The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
BERTIE’S ESCAPADE
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
I
IT was eleven o’clock on a winter’s night. The fields, the hedges, the trees, were white with snow. From over Quarry Woods floated the sound of Marlow bells, practising for Christmas. In the paddock the only black spot visible was Bertie’s sty, and the only thing blacker than the sty was Bertie himself, sitting in the front courtyard and yawning. In Mayfield windows the fights were out, and the whole house was sunk in slumber.
‘This is very slow,’ yawned Bertie. ‘Why shouldn’t I do something?’
Bertie was a pig of action. ‘Deeds, not grunts,’ was his motto. Retreating as far back as he could, he took a sharp run, gave a mighty jump, and cleared his palings.
‘The rabbits shall come too,’ he said. ‘Do them good.’
He went to the rabbit-hutch, and unfastened the door. ‘Peter! Benjie!’ he called. ‘Wake up!’
‘Whatever are you up to, Bertie?’ said Peter sleepily.
‘Come on!’ said Bertie. ‘We’re going carol-singing. Bring Benjie too, and hurry up!’
Peter hopped out at once, in great delight. But Benjie grumbled, and burrowed down in his straw. So they hauled him out by his ears.
Cautiously they crept down the paddock, past the house, and out at the front gate. Down the hill they went, took the turning by the pillar-box, and arrived at the foot of Chalkpit Hill. Then Benjie struck.
‘Hang it all,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to fag up that hill to-night for any one!’
‘Then I’ll bite you,’ said Bertie. ‘Choose which you please.’
‘It’s all right, Bertie,’ said Peter. ‘We’re none of us going to fag up that hill. I know an easier way. You follow me.’
He led them into the chalk-pit, till they stood at the very foot. Looking up, it was like the cliffs at Broadstairs, only there was no band at the top and no bathing-machines at the bottom.
Peter pulled out a large lump of chalk and disclosed the entrance to a long dark little tunnel. ‘Come on!’ he said, and dived in; and the others followed.
II
They groped along the tunnel for a considerable way in darkness and silence, till at last they saw a glimmer of light; and presently the tunnel ended suddenly in a neat little lift, lit up with electric light, with a seat running round three sides of it. A mole was standing by the door.
‘Come along there, please, if you’re going up!’ called the mole sharply.
They hurried in and sat down. ‘Just in time!’ said Peter.
‘Any more for the lift?’ cried the mole, looking down the tunnel. Then he stepped inside smartly, slammed the door, pulled the rope, and they shot upwards.
‘Well, I never!’ gasped Bertie. ‘Peter, you do know a thing or two, you do! Where — what — how—’
The lift stopped with a jerk. The mole flung the door open, saying ‘Pass out quickly, please!’ and slammed it behind them. They found themselves standing on the fresh snow, under the open starlit sky.
They turned round to ask the mole where they were, but the lift had vanished. Where it had been there was a square patch of grass free from snow, and in the middle of the patch was a buttony white mushroom.
‘Why, we’re in Spring Lane!’ cried Bertie. ‘There’s the well!’
‘And here’s Mr. Stone’s lodge, just in front of us!’ cried Peter.
‘Splendid!’ said Bertie. ‘Now, we’ll go right up to the house, and sing our bewitching carols under the drawingroom windows. And presently Mr. Stone will come out, and praise us, and pat our heads, and say we’re dern clever animals, and ask us in. And that will mean supper in the dining-room, and champagne with it, and grand times!’
They hurried up the drive, and planted themselves under the windows. Then Bertie said, ‘First we’ll give ‘em “Good King Wenceslas”. Now then, all together!’
‘But I don’t know “Good King Wenceslas”,’ said Peter.
‘And I can’t sing!’ said Benjie.
‘Well, you must both do the best you can,’ said Bertie. ‘Try and follow me. I’ll sing very slow.’ And he struck up.
Peter followed him, as best he could, about two bars behind; and Benjie, who could not sing, imitated various musical instruments, not very successfully.
Presently they heard a voice, inside the house. It was Mrs. Stone’s, and she was saying ‘What — on — earth — is — that — horrible caterwauling?’
