Bildungsromans; Country life -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Pastoral fiction; Siblings -- Fiction
He waved her off and continued his stride, brandishing an aorist over my
devoted head. The housekeeper waited unmoved till there fell a moment's
break in his descant; and then, 'You'd better drink it before it gets
cold,' she observed again, impassively. The wretched man cast a
deprecating look at me. 'Perhaps a little tea would be rather nice,' he
observed feebly; and to my great relief he led the way into the garden.
I looked about for the little gentleman, but, failing to discover him, I
concluded he was absent-minded too, and attacked the 'cakes and things'
with no misgivings.
After a most successful and most learned tea a something happened which,
small as I was, never quite shook itself out of my memory. To us at
parley in an arbour over the high road, there entered, slouching into
view, a dingy tramp, satellited by a frowsy woman and a pariah dog;
and, catching sight of us, he set up his professional whine; and I
looked at my friend with the heartiest compassion, for I knew well from
Martha--it was common talk--that at this time of day he was certainly
and surely penniless. Morn by morn he started forth with pockets lined;
and each returning evening found him with never a sou. All this he
proceeded to explain at length to the tramp, courteously and even
shamefacedly, as one who was in the wrong; and at last the gentleman of
the road, realising the hopelessness of his case, set to and cursed him
with gusto, vocabulary, and abandonment. He reviled his eyes, his
features, his limbs, his profession, his relatives and surroundings; and
then slouched off, still oozing malice and filth. We watched the party
to a turn in the road, where the woman, plainly weary, came to a stop.
Her lord, after some conventional expletives demanded of him by his
position, relieved her of her bundle, and caused her to hang on his arm
with a certain rough kindness of tone, and in action even a dim
approach to tenderness; and the dingy dog crept up for one lick at her
hand.
'See,' said my friend, bearing somewhat on my shoulder, 'how this
strange thing, this love of ours, lives and shines out in the
unlikeliest of places! You have been in the fields in early morning?
Barren acres, all! But only stoop--catch the light thwartwise--and all
is a silver network of gossamer! So the fairy filaments of this strange
thing underrun and link together the whole world. Yet it is not the old
imperious god of the fatal bow--ἑρωϛ αυἱκατε μἁχαν--not that--nor even
the placid respectable στοργἡ--but something still unnamed, perhaps more
mysterious, more divine! Only one must stoop to see it, old fellow, one
must stoop!'
The dew was falling, the dusk closing, as I trotted briskly homewards
down the road. Lonely spaces everywhere, above and around. Only Hesperus
hung in the sky, solitary, pure, ineffably far-drawn and remote; yet
infinitely heartening, somehow, in his valorous isolation.
SNOWBOUND
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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