Richardson looked about him a bit more, and he took some measurements with a tape-measure from his pocket. Then we went back to the house. At dinner I asked him where he meant to spend his holiday.
‘I am not sure,’ he said seriously. ‘I thought perhaps the Yorkshire moors would be a good place.’
‘You won’t find anything better than this,’ I said. ‘Put off your holiday until September.’
My wife moved to the door. ‘Would you have to stay here during the work?’ she asked.
‘Or somewhere near here, madam,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course, here,’ she said, and walked out of the room. Richardson bowed from the waist again.
We arranged it easily. He would not put it off, but he would make this his holiday. He would bring his motor bike here and explore the country around. He could be here always when there was anything for him to do, and he considered our invitation to him to stay here more than enough compensation for the change of his plans.
Afterwards in the drawing-room he asked my wife if she was fond of music.
‘That is what she is fond of,’ I said. ‘She plays the piano.’
What can anyone do with a strange man in the drawing-room but play the piano to him? She played a Chopin nocturne. Now I could watch girls dancing to Chopin’s music all day, but to play Chopin to a stranger that you meet for the first time! What must he think of you? I can understand her playing even the nocturnes when she is alone. When one is alone one is in the mood for anything. But to choose to play them when she is meeting someone for the first time! That is simply wrong. Chopin’s nights are like days. There is no difference, except that they are rounded off. That is nonsense. Night does not round things off. Night is a distorter. These nocturnes come of never having spent his nights alone, of spending them either in an inn or in someone else’s bedroom. No! How do I know what Chopin did? But I tell you they are the result of thinking of darkness as the absence of the sun’s light. It is better to think of it as a vapour rising from the depths of the earth and perhaps bringing many things with it.
But he liked it. That is, Richardson liked the nocturne. He asked her to play another. While she turned over the pages I said aloud, ‘Night isn’t like that. Night is a distorter.’
My wife looked into the darkness outside the window.
Richardson looked at her, then he looked at me in uncertainty. She began to play, and he, for a moment pretending to be apologetic, studied her music with concentration.
Why didn’t they ask me what I meant? I could have proved it to them. In any case it was an interesting point.
She played a lot of Chopin. Then as she came from the piano she said, ‘You are fond of music too. Do you play?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It was my great ambition to be a ’cellist, but I never learnt to play it well, and I haven’t one now. It is my favourite instrument.’
‘It is only the heavy father of a violin,’ I said. But I said it only because all that Chopin had annoyed me. I like the ’cello very much.
‘I have never liked anything better than the piano,’ said my wife. ‘I am sorry you do not play.’
‘He sings,’ I said.
He smiled with amusement.
‘Do you?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Yes,’ he said, half bowing from where he sat.
‘I knew by your speaking voice,’ I said. ‘Please let us hear you.’
‘I will bring some songs with me if you wish it,’ he said. ‘That is very kind of you,’ and he leaned back in his chair and cut off all communication with us.
We sat in silence until my wife left us. Then we talked a little about the electric light and then went to bed.
The next day the work began. Until the small building was up and the pipes laid from it back to the stream, Richardson could do nothing more than see that the measurements were right. He carried a small black notebook, and kept looking at it and then looking up at us and saying, ‘This is no work at all, you know; it is simply like a holiday.’
He brought his motor bike down, but he went for few rides. Most of the time he spent looking at the first few bricks of the building, or crossing and recrossing the stream over the stepping-stones, with no hat on, and his black notebook open in one hand, as though he were making some very serious calculations. I do not suppose he was for a moment.
As I said before, I do not regard this as a melodrama. I do not consider him a villain, but, on the contrary, a nice enough fellow, but it was irritating to me the way he wandered round in a circle looking for something to do.
In the daytime he could look after himself, but in the evening we treated him as a guest.
The second day he was here, after tea I suggested taking him for a walk. He bowed with one hand behind his back, and he kept it there afterwards. I noticed it particularly. My wife came too. We walked down the garden. Richardson, still with his hand behind his back, walking just behind her, talked to her about the work, and he said the same things over twice.
When we got to the bottom of the garden and through the door which opens on the bank of the stream she gave a cry of horror. And I will tell you why. It was because I had had the grass and weeds on the banks cut.
She turned to Richardson. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘You should have seen this before it was cut. It was very pretty. What were those white flowers growing on the other side?’
‘Hemlock,’ I said. ‘It had to be cut.’
‘I don’t see why,’ she said. ‘It is a pity to spoil such a beautiful place for the sake of tidiness.’ She turned to him petulantly.
Now that is all nonsense. A place must be tidy. There were bulrushes and water-lilies as it was. What more must she have? A lot of weeds dripping down into the water! There is a difference between garden flowers and weeds. If you want weeds, then do not have gardens. And I suppose I am insensible to beauty because I keep the place cut and trimmed. Nonsense! Suppose my wife took off her clothes and ran about the garden like a bacchante! Perhaps I should like it very much, but I should shut her up in her room all the same.
