A British writer known by the pen name Saki 15 страница
“Look at me!” he shouted.
His startled sisters looked, and before the servant girl could get there, the bread plate wobbled, slid, flew to the floor, and broke into shivers. At this awful point the little girls lifted up their voices and shrieked their loudest.
“Mother, come and look what he's done!”
“Dicky's broke a great big plate!”
“Come and stop him, mother!”
You can imagine how mother came flying. But she was too late. Dicky had leapt out of his chair, run through the French windows on to the verandah, and, well – there she stood – popping her thimble on and off, helpless. What could she do? She couldn't chase after the child. She couldn't stalk Dicky among the apples and damsons. That would be too undignified. It was more than annoying, it was exasperating. Especially as Mrs. Spears, Mrs. Spears of all people, whose two boys were so exemplary, was waiting for her in the drawing-room.
“Very well, Dicky,” she cried, “I shall have to think of some way of punishing you.”
“I don't care,” sounded the high little voice, and again there came that ringing laugh. The child was quite beside himself…
“Oh, Mrs. Spears, I don't know how to apologise for leaving you by yourself like this.”
“It's quite all right, Mrs. Bendall,” said Mrs. Spears, in her soft, sugary voice, and raising her eyebrows in the way she had. She seemed to smile to herself as she stroked the gathers. “These little things will happen from time to time. I only hope it was nothing serious.”
“It was Dicky,” said Mrs. Bendall, looking rather helplessly for her only fine needle. And she explained the whole affair to Mrs. Spears.
“And the worst of it is, I don't know how to cure him. Nothing when he's in that mood seems to have the slightest effect on him.”
Mrs. Spears opened her pale eyes. “Not even a whipping?” said she.
But Mrs. Bendall, threading her needle, pursed up her lips. “We never have whipped the children,” she said. “The girls never seem to have needed it. And Dicky is such a baby, and the only boy. Somehow…”
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Spears, and she laid her sewing down. “I don't wonder Dicky has these little outbreaks. You don't mind my saying so? But I'm sure you make a great mistake in trying to bring up children without whipping them. Nothing really takes its place. And I speak from experience, my dear. I used to try gentler measures” – Mrs. Spears drew in her breath with a little hissing sound – “soaping the boys' tongues, for instance, with yellow soap, or making them stand on the table for the whole of Saturday afternoon. But no, believe me,” said Mrs. Spears, “there is nothing, there is nothing like handing them over to their father.”
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Mrs. Bendall in her heart of hearts was dreadfully shocked to hear of that yellow soap. But Mrs. Spears seemed to take it so much for granted, that she did too.
“Their father,” she said. “Then you don't whip them yourself?”
“Never.” Mrs. Spears seemed quite shocked at the idea. “I don't think it's the mother's place to whip the children. It's the duty of the father. And, besides, he impresses them so much more.”
“Yes, I can imagine that,” said Mrs. Bendall, faintly.
“Now my two boys,” Mrs. Spears smiled kindly, encouragingly, at Mrs. Bendall, “would behave just like Dicky if they were not afraid to. As it is…”
“Oh, your boys are perfect little models,” cried Mrs. Bendall.
They were. Quieter, better-behaved little boys, in the presence of grown-ups, could not be found. In fact, Mrs. Spears' callers often made the remark that you never would have known that there was a child in the house. There wasn't – very often.
In the front hall, under a large picture of fat, cheery old monks fishing by the riverside, there was a thick, dark horsewhip that had belonged to Mr. Spears' father. And for some reason the boys preferred to play out of sight of this, behind the dog-kennel or in the tool-house, or round about the dustbin.
“It's such a mistake,” sighed Mrs. Spears; breathing softly, as she folded her work, “to be weak with children when they are little. It's such a sad mistake, and one so easy to make. It's so unfair to the child. That is what one has to remember. Now Dicky's little escapade this afternoon seemed to me as though he'd done it on purpose. It was the child's way of showing you that he needed a whipping.”
“Do you really think so?” Mrs. Bendall was a weak little thing, and this impressed her very much.
“I do; I feel sure of it. And a sharp reminder now and then,” cried Mrs. Spears in quite a professional manner, “administered by the father, will save you so much trouble in the future. Believe me, my dear.” She put her dry, cold hand over Mrs. Bendall's.
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“I shall speak to Edward the moment he comes in,” said Dicky's mother firmly.
