‘I will show you the black man’s grave,’ he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. ‘He was very kind to me. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross—to commemorate his death and your arrival—a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it much.’
‘You are perfectly right. I have thought about it a great deal and I still do not know . . . Dickens did.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see.’
That afternoon Mr. McMaster began the construction of a headpiece for the negro’s grave. He worked with a large spokeshave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal.
At last when Henty had passed six or seven consecutive days without fever, Mr. McMaster said, ‘Now I think you are well enough to see the books.’
At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected up in the eaves of the roof. Mr. McMaster propped a ladder against it and mounted. Henty followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr. McMaster sat on the platform and Henty stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of small bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide.
‘It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians know how to make that is useful.’
He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of Bleak House.
‘It does not matter which we take first.’
‘You are fond of Dickens?’
‘Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man . . . and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words. . . . I have all Dickens’s books except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all—more than two years.’
‘Well,’ said Henty lightly, ‘they will well last out my visit.’
‘Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire.’
They took down the first volume of Bleak House and that afternoon Henty had his first reading.
He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with his wife, until one day, in one of her rare moments of confidence, she remarked that it was torture to her. Sometimes after that he had thought it might be agreeable to have children to read to. But Mr. McMaster was a unique audience.
The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Henty, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, ‘Repeat the name, I have forgotten him,’ or, ‘Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman.’ He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Henty would have imagined about the circumstances of the story—such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor’s Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him—but always about the characters. ‘Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?’ He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Henty, asking him to repeat them two or three times; and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in ‘Tom-all-alone’ tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. ‘I think that Dedlock is a very proud man,’ or, ‘Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children.’ Henty enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did.
At the end of the first day the old man said, ‘You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again.’ And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. ‘I enjoyed that very much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember rightly, it will all turn out well.’
By the time that they were well into the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man’s delight had begun to wane, and Henty was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr. McMaster seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints.
One day, running his thumb through the pages of Bleak House that remained to be read, Henty said, ‘We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr. McMaster. ‘Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, My friend.’
For the first time Henty noticed something slightly menacing in his host’s manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef eaten just before sundown, Henty renewed the subject.
‘You know, Mr. McMaster, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality for too long.’
Mr. McMaster bent over his plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.
‘How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? . . . I said how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but . . .’
‘My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again.’
‘Well, I’m very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. McMaster. ‘The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here . . .’
Twice during the next day Henty opened the subject but his host was evasive. Finally he said, ‘Forgive me, Mr. McMaster, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?’
‘There is no boat.’
‘Well, the Indians can build one.’
‘You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘A month . . .two months . . .’
They had finished Bleak House and were nearing the end of Dombey and Son when the rain came.
‘Now it is time to make preparations to go.’
‘Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season—it is one of their superstitions.’
‘You might have told me.’
‘Did I not mention it? I forgot.’
Next morning Henty went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Shirianas sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Maku he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled, but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied.
At their midday meal Mr. McMaster said: ‘Mr Henty, the Indians tell me you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in most cases, as my children.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe.’
‘So they gave me to understand . . . and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book.’
They finished Dombey and Son; nearly a year had passed si
nce Henty had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters.
Year 1919.
I James McMaster of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished.
There followed a heavy pencil X, and after it: Mr. McMaster made this mark signed Barnabas Washington.
‘Mr. McMaster,’ said Henty, ‘I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released.’
‘But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like.’
‘You know very well that I can’t get away without your help.’
‘In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter.’
‘Mr. McMaster, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Manaos I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day.’
‘But I have no need of another man. You read so well.’
‘I have read for the last time.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mr. McMaster politely.
That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr. McMaster ate alone. Henty lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.
Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr. McMaster, but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Henty resumed the reading of Martin Chuzzlewit where it had been interrupted.
Weeks passed hopelessly. They read Nicholas Nickleby and Little Dorrit and Oliver Twist. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars’ worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr. McMaster was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and passo and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Henty had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man’s hand.
From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr. McMaster pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and passo at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and passo and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible: but Henty lived in quiet confidence and expectation.
Some time, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters to the Anderson expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Henty could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular Press; even now probably there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices might sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his home-coming—the gradual re-encounters with civilization; he shaved and bought new clothes at Manaos, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting his wife and uncertain how to address her . . . ‘Darling, you’ve been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost . . .’
And then Mr. McMaster interrupted. ‘May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy.’
The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue, but Henty endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his gaoler and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour, he proposed a celebration.
‘It is one of the local feast days,’ he explained, ‘and they have been making piwari. You may not like it, but you should try some. We will go across to this man’s home tonight.’
Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Henty and Mr. McMaster, and they were given hammocks to sit in.
‘You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette.’
Henty gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours’ journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of piwari was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Shirianas began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and his wife and fell asleep.
He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party.
‘I must have been tight last night,’ he reflected. ‘Treacherous drink, that.’ He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On the way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr. McMaster sitting there.
‘Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half-hour of light. How do you feel?’
‘Rotten. That drink doesn’t seem to agree with me.’
‘I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep.’
‘You haven’t seen my watch anywhere?’
‘You have missed it?’
‘Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I’ve never slept so long.’
‘Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days.’
‘Nonsense. I can’t have.’
‘Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests.’
‘Guests?’
‘Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so—I thought you would not mind—as you could not greet them yourself I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take home to your wife who is offering a great reward for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired . . . no pleasures except reading . . . I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again . . . well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not . . . We will not have any Dickens to-day . . . but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read Little Dorrit again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep.’
Pomegranate Seed
Edith Wharton (1862-1937) was born in New York City, marrying Edward Wharton in 1885. Under Henry James’s influence she wrote novels analysing modern life, such as The House of Mirth (1905) and the New England tragedy Ethan Frome (1911). She also wrote many short stories, collected in Tales of Men and Ghosts (1910) and Xingu (1916).
I
Charlotte Ashby paused on her doorstep. Dark had descended on the brilliancy of the March afternoon, and the grinding rasping street life of the city was at its highest. She turned her back on it, standing for a moment in the old-fashioned, marble-flagged vestibule before she inserted her key in the lock. The sash curtains drawn across the panes of the inner door softened the light within to a warm blur through which no details showed. It was the hour when, in the first months of her marriage to Kenneth Ashby, she had most liked to return to that quiet house in a street long since deserted by business and fashion. The contrast between the soulless roar of New York, its devouring blaze of lights, the oppression of its congested traffic, congested houses, lives, minds and this veiled sanctuary she called home, always stirred her profoundly. In the very heart of the hurricane she had found her tiny islet—or thought she had. And now, in the last months, everything was changed, and she always wavered on the doorstep and had to force herself to enter.
While she stood there she called up the scene within: the hall hung with old prints, the ladderlike stairs, and on the left her husband’s long shabby library, full of books and pipes and worn armchairs inviting to meditation. How she had loved that room! Then, upstairs, her own drawing-room, in which, since the death of Kenneth’s first wife, neither furniture nor hangings had been changed, because there had never been money enough, but which Charlotte had made her own by moving furniture about and adding more books, another lamp, a table for the new reviews. Even on the occasion of her only visit to the first Mrs. Ashby—a distant, self-centred woman, whom she had known very slightly—she had looked about her with an innocent envy, feeling it to be exactly the drawing-room she would have liked for herself; and now for more than a year it had been hers to deal with as she chose—the room to which she hastened back at dusk on winter days, where she sat reading by the fire, or answering notes at the pleasant roomy desk, or going over her stepchildren’s copy books, till she heard her husband’s step.
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