‘Let’s make it twenty-five. That’s the most we give anyone.’
Except for the slow shaking of his head the man might not have heard. The circus-manager and his wife exchanged a rapid glance.
‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Taking into account the draw your act is likely to be, we’re going to make you a special offer—thirty pounds a week. All right?’
Had the man understood? He put his finger in his mouth and went on shaking his head slowly, more to himself than at them, and seemingly unconscious of the bargain that was being held out to him. When he still didn’t answer, the knot of tension broke, and the manager said, in his ordinary, brisk voice,
‘Then I’m afraid we can’t do business. But just as a matter of interest, tell us why you turned down our excellent offer.’
The man drew a long breath and breaking his long silence said, ‘It’s the first time I done it and I didn’t like it.’
With that he turned on his heel and straddling his long legs walked off unsteadily in the direction of the dressing-room.
The circus-manager and his wife stared at each other.
‘It was the first time he’d done it,’ she muttered. ‘The first time.’ Not knowing what to say to him, whether to praise, blame, scold or sympathize, they waited for him to come back, but he didn’t come.
‘I’ll go and see if he’s all right,’ the circus-manager said. But in two minutes he was back again. ‘He’s not there,’ he said. ‘He must have slipped out the other way, the crack-brained fellow!’
THE CROSSWAYS
Once upon a time there were two children, called Olga and Peter, and they lived on the edge of a huge forest. Olga was nine and Peter was seven. Their father was a woodman and very poor. Their mother’s name was Lucindra. She came from another country; their father had met her in the wars. She was beautiful and had fine golden hair. Though she was sometimes dreamy and absent-minded and would suddenly speak to them in her own language, which they didn’t understand, she was very fond of them and they loved her.
But Michael their father was a stern man and they were both a little afraid of him. Even Lucindra was afraid of him, for when he was angry he would scold her and sometimes tell her he wished he had never married her. And when this happened she wished she had never married him, but she did not dare to say so; besides he was strong and handsome and could be kind and loving when his fits of bad temper were over.
One thing he had always told his children, they must never on any account go farther into the forest than where they could still see the sunlight shining through the edges. The trees were so thick and the paths so few and hard to follow that even the foresters themselves sometimes lost their way. And there were dangerous animals as well, wolves and bears and wild boars. Michael still carried a scar from a gash that a bear had given him; it ran all the way from his elbow to his shoulder, making a bluish groove in his skin which you could feel with your finger. When he wanted to impress on them the danger of going too far into the forest he would show them the scar. Olga used to try not to look at it but Peter said he would like to have one like it.
Michael would not let even Lucindra wander about in the forest alone though sometimes he took her with him when he went out with his horse and cart. Then they would eat their dinner together under the trees, and she looked forward to that. But he usually went on foot, for the road soon came to an end and branched off into footpaths which lost themselves among the trees. So she did not know much more about the forest than the children did. But like them she wanted to know more, for their cottage was miles away from any town, and sometimes weeks passed without her seeing anyone.
One afternoon, however, when Michael was away at work, a stranger called. He was a young man, slight and slim, with hair as fair and eyes as blue as hers, which was not surprising for he came from her own country and had heard of people whom she knew. He was a pedlar who sold bead necklaces and brooches and bracelets and ribbons. These did not interest Peter very much but he also had pocket-knives and scissors and many other things. He brought them all out of his bag and laid them on the table in the kitchen which was their living-room; they shone and glittered and suddenly the whole place seemed much more cheerful, though Lucindra kept shaking her head and saying she was much too poor to buy anything. The young man said he didn’t expect her to, but he went on bringing more and more things out of his bag, even after it looked to be empty, and he was so gay that soon they were all laughing, Lucindra most of all; the children had never seen her laugh like that. And finally she went out of the room and came back with some money, and bought a bracelet for Olga and a pocket-knife for Peter and a necklace for herself. Then she told the young man he must be getting on his way, otherwise it would be dark; and he laughed and said he was in no hurry, because he knew the forest quite well. But greatly to the children’s disappointment she would not let him stay. So, telling her how unkind she was, he began to gather together his bits and pieces and put them back into the bag. The children could not take their eyes off him as one by one he packed the treasures away; and every now and then, if something was specially pretty, he would raise his eyebrows as though inviting them to buy it; but each time Lucindra shook her head. ‘You must go, you must go,’ she kept saying. ‘All in good time,’ he answered and looked slyly at the children, who knew that he was delaying his departure on purpose. But at last he got up and swung his sack over his shoulder and they followed him to the door where his horse was nibbling the grass; and he fixed the sack on a sort of pannier on its back and jumped into the saddle and wished them good-bye.
