A Little, Aloud

by Angela Macmillan

  ‘Yes, it certainly is a fine thing,’ he muttered, ‘but . . . how shall I express it? . . . it’s . . . h’m . . . it’s not quite for family reading. It’s not simply decolleté but beyond anything, dash it all . . .’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The serpent-tempter himself could not have invented anything worse . . . Why, to put such a phantasmagoria on the table would be defiling the whole flat.’

  ‘What a strange way of looking at art, doctor!’ said Sasha, offended. ‘Why, it is an artistic thing, look at it! There is so much beauty and elegance that it fills one’s soul with a feeling of reverence and brings a lump into one’s throat! When one sees anything so beautiful one forgets everything earthly . . . Only look, how much movement, what an atmosphere, what expression!’

  ‘I understand all that very well, my dear boy,’ the doctor interposed, ‘but you know I am a family man, my children run in here, ladies come in.’

  ‘Of course if you look at it from the point of view of the crowd,’ said Sasha, ‘then this exquisitely artistic work may appear in a certain light . . . But, doctor, rise superior to the crowd, especially as you will wound Mamma and me by refusing it. I am the only son of my mother, you have saved my life . . . We are giving you the thing most precious to us and . . . and I only regret that I have not the pair to present to you . . .’

  ‘Thank you, my dear fellow, I am very grateful . . . Give my respects to your mother but really consider, my children, run in here, ladies, come . . . However, let it remain! I see there’s no arguing with you.’

  ‘And there is nothing to argue about,’ said Sasha, relieved. ‘Put the candlestick here, by this vase. What a pity we have not the pair to it! It is a pity! Well, good-bye, doctor.’

  After Sasha’s departure the doctor looked for a long time at the candelabra, scratched behind his ear and meditated.

  ‘It’s a superb thing, there’s no denying it,’ he thought, ‘and it would be a pity to throw it away . . . But it’s impossible for me to keep it . . . H’m! . . . Here’s a problem! To whom can I make a present of it, or to what charity can I give it?’

  After long meditation he thought of his good friend, the lawyer Uhov, to whom he was indebted for the management of legal business.

  ‘Excellent,’ the doctor decided, ‘it would be awkward for him as a friend to take money from me, and it will be very suitable for me to present him with this. I will take him the devilish thing! Luckily he is a bachelor and easy-going.’

  Without further procrastination the doctor put on his hat and coat, took the candelabra and went off to Uhov’s.

  ‘How are you, friend!’ he said, finding the lawyer at home. ‘I’ve come to see you . . . to thank you for your efforts . . . You won’t take money so you must at least accept this thing here. . . See, my dear fellow . . . The thing is magnificent!’

  On seeing the bronze the lawyer was moved to indescribable delight.

  ‘What a specimen!’ he chuckled. ‘Ah, deuce take it, to think of them imagining such a thing, the devils! Exquisite! Ravishing! Where did you get hold of such a delightful thing?’

  After pouring out his ecstasies the lawyer looked timidly towards the door and said: ‘Only you must carry off your present, my boy . . . I can’t take it . . .’

  ‘Why?’ cried the doctor, disconcerted.

  ‘Why . . . because my mother is here at times, my clients . . . besides I should be ashamed for my servants to see it.’

  ‘Nonsense! Nonsense! Don’t you dare to refuse!’ said the doctor, gesticulating. ‘It’s piggish of you! It’s a work of art! . . . What movement . . . what expression! I won’t even talk of it! You will offend me!’

  ‘If one could plaster it over or stick on fig-leaves . . .’

  But the doctor gesticulated more violently than before, and dashing out of the flat went home, glad that he had succeeded in getting the present off his hands.

  When he had gone away the lawyer examined the candelabra, fingered it all over, and then, like the doctor, racked his brains over the question what to do with the present.

  ‘It’s a fine thing,’ he mused, ‘and it would be a pity to throw it away and improper to keep it. The very best thing would be to make a present of it to someone . . . I know what! I’ll take it this evening to Shashkin, the comedian. The rascal is fond of such things, and by the way it is his benefit tonight.’

