by Hugh Walpole
“And there I was with him, high on the sunshine on the top of that historic hill....”
The striking of the clock brought him away from the book with a jerk, so deep had he been sunk in it that he looked now about the dusky room with a startled uncertain gaze. The familiar place settled once more about him and, with a little sigh, he sank back into the chair. His thin bony legs stuck out in front of him; one trouser-leg was hitched up and his sock, falling down over his boot, left bare part of his calf; his boots had not been laced tightly and the tongues had slipped aside, showing his sock. He was a long thin youth, his hair untidy, his black tie up at the back of his collar; one white and rather ragged cuff had slipped down over his wrist, the other was invisible. His eyes were grey and weak, he had a long pointed nose with two freckles on the very end of it, but his mouth was kindly although too large and indeterminate. His cheeks were thin and showed high cheek-bones; his chin was pronounced enough to be strong but nevertheless helped him very little.
He was untidy and ungainly but not entirely unattractive; his growth was at the stage when nature has not made up its mind as to the next, the final move. That may, after all, be something very pleasant....
His eyes now were dreamy and soft because he was thinking of the book. No book, perhaps, in all his life before had moved him so deeply and he was very often moved — but, as a rule, by cheap and sentimental emotions.
He knew that he was cheap; he knew that he was sentimental; he, very often, hated and despised himself.
He could see the Forests “rolling like a sea”. It was as though he, himself, had been perched upon that high, bright hill, and he was exalted, he felt, with that same exultation; the space, the freedom, the liberty, the picture of a world wherein anything might happen, where heroes, fugitives, scoundrels, cowards, conquerors all alike might win their salvation. “Room for everyone ... no one to pull one up — No one to make one ashamed of what one says and does. No crowd watching one’s every movement. Adventures for the wishing and courage to meet them.”
He looked about the room and hated it, — the old, shabby, hemmed-in thing! He hated this life to which he was condemned; he hated himself, his world, his uninspiring future.
“My God, I must do something!... I will do something!... But suppose I can’t!” His head fell again — suppose he were out in that other world, there in the heart of those dark forests, suppose that he found that he did no better there than here!... That would be, indeed, the most terrible thing of all!
He gazed up into the Mirror, saw in it the reflection of the room, the green walls, the green carpet, the old faded green place like moss covering dead ground. Soft, damp, dark, — and beyond outside the Mirror, the world of the Forests— “the great expanse of Forests” and “beyond, the Ocean — smooth and polished ... rising up to the sky in a wall of steel.”
His people, his family, his many, many relations, his world, he thought, were all inside the Mirror — all embedded in that green, soft, silent enclosure. He saw, stretching from one end of England to the other, in all Provincial towns, in neat little houses with neat little gardens, in Cathedral Cities with their sequestered Closes, in villages with the deep green lanes leading up to the rectory gardens, in old Country houses hemmed in by wide stretching fields, in little lost places by the sea, all these persons happily, peacefully sunk up to their very necks in the green moss. Within the Mirror this ... Outside the Mirror the rolling forests guarded by the shining wall of sea. His own family passed before him. His grandfather, his great-aunt Sarah, his mother and his father, Aunt Aggie and Aunt Betty, Uncle Tim, Millicent, Katherine.... He paused then. The book slipped away and fell on to the floor.
Katherine ... dear Katherine! He did not care what she was! And then, swept by a fresh wave of feeling springing up, stretching his arms, facing the room, he did not care what any of them were! He was the Idiot, the discontented, ungrateful Idiot! He loved them all — he wouldn’t change one of them, he wouldn’t be in any other family in all the world!
The door opened; in came old Rocket, the staff and prop of the family, to turn up the lights, to poke up the fire. In a minute tea would come in....
“Why, Mr. Henry, no fire nor lights!” He shuffled to the windows, pulling the great heavy curtains across them, his knees cracking, very slowly he bent down, picked up the book, and laid it carefully on the table next to the “Hibbert Journal.”
“I hope you’ve not been reading, Mr. Henry, in this bad light,” he said.
