by T. F. Powys
The next amusement of the hounds was to follow a large rat that ran into its hole under James Barker’s grave-mound. But they were soon aware, from the scent, that a rat is no fox, and they wagged their tails to show their displeasure, for they were too well-trained to dig after rodents.
Lord Bullman rode home in deep dudgeon, and Mr. Titball, turning his customers out, closed and locked the Inn door. Mr. Hayhoe, at Daisy Huddy’s, read the last sentence of Emma:
“‘But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.’”
Mr. Hayhoe closed the book with a sigh. John Death was gone to bed. Priscilla Hayhoe was preparing a salad for supper.
The bats came out.
XXXVII
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Love Never Pities
Sometimes, during the whole of a woman’s life, Love may sleep soundly. A woman may even marry and bear children without awakening the god. Neither noise, nor outcry, nor wanton songs, nor lustful fancies will awaken him.
You may play all the dance tunes you like, or listen to the sermon of an Archbishop, and Love will sleep soundly amongst his arrows. Two may lie down together upon the sweetest mat of yellow buttercups, and Love will never stir a feather of his folded wings. But sometimes an accident will awaken him, or else a lamp is lit and he stirs and opens his eyes.
Then beware, ’tis best to let sleeping gods alone. The mortal who arouses a god out of his slumber must be prepared for any conceivable calamity. He had better at once cover his head with ashes and his loins with sackcloth. A god may stir generously, he may open his hand, and stretch out his arm to give a good gift—and what gift, God-a-mercy, will that be? A grave.
As soon as Love crept into Mr. Solly’s house, Mr. Solly made his will. He left all his estate, so he wrote in a very small hand, “To my dear wife,” with a sigh. After making his will, Solly smiled, for he was sure that in a very little while after he was married, he would have no estate to leave. At the bottom of his will he wrote, “Love is a robber.”…
When Joseph Bridle found Love asleep in his field, instead of awakening him, he should have cast him into the pond. But he did not do so, and Love changed into a few shining pebbles, with which Bridle wrote Susie Dawe’s name.
Susie’s case was different. Being a girl, Love slept in her heart, but pain awakened him—it was the bite of a dog. If in all hatred there is fear, in all awakened love there is pain. Susie felt this to be true, and she wished to be wilfully deflowered by the one that she loved.
As soon as ever that wish came into her heart, her girlhood bloomed marvellously. An invisible touch was set to her soul, and her beauty triumphed. Her eyes shone like clear stars, though when she thought of John Death they became moist. She languished for him; nothing that she did now could take the thought of him away from her. Though she had ever been a quiet and a gentle maid, she was now an altered being. Fierce and naked desires set up their altar within her womb, and gave her no rest day or night.
Often in a summer garden one flower will bloom with unusual splendour; she seemingly has sucked into herself all the rich juice from her less fortunate sisters. But the beauty of that flower will be a danger.
From a lamb, Susie was become a tiger. Her fair body was garlanded by Love. Love himself tended her, stroked her breasts, kissed the soft hair of her neck, gave her nectar to drink, and whispered into her ears that one day she would be a splendid sacrifice at his altar.
For this ordeal Susie wished to prepare herself. She even went to Mrs. Moggs and asked her how she could best please a man that she loved.
“They be most of them pleased with an apple dumpling,” replied Mrs. Moggs, and winked lewdly.
Susie went home and longed the more for Death. Come to her as he might, in whatever form he came, he would be welcome. Did he come as another Mr. Mere’s dog, she would take him to her. If he appeared to her as a dark thunder-cloud, heavy with the hidden lightning of lust, she would open her arms and receive him into them. If he came up out of the sea, as a huge white-crested wave, she would bow to him so that he might fall upon her. If he came as black as an Ethiopian, or as a leper white as snow, she would await him with all the utter abandonment of a maid’s first longing. If he flew to her, carried by the wings of an eagle, she would willingly let him tear her flesh with his mighty talons.
Susie had roused the god to some purpose. Love never pities. He mocks all and destroys many. Susie was now fairer than any flower of the field, and yet she was still but a cottage fancy, a skipping Jenny. She enjoyed the pleasure of her proposed marriage to Mr. Mere, she toyed sometimes, too, with the thought of taking Joseph Bridle instead, and meant to give herself to Death.
When in a gayer mood than usual she would joke with Winnie Huddy about John, but sometimes Winnie would give Susie a wise caution.
“’E bain’t always as respectful to a young lady as he should be,” Winnie said, “’e do tell Mrs. Moggs that all women—whether young or old—be his to do what ’e be minded wi’.”
“But oh, Winnie,” Susie whispered, “you don’t know how much I want John.”
“’Twould be better for thee to have Joseph,” replied Winnie, and skipped down the lane.
XXXVIII
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Susie Wishes to Hurt
The day after the drunkards’ festival at the Inn, Susie went to visit her aunt, Mrs. Manning, who lived at Shelton, all alone with her five cats.