  No sooner said than done. In the evening the candelabra, carefully wrapped up, was duly carried to Shashkin’s. The whole evening the comic actor’s dressing-room was besieged by men coming to admire the present; the dressing-room was filled with the hum of enthusiasm and laughter like the neighing of horses. If one of the actresses approached the door and asked: ‘May I come in?’ the comedian’s husky voice was heard at once: ‘No, no, my dear, I am not dressed!’

  After the performance the comedian shrugged his shoulders, flung up his hands and said: ‘Well what am I to do with the horrid thing? Why, I live in a private flat! Actresses come and see me! It’s not a photograph that you can put in a drawer!’

  ‘You had better sell it, sir,’ the hairdresser who was disrobing the actor advised him. ‘There’s an old woman living about here who buys antique bronzes. Go and enquire for Madame Smirnov . . . everyone knows her.’

  The actor followed his advice . . . Two days later the doctor was sitting in his consulting-room, and with his finger to his brow was meditating on the acids of the bile. All at once the door opened and Sasha Smirnov flew into the room. He was smiling, beaming, and his whole figure was radiant with happiness. In his hands he held something wrapped up in newspaper.

  ‘Doctor!’ he began breathlessly, ‘imagine my delight! Happily for you we have succeeded in picking up the pair to your candelabra! Mamma is so happy . . . I am the only son of my mother, you saved my life . . .’

  And Sasha, all of a tremor with gratitude, set the candelabra before the doctor. The doctor opened his mouth, tried to say something, but said nothing: he could not speak.

  ‘A THING OF BEAUTY’

  (FROM ENDYMION)

  John Keats

  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

  Its loveliness increases, it will never

  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

  A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

  Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

  Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

  Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

  Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

  Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

  From our dark spirits.

  READING NOTES

  ‘This poem,’ thought one reader, ‘says we are “wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth”. I suppose it is saying that beautiful things cheer you up and on the whole, I agree with that,’ he said. Among the lines and phrases that people have found particularly thought-provoking are ‘it will never pass into nothingness’ and ‘some shape of beauty moves away the pall/From our dark spirits.’

  The story will often prompt talk about what is considered to be beautiful and how much value people should or do place in it. Everyone has some experience of unwanted gifts, especially at Christmas, and what to do about them without giving offence is a real dilemma. Similarly, Sasha’s work of art leads naturally on to the subject of art and in particular, modern art, on which contentious subject most people have something to say.

  After Dark

  MY ADVENTURE IN NORFOLK

  A. J. Alan

  (approximate reading time 19 minutes)

  I don’t know how it is with you, but during February my wife generally says to me: ‘Have you thought at all about what we are going to do for August?’ And, of course, I say ‘No’, and then she begins looking through the advertisements o
f bungalows to let.

  Well, this happened last year, as usual, and she eventually produced one that looked possible. It said: ‘Norfolk – Hickling Broad – Furnished Bungalow – Garden – Garage, Boathouse’, and all the rest of it – Oh! – and plate and linen. It also mentioned an exorbitant rent. I pointed out the bit about the rent, but my wife said: ‘Yes, you’ll have to go down and see the landlord, and get him to come down. They always do.’ As a matter of fact, they always don’t, but that’s a detail.

  Anyway, I wrote off to the landlord and asked if he could arrange for me to stay the night in the place to see what it was really like. He wrote back and said: ‘Certainly’, and that he was engaging Mrs So-and-so to come in and ‘oblige me’, and make up the beds and so forth.

  I tell you, we do things thoroughly in our family – I have to sleep in all the beds, and when I come home my wife counts the bruises and decides whether they will do or not.

  At any rate, I arrived, in a blinding snowstorm, at about the most desolate spot on God’s earth. I’d come to Potter Heigham by train, and been driven on – it was a good five miles from the station. Fortunately, Mrs Selston, the old lady who was going to ‘do’ for me, was there, and she’d lighted a fire, and cooked me a steak, for which I was truly thankful.

