Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  He would quite suddenly stop, stand like a top spinning, balanced on his toes, and cry, “Ah! Now I’ve got it! No, I haven’t! Yes, I have. By God, it’s gone again!”

  To this also Mr. Lasher strongly objected, and Hugh heard him say, “Really, Pidgen, think of the boy! Think of the boy!” and Mr. Pidgen exclaimed, “By God, so I should!... Beg pardon, Lasher! Won’t do it again! Lord save me, I’m a careless old drunkard!” He had any number of strange phrases that were new and brilliant and exciting to the boy, who listened to him. He would say, “by the martyrs of Ephesus!” or “Sunshine and thunder!” or “God stir your slumbers!” when he thought any one very stupid. He said this last one day to Mrs. Lasher, and of course she was very much astonished. She did not from the first like him at all. Mr. Pidgen and Mr. Lasher had been friends at Cambridge and had not met one another since, and every one knows that that is a dangerous basis for the renewal of friendship. They had a little dispute on the very afternoon of Mr. Pidgen’s arrival, when Mr. Lasher asked his guest whether he played golf.

  “God preserve my soul! No!” said Mr. Pidgen. Mr. Lasher then explained that playing golf made one thin, hungry and self-restrained. Mr. Pidgen said that he did not wish to be the first or last of these, and that he was always the second, and that golf was turning the fair places of England into troughs for the moneyed pigs of the Stock Exchange to swill in.

  “My dear Pidgen!” cried Mr. Lasher, “I’m afraid no one could call me a moneyed pig with any justice — more’s the pity — and a game of golf to me is — —”

  “Ah! you’re a parson, Lasher,” said his guest.

  In fact, by the evening of the second day of the visit it was obvious that Clinton St. Mary Vicarage might, very possibly, witness a disturbed Christmas. It was all very tiresome for poor Mrs. Lasher. On the late afternoon of Christmas Eve, Hugh heard the stormy conversation that follows — a conversation that altered the colour and texture of his after-life as such things may, when one is still a child.

  IV

  Christmas Eve was always, to Hugh, a day with glamour. He did not any longer hang up his stocking (although he would greatly have liked to do so), but, all day, his heart beat thickly at the thought of the morrow, at the thought of something more than the giving and receiving of presents, something more than the eating of food, something more than singing hymns that were delightfully familiar, something more than putting holly over the pictures and hanging mistletoe on to the lamp in the hall. Something there was in the day like going home, like meeting people again whom one had loved once, and not seen for many years, something as warm and romantic and lightly coloured and as comforting as the most inspired and impossible story that one could ever, lying in bed and waiting for sleep, invent.

  To-day there was no snow but a frost, and there was a long bar of saffron below the cold sky and a round red ball of a sun. Hugh was sitting in a corner of Mr. Lasher’s study, looking at Doré’s “Don Quixote,” when the two gentlemen came in. He was sitting in a dark corner and they, because they were angry with one another, did not recognise any one except themselves. Mr. Lasher pulled furiously at his pipe and Mr. Pidgen stood up by the fire with his short fat legs spread wide and his mouth smiling, but his eyes vexed and rather indignant.

  “My dear Pidgen,” said Mr. Lasher, “you misunderstand me, you do indeed! It may be (I would be the first to admit that, like most men, I have my weakness) that I lay too much stress upon the healthy, physical, normal life, upon seeing things as they are and not as one would like to see them to be. I don’t believe that dreaming ever did any good to any man!”

  “It’s only produced some of the finest literature the world has ever known,” said Mr. Pidgen.

  “Ah! Genius! If you or I were geniuses, Pidgen, that would be another affair. But we’re not; we’re plain, common-place humdrum human beings with souls to be saved and work to do — work to do!”

  There was a little pause after that, and Hugh, looking at Mr. Pidgen, saw the hurt look in his eyes deepen.

  “Come now, Lasher,” he said at last. “Let’s be honest one with another; that’s your line, and you say it ought to be mine. Come now, as man to man, you think me a damnable failure now — beg pardon — complete failure — don’t you? Don’t be afraid of hurting me. I want to know!”