The cats and Mrs. Manning were eating their dinner when Susie arrived, and seemed more sorry than pleased to see her come in, because they feared that she might want to eat some dinner too. But Susie would take nothing, and so the cats and Mrs. Manning finished what was there. Each cat had a plate set upon the floor, in which Mrs. Manning placed its share. And, though her own dish was upon the table, she ate like a cat, putting her head into the platter and crunching the bones.
Susie waited until Mrs. Manning had finished, and then she told the news that had brought her there. She said that in a little while she was going to marry rich Squire Mere.
Had she said that she was to marry poor Joseph, her aunt would have scratched her. Mrs. Manning’s ways had grown exactly like her cats’; and she used to sharpen her nails upon the wall.
Mrs. Manning fawned about Susie, she even rubbed against her, and asked in a cringing tone for all the bits that came from the farmer’s table. She bid Susie put them aside, wrap them in paper, and order the milkman to deliver them at her cottage.
Susie promised to remember her, stroked all the cats, and said good-bye.
Though Susie had gone to Shelton along the road, she chose now to return home by the way of the downs.
As she walked upon the soft warm grass, the summer wind met her and blew caressingly through her thin frock and breathed upon her skin. The downs were so tempting to wander over that Susie went a little out of her way and sat down to rest near a rabbit warren.
The rabbits, who were out feeding, ran hurriedly into their holes, but soon, as all remained quiet, they peeped out again and began to feed and to be merry. A number of the rabbits were but half grown and knew nothing of snares or gins, and all the stoats in the neighbourhood had been killed by Keeper Dunkin.
As there was nothing to trouble them, the rabbits were gay. They lolloped a little, leaped into the air, and lay upon their backs, so that their white bellies gleamed in the sun. They even began to play in a wanton manner, running after and leaping over one another, and giving no heed to Susie, who watched their frolics.
She liked to see how they jumped and tumbled, and fancied they were entirely happy in their games. No one hindered or rebuked them, no dog barked, no fox was abroad. Near to the warren there was a
stunted elder-bush that had withstood many a winter’s storm, and was now garmented with scented flowers. The rabbits played about this bush in high glee. There was nothing to disturb their enjoyment; they could leap and be merry. When they wanted to rest, they nibbled the sweet grass.
But suddenly and quite unexpectedly a large black rabbit seized a young doe. The doe screamed. A magpie called out “Murder!” and every rabbit scampered in a hurry to his burrow.
The hillside was now entirely deserted; there was not a creature to be seen. The warren might have been uninhabited, and the elder-tree might have lived there for ever alone.
Susie returned to the path, and she had not walked many steps before she came upon Joseph Bridle, who was waiting for her behind a small knoll. Joseph had been told by Winnie, who always liked to have a finger in everything, that Susie Dawe had gone to Shelton to visit her aunt, and that she expected her to return by the downs.
Joseph Bridle had hurried off when his work was done, without stopping to eat any dinner. Love whispered a fine story to him, saying that, if he used Susie after a certain country manner, he would compel her to be his. Love had been talking to Susie too, but his story to her was not the same as to Bridle. Love had told two different tales, and when he does that, unity is broken and a battle begins.
Susie, who wished to give herself to Death, had no desire to receive any kindness from Joe, however bold he might now wish to be. She needed more than that—a furious embrace—a burning in agony, with fire—and then, stillness. Though she had often in the past loved Joseph, she now began entirely to hate him. He stood, she knew, between her and Death.
As to Mr. Mere, she hardly thought of him at all; indeed it was only a wedding that she thought of, and her father had managed that. The wedding had already been much talked of, and John Death, as well as Winnie Huddy, had teased her about it. John had even hinted that some fun might come of it, and indeed he expected to be able himself to play a joke upon the farmer upon his wedding-night. A joke of John’s.
When Susie heard the doe rabbit cry, she thought that she screamed too. And, because she was tormented, she wished to torment. Her own body rebelled and bit her; let her bite another! Her girlhood was now become something dangerous, something that wished to harm.
She knew what she must do; to pain in a subtle manner is easy to a woman. To lie down where the yellow flowers grow, to show a woman’s cunning intimacy nearer and yet a little nearer, guiding the steps of her victim, who sees no farther than her allurements, until straightway he falls into the abyss.
John Death knows a thing or two; he had taught Susie how to dispatch a gloomy lover. Not all at once, either, not with one bite, but in the way that Tib, Mrs. Manning’s cat, toyed with a fat mouse—a bite here and there, to show it how to die.
When Susie first saw Joseph Bridle behind the mound, she thought that he might be Death, but she did not show her disappointment and greeted him kindly. Joseph came to her; he saw her as pure glory, a delight—as love. He sprang gladly to her. He showed the fervour of his own passion, the green earth could hardly hold down his feet, he rose mighty in his desire to greet his beloved.
But Susie intended to alter all that fine gait, she would bend and break this large, frolicsome oak. She would make Joe peep and grovel, bow low to ask a boon, and fail to obtain it.
Susie walked quietly with Joe Bridle until they reached a green tumulus. Here a king had been buried, and more than one virgin had erstwhile been despoiled of her birthright. Here, Susie said, she wished to rest a little, and she lay down. Joseph saw her as his own. Her frock, her shoes, and the little puckers in her stockings, could never be, nor she who wore them, any one’s but his. She was taken out of his body, bone of his bone, and he must gather her to him again as his wife.