Then they heard another voice — Mr. Stone’s — replying: ‘It sounds like animals — horrid little animals — under the windows, squealing and grunting. I will go out with a big stick, and drive them away.’
‘Stick! O my!’ said Bertie.
‘Stick! Ow, ow!’ said Benjie.
Then they heard Mrs. Stone again, saying, ‘O no, don’t trouble to go our, dear. Go through the stable yard to the kennels, and LET — LOOSE — ALL — THE — DOGS.’
III
‘Dogs, O my!’ said Bertie.
‘Dogs, ow, ow!’ said Benjie.
They turned tail and ran for their lives. Peter had already started, some ten seconds previously; they saw him sprinting down the carriage-drive ahead of them, a streak of rabbit- skin. Bertie ran and ran, and Benjie ran and ran; while behind them, and coming nearer and nearer, they could hear plainly Wow — wow — wow — wow — wow — WOW!
Peter was the first to reach the mushroom. He flung himself on it and pressed it; and, click! the little lift was there! The door was flung open, and the mole, stepping out, said sharply: ‘Now then! hurry up, please, if you’re going down! Any more for the lift?’
Hurry up indeed! There was no need to say that. They flung themselves on the seat, breathless and exhausted; the mole slammed the door and pulled the rope, and they sank downwards.
Then the mole looked them over and grinned. ‘Had a pleasant evening?’ he inquired.
Bertie would not answer, he was too sulky; but Peter replied sarcastically: ‘O yes, first rate. My friend here’s a popular carol singer. They make him welcome wherever he goes, and give him the best of everything.’
‘Now don’t you start pulling my leg, Peter,’ said Bertie, ‘for I won’t stand it. I’ve been a failure to-night, and I admit it; and I’ll tell you what I will do to make up for it. You two come back to my sty, and I’ll give you a first-rate supper, the best you ever had!’
‘O ah, first-rate cabbage-stalks,’ said Benjie. ‘We know your suppers!’
‘Not at all,’ said Bertie earnestly. ‘On the contrary. There’s a window in Mayfield that I can get into the house by, at any time. And I know where Mr. Grahame keeps his keys — very careless man, Mr. Grahame. Put your trust in me and you shall have cold chicken, tongue, pressed beef, jellies, trifle, and champagne — at least; perhaps more, but that’s the least you’ll have!’
Here the lift stopped with a jerk. ‘Tumble out, all of you,’ said the mole, flinging the door open. ‘And look sharp, for it’s closing time, and I’m going home.’
‘No you’re not, old man,’ said Bertie affectionately. ‘You’re coming along to have supper with us.’
The mole protested it was much too late; but in the end they persuaded him.
[BERTIE BOOK]
IV
When they got back to Mayfield, the rabbits took the mole off to wash his hands and brush his hair; while Bert
ie disappeared cautiously round a corner of the house. In about ten minutes he appeared at the pigsty, staggering under the weight of two large baskets. One of them contained all the eatables he had already mentioned, as well as apples, oranges, chocolates, ginger, and crackers. The other contained ginger-beer, soda-water, and champagne.
The supper was laid in the inner pigsty. They were all very hungry, naturally; and when everything was ready they sat down, and stuffed, and drank, and told stories, and all talked at once; and when they had stuffed enough, they proposed toasts, and drank healths— ‘The King’— ‘Our host Bertie’— ‘Mr. Grahame’— ‘The Visitors, coupled with the name of Mole’— ‘Absent friends, coupled with the name of Mr. Stone’ — and many others. Then there were speeches, and songs, and then more speeches, and more songs; and it was three o’clock in the morning before the mole slipped through the palings and made his way back to his own home, where Mrs. Mole was sitting up for him, in some uneasiness of mind.