  I somehow think the cow, or whatever they get steaks off, had only died that morning. It was very – er – obstinate. While I dined, she talked to me. She would tell me all about an operation her husband had just had. All about it. It was almost a lecture on surgery. The steak was rather underdone, and it sort of made me feel I was illustrating her lecture. Anyway, she put me clean off my dinner, and then departed for the night.

  I explored the bungalow and just had a look outside. It was, of course, very dark, but not snowing quite so hard. The garage stood about fifteen yards from the back door. I walked round it but didn’t go in. I also went down to the edge of the broad, and verified the boathouse. The whole place looked as though it might be all right in the summertime, but just then it made one wonder why people ever wanted to go to the North Pole.

  Anyhow, I went indoors and settled down by the fire. You’ve no idea how quiet it was; even the water-fowl had taken a night off – at least, they weren’t working.

  At a few minutes to eleven I heard the first noise there’d been since Mrs What’s-her-name – Selston – had cleared out. It was the sound of a car. If it had gone straight by I probably shouldn’t have noticed it at all, only it didn’t go straight by; it seemed to stop farther up the road, before it got to the house. Even that didn’t make much impression. After all, cars do stop.

  It must have been five or ten minutes before it was borne in on me that it hadn’t gone on again. So I got up and looked out of the window. It had left off snowing, and there was a glare through the gate that showed that there were headlamps somewhere just out of sight. I thought I might as well stroll out and investigate.

  I found a fair-sized limousine pulled up in the middle of the road about twenty yards short of my gate. The light was rather blinding, but when I got close to it I found a girl with the bonnet open, tinkering with the engine. Quite an attractive young female, from what one could see, but she was so muffled up in furs that it was rather hard to tell.

  I said: ‘Er – good evening – anything I can do?’

  She said she didn’t know what was the matter. The engine had just stopped, and wouldn’t start again. And it had ! It wouldn’t even turn, either with the self-starter or the handle. The whole thing was awfully hot, and I asked her whether there was any water in the radiator. She didn’t see why there shouldn’t be, there always had been. This didn’t strike me as entirely conclusive. I said we’d better put some in, and see what happened. She said, why not use snow? But I thought not. There was an idea at the back of my mind that there was some reason why it was unwise to use melted snow, and it wasn’t until I arrived back with a bucketful that I remembered what it was. Of course – goitre.

  When I got back to her she’d got the radiator cap off, and inserted what a Danish friend of mine called a ‘funeral’. We poured a little water in . . . Luckily I’d warned her to stand clear. The first tablespoonful that went in came straight out again, red-hot, and blew the ‘funeral’ sky-high. We waited a few minutes until things had cooled down a bit, but it was no go. As fast as we poured water in it simply ran out again into the road underneath. It was quite evident that she’d been driving with the radiator bone dry, and that her engine had seized right up.

  I told her so.

  She said: ‘Does that mean I’ve got to stop here all night?’

  I explained that it wasn’t as bad as all that; that is, if she cared to accept the hospitality of my poor roof (and it was a poor roof – it let the wet in). But she wouldn’t hear of it. By the by, she didn’t know the – er – circumstances, so it wasn’t that. No, she wanted to leave the car where it was and go on on foot.

  I said: ‘Don’t be silly, it’s miles to anywhere.’

  However, at that moment we heard a car coming along the road, the same way as she’d come. We could see its lights, too, although it was a very long way off. You know how flat Norfolk is – you can see a terrific distance.

  I said: ‘There’s the way out of all your troubles. This thing, whatever it is, will give you a tow to the nearest garage, or at any rate a lift to some hotel.’

  One would have expected her to show some relief, but she didn’t. I began to wonder what she jolly well did want. She wouldn’t let me help her to stop where she was, and she didn’t seem anxious for any one to help her to go anywhere else.