The children had gone to bed before the garden gate banged, and Dicky's father staggered up the steep concrete steps carrying his bicycle. It had been a bad day at the office. He was hot, dusty, tired out.
But by this time Mrs. Bendall had become quite excited over the new plan, and she opened the door to him herself.
“Oh, Edward, I'm so thankful you have come home,” she cried.
“Why, what's happened?” Edward lowered the bicycle and took off his hat. A red angry pucker showed where the brim had pressed. “What's up?”
“Come – come into the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Bendall, speaking very fast. “I simply can't tell you how naughty Dicky has been. You have no idea – you can't have at the office all day – how a child of that age can behave. He's been simply dreadful. I have no control over him – none. I 've tried everything, Edward, but it's all no use. The only thing to do,” she finished breathlessly, “is to whip him – is for you to whip him, Edward.”
In the corner of the drawing-room there was a what-not, and on the top shelf stood a brown china bear with a painted tongue. It seemed in the shadow to be grinning at Dicky's father, to be saying, “Hooray, this is what you've come home to!”
“But why on earth should I start whipping him?” said Edward, staring at the bear. “We've never done it before.”
“Because,” said his wife, “don't you see, it's the only thing to do. I can't control the child…” Her words flew from her lips. They beat round him, beat round his tired head. “We can't possibly afford a nurse. The servant girl has more than enough to do. And his naughtiness is beyond words. You don't understand, Edward; you can't, you're at the office all day.”
The bear poked out his tongue. The scolding voice went on. Edward sank into a chair.
“What am I to beat him with?” he said weakly.
“Your slipper, of course,” said his wife. And she knelt down to untie his dusty shoes.
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“Oh, Edward,” she wailed, “you've still got your cycling clips on in the drawing-room. No, really –”
“Here, that's enough,” Ed ward nearly pushed her away. “Give me that slipper.” He went up the stairs. He felt like a man in a dark net. And now he wanted to beat Dicky. Yes, damn it, he wanted to beat something. My God, what a life! The dust was still in his hot eyes, his arms felt heavy.
He pushed open the door of Dicky's slip of a room. Dicky was standing in the middle of the floor in his night-shirt. At the sight of him Edward's heart gave a warm throb of rage.
“Well, Dicky, you know what I've come for,” said Edward.
Dicky made no reply.
“I've come to give you a whipping.”
No answer.
“Lift up your nightshirt.”
At that Dicky looked up. He flushed a deep pink. “Must I?” he whispered.
“Come on, now. Be quick about it,” said Edward, and, grasping the slipper, he gave Dicky three hard slaps.
“There, that'll teach you to behave properly to your mother.”
Dicky stood there, hanging his head.
“Look sharp and get into bed,” said his father.
Still he did not move. But a shaking voice said, “I've not done my teeth yet, Daddy.”
“Eh, what's that?”
Dicky looked up. His lips were quivering, but his eyes were dry. He hadn't made a sound or shed a tear. Only he swallowed and said, huskily, “I haven't done my teeth, Daddy.”
But at the sight of that little face Edward turned, and, not knowing what he was doing, he bolted from the room, down the stairs, and out into the garden. Good God! What had he done? He strode along and hid in the shadow of the pear tree by the hedge. Whipped Dicky – whipped his little man with a slipper – and what the devil for? He didn't even know. Suddenly he barged into his room – and there was the little chap in his nightshirt. Dicky's father groaned and held on to the hedge. And he didn't cry. Never a tear. If only he'd cried or got angry. But that “Daddy”! And again he heard the quivering whisper. Forgiving like that without a word. But he'd never forgive himself – never. Coward! Fool! Brute! And suddenly he remembered the time when Dicky had fallen off his knee and sprained his wrist while they were playing together. He hadn't cried then, either. And that was the little hero he had just whipped.
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Something's got to be done about this, thought Edward. He strode back to the house, up the stairs, into Dicky's room. The little boy was lying in bed. In the halflight his dark head, with the square fringe, showed plain against the pale pillow. He was lying quite still, and even now he wasn't crying. Edward shut the door and leaned against it. What he wanted to do was to kneel down by Dicky's bed and cry himself and beg to be forgiven. But, of course, one can't do that sort of thing. He felt awkward, and his heart was wrung.
“Not asleep yet, Dicky?” he said lightly.
“No, Daddy.”
Edward came over and sat on his boy's bed, and Dicky looked at him through his long lashes.