  Mr. Lasher was really a kindly man, and when his eyes beheld things — there were of course many things that they never beheld — he would do his best to help anybody. He wanted to help Mr. Pidgen now; but he was also a truthful man.

  “My dear Pidgen! Ha, ha! What a question! I’m sure many, many people enjoy your books immensely. I’m sure they do, oh, yes!”

  “Come, now, Lasher, the truth. You won’t hurt my feelings. If you were discussing me with a third person you’d say, wouldn’t you? ‘Ah, poor Pidgen might have done something if he hadn’t let his fancy run away with him. I was with him at Cambridge. He promised well, but I’m afraid one must admit that he’s failed — he would never stick to anything.’”

  Now this was so exactly what Mr. Lasher had, on several occasions, said about his friend that he was really for the moment at a loss. He pulled at his pipe, looked very grave, and then said:

  “My dear Pidgen, you must remember our lives have followed such different courses. I can only give you my point of view. I don’t myself care greatly for romances — fairy tales and so on. It seems to me that for a grown-up man.... However, I don’t pretend to be a literary fellow; I have other work, other duties, picturesque, but nevertheless necessary.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Pidgen, who, considering that he had invited his host’s honest opinion, should not have become irritated because he had obtained it; “that’s just it. You people all think only you know what is necessary. Why shouldn’t a fairy story be as necessary as a sermon? A lot more necessary, I dare say. You think you’re the only people who can know anything about it. You people never use your imaginations.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Mr. Lasher, very bitterly (for he had always said, “If one does not bring one’s imagination into one’s work one’s work is of no value”), “writers of idle tales are not the only people who use their imaginations. And, if you will allow me, without offence, to say so, Pidgen, your books, even amongst other things of the same sort, have not been the most successful.”

  This remark seemed to pour water upon all the anger in Mr. Pidgen’s heart. His eyes expressed scorn, but not now for Mr. Lasher — for himself. His whole figure drooped and was bowed like a robin in a thunderstorm.

  “That’s true enough. Bless my soul, Lasher, that’s true enough. They hardly sell at all. I’ve written a dozen of them now, ‘The Blue Pouncet Box,’ ‘The Three-tailed Griffin,’ ‘The Tree without any Branches,’ but you won’t want to be bothered with the names of them. ‘The Griffin’ went into two editions, but it was only because the pictures were rather sentimental. I’ve often said to myself, ‘If a thing doesn’t sell in these days it must be good,’ but I’ve not really convinced myself. I’d like them to have sold. Always, until now, I’ve had hopes of the next one, and thought that it would turn out better, like a woman with her babies. I seem to have given up expecting that now. It isn’t, you know, being always hard-up that I mind so much, although that, mind you, isn’t pleasant, no, by Jehoshaphat, it isn’t. But we would like now and again to find that other people have enjoyed what one hoped they would enjoy. But I don’t know, they always seem too old for children and too young for grown-ups — my stories, I mean.”

  It was one of the hardest traits in Mr. Lasher’s character, as Hugh well realised, “to rub it in” over a fallen foe. He considered this his duty; it was also, I am afraid, a pleasure. “It’s a pity,” he said, “that things should not have gone better; but there are so many writers to-day that I wonder any one writes at all. We live in a practical, realistic age. The leaders amongst us have decided that every man must gird his loins and go out to fight his battles with real weapons in a real cause, not sit dreami
ng at his windows looking down upon the busy market-place.” (Mr. Lasher loved what he called “images.” There were many in his sermons.) “But, my dear Pidgen, it is in no way too late. Give up your fairy stories now that they have been proved a failure.”

  Here Mr. Pidgen, in the most astonishing way, was suddenly in a terrible temper. “They’re not!” he almost screamed. “Not at all. Failures, from the worldly point of view, yes; but there are some who understand. I would not have done anything else if I could. You, Lasher, with your soup-tickets and your choir-treats, think there’s no room for me and my fairy stories. I tell you, you may find yourself jolly well mistaken one of these days. Yes, by Cæsar, you may. How do you know what’s best worth doing? If you’d listened a little more to the things you were told when you were a baby, you’d be a more intelligent man now.”