‘Which way are you going?’ Lucindra asked.
‘To the Crossways,’ he answered, smiling down at them.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Don’t you know?’ They didn’t, and then he told them that in the heart of the forest there was an open space where many roads met; ‘and one of those roads,’ he said, ‘leads to the land of your heart’s desire.’
‘But how would anyone find the place?’ Lucindra asked.
‘Easily,’ said the pedlar. ‘Just follow the full moon until you come to it.’ He pointed upwards and there was the full moon hanging low over the forest.
‘But how do people know which road to take?’ Lucindra asked.
‘Oh, it’s marked with a signpost,’ said the pedlar. He laughed again and rode off, and they went back into the house, which seemed very dull and empty.
Soon after that their father came in and the children at once began to tell him about the pedlar. They were still very excited and could think of nothing else, for they had never had such an adventure in their lives before. ‘Did you see him in the forest?’ they asked. ‘I saw no pedlar,’ he answered frowning. ‘I believe you dreamed the whole thing.’
‘Oh, no, we didn’t. Look, look, look.’ And disregarding their mother’s warning glance they showed him the bracelet and the penknife, and made Lucindra go and fetch her necklace, for she had already put it away. When he saw the necklace he grew still more angry and upbraided her bitterly for spending so much money. ‘We’re hard up as is,’ he said, ‘and you must needs go buying things from this smooth-tongued scoundrel. Never let me see you wearing them.’ Peter and Olga began to cry, and their mother let the necklace slip through her fingers on to the floor. ‘If ever I catch him I shall know what to do with him,’ Michael said. So they never told him the rest of the story or spoke of the pedlar any more.
It was a hard winter and it set in early, but in spite of that people did not seem to want wood as they used to, and Michael grew more and more morose and sour. Often when he came home he would not speak to them at all, and sat apart brooding, or went out again mysteriously and did not come back till after midnight. There was no pleasing him. If they sat quiet as mice he would complain of their silence; if they talked he would tell them to shut up. This was not so bad for the children as it was for their mother, for they now went to the village school and so had company. It was a long way to walk but they enjoy
ed it; they felt free the moment they got out of the house, and rather dreaded coming back, to find their mother drooping and listless, and their father, if he was at home, not lifting his head when they came in. Sometimes they lingered and talked to their friends, but they never spoke the state of things at home, because they had promised their mother not to.
One evening they had stayed away later than usual and were beginning to feel hungry and look forward to the hot, steaming supper their mother always prepared for them; so in spite of everything they found themselves longing for the moment in their homeward walk when they could first see the light shining through the windows. But there was no light and when they got into the house it was empty. They called and called but nobody answered, so they began to feel rather frightened and went out of doors again. It was much lighter out of doors because there was a moon.
‘It’s a full moon,’ whispered Peter to Olga, ‘like that evening the pedlar came.’
They went back into the house and found some matches and lit the lamp, and felt a little more cheerful, for it showed them their supper keeping warm on the hearth. They did not go to bed when they had eaten their supper; they sat in chairs like grown-up people. But Peter had gone to sleep before their father came in.