III
Later, between nine and half-past, Henry was sitting with his father and his uncle, smoking and drinking after dinner. To-night was an evening of Ceremony — the Family Ceremony of the year — therefore, although the meal had been an extremely festive one with many flowers, a perfect mountain of fruit in the huge silver bowl in the centre of the table, and the Most Sacred Of All Ports (produced on this occasion and Christmas Day) nevertheless only the Family had been present. No distant relations even, certainly no friends.... This was Grandfather Trenchard’s birthday.
The ladies vanished, there remained only Henry, his father and Uncle Tim. Henry was sitting there, very self-conscious over his glass of Port. He was always self-conscious when Uncle Tim was present.
Uncle Tim was a Faunder and was large-limbed and absent-minded like Henry’s father. Uncle Tim had a wild head of grey hair, a badly-kept grey beard and clothed his long, loose figure in long, loose garments. He was here to-day and gone to-morrow, preferred the country to the town and had a little house down in Glebeshire, where he led an untidy bachelor existence whose motive impulses were birds and flowers.
Henry was very fond of Uncle Tim; he liked his untidiness, his careless geniality, his freedom and his happiness.
Henry’s father — George Trenchard — was “splendid” — that, thought Henry, was the only possible word — and the boy, surveying other persons’ fathers, wondered why Katherine, Millicent, and himself should have been chosen out of all the world to be so favoured.
George Trenchard, at this time about sixty years of age, was over six feet in height and broad in proportion. He was growing too stout; his hair was grey and the top of his head bald; his eyes were brown and absent-minded, his mouth large with a lurking humour in its curves; his cheeks were fat and round and there was the beginning of a double chin. He walked, always, in a rambling, rolling kind of way, like a sea-captain on shore, still balancing himself to the swing of his vessel, his hands deep sunk in his trouser-pockets. Henry had been privileged, sometimes, to see him, when, absorbed in the evolution of an essay or the Chapter of some book (he is, of course, one of our foremost authorities on the early Nineteenth Century period of English Literature, especially Hazlitt and De Quincey) he rolled up and down his study, with his head back, his hand sunk in his pockets, whistling a little tune ... very wonderful he seemed to Henry then.
He was the most completely careless of optimists, refused to be brought down to any stern fact whatever, hated any strong emotion or stringent relations with anyone, treated his wife and children as the most delightful accidents against whom he had, most happily tumbled; his kindness of heart was equalled only by the lightning speed with which he forgot the benefits that he had conferred and the persons upon whom he had conferred them ... like a happy bird, he went carolling through life. Alone, of all living beings, his daughter Katherine had bound him to her with cords; for the rest, he loved and forgot them all.
Now, on this family occasion of his father’s birthday — his father was eighty-seven to-day — he was absolutely happy. He was proud of his family when any definite occasion, such as this, compelled him to think of it; he considered that it had all been a very jolly, pleasant dinner, that there would certainly follow a very jolly, pleasant evening. He liked, especially, to have his brother, Timothy, with him — he loved them all, bless their hearts — he felt, as he assured them, “Not a day more than twenty.”
“How do you really think Father is, George?” asked Timothy
.
“Sound as a bell,” said Henry’s father, “getting deaf of course — must expect that — but it’s my belief that the harder his hearing the brighter his eyes — never knew anyone so sharp. Nothing escapes him, ‘pon my soul.”
“Well,” said George Trenchard, “I think it a most satisfactory thing that here we should all be again — healthy, happy, sound as so many bells — lively as crickets — not a happier family in England.”
“Don’t say that, George,” said Uncle Tim, “most unlucky.”
“Nonsense,” said George Trenchard, brushing Uncle Tim aside like a fly, “Nonsense. We’re a happy family, a healthy family and a united family.”
“I drink my gratitude to the God of Family Life, who-ever He is....” He finished his glass of Port. “Here, Timothy, have another glass. It’s a Port in a million, so it is.”
But Uncle Tim shook his head. “It’s all very well, George, but you’ll have to break up soon. The girls will be marrying — Katherine and Millicent—”
“Rot,” said George, “Millie’s still at school.”
