 12. Night had come and gone, and life next morning seemed a trifle flat and purposeless. But yester eve and the murmurs were here. They had come striding into the old kitchen, powdering the red-bricked floor with snow from their barbaric bedisoments, and stamping and crossing and declaiming till all was whirl and riot and shout. Harold was frankly afraid. Unabashed, he buried himself in the cook's ample bosom. Edward feigned a manly superiority to illusion and greeted these awful apparitions familiarly, as Dick and Harry and Joe. As for me, I was too big to run, too rapt to resist a magic and surprise. Whence came these outlanders, breaking in on us with song and ordered mask and a terrible clashing of wooden swords? And after these, what strange visitants might we not look for any quite night, when the chestnuts popped in the ashes and the old ghost stories drew the ostrich and circle close? Old Merlin perhaps, all furred in black sheet-skins and a russet gown, with a bow and arrows, and bearing wild geese in his hand, or stately ogir the dame, recalled from fairy, asking his way to the land that once had need of him. Or even, on some white night, the snow queen herself, with a chime of sleigh bells and a patter of reindeer's feet, with sudden halt at the door flung wide, while aloft the northern lights went shaking attendance spears among the quiet stars. This morning, housebound by the relentless, indefatigable snow, I was feeling the reaction. And Edward, on the contrary, being violently stage-struck on this, his first introduction to the real drama, was striding up and down the floor proclaiming, Here be I, King George the Third, in a strong Berkshire accent. Herald, accustomed as the youngest to lonely antics and to sports to ask no sympathy, was absorbed in clubmen, a performance consisting in a measured progress around the room, arm in arm with an imaginary companion of reverend years, with occasional halts at imaginary clubs, where, imaginary steps being leisurely ascended, imaginary papers were glanced at, imaginary scandal was discussed with elderly shakings of the head, and, regrettably to say, imaginary classes were lifted lip-words. Heaven only knows how this germ of this dreary pastime first found way into his smallest boyish being. It was his own invention, and he was proportionately proud of it. Meanwhile, Charlotte and I, crouched in the window seat, watched spell-stricken the whirl and eddy and drive of the innumerable snowflakes, wrapping our cheery little world in an uncanny uniform, ghastly in line and hue. Charlotte was sadly out of spirits. Having countered Miss Medley at breakfast, during some argument or other, by an apt quotation from her favorite classic, the Fairy Book, she had been gently but firmly informed that no such things as fairies ever really existed. Do you mean to say it's all lies? asked Charlotte bluntly. Miss Medley deprecated the use of any such unladylike words in any connection at all. These stories have their own origin, my dear, she explained, in a mistaken anthropomorphism in the interpretation of nature. But though we are now too well informed to fall into similar errors, there are still many beautiful lessons to be learned from these myths. But how can you learn anything, persisted Charlotte, from what doesn't exist? And she left the table defiant, albeit depressed. Don't you mind her, I said consolingly. How can she know anything about it? Why, she can't even throw a stone properly. Edward says they're all wrought, too, replied Charlotte doubtfully. Edward says everything's wrought, I explained. Now he thinks he's going into the army. If a thing's in a book, it must be true, so that settles it. Charlotte looked almost reassured. The room was quieter now, for Edward had got the dragon down, and was pouring holes in him with a purring sound. Harold was ascending the steps of the Athenaeum with a jaunty air, suggestive rather of the junior Carlton. Outside the tall elm tops were hardly to be seen through the feathery storm. The skies are falling, quoted Charlotte softly. I must go and tell the king. The quotation suggested a fairy story, and I offered to read to her, reaching out for the book. But the wee folk were under a cloud. Skeptical hints had embittered the chalice, so I was feigned to fetch Arthur, second favorite was Charlotte for his dame's writing errant, and an easy first with us boys for his spear-splintering crash of tourney and hurdle against hopeless odds. Here again, however, I proved unfortunate. What ill luck made the book open at the sorrowful history of Balon and Balon? And he vanished anon, I read, and so he heard a horn blow, as it had been the death of the beast. That last said Balon is blowing for me, for I am the prize, and yet am I not dead. Charlotte began to cry. She knew the rest too well. I shut the book in despair. Harold emerged from behind the armchair. He was sucking his thumb, a thing which members of the reform are seldom seen to do, and he stared wide-eyed at his tear-stained sister. Edward put off his histrionics and rushed up to her as the consolar, a new part for him. I know a jolly story, he began. Aunt Eliza told it to me. It was when she was somewhere over in that beastly abroad. He had once spent a black month of misery at Dynan, and there was a fellow there who had got two storks, and one stork died, it was the she-stork. What did it die of? put in Harold, and the other stork was quite sorry and moped, and went on and got very miserable. So they looked about and found the duck, and introduced it to the stork. The duck was a drake, but the stork didn't mind, and they loved each other and were as jolly as could be. By and by another duck came along, a real she-tuck this time, and when the drake saw her, he fell in love, and left the stork, and went and proposed to the duck, for she was very beautiful. But the poor stork who was left, he said nothing at all to anybody, but just pined and pined and pined away, till one morning he was found quite dead. But the ducks lived happily ever afterwards. This was Edward's idea of a jolly story. Down again went the corners of poor Charlotte's mouth. Really, Edward's stupid inability to see the real point in anything was too annoying. It was always so. Years before, it being necessary to prepare his youthful mind for a domestic event that might lead to awkward questionings at a time when there was little leisure to invent appropriate answers, it was delicately inquired of him whether he would like to have a little brother or perhaps a little sister. He considered the matter carefully in all its bearings, and finally declared for a newfoundland pup. Any boy more Clegg at the up-tack would have met his parents halfway and eased their burdens. As it was, the matter had to be approached all over again from a fresh standpoint. And now, while Charlotte turned away sniffingly with a hiccough that told of an overwrought soul, Edward unconscious, like Sir Isaac's Diamond, of the mischief he had done wheeled round on Harold with a shout. I want a live dragon, he announced. You've got to be my dragon. Lead me go, will you? squealed Harold, struggling stoutly. I'm playing at something else. How can I be a dragon and belong to all the clubs? But wouldn't you like to be a nice scaly dragon, all green, said Edward trying persuasion, with a curly tail and red eyes and breathing real smoke and fire? Harold wavered an instant. Paul Maul was still strong in him. The next he was groveling on the floor. No Sarian ever swung a tail so scaly and so curly as his. Clubland was a thousand years away. With horrific pants he emitted smokiest smoke and fiercest fire. Now I want a princess, cried Edward clutching Charlotte ecstatically, and you can be the doctor and heal me from the dragon's deadly wound. Of all professions I held the sacred art of healing in worst horror and contempt. Cataclysmal memories of purge and draught crowded thick on me, and with Charlotte who courted no barren honors I made a break for the door. Edward did likewise, and the hostile forces clashed together on the mat, and for a brief space things were mixed in chaotic and Arthurian. The silvery sound of the luncheon bell restored an instant peace, even in the teeth of clenched antagonisms like ours. The holy grail itself, sliding a thwart a sunbeam, never so effectually still the riot of warring passions into sweet and quiet accord. End of Section 10. Section 11 of The Golden Age. This reading by Kara Schellenberg. The Golden Age by Kenneth Graham. Section 11. What They Talked About. Edward was standing ginger-beer like a gentleman, happening, as the one that had last passed under the dentist's hands to be the capitalist of the flying hour. As in all well-regulated families the usual tariff obtained in ours, half a crown of tooth, one shilling only if the molar were a loose one. This too, unfortunately, in spite of Edward's interested affectation of agony, had been shaky undisguised, but the event was good enough to run to ginger-beer. As financier, however, Edward had claimed exemption from any servile duties of procurement, and had swaggered about the garden while I fetched from the village post-office, and Harold stole a tumbler from the pantry. Our preparations complete, we were sprawling on the lawn. The staidest and most self-respecting of the rabbits had been let loose to grace the feast, and was lopping demurely about the grass, selecting the juiciest plantains, while Selena, as the eldest lady present, was toying in her affected feminine way with the first full tumbler, daintily fishing for bits of broken cork. Hurry up, can't you? growl, our host. What are you girls always so beastly particular for? Martha says, explained Harold, thirsty too, but still just, that if you swallow a bit of cork, it swells and it swells and it swells inside you till you— Oh, Bosch, said Edward, draining the glass with a fine pretense of indifference to consequences, but all the same, as I noticed, dodging the floating cork fragments with skill and judgment. Oh, it's all very well to say Bosch, replied Harold, nettled, but everyone knows it's true but you. Why, when Uncle Thomas was here last, and they got up a bottle of wine for him, he took just one tiny sip out of his glass, and then he said, Poo, my goodness, that's corked. And he wouldn't touch it. And they had to get a fresh bottle up. The funny part was, though, I looked in his glass afterwards, when it was brought out into the passage, and there wasn't any cork in it at all, so I drank it all off, and it was very good. You'd better be careful, young man, said his elder brother, regarding him severely. Do you remember the night when the mummers were here, and they had mulled port, and you went round and emptied all the glasses after they had gone away? Oh, I did feel funny that night, chuckled Harold, thought the house was coming down and jumped about so, and Martha had to carry me up to bed, because the stairs was going all waggity. We gazed, searchingly at our graceless junior, but it was clear that he viewed the matter in the light of a phenomenon rather than of a delinquency. A third bottle was by this time circling, and Selena, who had evidently waited for it to reach her, took a most unfairly long pull, and then, jumping up and shaking out her frock, announced that she was going for a walk. Then she fled like a hare, for it was the custom of our family to meet with physical coercion any independence of action in individuals. She's off with those vicarage girls again, said Edward, regarding Selena's long black legs