CHAPTER FIVE
The summer evenings sounded a very different music from that thinwheedling of April. It was now a soft steady vibration, the incessantdrone and throb of locust and cricket, and sometimes the sudden rasp,dry and hard, of katydids. Gissing, in spite of his weariness, was allfidgets. He would walk round and round the house in the dark, unableto settle down to anything; tired, but incapable of rest. What is thisuneasiness in the mind, he asked himself? The great sonorous drumming ofthe summer night was like the bruit of Time passing steadily by. Evenin the soft eddy of the leaves, lifted on a drowsy creeping air, was asound of discontent, of troublesome questioning. Through the trees hecould see the lighted oblongs of neighbours' windows, or hear stridulentjazz records. Why were all others so cheerfully absorbed in the minutiaeof their lives, and he so painfully ill at ease? Sometimes, under thewarm clear darkness, the noises of field and earth swelled to a kindof soft thunder: his quickened ears heard a thousand small outcriescontributing to the awful energy of the world--faint chimings andwhistlings in the grass, and endless flutter, rustle, and whirr. His ownbody, on which hair and nails grew daily like vegetation, startled andappalled him. Consciousness of self, that miserable ecstasy, was heavyupon him.
He envied the children, who lay upstairs sprawled under their mosquitonettings. Immersed in living, how happily unaware of being alive! Hesaw, with tenderness, how naively they looked to him as the answer andsolution of their mimic problems. But where could he find someone to beto him what he was to them? The truth apparently was that in his inwardmind he was desperately lonely. Reading the poets by fits and starts,he suddenly realized that in their divine pages moved something of thisloneliness, this exquisite unhappiness. But these great hearts had hadthe consolation of setting down their moods in beautiful words, wordsthat lived and spoke. His own strange fever burned inexpressibly insidehim. Was he the only one who felt the challenge offered by the maddeningfertility and foison of the hot sun-dazzled earth? Life, he realized,was too amazing to be frittered out in this aimless sickness of heart.There were truths and wonders to be grasped, if he could only throw offthis wistful vague desire. He felt like a clumsy strummer seated at adark shining grand piano, which he knows is capable of every glory ofrolling music, yet he can only elicit a few haphazard chords.
He had his moments of arrogance, too. Ah, he was very young! Thismiracle of blue unblemished sky that had baffled all others since lifebegan--he, he would unriddle it! He was inclined to sneer at his friendswho took these things for granted, and did not perceive the infamousinsolubility of the whole scheme. Remembering the promises made atthe christening, he took the children to church; but alas, carefullyanalyzing his mind, he admitted that his attention had been chieflyoccupied with keeping them orderly, and he had gone through the servicealmost automatically. Only in singing hymns did he experience a tingleof exalted feeling. But Mr. Poodle was proud of his well-trained choir,and Gissing had a feeling that the congregation was not supposed to domore than murmur the verses, for fear of spoiling the effect. In hisfavourite hymns he had a tendency to forget himself and let go: hisvigorous tenor rang lustily. Then he realized that the backs of people'sheads looked surprised. The children could not be kept quiet unlessthey stood up on the pews. Mr. Poodle preached rather a long sermon, andYelpers, toward twelve-thirty, remarked in a clear tone of interestedinquiry, "What time does God have dinner?"
Gissing had a painful feeling that he and Mr. Poodle did not thoroughlyunderstand each other. The curate, who was kindness itself, called oneevening, and they had a friendly chat. Gissing was pleased to findthat Mr. Poodle enjoyed a cigar, and after some hesitation ventured tosuggest that he still had something in the cellar. Mr. Poodle said thathe didn't care for anything, but his host could not help hearing thecurate's tail quite unconsciously thumping on the chair cushions. So heexcused himself and brought up one of his few remaining bottles ofWhite Horse. Mr. Poodle crossed his legs and they chatted about golf,politics, the income tax, and some of the recent books; but when Gissingturned the talk on religion, Mr. Poodle became diffident.. Gissing,warmed and cheered by the vital Scotch, was perhaps too direct.
"What ought I to do to 'crucify the old man'?" he said.
Mr. Poodle was rather embarrassed.
"You must mortify the desires of the flesh," he replied. "You must digup the old bone of sin that is buried in all our hearts."
There were many more questions Gissing wanted to ask about this, but Mr.Poodle said he really must be going, as he had a call to pay on Mr. andMrs. Chow.
Gissing walked down the path with him, and the curate did indeed set offtoward the Chows'. But Gissing wondered, for a little later he heard acheerful canticle upraised in the open fields.