‘Where’s Cindra?’ he said in a thick voice. (He called her Cindra sometimes.) ‘I asked you, where’s Cindra?’ Peter woke up and began to cry. They told him all they knew. ‘But she can’t be gone,’ said Michael disbelievingly. ‘She wouldn’t leave us.’ He got up and went into the bedroom and stayed there a long time. When he came back his hand shook and he was so pale that his hair looked quite black. ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘she has gone. I found a letter. She says I’m not to try to follow her. She’s gone where her heart calls her. What shall we do? What shall we do?’
When Olga saw that he was frightened she suddenly felt sorry for him and much less frightened herself.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We know where she’s gone to, don’t we, Peter?’
‘Where, where?’ their father asked, his eyes darting at them.
‘To the Crossways.’
‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘There is no such place.’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Olga patiently, ‘in the middle of the forest. You can find it by following the full moon.’
‘The full moon!’ he echoed scornfully. ‘I know every inch of the forest and I tell you there isn’t any Crossways.’
‘Please, please don’t be angry,’ Olga begged him. ‘Let Peter and me go, if you don’t believe us.’
‘Let you go,’ he said, ‘and lose you too? Haven’t I told you that the forest is dangerous? Do you want to send me mad? Sit still and don’t stir from here till I come back.’
He went out and they heard him calling ‘Cindra! Cindra!’ until his voice died away.
‘There’s only one thing to do,’ said Olga. ‘We must find her and bring her back.’
‘But what about the bears and the wild boars?’ said Peter.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about them,’ said Olga. ‘I’d much rather you went with me, of course, but if you’re afraid I’ll go alone.’
This made Peter feel much braver and they started off. They met with no difficulty in finding the way, for the moon made a pathway through the leafless trees; and at first they were not at all frightened, for when they looked back they could still see the light in the cottage windows. They walked hand in hand and their feet made a pleasant rustling on the fallen leaves.
‘Will she be pleased to see us?’ Peter asked.
‘Of course she will, we’re her children,’ Olga answered.
‘But suppose we don’t find her at the Crossways?’
‘Then we must go on until we do find her. The signpost will say which way she went.’
Whiter and whiter grew the moon as it swung into the heavens, and colder grew the air.
‘I don’t think I can go on much longer, Olga,’ Peter said.
‘You can if you try.’
It was then that they saw the bear. It was walking on all fours when they saw it, but when it saw them it stood up.
‘Oh, it’s going to hug us!’ Peter cried.
‘Nonsense,’ said Olga, but her voice trembled. ‘Perhaps it’ll give you a scar like the one Daddy has,’ she added, hoping to encourage him.
‘I don’t want a scar now,’ sobbed Peter.
‘All right,’ said Olga. ‘I shall just tell it why we’ve come.’
She went up to the bear and explained that they were looking for their mother, and the bear seemed satisfied, for after swaying a little on its feet and shaking its head, it got on to all fours again and shambled off.
After this escape they both felt very much better, and as if nothing could now go wrong. And suddenly they found that they were not walking on a path any longer, but on a road, a smooth straight road that led right out of the forest. On either side the trees seemed to fall back, and they were standing on the edge of a great circular plain which the moon overhead made almost as bright as day.
‘Now we shall soon see her,’ Olga said. But it wasn’t quite so easy as she thought, for the plain was dotted with small, dark bushes any one of which might have been a human being; and Peter kept calling out, ‘Look, there she is!’ until Olga grew impatient.
They saw the Crossways long before they came to it. It was shaped like a star-fish, only a star-fish with fifty points instead of five; and the place where they met was like white sand that has been kicked up by the feet of many horses.
But their mother was not there and they walked slowly round the centre, looking at each signpost in turn to see which led to the Land of Heart’s Desire. But not one gave any direction; they were all blank, and presently the children found themselves back at the signpost they had started from.
Then in the silence they heard a little sound like a moan, and looking round they saw their mother, lying in a hollow beside the road. They ran to her and she sat up and stretched her arms out and kissed them many times.
‘We’ve come to fetch you back,’ they said.