twinkling down the path. She goes out with them every day now, and as soon as ever they start, all their heads go together and they chatter, chatter, chatter, the whole blessed time. I can't make out what they find to talk about. They never stop. It's gavel gavel gavel right along like a nest of young rooks. Perhaps they talk about birds' eggs, I suggested sleepily. The sun was hot. The turf soft. The ginger beer potent. And about ships and buffaloes and desert islands, and why rabbits have white tails, and whether they'd sooner have a schooner or a cutter, and what they'll be when they're men. At least, I mean, there's lots of things to talk about if you want to talk. Yes, but they don't talk about those sorts of things at all, persisted Edward. How can they? They don't know anything. They can't do anything except play the piano, and nobody would want to talk about that, and they don't care about anything, anything sensible, I mean. So what do they talk about? I asked Martha once, put in Harold, and she said, Never you mind, young ladies has lots of things to talk about that young gentlemen can't understand. I don't believe it, Edward growled. Well, that's what she said anyway, rejoined Harold indifferently. The subject did not seem to him of first class importance, and it was hindering the circulation of the ginger beer. We heard the click of the front gate. Through a gap in the hedge we could see the party setting off down the road. Selena was in the middle. A vicarage girl had her by either arm. Their heads were together, as Edward had described, and the clack of their tongues came down the breeze like the busy pipe of starlings on a bright March morning. What do they talk about, Charlotte? I inquired, wishing to pacify Edward. You go out with them sometimes? I don't know, said poor Charlotte dolefully. They make me walk behind, because they say I'm too little and mustn't hear. And I do want to so, she added. When any lady comes to see Aunt Eliza, said Harold, they both talk at once all the time, and yet each of them seems to hear what the other one's saying. I can't make out how they do it. Grown up people are so clever. The curate's the funniest man, I remarked. He's always saying things that have no sense in them at all, and then laughing at them as if they were jokes. Yesterday, when they asked him if he'd have some more tea, he said, once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. And then sniggered all over. I didn't see anything funny in that. And then somebody asked him about his buttonhole, and he said, tis but a little faded flower. And exploded again. I thought it very stupid. Oh, him, said Edward contemptuously. He can't help it. You know, it's the sort of way he's got. But it's these girls I can't make out, if they've anything really sensible to talk about, how is it nobody knows what it is? And if they haven't, and we know they can't have, naturally, why don't they shut up their jaw? This old rabbit here, he doesn't want to talk, he's got something better to do. And Edward aimed a ginger-beer cork at the unruffled beast, who never budged. Oh, but rabbits do talk, interposed Harold. I've watched them often in their hutch. They put their heads together, and their noses go up and down just like Selina's, and the vicarage girl's. Only, of course, I can't hear what they're saying. Well, if they do, said Edward unwillingly, I'll bet they don't talk such rot as those girls do. Which was ungenerous, as well as unfair, for it had not yet transpired, nor has it to this day. What, Selina, and her friends, talked about? 12 The Argonauts The advent of strangers of whatever sort into our circle had always been a matter of grave dubiety and suspicion. Indeed, it was generally a signal for retreat into caves and fastnesses of the earth, into unthreaded copses or remote, outlying cowsheds, once we were only to be extricated by wily nursemaids rendered familiar by experience with our secret runs and refuges. It was not surprising, therefore, that the heroes of classic legend, when first we made their acquaintance, failed to win our entire sympathy at once. Confidence, says somebody, is a plant of slow growth, and these stately dark-haired demigods, with names hard to master and strange accoutrements, had to win a citadel already strongly garrisoned with a more familiar soldiery. Their chill, foreign goddesses, had no such direct appeal for us as the mocking malicious fairies and witches of the North. We missed the pleasant alliance of the animal, the fox who spread the bushiest of tales to convey us to the enchanted castle, the frog and the well, the raven who croaked advice from the tree, and, to herald especially, it seemed entirely wrong that the heroes should ever be other than the youngest brother of three. This belief, indeed, in the special fortune that ever awaited the youngest brother, as such, the borough English of Ferry, had been of baleful effect on herald, producing a certain self-conceit and perqueness that called for physical correction. But even in our admonishment we were on his side, and as we distrustfully eyed these new arrivals, old Saturn himself seemed something of a parvenu. Even strangers, however, if they be good fellows at heart, may develop into sworn comrades, and these gay swordsmen, after all, were of the right stuff. Perseus, with his cap of darkness and his wonderful sandals, was not longing winging his way to our hearts. Apollo knocked at Admitus's gate in something of the right Ferry fashion. Psyche brought with her an orthodox palace of magic, as well as helpful birds and friendly ants. Ulysses, with his captivating shifts and strategies, broke down the final barrier, and henceforth the band was adopted and admitted into our free masonry. I had been engaged in chasing farmer Larkin's calves, his special pride, round the field, just to show the man we hadn't forgotten him, and was returning through the kitchen garden with a conscience at peace with all men, when I happened upon Edward, grubbing for worms in the dung heap. Edward put his worms into his hat, and we strolled along together, discussing high matters of state. As we reached the tool shed, strange noises arrested our steps. Looking in, we perceived Harold, alone, wrapped, absorbed, immersed in the special game of the moment. He was squatting in an old pig-trough that had been brought in to be tankered, and as he rhapsodised, a non he waved a shovel over his head, a non dug it into the ground with the action of those who would urge Canadian canoes. Edward strode in upon him. What rot are you playing at now? he demanded sternly. Harold flushed up, but stuck to his pig-trough like a man. I'm Jason, he replied defiantly, and this is the Argo. The other fellows are here too, only you can't see them, and we're just going through the hell spot, so don't you come bothering? And once more he plied the wine-dark sea. Edward kicked the pig-trough contemptuously. Pretty sort of Argo you've got, said he. Harold began to get annoyed. I can't help it, he replied. It's the best sort of Argo I can manage, and it's all right if you only pretend enough, but you never could pretend one bit. Edward reflected. Look here, he said presently. Why shouldn't we get hold of Farmer Larkin's boat and go right away up the river in a real Argo, and look for Medea and the golden fleece and everything? And I'll tell you what, I don't mind your being Jason, as you thought of it first. Harold tumbled out of the trough in the excess of his emotion. But we aren't allowed to go on the water by ourselves, he cried. No, said Edward, with fine scorn, we aren't allowed, and Jason wasn't allowed either, I daresay, but he went. Harold's protest had been merely conventional. He only wanted to be convinced by sound argument. The next question was, how about the girls? Selena was distinctly handy in a boat. The difficulty about her was, that if she disapproved of the expedition, and morally considered it was not exactly a pilgrim's progress, she might go and tell. She having just reached that disagreeable age when one begins to develop a conscience. Charlotte, for her part, had a habit of daydreams, and was as likely as not to fall overboard in one of her rapt musings. To be sure, she would dissolve in tears when she found herself left out, but even that was better than a watery tomb. In fine the public voice, and rightly perhaps, was against the admission of the skirted animal. Despite the precedent of Atalanta, who was one of the original crew. And now, said Edward, who's to ask Farmer Larkin? I can't. Last time I saw him, he said when he caught me again he'd smack my head. You'll have to. I hesitated for good reasons. You know these precious calves of his, I began. Edward understood it once. All right, he said. Then we won't ask him at all. It doesn't much matter. He'll only be annoyed, and that would be a pity. Now, let's set off. We made our way down to the stream, and captured the Farmer's boat without lead or hindrance, the enemy being engaged in the hay-fields. This river, so-called, could never be discovered by us in any atlas. Indeed, our Argo could hardly turn in it without risk of shipwreck. But to us it was Ornoco, and the cities of the world dotted its shores. We put the Argo's head upstream, since that led away from the Larkin province. Harold was faithfully permitted to be Jason, and we shared the rest of the heroes among us. Then, launching forth from Thessaly, we threaded the hell-spot with shouts, breathlessly dodged the clashing rocks, and coasted under the lee of the siren-haunted aisles. Lemnos was fringed with meadow-sweet, dog-roses dotted the Mycian shore, and the cheery call of the hay-making folk sounded along the coast of Thrace. After some hour or two's seafaring, the prow of the Argo embedded itself in the mud of a landing-place, plashy with the tread of cows, and giving on to a lane which led towards the smoke of human habitations. Edward jumped ashore, alert for exploration, and strode off without waiting to see if we followed. But I lingered behind, having caught sight of a moss-grown water-gate hard by, leading into a garden that from the brooding quiet lapping it round appeared to portend magical possibilities. Indeed the very air within seemed stiller as we circumspectly passed through the gate, and Harold hung back shame-faced, as if we were crossing the threshold of some private chamber, and ghosts of old days were hustling past us. Flowers there were everywhere, but they drooped and sprawled in an overgrowth, hinting at it difference. The scent of heliotrope possessed the place, as if actually hung in solid festoons from tall, untrimmed hedge to hedge. No basket-shares, shawls, or novels dotted the lawn with color, and on the garden front of the house behind the blinds were mostly drawn. A grey-old sundial dominated the central sward, and we moved towards it instinctively, as the most human thing visible. An antique motto ran around it, and with eyes and fingers we struggled at the decipherment. Time, trieth, troath, spelled out Harold at last, I wonder what that means. I could not enlighten him, nor meet his further questions as to the inner mechanisms of the thing, and where you wound it up. I had seen these instruments before, of course, but had never fully understood their manner of working. We were still puzzling our heads over the contrivance, when I became aware that Medea herself was moving down the path from the house. Dark haired, supple, of a figure lightly poised and swayed, but pale and listless. I knew her at once, and having come out to