He himself was far from gay. He longed to tear out this malady from hisbreast. Poor dreamer, he did not know that to do so is to tear out GodHimself. "Mrs. Spaniel," he said when the laundress next came up fromthe village, "you are a widow, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," she said. "Poor Spaniel was killed by a truck, two years agoApril." Her face was puzzled, but beneath her apron Gissing could seeher tail wagging.
"Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. "I've got to go away onbusiness. I want you to bring your children and move into this housewhile I'm gone. I'll make arrangements at the bank about paying all thebills. You can give up your outside washing and devote yourself entirelyto looking after this place."
Mrs. Spaniel was so much surprised that she could not speak. In heramazement a bright bubble dripped from the end of her curly tongue.Hastily she caught it in her apron, and apologized.
"How long will you be away, sir?" she asked.
"I don't know. It may be quite a long time."
"But all your beautiful things, furniture and everything," said Mrs.Spaniel. "I'm afraid my children are a bit rough. They're not used toliving in a house like this--"
"Well," said Gissing, "you must do the best you can. There are somethings more important than furniture. It will be good for your childrento get accustomed to refined surroundings, and it'll be good for mynephews to have someone to play with. Besides, I don't want them to growup spoiled mollycoddles. I think I've been fussing over them too much.If they have good stuff in them, a little roughening won't do anypermanent harm."
"Dear me," cried Mrs. Spaniel, "what will the neighbours think?"
"They won't," said Gissing. "I don't doubt they'll talk, but they won'tthink. Thinking is very rare. I've got to do some myself, that's onereason why I'm going. You know, Mrs. Spaniel, God is a horizon, notsomeone sitting on a throne." Mrs. Spaniel didn't understand this--infact, she didn't seem to hear it. Her mind was full of the idea thatshe would simply have to have a new dress, preferably black silk, forSundays. Gissing, very sagacious, had already foreseen this point."Let's not have any argument," he continued. "I have planned everything.Here is some money for immediate needs. I'll speak to them at thebank, and they will give you a weekly allowance. I leave you here ascaretaker. Later on I'll send you an address and you can write me howthings are going."
Poor Mrs. Spaniel was bewildered. She came of very decent people, butsince Spaniel took to drink, and then left her with a family to support,she had sunk in the world. She was wondering now how she could face itout with Mrs. Chow and Mrs. Fox-Terrier and the other neighbours.
"Oh, dear," she cried, "I don't know what to say, sir. Why, my boys areso disreputable-looking, they haven't even a collar between them."
"Get them collars and anything else they need," said Gissing kindly."Don't worry, Mrs. Spaniel, it will be a fine thing for you. There willbe a little gossip, I dare say, but we'll have to chance that. Nowyou had better go down to the village and make your arrangements. I'mleaving tonight."
Late that evening, after seeing Mrs. Spaniel and her brood safelyinstalled, Gissing walked to the station with his suitcase. He felt apang as he lifted the mosquito nettings and kissed the cool moist nosesof the sleeping trio. But he comforted himself by thinking that this wasno mer
ely vulgar desertion. If he was to raise the family, he must earnsome money. His modest income would not suffice for this sudden increasein expenses. Besides, he had never known what freedom meant until itwas curtailed. For the past three months he had lived in ceaselessattendance; had even slept with one ear open for the children's cries.Now he owed it to himself to make one great strike for peace. Wealth, hecould see, was the answer. With money, everything was attainable: books,leisure for study, travel, prestige--in short, command over the physicaldetails of life. He would go in for Big Business. Already he thrilledwith a sense of power and prosperity.
The little house stood silent in the darkness as he went down the path.The night was netted with the weaving sparkle of fireflies. He stoodfor a moment, looking. Suddenly there came a frightened cry from thenursery.
"Daddy, a keeto, a keeto!"
He nearly turned to run back, but checked himself. No, Mrs. Spaniel wasnow in charge. It was up to her. Besides, he had only just enough timeto catch the last train to the city.
But he sat on the cinder-speckled plush of the smoker in a mood that washardly revelry. "By Jove," he said to himself, "I got away just in time.Another month and I couldn't have done it."
It was midnight when he saw the lights of town, panelled in gold againsta peacock sky. Acres and acres of blue darkness lay close-pressingupon the gaudy grids of light. Here one might really look at this greatmiracle of shadow and see its texture. The dulcet air drifted lazily indeep, silent crosstown streets. "Ah," he said, "here is where the bluebegins."