  “When I was a baby,” said Mr. Lasher, incredulously, as though that were a thing that he never possibly could have been, “my dear Pidgen!”

  “Ah, you think it absurd,” said the other, a little cooler again. “But how do you know who watched over your early years and wanted you to be a dreamy, fairy tale kind of person instead of the cayenne pepper sort of man you are. There’s always some one there, I tell you, and you can have your choice, whether you’ll believe more than you see all your life or less than you see. Every baby knows about it; then, as they grow older, it fades and, with many people, goes altogether. He’s never left me, St. Christopher, you know, and that’s one thing. Of course, the ideal thing is somewhere between the two; recognise St. Christopher and see the real world as well. I’m afraid neither you nor I is the ideal man, Lasher. Why, I tell you, any baby of three knows more than you do! You’re proud of never seeing beyond your nose. I’m proud of never seeing my nose at all: we’re both wrong. But I am ready to admit your uses. You never will admit mine; and it isn’t any use your denying my Friend. He stayed with you a bit when you just arrived, but I expect he soon left you. You’re jolly glad he did.”

  “My dear Pidgen,” said Mr. Lasher, “I haven’t understood a word.”

  Pidgen shook his head. “You’re right. That’s just what’s the matter with me. I can’t even put what I see plainly.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve failed. There’s no doubt about it. But, although I know that, I’ve had a happy life. That’s the funny part of it. I’ve enjoyed it more than you ever will, Lasher. At least, I’m never lonely. I like my food, too, and one’s head’s always full of jolly ideas, if only they seemed jolly to other people.”

  “Upon my word, Pidgen,” said Mr. Lasher. At this moment Mrs. Lasher opened the door.

  “Well, well. Fancy! Sitting over the fire talking! Oh, you men! Tea! tea! Tea, Will! Fancy talking all the afternoon! Well!”

  No one had noticed Hugh. He, however, had understood Mr. Pidgen better than Mr. Lasher did.

  V

  This conversation aroused in Hugh, for various reasons, the greatest possible excitement. He would have liked to have asked Mr. Pidgen many questions. Christmas Day came, and a beautiful day enthroned it: a pale blue sky, faint and clear, was a background to misty little clouds that hovered, then fled and disappeared, and from these flakes of snow fell now and then across the shining sunlight. Early in the winter afternoon a moon like an orange feather sailed into the sky as the lower stretches of blue changed into saffron and gold. Trees and hills and woods were crystal-clear, and shone with an intensity of outline as though their shapes had been cut by some giant knife against the background. Although there was no wind the air was so expectant that the ringing of church bells and the echo of voices came as though across still water. The colour of the sunlight was caught in the cups and runnels of the stiff frozen roads and a horse’s hoofs echoed, sharp and ringing, over fields and hedges. The ponds were silvered into a sheet of ice, so thin that the water showed dark beneath it. All the trees were rimmed with hoar-frost.

  On Christmas afternoon, when three o’clock had just struck from the church tower, Hugh and Mr. Pidgen met, as though by some conspirator’s agreement, by the garden gate. They had said nothing to one another and yet there they were; they both glanced anxiously back at the house and then Mr. Pidgen said:

  “Suppose we take a walk.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Hugh. “Tea isn’t till half-past four.”

  “Very well, then, suppose you lead the way.” They walked a little, and then Hugh said: “I was there yesterday, in the study, when you talked all that about your books, and everything.” The words came from him in little breathless gusts because he was excited.

  Mr. Pidgen stopped and looked upon him. “Thunder and sunshine! You don’t say so! What under heaven were you doing?”

  “I was reading, and you came in and then I was interested.”

  “Well?”

  Hugh dropped his voice.

  “I understood all that you meant. I’d like to read your books if I may. We haven’t any in the house.”

