a country song. A child laughed—Winnie Huddy! Why was she out so late?
Susie began to tidy the room.
She was happy doing so. She put the sofa straight, arranged the chairs, and laid the mats flat. Soon all was as she liked it to be. Her shoulder did not pain her now. The room was tidied, and what difference had the odd behaviour of one man made to her or to the room?
The plates and cups that she now set out upon the table for supper were the same as heretofore. If such things as these ran wild, clattered together, raped one another and broke of themselves, a girl might indeed have cause to trouble. But whenever did a pan or a clout—when kept clean and tidy—refuse to do its duty, or rebel against its lady? When did ever table turn sulky and refuse to be loaded with good fare at Christmas, or a mat say that it must not be shaken, or a kettle scowl instead of boil?
With such things remaining faithful, those humble watchers at man’s parlour games and pretty feats—though a lamp may, as Lucian tells, be called as a witness—a woman’s heart is sure to be eased. For these sticks, pots, and china cups are rightfully a woman’s true gods. A steady and steadfast purpose pervades them. A bed has a friendly and benign look: it wishes to be kind.
Cunningly to devise mischief, to bite the life out of her heart, to drive a poor creature into madness, to cast down a girl and to pour upon her the issue of many a foul desire, that’s the way of a common man. To plume himself, to strut like a barncock, to tease and torment his prey, that’s the way of a fine gentleman.
A sad lot indeed must a woman have with only a man in the house and no furniture. All movables are her allies, her faithful friends in the long battle. Let her but begin to dust the bookcase, and the man will go. Perhaps he will go off for ever, walking past her when she is watering the flowers. There would be no harm in that, as long as the furniture remains. Even if all men departed from Dodder, no girl need trouble, provided that the window-plants remained.…
Susie ate a little and, as her father did not come home, she left some bread and cheese upon the table, and went to her bedroom. She was well pleased with herself—at least three men desired her. She looked in the cracked glass. Seeing her own loveliness, she felt a little sorry for Joseph Bridle. He was too good a man for her; she wished him well, and decided to speak more kindly to him when next they met.
Susie began to undress. She took off her stockings and her frock, and stood before the glass to examine her wound,
She heard some one enter the house. She supposed her father had come home. The steps came upstairs, passed her door, and entered her father’s room. Perhaps it was not her father.
Susie lay down upon the bed, without getting into it. Her body trembled exceedingly; she tingled everywhere. She ached with longing. Her heart beat so loudly that whoever was in the next room could almost have heard it. She moved eagerly upon the bed, as though she clasped a lover in her arms. She wished that Death watched her. What merry things he would have to say about a girl’s lively body?
Presently she heard the cottage door close. Some one had either gone out, or else some one had come in. She listened. She heard her father eating his supper below-stairs; he made the usual ugly sounds.
Her father came slowly upstairs. Outside her door she heard him sniff. He coughed too; evidently there was an odour in the air that he did not like.
He began to mutter to himself. Then he went into his room. Soon all was silent. Susie slipped into bed, and fell asleep.
XXXII
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Susie Hides in a Lane
Love is heavy to carry. Though at first it settles upon its victim like a butterfly, it quickly changes into lead.
When love came to Joseph Bridle, he soon learned the weight of the god. He might have been Christian, but Joseph’s progress was very different from the Pilgrim’s. Instead of being born in the City of Destruction, Joseph lived near to a Delectable Mountain. This mountain was Madder Hill. There a man walked sometimes who resembled a homely shepherd—this was Tinker Jar. As soon as Love fastened the burden upon Joe, the peace of Madder Hill left him. He was forced to quit that peace, and go quickly; he must escape.
But whither could he go? To the City of Destruction, where one lived who could alone ease him of his burden—by taking his life away. And there was no casting away his burden before that day came. The thought of Susie filled him utterly; she was the universe, she was a terrible monster, and yet the sweetest thing that ever man saw.…
When Susie awoke, she found that she was no happier than Joe. Although her peace had never been quite like his, yet she journeyed the same road.
Susie rose from her bed, knowing that she loved John Death. If John did not content her soon, and fill her w
hole body with his love, she knew that she would die. In a kind of way, he had already entered her body, for his eyes had fastened upon her and she could not shake them off.
She heard the village sounds, but she could not listen to them. She wondered how it was that ever a poor girl could feel so strangely. ’Twas a terrible jest to play upon her—this woeful desire.
God is merciful, His trade is to forgive, but Love’s trade is to hurt and destroy.
Susie awoke, tormented by fierce jealousy. She, as well as every one else in Dodder, knew that John Death, attracted by the scarlet thread, had often visited Daisy Huddy.
Nothing escapes the one eye of the old woman who is Dodder. She can look, she can also speak, for every one in Dodder has been given a little piece of her tongue. Nothing is ever missed that happens in a village. Even the winter’s night, or the summer’s day, when a child is conceived, is spoken of; the compact is known and the hour talked of. Nothing that lives under Madder Hill can ever be hid; all insects, and all lights and shadows are the whisperers. The old woman points before one knows oneself, to where one is going.
Perform all with the greatest secrecy, get the church key from old Huddy, and dance to a country tune in the Squire’s pew—the very hassock and psalter will tell. Go down like the beast into the valley and enter the hollow tree, the worms will see you—your merry doings will be extolled by the rabbits.
The old woman sees all that is ill done—it is that she rejoices in. But do good, and you will never be noticed. Nothing is ever seen in that kind of fancy. All eyes are shut, and all ears closed to a good deed. And rightly so, for it is destroyed, if spoken of.…