find her, naturally felt no surprise at all. But Harold, who was trying to climb on the top of the sundial, having a cat-like fondness for the summit of things, started and fell prone, barking his shin and filling the pleasant with lamentation. Medea skimmed the ground swallow-like, and in a moment was on her knees comforting him, wiping the dirt out of his chin with her own dainty handkerchief, and vocal with soft murmur of consolation. You needn't take on until about him, I observe politely. He'll cry for just one minute, and then he'll be all right. My estimate was justified. At the end of his regulation time Harold stopped crying suddenly, like a clock that has struck its hour, and with a serene and cheerful countenance wriggled out of Medea's embrace, and ran for a stone to throw in an intrusive blackbird. Oh, you boys! cried Medea, throwing wide her arms with abandonment. Where have you dropped from? How dirty you are! I've been shut up here for a thousand years, and all that time I've never seen anyone under a hundred and fifty. Let's play at something at once. Rounders is a good game, I suggested. Girls can play at rounders, and we could serve up to the sundial here. But you want a bat and a ball and some more people. She struck her hands together tragically. I haven't a bat, she cried, or a ball, or more people, or anything sensible, whatever. Never mind. Let's play at hide and seek in the kitchen garden, and we'll race there up to that walnut tree. I haven't run for a century. She was so easy a victor, nevertheless that I began to doubt, as I patted behind, whether she had not exaggerated her age by a year or two. She flung herself into hide and seek with all the gusto and abandonment of the true artist, and as she flitted away and reappeared, flushed and laughing divinely, the pale witch-maiden seemed to fall away from her, and she moved rather as that other girl I had read about, snatched from fields of daffodil to rain and shadow below, yet permitted once again to visit earth and light and the frank caressing air. Tired at last, we strolled back to the old sundial, and Harold, who never relinquished a problem unsolved, began afresh, rubbing his finger along the faint incisions, time trieth truth. Please, I want to know what that means. Medea's face drooped low over the sundial, till it was almost hidden in her fingers. That's what I'm here for, she said presently, in quite a changed, low voice. They shut me up here. They think I'll forget. But I never will. Never, never. And he, too. But I don't know. It is so long. I don't know. Her face was quite hidden now. There was silence again in the old garden. I felt clumsily helpless and awkward. Beyond a vague idea of kicking Harold, nothing remedial seemed to suggest itself. None of us had noticed the approach of another she-creature, one of the angular and rigid class, how different from our dear comrade. The years Medea had claimed might well have belonged to her. She wore mittens, too, a trick I detested in woman. Lucy, she said sharply, in a tone with aunt writ large over it, and Medea started up guiltily. You've been crying, said the newcomer, grimly regarding her through spectacles, and pray who are these exceedingly dirty little boys. Friends of mine aunt, said Medea promptly with forced cheerfulness. I've known them a long time. I asked them to come. The aunt sniffed suspiciously. You must come indoors, dear, she said, and lie down. The sun will give you a headache, and you little boys had better run away home to your tea. Remember, you should not come to pay visits without your nursemaid. Harold had been tugging nervously at my jacket for some time, and I only waited till Medea turned and kissed a white hand to us as she was led away. Then I ran. We gained the boat in safety. And— What an old dragon! said Harold. Wasn't she a beast? I replied, fancied the sun giving any one a headache, and Medea was a real brick. Couldn't we marry her off? We could if Edward was here, said Harold confidently. The question was, what had become of that defaulting hero? We were not left long in doubt. First there came down the lane the shrill and wrathful clamor of a female tongue, then Edward running his best, and then an excited woman hard on his heel. Edward tumbled into the bottom of the boat, gasping, Shover off! And shover off we did, mightily, while the dame abused us from the bank in the self-same accents in which Alfred hurled defiance at the marauding dame. That was just like a bit out of westward hoe, I remarked approvingly, as we sculled down the stream. But what had you been doing to her? Hadn't been doing anything, panted Edward still breathless. I went up into the village and explored, and it was a very nice one, and the people were very polite, and there was a blacksmith's forge there, and they were shewing horses, and the hoofs fizzled and smoked, and smelled so jolly. I stayed there quite a long time. Then I got thirsty, so I asked that old woman for some water, and while she was getting it, her cat came out of the cottage and looked at me in a nasty sort of way, and said something I didn't like, so I went up to it just to teach it manners, and somehow or other, next minute it was up an apple-tree, spinning, and I was running down the lane with that old thing after me. Edward was so full of his personal injuries that there was no interesting him and Medea at all. Moreover, the evening was closing in, and it was evident that this cutting-out expedition must be kept for another day. As we neared home, it gradually occurred to us that perhaps the greatest danger was yet to come, for the farmer must have missed his boat ere now, and would probably be lying and wait for us near the landing-place. There was no other spot admitting of debarkation on the home side. If we got out on the other and made for the bridge, we should certainly be seen and cut off. Then it was that I blessed my stars that our elder brother was with us that day. He might be little good at pretending, but in grappling with the stern facts of life he had no equal. In joining silence he waited till we were but a little way from the faded landing-place, and then brought us into the opposite bank. We scrambled out noiselessly, and, the gathering darkness favouring us, crouched behind a willow while Edward pushed off the empty boat with his foot. The old Argo, borne down by the gentle current, slid and grazed along the rushy bank, and when she came opposite the suspected ambush, a stream of imprecation told us that our precaution had not been wasted. We wondered, as we listened, where Farmer Larkin, who was bucologically bred and reared, had acquired such range and wealth of vocabulary. Fully realizing it lasted, his boat was derelict, abandoned, at the mercy of wind and wave, as well as out of his reach, he strode away to the bridge about a quarter of a mile further down, and as soon as we heard his boots clumping on the planks, we nipped out, recovered the craft, pulled across, and made the faithful vessel fast to her proper moorings. Edward was anxious to wait and exchange courtesies and compliments with a disappointed Farmer, when he should confront us on the opposite bank. But why is their counsels prevailed? It was possible that the piracy was not yet laid at our particular door. Ulysses, I reminded him, had reason to regret a similar act of bravado, and, worry here, would certainly advise a timely retreat. Edward held but a low opinion of me as a counselor, but he had a very solid respect for Ulysses. Recording by Peter Eastman The Golden Age by Kenneth Graham Section 13 The Roman Road All the roads of our neighborhood were cheerful and friendly, having each of them pleasant qualities of their own. But this one seemed different from the others, in its masterful suggestion of a serious purpose, speeding you along with a strange uplifting of the heart. The others tempted chiefly with their treasures of hedge and ditch, the wrapped surprise of the first lords and ladies, the rustle of a field-mouse, splash of a frog, while cool noses of brother beasts were pushed at you through gate or gap. A loiterer you had need to be did you choose one of them? So many were the tiny hands thrust out to detain you from this side and that. But this other was of a sterner sort, and even in its shedding off of bank and hedgerow, as it marched straight and full for the open downs, it seemed to declare its contempt for adventitious trappings to catch the shallow pated. When the sense of injustice or disappointment was heavy on me, and things were very black within, as on this particular day, the road of character was my choice for that solitary ramble, when I turned my back for an afternoon on a world that had unaccountably declared itself against me. The night's road, we children had named it, from a sort of feeling that, if from any quarter at all, it would be down this track we might some day see Lancelot and his peers compassing on their great war-horses, supposing that any of the stout band still survived in nooks and unexplored places. Grown-up people sometimes spoke of it as the pilgrims' way, but I didn't know much about pilgrims, except Walter in the Horselberg story. Here my sometimes saw, breaking with haggard eyes out of yonder cops, and calling to the pilgrims as they hurried along on their desperate march to the Holy City, where peace and pardon were awaiting them. All roads lead to Rome, I had once heard somebody say, and I had taken the remark very seriously, of course, and puzzled over it many days. There must have been some mistake, I concluded, at last. But, of one road at least, I intuitively felt it to be true. And my belief was clinched by something that fell from Miss Smedley during a history lesson, about a strange road that ran right down the middle of England till it reached the coast, and then began again in France just opposite, and so on, undeviating, through city and vineyard, right from the misty highlands to the eternal city. Uncorroborated, any statement of Miss Smedley's usually fell on incredulous ears. But here, with the road itself in evidence, she seemed, once, in a way, to have strayed into truth. Rome. It was fascinating to think that it lay at the other end of this white ribbon that rolled itself off from my feet over the distant downs. I was not quite so uninstructed as to imagine I could reach it that afternoon, but some day, I thought, if things went on being as unpleasant as they were now, some day when Aunt Eliza had gone on a visit, we would see. I tried to imagine what it would be like when I got there. The Colosseum, I knew, of course, from a woodcut in the history book, so to begin with, I plumped that down in the middle. The rest had to be patched up from the little gray market town where twice a year we went to have our haircut. Hence, in the result, Vespasian's amphitheater was approached by muddy little streets wherein the red lion and the blue boar with somebody's entire along their front and commercial room on their windows. The doctor's house of substantial red brick and the facade of the new Wesleyan chapel, which we thought very fine, were the chief architectural ornaments. While the Roman populace pottered about in smocks and corduroys, twisting the tails of Roman calves and inviting each other to beer in musical Wessex. From Rome I drifted on to other cities dimly heard of, Damascus, Brighton, Aunt Eliza's ideal, Athens and Glasgow, whose glories the gardener sang. But there was a certain sameness in my conception of all of them. That Wesleyan chapel would keep cropping up