  She was quite peculiar about it. She gripped hold of my arm, and said: ‘What do you think this is that’s coming?’

  I said: ‘I’m sure I don’t know, being a stranger in these parts, but it sounds like a lorry full of milk-cans.’

  I offered to lay her sixpence about it (this was before the betting-tax came in). She’d have had to pay, too, because it was a lorry full of milk-cans. The driver had to pull up because there wasn’t any room to get by.

  He got down and asked if there was anything he could do to help. We explained the situation. He said he was going to Norwich, and was quite ready to give her a tow if she wanted it. However, she wouldn’t do that, and it was finally decided to shove her car into my garage for the night, to be sent for next day, and the lorry was to take her along to Norwich.

  Well, I managed to find the key of the garage, and the lorry-driver – Williams, his name was – and I ran the car in and locked the door. This having been done (ablative absolute) I suggested that it was a very cold night. Williams agreed, and said he didn’t mind if he did. So I took them both indoors and mixed them a stiff whisky and water each. There wasn’t any soda. And, naturally, the whole thing had left me very cold, too. I hadn’t an overcoat on.

  Up to now I hadn’t seriously considered the young woman. For one thing it had been dark, and there had been a seized engine to look at. Er – I’m afraid that’s not a very gallant remark. What I mean is that to anyone with a mechanical mind a motor car in that condition is much more interesting than – er – well it is very interesting – but why labour the point? However, in the sitting-room, in the lamplight, it was possible to get more of an idea. She was a little older than I’d thought, and her eyes were too close together.

  Of course, she wasn’t a – how shall I put it? Her manners weren’t quite easy and she was careful with her English. You know. But that wasn’t it. She treated us with a lack of friendliness which was – well, we’d done nothing to deserve it. There was a sort of vague hostility and suspicion, which seemed rather hard lines, considering. Also, she was so anxious to keep in the shadow that if I hadn’t moved the lamp away she’d never have got near the fire at all.

  And the way she hurried the wretched Williams over his drink was quite distressing; and foolish, too, as he was going to drive, but that was her – funnel. When he’d gone out to start up his engine I asked her if she was al
l right for money, and she apparently was. Then they started off, and I shut up the place and went upstairs.

  There happened to be a local guide-book in my bedroom, with maps in it. I looked at these and couldn’t help wondering where the girl in the car had come from; I mean my road seemed so very unimportant. The sort of road one might use if one wanted to avoid people. If one were driving a stolen car, for instance. This was quite a thrilling idea. I thought it might be worth while having another look at the car. So I once more unhooked the key from the kitchen dresser and sallied forth into the snow. It was as black as pitch, and so still that my candle hardly flickered. It wasn’t a large garage, and the car nearly filled it. By the by, we’d backed it in so as to make it easier to tow it out again.

  The engine I’d already seen, so I squeezed past along the wall and opened the door in the body part of the car. At least, I only turned the handle, and the door was pushed open from the inside and – something – fell out on me. It pushed me quite hard, and wedged me against the wall. It also knocked the candle out of my hand and left me in the dark – which was a bit of a nuisance. I wondered what on earth the thing was, barging into me like that, so I felt it, rather gingerly, and found it was a man – a dead man – with a moustache. He’d evidently been sitting propped up against the door. I managed to put him back, as decorously as possible, and shut the door again.

  After a lot of grovelling about under the car I found the candle and lighted it, and opened the opposite door and switched on the little lamp in the roof – and then – oo-er!

  Of course, I had to make some sort of examination. He was an extremely tall and thin individual. He must have been well over six feet three. He was dark and very cadaverous-looking. In fact, I don’t suppose he’d ever looked so cadaverous in his life. He was wearing a trench-coat.

  It wasn’t difficult to tell what he’d died of. He’d been shot through the back. I found the hole just under the right scrofula, or scalpel – what is shoulder-blade, anyway? Oh, clavicle – stupid of me – well, that’s where it was, and the bullet had evidently gone through into the lung. I say ‘evidently’, and leave it at that.