We walked along in silence over the newly cut grass. It was yellow already with having been left uncut too long. I went first across the bridge, and my two friends who admire Chopin so much came after. We were in the cornfield now, and I will tell you what it is like. There is a little hill just opposite the bridge, and the corn grows on top of it and on its slopes. It is a very small hill, but the country around is flat, and from the top of it you can see over the trees a long distance. We began to walk up the path to the top. The corn was cut and stood up in sheaves. That is what I like.
When we reached the top Richardson took his hand from behind his back and looked around him. There is a lake a few miles away, and on either side of it the land rises and there are trees. Beyond that again is the sea. And from the hill the sea looks nearer than it is and the lake like a bay. Richardson thought it was a bay. I thought so too when I was a child.
‘I did not know the sea was so near,’ he said.
‘It isn’t near,’ I answered. ‘That is a lake. There are even houses in between it and the sea, only you cannot see them.’
He took a deep breath. ‘You know, it is very kind of you to let me stay here. It is very beautiful. I have not seen a place I like better. I am most grateful. And the work is simply nothing. It is a real holiday.’ At this point he fingered the black notebook which stuck out of his pocket.
If things had not happened as they did he might have come down often; he might have spent his week-ends here. He was not a bad sort of fellow.
He did not want to leave the hill, but my wife did not like walking about on the stubble in her thin shoes. We walked back by the path which leads between a low wall and some small fir-trees to the back of the house. I had the path made for her, because she prefers that walk.
After dinner Richardson sang. His voice was all right, deep like his speaking voice, only not so steady. She played for him, and he stood up at attention,
except that, with his right arm bent stiffly at the elbow and pressed to his side, he clutched the lapel of his coat. He sang some Brahms. It was quite nice.
I went to write some letters, and afterwards I walked about in the garden. When I returned they had left the piano and were talking. He was very fond of Strauss. She had not heard the Alpine symphony. We were so far from everywhere here.
The time went on. Richardson grew more restless every day. And yet he was lethargic too. He hardly left the house and garden, and he still wandered back and forth by the work. He did not interfere with the men by giving unnecessary orders, but he still studied his notebook as though there were important calculations there. I know all this, because I watched him as if he were my brother.
My wife used to go down there to sit sometimes in the mornings. But he hardly spoke to her then. It is natural that a man would not care to talk about music and all that when the men were working in the sun. It was curious how much interest we all took in the little building and the pipes and the water, and yet when we thought of the electric light in the house, which was to be the result, all the romance was gone out of it. This is not simply my experience. It was so with my wife and Richardson too. I know by my own observation of them. The minute the building was finished we went down to see it. Nothing but a yellow brick hut with steps to go down, and an opening like the mouth of a letter-box in the wall nearest the stream.
‘The water is shut off now,’ said Richardson. ‘We have to put a grating in it before the water comes through.’
There was a hole in the concrete floor too, and from that the pipes would lead back to the stream. The first pipe was there with a big curve in it. It was nice to see it getting on. After that they dug a ditch and put the pipes down. He helped them to dig.
Every night he sang and my wife played, but I did not always stay in the drawing-room. One night, though, I remember particularly, he sang a song by Hugo Wolf about a girl whose lover had gone, and while the men and women were binding the corn she went to the top of a hill, and the wind played with the ribbon that he had put in her hat. It was something like that; I have forgotten it. I asked him to sing it again. I suppose they were pleased that I liked something. He sang it.
An dem Hut mein Rosenband, von seiner Hand
Spielet in dem Winde.
Now I should think that the hill that she climbed in that song was like the hill in our cornfield, and the girl sat there for hours ‘like one lost in a dream.’
The days passed, and everything remained the same except the work, and that went on quickly. We walked about together sometimes. One evening we went again through the door to the little river where the grass had been cut. We were going along the bank talking when we heard a splash, and there was a boy swimming in the water. I shouted to him, and told him to come out and not swim there again. His white back flashed through the water to a bush on the other side, and he began to dress behind it. When I turned back she said, ‘Why did you send him away? It looked so nice.’
‘He can go somewhere else to swim,’ I said.
Richardson said nothing.
‘He does no harm here, surely?’ she said.
Bulrushes and water-lilies are not enough for her. She must have weeds and naked boys too. And do you think she ever bathed in a river when she was a child, and hid behind a bush when someone was coming? No, of course not. And does she think the boy wants to be seen bathing? And if he is not to be seen when he is here, he might as well go somewhere else.
We never talked about anything except the work, and he talked about music with my wife. They never said anything illuminating on the subject, though. It is a funny thing that you can spend days and weeks with a man and never mention anything but water-pipes and electricity. But, after all, you can’t talk about God and Immortality to a man you hardly know. Anyhow, it is nice to see someone so much interested in his work. No. That is nonsense. He was not interested in his work. When the engine came we were enthusiastic, and he was as miserable as sin. What business has an electrician to get excited over yellow bricks and water-pipes? He was restless. He could not settle to anything. If he read a book, half the time it would be open on his knee and he looking away from it. I noticed him very particularly.
