by Evelyn Waugh
“It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians 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 here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all—more than two years.”
“Well,” said Tony 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 Tony 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 Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr. Todd was a unique audience.
The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, 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 Tony 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 Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times; and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in “Tom-all-alone’s” 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.”
Tony 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 in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man’s delight had begun to wane, and Tony 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. Todd 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, Tony 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. Todd. “Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend.”
For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host’s manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farina and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.
“You know, Mr. Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long.”
Mr. Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farina, 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. Todd. “The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here…”
Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject but his host was evasive. Finally he said, “Forgive me, Mr. Todd, 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 Tony 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 Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi 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 a 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. Todd said, “Mr. Last, the Indians tell me that 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 many 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 since Tony 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 Todd 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. Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington.
“Mr. Todd,” said Tony, “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 humor an old man. Read me another chapter.”
“Mr. Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Manáos 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 t
ime.”
“I hope not,” said Mr. Todd politely.
That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farina was brought in and Mr. Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.
Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr. Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony 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. Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farina and tasso and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony 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. Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farina and tasso at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farina and tasso 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 Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation.
Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony 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 must 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 homecoming—the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Manáos, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savored good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her…“Darling, you’ve been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost…”).
And then Mr. Todd 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 Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbor, 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 Tony and Mr. Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.
“You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette.”
Tony 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 flavor of honey and brown bread. He leaned 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 Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton 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. Todd 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 back to England where a reward is being offered 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 today… but tomorrow, 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.”
Seven
English Gothic—III
A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year for it had been a mild winter.
High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half past eight. The clock had been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit.
Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits.
On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast.
Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last’s succession. Ambrose remained but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his “skeleton staff.” When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning room, the smoking room and what had been Tony’s study. Most of
the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries.
The family all appeared downstairs by half past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford.
They breakfasted together in the morning room. Mrs. Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey jars and correspondence.
Mrs. Last said, “Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again.”
“Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree.”
Mr. Last said, “Jamboree? Is nothing sacred to you children?”
Teddy said, “Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Oakhampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes.”
Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large, grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, “I’m sorry if I’m late.”
“If you’re late…” said Mr. Last tolerantly.
“How long will the show last?” asked Teddy. “I’ve got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he’s got about fifty waiting for me. We can’t shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars.”
“It will be all over by half past eleven. Mr. Tendril isn’t going to preach a sermon. It’s just as well really. He’s got it into his head that cousin Tony died in Afghanistan.”
“There’s a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She’s very sorry but she can’t get down for the dedication.”
“Oh.”
There was a general silence.
“She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“She could have come without him,” said Molly.
“She sends her love to us all and to Hetton.”