Susie lay as if she wondered a little—as Eve must have wondered when God made her—what it was that her husband would do to her. Then she smiled. Seeing her smile, Joseph supposed that his happiness was near. But yet he hesitated to consummate.
He was a man who liked all things to be done in order; he would much rather that their coming together should not happen so glaringly in the sight of the sun. And neither might the sun alone be the one to see, for often strangers walked upon those downs in the summer.
Susie moved her body. She invited his embrace. She imagined to herself that it was John Death who stood above her. And she longed for him to use her as a woman who loves wishes to be used by her beloved. She raised herself a little, and by an unmistakable gesture, bid him come to her.…
A thing of beauty may be changed in a moment. When suddenly the winter’s chill leaves the fields, and a summer’s day, with all its blessedness, covers the earth with warmth, instead of accepting the day as a gift for himself, a man will often be only surprised by it, and a little frightened. To be suddenly offered, as a free gift, what one has sought for a great while tremblingly, will often take away a man’s breath and leave him cold. Bridle feared for Susie. He looked aside. He needed another god’s blessings than the sun’s, to be free for this pretty work.
Then Susie’s brow clouded; she lured him to her no more. She sat up and began to taunt him, calling him names.
“Thee old moppet,” she said. “What do ’ee want wi’ I upon this pretty hill? Go down to Shelton and get Auntie to ’ave ’ee; ’tain’t no young girl thee do want to marry, but an old wife who do keep cats. Thee be a fine man indeed, who be too pious to touch what ’ee do want. Maybe thee be afeared that Mr. Hayhoe mid see what thee be up to; they little rabbits bain’t so cautious!”
Susie sprang up to mock him. She danced before him, uttering odd expressions, and kicked up her legs. Then she walked by his side, chattering like a magpie—very gay and pert. Her face was flushed and angry. Her companion had scorned her worse than ever Dodder girl had been scorned before.
She did not care now what she did. With a laugh she tore off her frock, and running in front of Bridle, waved the garment in his eyes, as though she baited a bull. Then she grew quieter, put her frock on again, and walking very near to Bridle, began to talk to him in a low tone.
Though she walked so quietly, her words astonished Joe. She talked like an abandoned harlot. She spoke of man’s matters, as if such things had always been common to her, and she to them. All her kindly girl’s ways now became a lecher’s story. She told him all about Mr. Mere and his dog. She described, in crude village language, what Mr. Mere had wished to do to her, and how the old man meant to try his fancies upon her when they were married.
She knew, she said, as much now as any girl in Dodder—even Daisy Huddy knew no more than she.
Then, without any “if you please,” she lay down and pulled him to her. But no sooner had she held him in her arms for a moment than she pushed him away from her. Coming towards them, along the downs, Susie had seen a man.
XXXIX
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Death Wishes to Kill
A change sometimes comes over a human creature that is noticed by others more than by itself. A man may be lifted, translated, changed, and yet will appear to himself as the same being.
That last, awful, and final alteration of the human body—out of life into death—is a less noticed change to the man affected than to him who has watched the dissolution.
Susie thought she was the same girl, but Joe Bridle was alarmed by her appearance. From the flush of wanton merriment, her face had changed to a deathly pallor. This change Joseph could not understand, but on the whole he was glad that he had not known her when she lay down to him. For all her nonsense had only been perhaps the natural folly of a girl who has a mind to marry. She would be more willing and more eager when the proper night-time came.
She walked slowly by his side; her maid’s blood had cooled, her loose, longing desires were stilled. She walked like one in a trance and seemed scarcely to breathe. Her legs, that only
a few minutes before she had flung about so carelessly, could now hardly carry her weight; she staggered and nearly fell, and Joseph was forced to put his arm about her to keep her up, and thus they continued their way.
If one walks upon a path—be it but a thyme-scented track over a down, or the tortuous and difficult way of a man’s life—when another figure approaches from the opposite direction, the meeting always comes sooner than expected.
Joseph Bridle and Susie Dawe had not proceeded along the down for many paces before Joe was able to recognize the man who was coming to meet them as John Death.
Country manners come from distant times: they are used now as they were of old. They never alter or change; they are the sediment at the bottom of the cup, that is always there. All is watched in a village, all is known. The old woman has not her one eye given to her for nothing. Young girls are her prey, she watches them like a cat.
John Death had not been long in Dodder before he discovered where news might be had. John had begun to smoke cigarettes; he purchased them in sixpenny packets from Mrs. Moggs, and for each packet he gave her in exchange a finger-bone. These bones Mrs. Moggs kept carefully in a drawer, and every day she tied a new one round her neck. John had told her that the bones of an unmarried girl, who had died in childbed, were a certain cure for an old woman’s rheumatism. John said the bones came from the Dodder churchyard.
Besides receiving cigarettes in return for his bones, John was told all the news. For nothing went on in Dodder that Mrs. Moggs was not aware of. Death knew that Bridle had gone to meet Susie, and he went too.