everywhere. It was easier to go a building among those dream cities where no limitations were imposed, and one was sole architect with a free hand. Down a delectable street of cloud-built palaces I was mentally pacing when I happened upon the artist. He was seated at work by the roadside, at a point whence the cool large spaces of the Downs, Juniper studded, swept grandly westwards. His attributes proclaimed him of the artist tribe. Besides, he wore knickerbockers like myself, a garb confined I was aware to boys and artists. I knew I was not to bother him with questions, nor look over his shoulder and breathe in his ear. They didn't like it, this genus irritabile. But there was nothing about staring in my code of instructions, the point having somehow been overlooked. So, squatting down on the grass, I devoted myself to a passionate absorbing of every detail. At the end of five minutes there was not a button on him that I could not have passed an examination in, and the wearer himself of that home-spun suit was probably less familiar with its pattern and texture than I was. Once he looked up, nodded, half held out his tobacco pouch, mechanically as it were, then returning it to his pocket, resumed his work, and I, my mental photography. After another five minutes or so had passed, he remarked without looking my way. Fine afternoon we're having, going far today? No, I'm not going any farther than this, I replied. I was thinking of going on to Rome, but I've put it off. Pleasant place, Rome, he murmured. You'll like it. It was some minutes later that he added, but I wouldn't go just now if I were you, too jolly hot. You haven't been to Rome, have you? I inquired. Rather, he replied briefly, I live there. This was too much, and my jaw dropped as I struggled to grasp the fact that I was sitting there talking to a fellow who lived in Rome. Speech was out of the question. Besides, I had other things to do. Ten solid minutes had I already spent in an examination of him as a mere stranger at artist, and now the whole thing had to be done over again from the changed point of view. So I began afresh at the crown of his soft hat and worked down to his solid British shoes, this time investing everything with the new Roman halo. And at last I managed to get out. But you don't really live there, do you? Never doubting the fact, but wanting to hear it repeated. Well, he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rootness of my query. I live there as much as I live anywhere, about half the year sometimes. I've got a sort of a shandy there. You must come and see it some day. But do you live anywhere else as well? I went on, feeling the forbidden tide of questions searching up within me. Oh, yes, all over the place, was his vague reply, and I've got a digging somewhere off Piccadilly. Where's that? I inquired. Where's what? said he. Oh, Piccadilly, it's in London. Have you a large garden? I asked. And how many pigs have you got? I've no garden at all, he replied sadly, and they don't allow me to keep pigs, though I'd like to, awfully. It's very hard. But what do you do all day then? I cried. And where do you go into play, without any garden or pigs or things? When I want to play, he said gravely, I have to go and play in the street. But it's poor fun, I grant you. There's a goat, though, not far off, and sometimes I talk to him when I'm feeling lonely. But he's very proud. Goats are proud, I admitted. There's one lives near here. And if you say anything to him at all, he hits you in the wind with his head. You know what it feels like when a fellow hits you in the wind? I do well, he replied, in a tone of proper melancholy, and painted on. And have you been to any other places? I began again presently, besides Rome and Picky, what's his name? Heaps, he said, I'm a sort of Ulysses, seeing men in cities, you know. In fact, about the only place I never got to was the fortunate island. I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and to the point and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be confidential with him. Wouldn't you like, I inquired, to find a city without any people in it at all? He looked puzzled. I'm afraid I don't quite understand, said he. I mean, I went on eagerly, a city where you walk in at the gates, and the shops are all full of beautiful things, and the houses furnished as grand as can be. And there isn't anybody there whatever, and you go into the shops and take anything you want, chocolates and magic lanterns and inch of rubber balls, and there's nothing to pay. And you choose your own house and live there and do just as you like, and never go to bed unless you want to. The artist laid down his brush. That would be a nice city, he said, better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome, or in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never been to. And you'd ask your friends, I went on, warming to my subject, only those you really like, of course, and they'd each have a house to themselves. There'd be lots of houses, and no relations at all unless they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't, they'd have to go. So you wouldn't have any relations, said the artist. Well, perhaps you're right. We have tastes in common, I see. I'd have Harold, I said reflectively, and Charlotte. They'd like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh, and Martha, I'd have Martha to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady. Then I'm sure I should like her, he replied heartily. And when I come to, what do you call this city of yours? Nephilo something, did you say? I… I don't know, I replied timidly. I'm afraid it hasn't got a name, yet. The artist gazed out over the downs. The poet says, dear city of sea crops, he said softly to himself, and wilt not, thou say, dear city of Zeus? That's from Marcus Aurelius. He went on, turning again to his work. You don't know him, I suppose. You wilt some day. Who's he? I inquired. Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome, he replied, dabbing away. Oh, dear, I cried disconsolately, what a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there. But I think I'd like my city best. And so would I, he replied with unction. But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know. Then we won't invite him, I said. Will we? I won't if you won't, said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while. Do you know, he said presently, I've met one or two fellows from time to time who have been to a city like yours. Perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it, only broken hints now and then, but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything in particular, and everything's the same to them, rough or smooth. And sooner or later they slip off and disappear, and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose. Of course, said I, don't see what they ever came away for. I wouldn't, to be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But I've known people, too, who've gone there. The artist stared, but without incivility. Well, there's lance a lot, I went on. The book says he died, but he never seemed to read right somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And crew so, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stories, who don't marry the princess, because only one man ever gets married in a book, you know, they'll be there. And the men who never come off, he said, who try like the rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss, or break down, or get bowled over in the melee, and get no princess, nor even a second-class kingdom. Some of them will be there, I hope. Yes, if you like, I replied, not quite understanding him. If they're friends of yours, we'll ask him, of course. What a time we shall have, said the artist reflectively, and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be. The shadows had lengthened uncannily. A tide of golden haze was flooding the gray green surface of the downs. And the artist began to put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low. We would have to part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then he stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in his hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand like an equal. I've enjoyed our conversation very much, he said. That was an interesting subject you started, and we haven't half exhausted it. We shall meet again, I hope. Of course we shall, I replied, surprised that there should be any doubt about it. In Rome, perhaps, said he. Yes, in Rome, I answered, or picky the other place, or somewhere. Or else, said he, in that other city, when we found the way there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as soon as you see me. And we'll go down the street, arm in arm, and into all the shops. And then I'll choose my house, and you'll choose your house. And we'll live there like princes and good fellows. Oh, but you'll stay in my house, won't you? I cried, wouldn't ask everybody, but I'll ask you. He effected to consider a moment. Then, right, he said, I believe you mean it, and I will come and stay with you. I won't go to anybody else if they ask me ever so much. And I'll stay quite a long time, too, and I won't be any trouble. Upon this compact we parted, and I went down heartedly from the man who understood me, back to the house where I never could do anything right. How was it that everything seemed natural and sensible to him, which these uncles, vickers, and other grown-up men took for the merest tomfoolery? Well, he would explain this and many another thing when we met again. The knights rode. How it always brought consolation. Was he possibly one of those vanished knights I had been looking for so long? Perhaps he would be in armor next time. Why not? He would look well in armor, I thought. And I would take care to get there first, and see the sunlight flash and play on his helmet and shield, as he rode up the high street of the Golden City. In the meantime, there only remained the find-a-get. An easy matter. End of Section 13. The Roman Road. Recording by Peter Eastman. Section 14. The Secret Drawer. It must surely have served as a boudoir for the ladies of old time, this little used, rarely entered chamber where the neglected old bureau stood. There was something very feminine in the faint hues of its faded brocades, in the rose and blue of such bits of china as yet remained, and in the delicate old-world fragrance of potpourri from the great bowl, blue and white, with funny holes in its cover, that stood on the bureau's flat top. Modern aunts disdained this out-of-the-way backwater upstairs-room, preferring to do their accounts and grapple with their correspondence in some central position, more in the whorl of things, whence one eye could be kept on the carriage-drive, while the other was alert for malingering servants and marauding children. Those aunts of a former generation, I sometimes felt, would have suited our habits better. But even by us children, to whom few places were private or reserved, the room was visited but rarely. To be sure there was nothing particular in it that we coveted or required only a few spindle-legged guilt-backed chairs, an old harp, on which, so the legend ran, Aunt Eliza herself used once to play, in years remote, uncronicaled. A corner cupboard, with a few pieces of china, and the old bureau. But one other thing the room possessed, peculiar to itself, a certain sense of privacy. A power of making the intruder feel that he was intruding, perhaps even a faculty of hinting that