Mr. Grahame’s night was a very disturbed one, owing to agitating dreams. He dreamt that the house was broken into by burglars, and he wanted to get up and go down and satch them, but he could not move hand or foot. He heard them ransacking his pantry, stealing his cold chicken and things, and plundering his wine-cellar, and still he could not move a muscle. Then he dreamt that he was at one of the great City Banquets that he used to go to, and he heard the Chairman propose the health of ‘The King’ and there was great cheering. And he thought of a most excellent speech to make in reply — a really clever speech. And he tried to make it, but they held him down in his chair and wouldn’t let him. And then he dreamt that the Chairman actually proposed his own health — the health of Mr. Grahame! and he got up to reply, and he couldn’t think of anything to say! And so he stood there, for hours and hours it seemed, in a dead silence, the glittering eyes of the guests — there were hundreds and hundreds of guests — all fixed on him, and still he couldn’t think of anything to say! Till at last the Chairman rose, and said ‘He can’t think of anything to say! Turn him out!’ Then the waiters fell upon him, and dragged him from the room, and threw him into the street, and flung his hat and coat after him; and as he was shot out he heard the whole company singing wildly ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow — !’
He woke up in a cold perspiration. And then a strange thing happened. Although he was awake — he knew he was awake — he could distinctly hear shrill little voices, still singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fe-e-llow, and so say all of us!’ He puzzled over it for a few minutes, and then, fortunately, he fell asleep.
Next morning, when Miss S. and A. G. went to call on the rabbits, they found a disgraceful state of things. The hutch in a most untidy mess, clothes flung about anyhow, and Peter and Benjie sprawling on the floor, fast asleep and snoring frightfully. They tried to wake them, but the rabbits only murmured something about ‘jolly good fellows’, and fell asleep again.
‘Well, we never!’ said Miss S. and A. G.
When Albert King went to take Bertie his dinner, you cannot imagine the state he found the pigsty in. Such a litter of things of every sort, and Bertie in the midst of it all, fast asleep. King poked him with a stick, and said, ‘Dinner, Bertie!’ But even then he didn’t wake. He only grunted something that sounded like ‘ — God — save — King — Wenceslas!’
‘Well!’ said King. ‘Of all the animals!’
THE END
The Short Story Collections
St. Edward’s School, Oxford — where Grahame was educated
PAGAN PAPERS
While still a young man, Grahame began to publish light stories and sketches in London periodicals such as the St. James Gazette. Some of these stories were collected and published as Pagan Papers in 1893 and, two years later, as The Golden Age. Pagan Papers features eighteen essays and tales, with themes ranging from working, loafing, book-loving, justifiable homicide and other diverse topics.
The frontispiece of the second edition
CONTENTS
The Romance of the Road
The Romance of the Rail
Non Libri Sed Liberi
Loafing
Cheap Knowledge
The Rural Pan
An April Essay
Marginalia
The Eternal Whither
Deus Terminus
Of Smoking
An Autumn Encounter
The White Poppy
A Bohemian in Exile
A Reminiscence
Justifiable Homicide
The Fairy Wicket
Aboard the Galley
The Lost Centaur
Orion
The Romance of the Road
Among the many places of magic visited by Pantagruel and his company during the progress of their famous voyage, few surpass that island whose roads did literally “go” to places— “ou les chemins cheminent, comme animaulx”: and would-be travellers, having inquired of the road as to its destination, and received satisfactory reply, “se guindans” (as the old book hath it — hoisting themselves up on) “au chemin opportun, sans aultrement se poiner ou fatiguer, se trouvoyent au lieu destiné.”
The best example I know of an approach to this excellent sort of vitality in roads is the Ridgeway of the North Berkshire Downs. Join it at Streatley, the point where it crosses the Thames; at once it strikes you out and away from the habitable world in a splendid, purposeful manner, running along the highest ridge of the Downs a broad green ribbon of turf, with but a shade of difference from the neighbouring grass, yet distinct for all that. No villages nor homesteads tempt it aside or modify its course for a yard; should you lose the track where it is blent with the bordering turf or merged in and obliterated by criss-cross paths, you have only to walk straight on, taking heed of no alternative to right or left; and in a minute ’tis with you again — arisen out of the earth as it were. Or, if still not quite assured, lift you your eyes, and there it runs over the brow of the fronting hill. Where a railway crosses it, it disappears indeed — hiding Alpheus-like, from the ignominy of rubble and brick-work; but a little way on it takes up the running again with the same quiet persistence. Out on that almost trackless expanse of billowy Downs such a track is in some sort humanly companionable: it really seems to lead you by the hand.