“She’s coming home very soon — very shortly I believe. And besides you can’t keep a family together as you used to. You can’t. No one cares about the home at all now-a-days. These youngsters will find that out soon enough. You’ll be deserting the nest immediately, Henry, my friend, won’t you?”
This sudden appeal, of course, confused Henry terribly. He choked over his wine, coloured crimson, stammered out:
“No, Uncle Tim — Of course — Of course — not.”
George Trenchard looked at his son with approval.
“That’s right. Stick to your old father while you can. The matter with you, Tim, is that you live outside the world and don’t know what’s going on.”
“The matter with you, George, is,” his brother, speaking slowly and carefully, replied, “That you haven’t the ghost of an idea of what the modern world’s like — not the ghost. Up in the clouds you are, and so’s your whole family, my sister and all — But the young ones won’t be up in the clouds always, not a bit of it. They’ll come down one day and then you’ll see what you will see.”
“And what’ll that be?” said George Trenchard, laughing a little scornfully.
“Why you and Harriet doing Darby and Joan over the dying fire and no one else within a hundred miles of you — except a servant who’s waiting for your clothes and sleeve-links.”
“There, Henry — Listen to that!” said his father, still laughing— “See what an ungrateful fellow you’re going to be in a year or two!”
Henry blushed, swallowed in his throat, smiled idiotically. They were all, he thought, laughing at him, but the effect was very pleasant and genial....
Moreover he was interested. He was, of course, one of the young ones and it was his future that was under discussion. His mind hovered over the book that he had been reading that afternoon. Uncle Tim’s words had very much the same effect upon Henry’s mind that that book’s words had had, although from a different angle so to speak.... Henry’s eyes lingered about a little silver dish that contained sugared cherries.... He liked immensely sugared cherries. Encouraged by the genial atmosphere he stretched out his hand, took two cherries, and swallowed them, but, in his agitation, so swiftly that he did not taste them at all.
Then he drank two glasses of Port — he had never before drunk so much wine. He was conscious now that he must not, under any circumstances, drink any more. He was aware that he must control, very closely, his tongue; he told himself that the room was not in reality so golden and glowing a place as it now seemed to him, that it was only the same old dining-room with which he had all his life, been familiar. He convinced himself by a steady gaze that the great silver dish with the red and purple and golden fruit piled upon it was only a silver dish, was not a deep bowl whose sides, like silver walls stretched up right into the dim electric clusters of electric light hanging from the ceiling. He might convince himself of these facts, he might with a great effort steady the room that very, very slightly swayed about him ... what he could not deny was that Life was gorgeous, that this was an Evening of all the Evenings, that he adored his father, his uncle and all the family to such a height and depth of devotion that, were he not exceedingly careful, he would burst into tears — burst into tears he must not because then would the stud in his shirt most assuredly abandon its restraints and shame him, for ever, before Uncle Tim.
At this moment his father gave the command to move. Henry rose, very carefully, from his seat, steadied himself at the table for an instant, then, very, very gravely, with his eye upon his shirt-stud, followed his uncle from the room.
IV
He retained, throughout the rest of that eventful evening, the slightly exaggerated vision of the world. It was not that, as he followed his father and uncle into the drawing-room, he did not know what he would see. He would find them sitting there — Grandfather in his chair, his feet on a stool, his bony hands pressed upon his thin knees with that fierce, protesting pressure that represented so much in his grandfather. There would be, also, his Great-Aunt Sarah with her high pyramid of white hair, her long black ear-trumpet and her hard sharp little eyes like faded blue pebbles, there would be his mother, square and broad and placid with her hands folded on her lap, there would be Aunt Aggie, with her pouting, fat little face, her cheeks quivering a little as she moved her head, her eyes searching about the room, nervously, uneasily, and there would be Aunt Betty, neat and tiny, with her little trembling smile and her quiet air of having something very important to do of which no one else in the family had the ghost of an idea! Oh! he knew them all so well that they appeared to him, now, to be part of himself and to exist only as his ideas of the world and life and his own destiny. They could not now do anything that would ever surprise or disconcert him, he knew their ideas, their schemes, their partialities, their disgusts, and he would not — so he thought now with the fire of life burning so brightly within him — have them changed, no, not in any tiniest atom of an alteration.