someone might have been sitting on those chairs, writing at the bureau or fingering the china, just a second before one entered. No such violent word as haunted could possibly apply to this pleasant old-fashioned chamber, which indeed we all rather liked. But there was no doubt it was reserved and standoffish, keeping itself to itself. Uncle Thomas was the first to draw my attention to the possibilities of the old bureau. He was pottering about the house one afternoon, having ordered me to keep at his heels for company. He was a man who hated to be left one minute alone, when his eye fell on it. Hmm! Sheraton, he remarked. He had a smattering of most things, this uncle, especially the vocabularies. Then he let down the flap, and examined the empty pigeon-holes and dusty paneling. Fine bit of inlay, he went on. Good work, all of it. I know the sort. There's a secret drawer in there somewhere. Then, as I breathlessly drew near, he suddenly exclaimed, By Jove, I do want to smoke! And, wheeling round, he abruptly fled for the garden, leaving me with the cup dashed from my lips. What a strange thing I mused was this smoking, that takes a man suddenly, be he in the court, the camp or the grove, grips him like an affriet, and whorls him off to do its imperious behests. Would it be even so with myself, I wondered, in those unknown, grown-up years to come? But I had no time to waste in vain speculations. My whole being was still vibrating to those magic syllables, secret drawer, and that particular cord had been touched that never fails to thrill responsive to such words as cave, trapdoor, sliding panel, bullion, ingots, or Spanish dollars. For, besides its own special bliss, who ever heard of a secret drawer with nothing in it? And, oh, I did want money so badly. I mentally ran over the list of demands which were pressing me the most imperiously. First there was the pipe I wanted to give to George Janaway. George, who was Martha's young man, was a shepherd and a great ally of mine, and at the last fair he was at, when he bought his sweetheart fairings, as a right-minded shepherd should, he had purchased a lovely snake expressly for me. One of the wooden sort, with joints waggling deliciously in the hand, with yellow spots on a green ground, sticky and strong smelling, as a fresh-painted snake ought to be, and with a red flannel tongue pasted cunningly into its jaws. I loved it much, and took it to bed with me every night till what time its spinal cord was loosed and it fell apart, and went the way of all mortal joys. I thought it so nice of George to think of me at the fair, and that's why I wanted to give him a pipe. When the young year was chill and lambing-time was on, George inhabited a little wooden house on wheels, far out on the wintry downs, and saw no faces but such as were sheepish and woolly and mute, and when he and Martha were married she was going to carry his dinner out to him every day, two miles, and after it perhaps he would smoke my pipe. It seemed an idyllic sort of existence for both the parties concerned, but a pipe of quality, a pipe fitted to be part of a life such as this, could not be procured, so Martha informed me, for a less sum than eighteen pence, and meantime. Then there was the fourpence I owed Edward, not that he was bothering me for it, but I knew he was in need of it himself, to pay back Selena, who wanted it to make up a sum of two shillings to buy Harold an iron clad for his approaching birthday, HMS Majestic, now lying uselessly careened in the toy shop window, just when her country had such sore need of her. And then there was that boy in the village who had caught a young squirrel, and I had never yet possessed one, and he wanted a shilling for it, but I knew that for nine pence in cash. But what was the good of these sorry thread-bear reflections? I had once enough to exhaust any possible find of bullion, even if it amounted to half a sovereign. My only hope now lay in the magic drawer, and here I was standing and letting the precious minute slip by. Whether findings of this sort could, morally speaking, be considered keepings, was a point that did not occur to me. The room was very still as I approached the bureau, possessed, it seemed to be, by a sort of hush of expectation. The faint odor of oris root that floated forth as I let down the flap seemed to identify itself with the yellows and browns of the old wood, till hue and scent were of one quality and interchangeable. Even so, ere this, the potpourri had mixed itself with the tints of the old brocade, and brocade and potpourri had long been one. With expectant fingers I explored the empty pigeon-holes, and sounded the depths of the softly sliding drawers. No books that I knew of gave any general recipe for a quest like this, but the glory, should I succeed unaided, would be all the greater. To him who is destined to arrive, the fates never fail to afford on the way their small encouragements. In less than two minutes I had come across a rusty button-hook. This was truly magnificent. In the nursery there existed indeed a general button-hook, common to either sex, but none of us possessed a private and special button-hook, to lend or refuse as suited the high humour of the moment. I pocketed the treasure carefully and proceeded. At the back of another drawer, three old foreign stamps told me I was surely on the high road to fortune. Following on these bracing incentives came a dull blank period of unrewarded search. In vain I removed all the drawers and felt over every inch of the smooth surfaces, from front to back. Never a knob, spring or projection, met the thrilling fingertips. Unyielding the old bureau stood, stoutly guarding it secret, if secret it really had. I began to grow weary and disheartened. This was not the first time that Uncle Thomas had proved shallow, uninformed, a guide into blind alleys where the echoes mocked you. Was it any good persisting longer? Was anything any good, whatever? In my mind I began to review past disappointments, and life seemed one long record of failure and of non-arrival. Disillusioned and depressed I left my work and went to the window. The light was ebbing from the room, and outside seemed to be collecting itself on the horizon for its concentrated effort of sunset. Far down the garden Uncle Thomas was holding Edward in the air, reversed and smacking him. Edward, gurgling hysterically, was striking blind fists in the direction of where he judged his Uncle's stomach should rightly be. The contents of his pockets, a motley show, were screwing the lawn. Somehow, though I had been put through a similar performance an hour or two ago, myself, it all seemed very far away and cut off from me. Westwards the clouds were massing themselves in a low violet bank, below them, to north and south, as far round as I could reach. A narrow streak of gold ran out and stretched away, straight along the horizon. Somewhere very far off a horn was being blown, clear and thin. It sounded like the golden streak grown audible, while the gold seemed the visible sound. It pricked my ebbing courage, this blended strain of music and color, and I turned for a last effort, and fortune there upon, as if half ashamed of the unworthy game she had been playing with me, relented, opening her clenched fist. Hardly had I put my hand once more to the obdurate wood, when, with a sort of small sigh, almost a sob, as it were, of relief, the secret drawer sprang open. I drew it out, and carried it to the window to examine it in the failing light. Too hopeless had I gradually grown in my dispiriting search to expect very much, and yet at a glance I saw that my basket of glass lay in fragments at my feet. No ingots or dollars were here to crown me the little Monte Cristo of a week. Outside the distant horn had ceased its nap-song, the gold was pailing to primrose, and everything was lonely and still. Within my confident little castles were tumbling down like card-houses, leaving me stripped of estate, both real and personal, and dominated by the depressing reaction. And yet, as I looked again at the small collection that lay within that drawer of disillusions, some warmth crept back to my heart as I recognized that a kindred spirit to my own had been at the making of it. Two tarnished guilt buttons, navel, apparently, a portrait of a monarch unknown to me cut from some antique print, and deftly colored by hand in just my own bold style of brushwork, some foreign copper coins, thicker and clumsier of make than those I hoarded myself, and a list of birds' eggs, with names of the places where they had been found. Also a ferret's muzzle and a twist of tarry string, still faintly aromatic. It was a real boy's hoard, then, that I had happened upon. He, too, had found out the secret drawer, this happy-starred young person, and here he had stowed away his treasures, one by one, and had cherished them secretly a while, and then what? Well, one would never know now the reason why these priceless possessions still lay here unreclaimed, but across the void stretch of years I seemed to touch hands a moment with my little comrade of seasons long since dead. I restored the drawer with its contents to the trusty bureau, and heard the spring click with a certain satisfaction. Some other boy, perhaps, would someday release that spring again. I trusted he would be equally appreciative. As I opened the door to go I could hear from the nursery at the end of the passage shouts and yells, telling that the hunt was up. Bears, apparently, or bandits, were on the evening bill of fair, judging by the character of the noises. In another minute I would be in the thick of it, in all the warmth and light and laughter, and yet what a long way off it all seemed, both in space and time, to me yet lingering on the threshold of that old world chamber. The eventful day had arrived at last, the day which, when first named, had seemed like all golden days that promise anything definite, so immeasurably remote. When it was first announced, a fortnight before, that Miss Medley was really going, the resultant ecstasy had occupied a full week, during which we blindly reveled in the contemplation and discussion of her past tyrannies, crimes, malignities, and recalling to each other this or that insult, disorder, or physical assault, solemnly endured at a time, when deliverance was not even a small star on the horizon. And in mapping out the shining days to come, with special new troubles of their own, no doubt, since this is but a work-a-day world, but at least free from one familiar's courage. The time that remained had been taken up by the planning of practical expressions of the popular sentiment. Under Edward's masterly direction, arrangements had been made for a flag to be run up over the henhouse at the very moment when the fly, with Miss Medley's boxes on top, and the grim oppressor herself inside, began to move off down the drive. Three breast cannons, set on the brow of the sunk fence, were to proclaim our deathless sentiments in the ears of the retreating foe. The dogs were to wear ribbons, and later, but this depended on our powers of evasiveness and disimulation, there might be a small bonfire, with a cracker or two if the public funds could bear the unwanted strain. I was awakened by Harold digging me in the ribs, and, she's going today, was the morning hymn that scattered the clouds of sleep. Strange to say, it was with no corresponding jubilation of spirits that I slowly realized the momentous fact. Indeed, as I dressed, a dull, disagreeable feeling that I could not define grew up in