“Nothing the matter, little chap, is there?” said Edward, half whispering.
“No-o, Daddy,” came from Dicky.
Edward put out his hand, and carefully he took Dicky's hot little paw.
“You – you mustn't think any more of what happened just now, little man,” he said huskily. “See? That's all over now. That's forgotten. That's never going to happen again. See?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“So the thing to do now is to buck up, little chap,” said Edward, “and to smile.” And he tried himself an extraordinary trembling apology for a smile. “To forget all about it – to – eh? Little man… Old boy…”
Dicky lay as before. This was terrible. Dicky's father sprang up and went over to the window. It was nearly dark in the garden. The servant girl had run out, and she was snatching, twitching some white clothes off the bushes and piling them over her arm. But in the boundless sky the evening star shone, and a big gum tree, black against the pale glow, moved its long leaves softly. All this he saw, while he felt in his trouser pocket for his money. Bringing it out, he chose a new sixpence and went back to Dicky.
“Here you are, little chap. Buy yourself something,” said Edward softly, laying the sixpence on Dicky's pillow.
But could even that – could even a whole sixpence – blot out what had been?
Ole Underwood
To Anne Estelle Rice
Down the windy hill stalked Ole Underwood. He carried a black umbrella in one hand, in the other a red and white spotted handkerchief knotted into a lump. He wore a black peaked cap like a pilot; gold rings gleamed in his ears and his little eyes snapped like two sparks. Like two sparks they glowed in the smoulder of his bearded face. On one side of the hill grew a forest of pines from the road right down to the sea. On the other side short tufted grass and little bushes of white manuka flower. The pine-trees roared like waves in their topmost branches, their stems creaked like the timber of ships; in the windy air flew the white manuka flower. “Ah-k!” shouted Ole Underwood, shaking his umbrella at the wind bearing down upon him, beating him, half strangling him with his black cape. “Ah-k!” shouted the wind a hundred times as loud, and filled his mouth and nostrils with dust. Something inside Ole Underwood's breast beat like a hammer. One, two – one, two – never stopping, never changing. He couldn't do anything. It wasn't loud. No, it didn't make a noise – only a thud. One, two – one, two – like some one beating on an iron in a prison, some one in a secret place – bang – bang – bang – trying to get free. Do what he would, fumble at his coat, throw his arms about, spit, swear, he couldn't stop the noise. Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Ole Underwood began to shuffle and run.
Away below, the sea heaving against the stone walls, and the little town just out of its reach close packed together, the better to face the grey water. And up on the other side of the hill the prison with high red walls. Over all bulged the grey sky with black web-like clouds streaming.
Ole Underwood slackened his pace as he neared the town, and when he came to the first house he flourished his umbrella like a herald's staff and threw out his chest, his head glancing quickly from right to left. They were ugly little houses leading into the town, built of wood – two windows and a door, a stumpy verandah and a green mat of grass before. Under one verandah yellow hens huddled out of the wind. “Shoo!” shouted Ole Underwood, and laughed to see them fly, and laughed again at the woman who came to the door and shook a red, soapy fist at him. A little girl stood in another yard untwisting some rags from a clothes-line. When she saw Ole Underwood she let the clothes-prop fall and rushed screaming to the door, beating it, screaming “Mumma – Mumma!” That started the hammer in Ole Underwood's heart. Mum-ma – Mum-ma! He saw an old face with a trembling chin and grey hair nodding out of the window as they dragged him past. Mumma – Mum-ma! He looked up at the big red prison perched on the hill and he pulled a face as if he wanted to cry.
At the corner in front of the pub some carts were pulled up, and some men sat in the porch of the pub drinking and talking. Ole Underwood wanted a drink. He slouched into the bar. It was half full of old and young men in big coats and top boots with stock whips in their hands. Behind the counter a big girl with red hair pulled the beer handles and cheeked the men. Ole Underwood sneaked to one side, like a cat. Nobody looked at him, only the men looked at each other, one or two of them nudged. The girl nodded and winked at the fellow she was serving. He took some money out of his knotted handkerchief and slipped it on to the counter. His hand shook. He didn't speak. The girl took no notice; she served everybody, went on with her talk, and then as if by accident shoved a mug towards him. A great big jar of red pinks stood on the bar counter. Ole Underwood stared at them as he drank and frowned at them. Red – red – red – red! beat the hammer. It was very warm in the bar and quiet as a pond, except for the talk and the girl. She kept on laughing. Ha! Ha! That was what the men liked to see, for she threw back her head and her great breasts lifted and shook to her laughter.