The “Rudge” is of course an exceptional instance; but indeed this pleasant personality in roads is not entirely fanciful. It exists as a characteristic of the old country road, evolved out of the primitive prehistoric track, developing according to the needs of the land it passes through and serves: with a language, accordingly, and a meaning of its own. Its special services are often told clearly enough; but much else too of the quiet story of the country-side: something of the old tale whereof you learn so little from the printed page. Each is instinct, perhaps, with a separate suggestion. Some are martial and historic, and by your side the hurrying feet of the dead raise a ghostly dust. The name of yon town — with its Roman or Saxon suffix to British root — hints at much. Many a strong man, wanting his vates sacer, passed silently to Hades for that suffix to obtain. The little rise up yonder on the Downs that breaks their straight green line against the sky showed another sight when the sea of battle surged and beat on its trampled sides; and the Roman, sore beset, may have gazed down this very road for relief, praying for night or the succouring legion. This child that swings on a gate and peeps at you from under her sun-bonnet — so may some girl-ancestress of hers have watched with beating heart the Wessex levies hurry along to clash with the heathen and break them on the down where the ash trees grew. And yonder, where the road swings round under gloomy overgrowth of drooping boughs — is that gleam of water or glitter of lurking spears?
Some sing you pastorals, fluting low in the hot sun between dusty hedges overlooked by contented cows; past farmsteads where man and beast, living in frank fellowship, learn pleasant and serviceable lessons each of the other; over the full-fed river, lipping the meadow-sweet, and thence on either side through leagues of ha
y. Or through bending corn they chant the mystical wonderful song of the reaper when the harvest is white to the sickle. But most of them, avoiding classification, keep each his several tender significance; as with one I know, not so far from town, which woos you from the valley by gentle ascent between nut-laden hedges, and ever by some touch of keen fragrance in the air, by some mystery of added softness under foot — ever a promise of something to come, unguessed, delighting. Till suddenly you are among the pines, their keen scent strikes you through and through, their needles carpet the ground, and in their swaying tops moans the unappeasable wind — sad, ceaseless, as the cry of a warped humanity. Some paces more, and the promise is fulfilled, the hints and whisperings become fruition: the ground breaks steeply away, and you look over a great inland sea of fields, homesteads, rolling woodland, and — bounding all, blent with the horizon, a greyness, a gleam — the English Channel. A road of promises, of hinted surprises, following each other with the inevitable sequence in a melody.
But we are now in another and stricter sense an island of chemins qui cheminent: dominated, indeed, by them. By these the traveller, veritably se guindans, may reach his destination “sans se poiner ou se fatiguer” (with large qualifications); but sans very much else whereof he were none the worse. The gain seems so obvious that you forget to miss all that lay between the springing stride of the early start and the pleasant weariness of the end approached, when the limbs lag a little as the lights of your destination begin to glimmer through the dusk. All that lay between! “A Day’s Ride a Life’s Romance” was the excellent title of an unsuccessful book; and indeed the journey should march with the day, beginning and ending with its sun, to be the complete thing, the golden round, required of it. This makes that mind and body fare together, hand in hand, sharing the hope, the action, the fruition; finding equal sweetness in the languor of aching limbs at eve and in the first god-like intoxication of motion with braced muscle in the sun. For walk or ride take the mind over greater distances than a throbbing whirl with stiffening joints and cramped limbs through a dozen counties. Surely you seem to cover vaster spaces with Lavengro, footing it with gipsies or driving his tinker’s cart across lonely commons, than with many a globe-trotter or steam-yachtsman with diary or log? And even that dividing line — strictly marked and rarely overstepped — between the man who bicycles and the man who walks, is less due to a prudent regard for personal safety of the one part than to an essential difference in minds.
Complete Works of Kenneth Grahame Page 32