She smiled at them sadly. ‘I can’t come back,’ she said. ‘You see, I’ve hurt my foot. Look how swollen it is. I’ve had to take my shoe off.’ They saw how swollen her foot was, and it was bleeding too. ‘You’d better go home, my darlings,’ she said, ‘and leave me here.’ ‘But we can’t leave you,’ they both cried. And Peter said, ‘Look, there are some people coming. They will help us.’
He ran towards them crying, ‘Please help us’, but they paid no heed and did not seem to see him. One after another they found the signpost they were looking for, and went the way it pointed, laughing and singing.
‘They can’t see us,’ Lucindra said, ‘because they are going to the Land of their Heart’s Desire, and we don’t belong to it.’
Then both the children felt cold and frightened, much more frightened than when they had met the bear.
‘Couldn’t you walk if you leaned on both of us?’ Peter asked. She shook her head. ‘And how should we find the way?’ she said. ‘The moon won’t help us to go back.’
They lay down beside her, clasping her in their arms, and tried to keep awake, for the cold was making them drowsy. Just as they were dropping off they heard a footstep coming down the road; they did not pay much attention for they knew they would be invisible to whoever came. But Olga roused herself. ‘I’m going to try again,’ she said, and standing up she saw a long shadow like a steeple, and in front of it a man, walking very fast.
‘Oh, Daddy, Daddy!’ she cried. But his eyes were wild and staring, and bright with the empty shining of the moon. Terrified lest he too should not recognize them, she seized his hand. He stopped so suddenly that he nearly fell over.
‘Where is your mother?’ he cried.
‘Here! She is here!’
She pulled at his hand, but he shrank back when he saw them, and without looking at their mother he said, ‘Cindra, I came to say goodbye.’
‘But it isn’t good-bye,’ cried Olga. ‘We want you to take us home.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I have been unkind to her. I am not worthy of her. She must go where she wants to go.’
‘But you must take her, you must!’ Olga besought him. ‘Look at her, she has hurt her foot and can’t walk.’
For the first time he brought himself to look at her, and went up to her and wonderingly touched her foot.
‘Do you really want to come with me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes,’ she murmured. ‘But do you know the way?’
‘I know the way all right,’ he said with a touch of his old arrogance, and stooping down he lifted her in his arms.
Suddenly they saw written on the signpost, which had been blank before, ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’.
It pointed straight back the way they came. And the moment their feet were turned towards home they began to laugh and sing, just as the others had.
PER FAR L’AMORE
That August in Venice, an August between the wars, the mosquitoes were particularly poisonous and voracious. Even the Venetians, who are usually immune, being inoculated against these pests, sometimes appeared with reddened wrists and swollen faces. Nor did the insects abide by their own rules; they did not wait for twilight to begin their feasts; they bit by day as well as by night. Hotel proprietors and their staffs, even while covertly scratching themselves, would not admit that there was anything abnormal in the visitation; ‘E la stagione,’ they would observe philosophically: ‘It is the season.’ Most Italians take comfort in the thought that manifestations, however unpleasant, are following a natural order, and are apt to say they are, even when they are not. But the visitors to Venice, waking with puffy eyelids and twisted bumpy lips, after perhaps many an hour spent crouching or kneeling under their mosquito-nets, trying to make their bedside lamps shine into the dark folds where the mosquitoes lurked, were not so easily satisfied, and many of them took wing like their tormentors, and flew to mountain resorts, which were said to be above the mosquito line. The only section of the community who profited from the outbreak were the chemists, who did a roaring trade in oil of citronella, small coloured candles guaranteed to suffocate mosquitoes, and other forms of insect-bane; it was before the days of Flit and DDT. But their triumph was short-lived for they were soon sold out—not only of preventives against the bites but even of remedies for them, and were reduced to fobbing off their customers with sunburn lotions and beauty preparations which, so they declared, would have the same effect as antiseptics.
The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley Page 71