me. Something like a physical bruise. Harold was evidently feeling it, too. For after repeating, she's going today, in a tone more befitting the litany, he looked hard in my face for direction as to how the situation was to be taken. But I crossly bade him look sharp and say his prayers and not bother me. What could this gloom pretend, that on a day of days like a present, seemed to hang my heavens with black? Down at last and out in the sun, we found Edward before us, swinging on a gate and chanting a form your diddy, in which all the beasts appear in the order, jargaining in their several tongues, and every verse begins with a couplet. Now my lads come with me, out in the morning early. The fateful exodus of the day had evidently slipped his memory entirely. I touched him on the shoulder. She's going today, I said. Edward's carols have sided like a water tap turned off. So she is, he replied, and got down at once off the gate, and returned to the house without another word. At breakfast, Miss Smedley behaved in a most mean and uncalled for manner. The right divine of governesses to govern wrong includes no right to cry. In this, usurping the prerogative of their victims, they ignored the rules of the ring and hit below the belt. Charlotte was crying, of course, but that counted for nothing. Charlotte even cried when the pig's noses were rained in due season, thereby evoking the cheery contempt of the operators, who asserted they liked it, and doubtless knew. But when the clad compeler, her bowls laid aside, resorted to tears, maintenance humanity had arrived to feel aggrieved, and think itself placed in a false and difficult position. What would the Romans have done, supposing Hannibal had cried? History has not even considered the possibility. Rules and precedence should be strictly observed on both sides, when they're violated, the other party is justified in feeling injured. There are no lessons that morning, naturally, and no their grievance. The fitness of sayings required that we should have struggled to the last in a confused medley of moods and tenses, and parted forever, flushed with hatred over the dismembered corpse of the multiplication table. But this thing was not to be, and I was free to stroll by myself through the garden, and combat, as best I might, is growing feeling of depression. It was a wrong system altogether, I thought. Is going of people one had got used to? Things are always to continue as they had been. Change there must be, of course. Pigs, for instance, came and went with disturbing frequency. Fired their ringing shot and passed, hotly charged and sank at last. But nature had ordered it so, and in requital, had provided for rapid successors. Did you come to love a pig, and it was taken from you? Grief was quickly aswashed in the delight of selection from the new leader. But now, when it was no question of a peerless pig but only of a governess, nature seemed helpless, and the future held no leader of oblivion. Things might be better, or they might be worse, but they would never be the same, and the innate conservatism of youth asked neither poverty, nor riches, but only immunity from change. Edward slouched up alongside of me presently, with a hanged dog look on him, as if he had been caught chilling jam. What a lurky little bee when she's really gone. He observed with a swagger obviously assumed. Grand fun, I replied deliriously, and conversation flagged. We reached the henhouse and contemplated the banner of freedom lying ready to flaunt the breezes at the supreme moment. Shall you run it up? He asked. When the fly starts, or wait a little till it's out of sight, Edward gazed round him dubiously. We're going to have some rain, I think, he said, and it's a no flag. It would be a pity to spoil it. Perhaps I won't run it up at all. Harold came round the corner like a bison pursued by Indians. I polished up the cannons, he cried, and they looked grand. Maintain them now. You live them alone, said Edward severely, or you'll be blowing yourself up. Consideration for others was not usually Edward's strong point. Don't touch the gunpowder till you're told, or you'll get your head smacked. Harold fell behind, limbs squashed obedient. She wants me to write to her, he began presently. Said she doesn't mind a spelling, if I'll only write. Fancy her saying that. Oh, shut up, will you? Said Edward sadly, and once more we were silent, but only our thoughts were sorry company. Let's go after the cops, I suggested timidly, feeling that something had to be done to relieve the tension, and cut more nobles and arrows. She gave me a knife my last birthday, said Edward modally, never budging. It wasn't much of a knife, but I wish I hadn't lost it. But my legs used to ache, I said. She set up half the night rubbing stuff on them. I forgot all about that till this morning. There's the fly, cried Harold suddenly. I can hear it scrunching on the gravel. Then for the first time we turned and stared each other in the face. The fly and its contents had finally disappeared through the gate. The rumble of its wheels had died away. Yet no flag floated defiantly in the sun, no cannons proclaimed the passing of a dynasty. From out the frosted cake of our existence, they had cut an irreplaceable segment. Turned which way we would, the void was present. We sneaked off in different directions, mutually undesirous of company. And it seemed burning upon me that I ought to go and dig my garden right over, from end to end. I didn't actually want digging. On the other hand, no amount of digging could affect it, for good or for evil. So I worked steadily, strenuously under the Hudson, stifling thought in action. At the end of an hour or so, I was joined by Edward. I'd been chopping off wood, he explained, in a guilty sort of way, though nobody had called on him to account for his doings. What for, I inquired stupidly. There's piles and piles I've been chopped up already. I know, said Edward, but there is no harm in having a bit over. You can never tell what may happen. But what have you been doing all this digging for? You said it was going to rain, I explained hastily, so I thought I'd get the digging done before it came. Good gardeners always tell you that's the right thing to do. It did look like rain at one time, Edward admitted, but it's passed off now. Very clear weather we're having. I suppose that's why I've felt so funny all day. Just as a purchase of weather, I replied, I've been feeling funny too. The weather had nothing to do with it, as we well know, but we would both have died rather than admit the real reason. End of section 15. Section 16 of The Golden Age This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Golden Age by Kenneth Graham Chapter 16 The Blue Room The nature-hazard moments of sympathy with man has been noted often enough, and generally as a no-discovery. To us, who had never known any other condition of things, it seemed entirely right and fitting that the winds sang and sobbed in the popular tabs, and in the lulls of it, sudden spurts of rains patterned the already dusty roads. On that blusterous March day, when Edward and I awaited, on the station platform, the arrival of the new tutor. Needless to say, this arrangement had been planned by an aunt, from some fond idea that our shy innocent young natures would unfold themselves during the walk from the station, and that on the revelation of each other's more solid qualities, that must then inevitably and so, an enduring friendship springing from mutual respect might be firmly based. A pretty dream, nothing more. For Edward, who first saw that the brunt of tutorial oppression would have to be borne by him, was sulky, monosyllabic, and determined to be as decadently disagreeable as good manners would permit. It was therefore evident that I would have to be spokesman and purveyor of hollow civilities, and I was none the more amenable on that account, all courtesies, welcomes, explanations, and other core chamberlain kind of business being my special aversion. There was much of the tempestuous March weather in the hearts of both of us, as we solemnly glowered along the carriage windows of the slackening train, one is apt, however, to misjudge the special difficulties of a situation, and the reception proved, after all, an easy and informal matter. In a rainfall so uniformly becolic, a tutor was readily recognizable, and his portmanteau had been consigned to the luggage cart, and his person conveyed into the lane before I had discharged one of my carefully considered sentences. I breathed more easily, and, looking up at our new friend as we stepped out together, remembered that we had been counting on something altogether more arid, scholastic, and severe. A boyish eager face, and a petulant posne, untidy hair, a head of constant quick turns like a robin's, and a voice that kept breaking into alto. These were all very strange and no, but not in the least terrible. He proceeded jerkily through the village, with glances on this side and that, charming, he broke out presently, quite too charming and delightful. I had not counted on this sort of thing, and glanced for help to Edward, who, hands in pockets, looked grimly down his nose. He had taken his line and meant to stick to it. Meantime, our friend had made an imaginary spyglass out of his fist, and was quenching through it at something I could not perceive. What an exquisite bear, he burst out. Fifteenth century? No, yes it is. I began to feel puzzled, not to say I learned. It reminded me of the butcher in the Arabian Nights, whose common joints, disfade on the sharp front, took to a startled public the appearance of dismembered humanity. This man seemed to see the strangest things in our dull familiar surroundings. Ah, he broke out again, as we jumped on between hedgerows, and that field now, backed by the downs, with the rain cloud brooding over it. That's all David Cox, every bit of it. That field belongs to Farmer Lorcan, I explained politely, for of course he could not be expected to know. I'll take you over to Farmer Cox tomorrow if he's a friend of yours, but there's nothing to see there. Edward, who was hanging suddenly behind, made a face at me as if to say, what sort of lunatic have you got here? It has a true pastoral character, this country of yours, went on our enthusiast, with just that added touch and cottage and farmstead relics of a bygone art, which makes our English landscape so divine, so unique. Really, this grasshopper was becoming a burden. These familiar fields and farms, of which we know every blade and stick, had done nothing that I knew of, to be spattered with adjectives in this way. I had never thought of them as divine, unique, or anything else. They were, well, they were just themselves, and there was an end of it. Despairingly, I jogged Edward in the ribs, as a sign to start rational conversation, but he only grinned and continued after it. You can see the house now, I remarked presently, and that's Selena, chasing the donkey in the paddock. Or is it the donkey chasing Selena? I can't quite make out, but it's them, anyhow. Needless to say, he exploded with a full charge of adjectives. Exquisit, he rapped out, so mellow and harmonious, and so entirely in keeping. I could see from Edward's face that he was singing who ought to be in keeping. Such possibilities of romance now in those old gables. If you mean the garrets, I said, there's a lot of old furniture in them, and one is generally full of apples. The bats get in sometimes, under the eaves, and flap it out till we go up with hairbrushes and things