The day before everything was finished and he was to go – he was not waiting to see the light actually put in the rooms – I was chalking out a garden-bed just at the bottom of the garden by the door. It is a shady place, and I meant to plant violets there, especially white violets – not in August, of course, but it was better to get it prepared while I thought of it. I heard them coming along on the other side of the wall.
She was saying, ‘Before I was married I stayed with my music master in London. He had two sons but no daughters. His wife was very fond of me. That was the happiest time of my life. One of the sons is a first violin now. I went to a symphony concert when we were in London once and saw him play. I don’t know what happened to the other one.’
‘Let us sit down here,’ said Richardson.
I knew there was something wrong with him by his voice. I detected that at once.
I suppose they sat down on the large tree-stump outside. They were silent for a moment. I suppose she was looking at the water and he was looking at her.
Then he said, beginning as though he were talking to himself, and yet apologising too, ‘Please forgive me, I ought not to say it. I have never been to a place which has given me such pleasure as this. I have never noticed scenery or nature much before. When one likes a place, it is because one went to it in childhood or something of that sort. But this has been so very beautiful while I have been here. I suppose from the beginning I knew I could not come here again. It is impossible. Forgive me saying so.’ His voice became deeper as he went on, I noticed that.
‘Oh, but you must come here again,’ she said anxiously. ‘There is no one here at all, and we have so many tastes in common.’
‘No,’ he said; ‘you think I don’t mean it. I walked up and down in the garden just now and I came to a decision. At first I thought I would not speak a word to you, but afterwards I decided it would not make any great difference if I did. People do not change their lives suddenly. That is, they don’t except in literature. And now I feel at peace about it. No harm at all – none. I do not mean that literature is artificial, you know, only that it is concerned with different people.’
Now what word had he spoken that a husband could not listen to? And yet we would have looked very interesting from an aeroplane or from a window in heaven.
And do you suppose she wanted to know what he was talking about?
All she said was, ‘Oh, but my husband has asked you to come here himself. You must come often, and bring your songs. There is no one here to talk about music to. And I cannot go to any concerts, we are so far from everywhere.’
He was silent. They stood up, and I waited for them to come through the door. I suppose nobody could expect me to hide behind a tree so as to cause them no embarrassment. ‘Excuse me, I was just passing at this moment. Please go on with your pleasant conversation.’ However, they chose to go back by the other way along the bank of the stream.
We spent dinner very pleasantly. Nobody spoke a word. Richardson was not fully aware that we were in the room. He looked at the tablecloth. I did not go away to write letters after dinner. I never left the drawing-room. I suppose no one could expect me to do that. After the music we sat round the empty grate and said nothing, and we went very late to bed.
The next morning, after breakfast, I went up to the flagstaff. If you climb up the steep bank at the left of the house and walk along until you come to a narrow path with trees growing there, you come to a ledge, and the flagstaff has been put there, because it can be seen above the trees. I was standing there disentangling the rope to pull the flag up when he came up to me.
‘What time are you going?’ I asked, and pulled out my watch.
‘At eleven,’ he said.
‘I suppose you thi
nk it funny that I should be putting the flag up on the day that you go?’
‘I did not know you had a flagstaff,’ he said. ‘I suppose it can be seen even from the sea?’
‘Yes.’
He was silent, and he looked across at the house.
‘Where is my wife?’ I asked.
‘In the drawing-room, practising.’
‘I hope you will send in your bill as soon as possible.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘It will come from the firm, you know. They pay me. I wanted to walk round the cornfield before I go.’
I pulled up the flag and fastened the cord. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
We walked in silence to the top of the hill, and he stood and looked all round, at the house and at the sea. Taking leave of it, of course.
‘In the village down there,’ I said, ‘there is a very nice girl called Agnes. She isn’t pretty, but she is very nice.’
Now Agnes was the name of the girl in the song by Hugo Wolf, but I knew he would not see that. He looked at me in surprise. Then he took out his watch and said he must go. There was no need for that. If you go away on a motor bike why go exactly at eleven? He had to keep himself to a time, that is what it was. We turned to go down the hill.
‘I put up the flag because it is my birthday,’ I said, though that was not true.
He looked at me without listening to what I said.
When we got back to the house his motor bike was standing outside the gate ready. He went into the house to fetch his cap, and my wife came out with him. Half-way to the gate he turned to her and thanked her. He had never experienced such pleasure in a holiday before. Then he shook hands with me and said nothing.
‘Come down to see us often,’ I said. ‘Come whenever you like, for week-ends.’
‘Oh yes,’ said my wife, ‘please come, and bring your music.’
He looked embarrassed. I was watching him. I knew he would be. He looked at the ground and mumbled, ‘Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ Then he turned and went out through the gate, and in a few minutes he drove away under the trees.
The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Volume 1 Page 86