In one corner sat a stranger. He pointed at Ole Underwood. “Cracked!” said one of the men. “When he was a young fellow, thirty years ago, a man 'ere done in 'is woman, and 'e foun' out an' killed 'er. Got twenty years in quod up on the 'ill. Came out cracked.”
“Oo done 'er in? “asked the man.
“Dunno. 'E dunno, nor nobody. 'E was a sailor till 'e marrid 'er. Cracked!” The man spat and smeared the spittle on the floor, shrugging his shoulders. “'E's 'armless enough.”
Ole Underwood heard; he did not turn, but he shot out an old claw and crushed up the red pinks. “Uh-Uh! You ole beast! Uh! You ole swine!” screamed the girl, leaning across the counter and banging him with a tin jug. “Get art! Get art! Don' you never come 'ere no more!” Somebody kicked him: he scuttled like a rat.
He walked past the Chinamen's shops. The fruit and vegetables were all piled up against the windows. Bits of wooden cases, straw, and old newspapers were strewn over the pavement. A woman flounced out of a shop and slushed a pail of slops over his feet. He peered in at the windows, at the Chinamen sitting in little groups on old barrels playing cards. They made him smile. He looked and looked, pressing his face against the glass and sniggering. They sat still with their long pigtails bound round their heads and their faces yellow as lemons. Some of them had knives in their belts, and one old man sat by himself on the floor plaiting his long crooked toes together. The Chinamen didn't mind Ole Underwood. When they saw him they nodded. He went to the door of a shop and cautiously opened it. In rushed the wind with him, scattering the cards. “Ya-Ya! Ya-Ya!” screamed the Chinamen, and Ole Underwood rushed off, the hammer beating quick and hard. Ya-Ya! He turned a corner out of sight. He thought he heard one of the Chinks after him, and he slipped into a timber-yard. There he lay panting…
Close by him, under another stack there was a heap of yellow shavings. As he watched them they moved and a little grey cat unfolded herself and came out waving her tail. She trod delicately over to Ole Underwood and rubbed against his sleeve. The hammer in Ole Underwood's heart beat madly. It pounded up into his throat, and then it seemed to half stop and beat very, very faintly. “Kit! Kit! Kit!” That was what she used to call the little cat he brought her off the ship – “Kit! Kit! Kit!” – and stoop down with the saucer in her hands. “Ah! my God! my Lord!” Ole Underwood sat up and took the kitten in his arms and rocked to and fro, crushing it against his face. It was warm and soft, and it mewed faintly. He buried his eyes in its fur. My God! My Lord! He tucked the little cat in his coat and stole out of the woodyard, and slouched down towards the wharves. As he came near the sea, Ole Underwood's nostrils expanded. The mad wind smelled of tar and ropes and slime and salt. He crossed the railway line, he crept behind the wharf-sheds and along a little cinder path that threaded through a patch of rank fennel to some stone drain pipes carrying the sewage into the sea. And he stared up at the wharves and at the ships with flags flying, and suddenly the old, old lust swept over Ole Underwood. “I will! I will! I will!” he muttered.
He tore the little cat out of his coat and swung it by its tail and flung it out to the sewer opening. The hammer beat loud and strong. He tossed his head, he was young again. He walked on to the wharves, past the wool-bales, past the loungers and the loafers to the extreme end of the wharves. The sea sucked against the wharf-poles as though it drank something from the land. One ship was loading wool. He heard a crane rattle and the shriek of a whistle. So he came to the little ship lying by herself with a bit of a plank for a gangway, and no sign of anybody – anybody at all. Ole Underwood looked once back at the town, at the prison perched like a red bird, at the black webby clouds trailing. Then he went up the gangway and on to the slippery deck. He grinned, and rolled in his walk, carrying high in his hand the red and white handkerchief. His ship! Mine! Mine! Mine! beat the hammer. There was a door latched open on the lee-side, labelled “State-room.” He peered in. A man lay sleeping on a bunk – his bunk – a great big man in a seaman's coat with a long fair beard and hair on the red pillow. And looking down upon him from the wall there shone her picture – his woman's picture – smiling and smiling at the big sleeping man.
Ernest Miller Hemingway
1899 – 1961
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