and drive them out, but there's nothing else in them that I know of. Oh, but there must be more than bats, he cried. Don't tell me there are no ghosts. I shall be deeply disappointed if there aren't any ghosts. I did not think it worthwhile to reply, feeling really unequal to this sort of conversation. Besides, we were nearing the house when my task would be ended. Aunt Eliza met us at the door, and in the crossfire of adjectives that ensued, both of them talking at once as gone a poke have a habit of doing, we too slipped around to the back of the house and speedily put several solid acres between us and civilization, for fear of being ordered entity in the drawing room. By the time we returned, our no importation had gone up to dress for dinner, so till tomorrow at least, we were free of him. Meanwhile, the March wind, after dropping a while at sundown, had been steadily increasing in volume, and although I fell asleep at my usual hour, about midnight I was awakened by the stress and cry of it. In the bright moonlight, wind swung branches, tossed and swayed eerily across the blinds. There was rumbling in chimneys, whistling in keyholes, and everywhere a clamor and a call. Sleep was out of the question, and sitting up in bed, I looked around. Edward sat up too. I was wondering when you were going to wake, he said. It's no good trying to sleep through this. I vote we get up and do something. I'm game, I replied. Let's play at being in a ship at sea. The plaint of the old house under the buffeting wind suggested this naturally, and if you can be wrecked on an island or left on a raft, whichever you choose. But I like an island best myself, because there is more things on it. Edward, on reflection, negative the idea. It would make too much noise, he pointed out. There is no fun playing at ships unless you can make a jolly good row. The door creaked, and a small figure in white slipped cautiously in. Thought I heard you talking, said Charlotte. We don't like it. We're afraid. Selena too. She'll be here in a minute. She's putting on her no-dressing gown she's so proud of. His arms round his knees. Edward cogitated deeply until Selena appeared, barefooted, and looking slim and tall in the no-dressing gown. Then, look here, he explained. Now we're all together. I vote we go and explore. You're always wanting to explore, I said. What on earth is there to explore for in this house? Biscuits, said the inspired Edward. Hooray! Come on! Chimed in Harold, sitting up suddenly, he had been awake all the time, but had been shaming asleep, lest he should be fact to do anything. It was indeed a fact, as Edward had remembered, that our thoughtless elders occasionally left the biscuits out, a prize for the night-looking adventurer with nerves of steel. Edward tumbled out of bed, and pulled a baggy old pair of knickerbuckers over his bare shanks, then ingirt himself with a belt, into which he thrust, on the one side a large wooden pistol, on the other an old single stick. And finally, he donned a big slouch hat, once an uncle's, that we used for playing Guy Fox and Charles II of a tree inn. Whatever the audience, Edward, if possible, always dressed for his parts with care and conscientiousness, while Harold and I, through Elizabethans, cared little about the mounting of the piece, so long as a real dramatic hurt of its big sound. Our commander now enjoined on us a silence deep as the grave, reminding us that an Eliza usually slept with an open door, past which we had to file. But we'll take the shortcut through the blue room, said the very solider. Of course, said Edward approvingly, I forgot about that. Now then, you lead the way. The blue room had in prehistoric times been added to by taking in a superfluous passage, and so not only had the advantage of tow doors, but enabled us to get to the head of the stairs without passing the chamber, wherein our dragon ant lay couched. It was rarely occupied, except when a casual uncle came down for the night. We entered in noiseless file, the room being plunged in darkness, except for a bright strip of moonlight on the floor, across which we must pass for our exit. On this, our leading lady chose to pause, seizing the opportunity to study the hang of her no-dressing gown. Greatly satisfied their ad, she proceeded, after the feminine fashion, to peacock and to pose, pacing a minuet down the wounded patch with an imaginary partner. This was too much for Edward's histrionic instincts, and after a moment's pause, he drew his single stick, and with flourishes meat for the occasion, soared unto the stage. A struggle ensued on the proved lines, at the end of which Solina was tapped slowly and with function, and her corpse burned from the chamber by the ruthless cavalier. The rest of us rushed after in a clump, with capers and gestic elections of delight, the special charm of the performance lying in the necessity for its being carried out with the dumbest of dumb shows. Once out in the dark landing, the noise of the storm without told us that we had exaggerated the necessity for silence. So, grasping the tales of each other's knife-gowns even as elf and climbers rubbed themselves together in perilous places, we fared stately down the staircase moraine, and across the green glacier of the hall, to wear a faint glimmer from the half-open door of the drawing room, beckoned to us like friendly hostile lights. Entering, we found that our swift-less seniors had left the sound red heart of a fire, easily coaxed into cheerful blaze. And the biscuits, a plateful, smiled at us in an encouraging sort of way, together with the halves of a lemon, already once squeezed but still suckable. The biscuits were righteously shared, the lemon segments passed from mouth to mouth, and as we scotted round the fire, with genial worms consoling our unclad limbs, we realized that so many nocturnal perils had not been braved in vain. It's a funny thing, said Edward as we chatted, how I hate this room in the daytime. It always means having your face washed and your hair brushed, and talking silly company talk, but tonight it's really quite jolly, looks different somehow. I never can make out, I said, but people come here to tea for it. They can have their own tea at home if they like, they're not poor people, with jam and things, and drink out of their saucer and suck their fingers and enjoy themselves, but they come here from a long way off, and sit up straight with their feet off the bars of their chairs, and have one cup, and talk the same sort of stuff every time. Solina sniffed disdainfully, you don't know anything about it, she said, in society you have to call on each other, it's the proper thing to do. Poo, you're not in society, said Edward politely, and what's more you never will be. Yes I shall someday, retorted Solina, but I shan't ask you to come and see me, so there wouldn't come if you did, grouch Edward. Well, you won't get the chance, rejoined her sister, claiming her right of the last word. There was no heed about these little amenities, which made up, as we understood it, the art of polite conversation. I don't like society people, put in Harold from the sofa, where he was sprawling at full length, aside the daylight hours would have blushed to witness. There were some of them here this afternoon, when you two had gone off to the station, oh and I found a dead mouse on the lawn, and I wanted to skin it, but I wasn't sure I know how by myself, and they came out into the garden and patted my head. I wish people wouldn't do that, and one of them asked me to pick her a flower, don't know why she couldn't pick it herself, but I said, all right I will if you hold my mouse, but she screamed and threw it away, and Augustus, the cat, got it, and ran away with it. I believe it was really his mouse all the time, cause he'd been looking about as if he had lost something, so I wasn't angry with him, but what did she want to throw away my mouse for? You have to be careful with mice, reflected Edward, there are such slippery things. Do you remember we were playing with a dead mouse once on the piano, and the mouse was Robinson Crusoe, and the piano was the island, and somehow Crusoe slipped down inside the island into its works, and we couldn't get him out, though we tried rakes and all sorts of things till the tuner came, and that wasn't till a week after, and then, here Charlotte, who had been nodding solemnly, fell over into the fender, and we realized that the wind had dropped at last, and the house was lapped in a great stillness. Our vacant beds seemed to be calling to us imperiously, and we were all glad when Edward gave the signal for retreat. At the top of the staircase, Harold unexpectedly turned mutinous, insisting on his right to slide down the banisters in a free country. Circumstances did not allow of argument. I suggested Frogs marching instead, and Frogs marched he accordingly was, the procession passing solemnly across the mullet blue room was Harold horizontal and limply submissive. Snugging bed at last, I was just slipping off into slumber when I heard Edward explode with chuckle at snort. By Jove, he said, I forgot all about it, the no-toters slipping in the blue room. Lucky he didn't wake up and catch us, I grunted drowsily, and both of us, without another thought on the matter, sank into well-earned repose. Next morning, we came down to breakfast to brace to grapple with fresh adversity, but were surprised to find our garrelous friend of the previous day, he was late in making his appearance, strangely silent and apparently preoccupied. Having polished off our porridge, we ran out to feed the rabbits, explaining to them that a beast of a tutor would prevent their enjoying so much of our society as formerly. On returning to the house at the faded hour appointed for study, we were thunderstruck to see the station car to disappearing down the drive, frightened with her new acquaintance, and Eliza was brutally uncommunicated, but she was overheard to remark casually that she thought the man must be a lunatic. In this theory, we were only too ready to concur, dismissing thereafter the whole matter from our minds. Some weeks later, it happened that Uncle Thomas, while paying us a flying visit, produced from his pocket a copy of the latest weekly Psyche A Journal of the Unseen, and proceeded laboriously to rate himself of much incomprehensible humor, apparently at our expense. We bore it patiently with the first grain demanded by convention, anxious to get at the source of inspiration, which it presently appeared lay in a paragraph circumstantially describing our modest and humdrum habitation. Case three, it began, the following particulars were communicated by a young member of the society of undeaded property and earnestness, and a chronicle of actual and recent experience. A fairly accurate description of the house followed, with details that were unmistakable. But to this, there succeeded a flood of meaningless dribble about apparitions, nightly visitants, and the like, writ in a manner betokening a deserted mind, coupled with a feeble imagination. The fellow was not even original. All the old material was there, the storm at night, the haunted chamber, the white lady, the murdery enacted, and so on, already weren't set bare in many a Christmas number. No one was able to make head or tail of the stuff, or of its connection with our quiet mansion. And yet Edward, who had always suspected the man, persisted in maintaining that our tutor of a brief span was, somehow or other, at the bottom of it. End of Section 16 Section 17 of The