He knew that they would sit there, all of them, and talk quietly about nothing, and then when the gold clock was approaching half-past nine they would slip away, — save only grandfather and Aunt Sarah — and would slip up to their rooms and then they would slip down again with their parcels in their hands and at half-past nine the Ceremony would take place. So it had been for years and years and so it would continue to be until Grandfather’s death, and, after that, Henry’s father would take his place, and then, one day, perhaps, it would be the turn of Henry himself.
He paused for a moment and looked at the room — Katherine was not there. She was always until the very last moment, doing something to Grandfather’s present, tying it up in some especial ribbon, writing something on the paper wrapping, making it, in some way, more perfect. He knew that, as he came in, his mother would look up and smile and say “Well, Henry,” and then would resume her placidity, that Uncle Tim would sit down beside Aunt Betty and begin, very gently, to chaff her, which would please her immensely, and that Aunt Sarah would cry “What did you say, Timothy?” and that then he would shout down her ear-trumpet, with a good-humoured smile peeping down from his beard as though he were thinking “One must humour the old lady you know.”
All these things occurred. Henry himself sat in a low chair by the fire and looked at his father, who was walking up and down the other end of the room, his hands deep in his pockets, his head back. Then he looked at his two aunts and wondered, as he had wondered so many times before, that they were not the sisters of his mother instead of his father. They were so small and fragile to be the sisters of such large-limbed, rough-and-tumble men as his father and Uncle Timothy. They would have, so naturally, taken their position in the world as the sisters of his mother.
Aunt Aggie, who thought that no one was paying her very much attention, said:
“I can’t think why Katherine wouldn’t let me get that silk for her at Liberty’s this afternoon. I
could have gone up Regent Street so easily — it wouldn’t have been very much trouble — not very much, but Katherine always must do everything for herself.”
Mrs. Trenchard said: “It was very kind of you, Aggie dear, to think of it — I’m sure it was very kind,” and Aunt Betty said: “Katherine would appreciate your thinking of her.”
“I wonder, with the fog, that any of you went out at all,” said Uncle Tim, “I’m sure I was as nearly killed as nothing just coming back from the Strand.”
Aunt Aggie moved her hands on her lap, looked at them, suspiciously, to see whether they meant what they said, and then sighed — and, to Henry, this all seemed to-night wonderful, magical, possessed of some thrilling, passionate quality; his heart was beating with furious, leaping bounds, his eyes were misty with sentimental happiness. He thought that this was life that he was realising now for the first time.... It was not — it was two glasses of Port.
He looked at his grandfather and thought of the wonderful old man that he was. His grandfather was very small and very thin and so delicate was the colour of his white hair, his face, and his hands that the light seemed to shine through him, as though he had been made of glass. He was a silent old man and everything about him was of a fine precious quality — his black shoes with the silver buckles, the gold signet ring on his finger, the black cord with the gold eye-glasses that lay across his shirt-front; when he spoke it was with a thin, silvery voice like a bell.
He did not seem, as he sat there, to be thinking about any of them or to be caring for anything that they might do.
His thoughts, perhaps, were shining and silver and precious like the rest of him, but no one knew because he said so little. Aunt Betty, with a glance at the clock, rose and slipped from the room. The moment had arrived....
V
Very soon, and, indeed, just as the clock, as though it were summoning them all back, struck the half-hour, there they all were again. They stood, in a group by the door and each one had, in his or her hand, his or her present. Grandfather, as silent as an ivory figure, sat in his chair, with Aunt Sarah in her chair beside him, and in front of him was a table, cleared of anything that was upon it, its mahogany shining in the firelight. All the Trenchard soldiers and the Trenchard Bishop looked down, with solemn approval, upon the scene.