  “Bless my soul! Here’s some one wants to read my books!” Mr. Pidgen was undoubtedly pleased. “I’ll send you some. I’ll send you them all!”

  Hugh gasped with pleasure. “I’ll read them all, however many there are!” he said excitedly. “Every word.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Pidgen, “that’s more than any one else has ever done.”

  “I’d rather be with you,” said the boy very confidently, “than Mr. Lasher. I’d rather write stories than preach sermons that no one wants to listen to.” Then more timidly he continued: “I know what you meant about the man who comes when you’re a baby. I remember him quite well, but I never can say anything because they’d say I was silly. Sometimes I think he’s still hanging round only he doesn’t come to the vicarage much. He doesn’t like Mr. Lasher much, I expect. But I do remember him. He had a beard and I used to think it funny the nurse didn’t see him. That was before we went to Ceylon, you know, we used to live in Polchester then. When it was nearly dark and not quite he’d be there. I forgot about him in Ceylon, but since I’ve been here I’ve wondered ... it’s sometimes like some one whispering to you and you know if you turn round he won’t be there, but he is there all the same. I made twenty-five last summer against Porthington Grammar; they’re not much good really, and it was our second eleven, and I was nearly out second ball; anyway I made twenty-five, and afterwards as I was ragging about I suddenly thought of him. I know he was pleased. If it had been a little darker I believe I’d have seen him. And then last night, after I was in bed and was thinking about what you’d said I know he was near the window, only I didn’t look lest he should go away. But of course Mr. Lasher would say that’s all rot, like the pirates, only I know it isn’t.” Hugh broke off for lack of breath, nothing else would have stopped him. When he was encouraged he was a terrible talker. He suddenly added in a sharp little voice like the report from a pistol: “So one can’t be lonely or anything, can one, if there’s always some one about?”

  Mr. Pidgen was greatly touched. He put his hand upon Hugh’s shoulder. “My dear boy,” he said, “my dear boy — dear me, dear me. I’m afraid you’re going to have a dreadful time when you grow up. I really mustn’t encourage you. And yet, who can help himself?”

  “But you said yourself that you’d seen him, that you knew him quite well?”

  “And so I do — and so I do. But you’ll find, as you grow older, there are many people who won’t believe you. And there’s this, too. The more you live in your head, dreaming and seeing things that aren’t there, the less you’ll see the things that are there. You’ll always be tumbling over things. You’ll never get on. You’ll never be a success.”

  “Never mind,” said Hugh, “it doesn’t matter much what you say now, you’re only talking ‘for my good’ like Mr. Lasher. I don’t care, I heard what you said yesterday, and it’s made all the difference. I’ll come and stay with you.”

  “Well, so you shall,” said Mr. Pidgen. “I can’t help it. You shall come as often as you like. Upon my soul, I’m younger to-day t
han I’ve felt for a long time. We’ll go to the pantomime together if you aren’t too old for it. I’ll manage to ruin you all right. What’s that shining?” He pointed in front of him.

  They had come to a rise in the Polwint Road. To their right, running to the very foot of their path, was the moor. It stretched away, like a cloud, vague and indeterminate to the horizon. To their left a dark brown field rose in an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the sky, now crocus-coloured. The field was lit with the soft light of the setting sun. On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in midair, was shining like a golden fire.

  “What’s that?” said Mr. Pidgen again. “It’s hanging. What the devil!”

  They stopped for a moment, then started across the field. When they had gone a little way Mr. Pidgen paused again.

  “It’s like a man with a golden helmet. He’s got legs, he’s coming to us.”

  They walked on again. Then Hugh cried, “Why, it’s only an old Scarecrow. We might have guessed.”

  The sun, at that instant, sank behind the hills and the world was grey.

  The Scarecrow, perched on the high ridge, waved its tattered sleeves in the air. It was an old tin can that had caught the light; the can hanging over the stake that supported it in drunken fashion seemed to wink at them. The shadows came streaming up from the sea and the dark woods below in the hollow drew closer to them.