Golden Age This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Golden Age by Kenneth Graham Section 17 A Falling Out Harold told me the main facts of this episode some time later, in bits and with reluctance. It was not a recollection he cared to talk about. The crude blank misery of a moment is apt to leave a dull bruise which is slow to depart, if it ever does so entirely, and Harold confesses to a cleaner too, still, at times, like the veteran who brings home a bullet inside him from Marshall Plains overseas. He knew he was a brute the moment he had done it, Selena had not meant to worry, only to comfort and assist. But his soul was one raw sore within him, when he found himself shut up in the school room after hours, merely for insisting that 7 x 7 amounted to 47. The injustice of it seemed so flagrant. Why not 47 as much as 49? One number was no prettier than the other to look at, and it was evidently only a matter of arbitrary taste and preference, and anyhow, it had always been 47 to him, and would be to the end of time. So when Selena came in out of the sun, leaving the trappers or the forest behind her, and putting off the glory of being an Apache's caw, in order to hear him his tables and win his release, Harold turned on her venomously, rejected her kindly overtures, and ever drove his elbow into her sympathetic ribs in determination to be left alone in the glory of Salks. The fit passed directly, his eyes were opened, and his soul sat in the dust as he sorrowfully began to cast about for some atonement heroic enough to solve the wrong. Of course, poor Selena looked for no sacrifice nor heroics whatever. She didn't even want him to say he was sorry. If he would only make it up, she would have done the apologizing part herself. But that was not a boy's way. Something solid, Harold felt, was due from him, and until that was achieved, making up must not be thought of, in order that the final effect might not be spoiled. Accordingly, when his release came, and poor Selena hung about trying to catch his eye, Harold, possessed by the demon of a distorted motive, avoided her steadily, though he was bleeding inwardly at every minute of delay, and came to me instead. Needless to say, he proved his plan highly. It was so much more high toned than just going and making up tamely, which anyone could do, and a girl who had been jumped in the ribs by a hostile elbow could not be expected for a moment to overlook it. Without the liniment of an offering to soothe her injured feelings. I know what she wants most, said Harold. She wants a set of tea things in the toy shop window, with a red and blue flowers on them. She's wanted it for months, cause her dolls are getting big enough to have real afternoon tea, and she wants it so badly that she won't walk that side of the street when we go into the town. But it costs five shillings. Then we set to work seriously, and devoted the afternoon to a realization of assets and the composition of a budget that might have been dated without shame from Whitehall. The result worked out as follows. By one uncle, unspent through having been lost for nearly a week, turned up at last in the straw of the dog kennel, two shillings and six pennies carry forward two and six, brought forward two and six. By advance from me on security of next uncle, and failing that to be called in at Christmas one shilling, by shaking out of missionary box with the help of a knife blade, there were our own pennies at the first levy, four pennies. By bet due from Edward, for walking across the field where former larkin's bull was, and Edward bet him two pennies he wouldn't, called in with difficulty, two pennies. By advance from Martha on no security at all, only you mustn't tell your aunt, one shilling, total five shillings, and at last we breathed again. The rest promised to be easy. Selena had a tea party at five on the morrow, with the chip dealt wouldn't tea things that had served her successive dolls from babyhood. Harold would slip off directly after dinner, going alone so as not to arouse suspicion, as we were not allowed to go into the town by ourselves. It was nearly two miles to our small metropolis, but there would be plenty of time for him to go and return, even laden with the olive branch neatly packed in shavings. Besides, he might meet the butcher, who was his friend and would give him a lift. Then finally at five, the rapture of the no tea service descended from the skies, and retribution made, making up at last, without loss of dignity. With the event before us, we thought it a small thing that 24 hours more of alienation, and pretended sulks must be kept upon Harold's part, but Selena, naturally knew nothing of the treat in store for her, moped for the rest of the evening, and took a very heavy heart to bed. The next day the hour for action arrived, Harold debated Olympian attention with an easy modesty born of long practice, and made off for the front gate. Selena, who had been keeping her eye upon him, thought he was going down to the pond to catch frogs, a joy they had planned to share together, and made after him. But Harold, though he heard her footsteps, continued sternly on his high mission, without even looking back, and Selena was left to wander disconsolately among flower beds that had lost for her all scent and color. I sighed all, and although cold reason approved our line of action, instinct told me we were brutes. Harold reached the town, so every counted afterwards, in record time, having run most of the way for feared tea things, which had reposed six months in the window, should be snapped up by some other conscious strickle lacerator of a sister's feelings, and it seemed hardly credible to find them still there, and their owner willing to part with them for the price march of the ticket. He paid his money down at once, that there should be no drawing back from the bargain, and then, as the tea thing said to be taken out of the window and packed, and the afternoon was yet young, he thought he might treat himself to a taste of urban joys and levide the boo-aim. Shops came first, of course, and it flattened his nose successively against the window with the India rubber balls in it, and the clockwork locomotive, and against the barber's window with wigs on blocks reminding him of uncles, and shaving cream that looked so good to eat, and the grocer's window displaying more currents than the whole British population could possibly consume without a special effort, and the window of the bank, wherein gold was thought so little off that it was dealt about in shovels. Next, there was a marketplace, with all its clamorous joys, and when the runaway calf came down the street like a cannonball, Harold felt that he had not lived in vain. The whole place was so brimful of excitement that he had quite forgotten the why and the worth for of his being there, when a sight of the church clock recalled him to his bitter self, and sent him flying out of the town, as he realized he had only just time enough left to get back in. If he were after his appointed hour, he would not only miss his high triumph, but probably would be detected as a transgressor of bounds, a crime before which a private opinion on multiplication sank to nothingness, so he jogged along on his homeward way, thinking of many things, and probably talking to himself a good deal as his habit was, and it covered nearly half the distance, when suddenly a deadly sinking in the pit of his stomach, a paralysis of every limb, around him a world extinct of light and music, a black sun and a reeling sky. He had forgotten the tea things. It was useless, it was hopeless, all was over, and nothing could now be done. Nevertheless, he turned and ran back wildly, blindly, choking with the big sobs that evoked neither pity, nor comfort from a merciless mocking world around, a stitch in his side, dust in his eyes, a black despair clotting at his heart. So he stumbled on, with little legs and bursting sights, till, as if fate had not yet dealt him her last worst buffer, and turning a corner in the road, he almost ran under the wheels of a top cart, in which, as it pulled up, was apparent the poorly formed of former Larkin, the arch enemy, whose ducks he had been shying stone sad that very morning. Had Harold been in his right and unclouded senses, he would have vanished through the head some seconds earlier, rather than pain the former by any unpleasant reminiscences, which his appearance might call up. But as things were, he could only stand and blubber hopelessly, caring, indeed little now, what further ill might befall him. The former, for his part, surveyed the desolate figure with some astonishment, calling out in no one-friendly accents, why, Mr. Harold, whatever be the matter, bane to run in a way, be? Then Harold, with the unnatural courage burn of desperation, plung himself on the step, and climbing into the cart, fell in the straw at the bottom of it, sobbing out that he wanted to go back, go back. The situation had a vagueness, but the former, a man of action rather than words, swung his words round smartly, and they were in the town again by the time Harold had recovered himself sufficiently to furnish some details. As they drove up to the shop, the woman was waiting at the door with the parcel, and hardly a minute seemed to have elapsed since the black crisis, or they were bowling along swiftly home, the precious parcel hugged in a close embrace. And now the former came out in quite a no and unexpected light, never a word did he say of broken fences and hurdles, of trampled crops and harried flocks and herds. One would have thought the man had never possessed the head of livestock in his life. Instead, he was deeply interested in the whole Dolores quest of tea things, and sympathized with Harold on the dispirited point in mathematics, as if he had been himself at the same stage of education. As they neared home, Harold found himself to his surprise sitting up and chatting to his no-friend-like man-to-man, and before he was dropped at a convenient gap in the garden hedge, he had promised that when Selena gave her first public tea party, little Miss Larkin should be invited to come and bring her whole saddest family along with her. And the former appeared as pleased and proud as if he had been asked to a garden party at Marlborough House. Really, those Olympians have certain good points far down in them. I shall have to leave off abusing them someday. At the hour of five, Selena, having spent the afternoon searching for Harold in all his accustomed hunts, sat down disconsolently to tea with her dolls, who ungenerously refused to wait beyond the appointed hour. The wooden tea things seemed more chipped than usual, and the dolls themselves had more of wax and soddest and less of human color and intelligence about them than she ever remembered before. It was then that Harold burst in, very dusty, his talking set his heels, and the channels plowed by tears still showing on his grimy cheeks. And Selena was at last permitted to know that he had been thinking of her ever since his ill-judged exhibition of temper, and that his socks had not been the genuine article, nor had he gone frogging by himself. He was a very happy hostess who dispensed hospitality that evening to a glassy-eyed, stiff-knit circle, and many a dollish goshery that would have been severely checked on ordinary occasions was as much overlooked as if it had been a birthday. But Harold and I, in our stupid masculine way, thought all her happiness sprang from possession at the long cabaret's tea service.