Loe raamatut: «Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes», lehekülg 12

Volume Two – Chapter Five.
Homes in London

Bennett’s-rents still upon that day – a bright breezy day – when for a whole hour the god that kisseth carrion shone down into the court to lick up every trace of green damp and moisture from the foul, broken pavement. There was a pump in Bennett’s-rents, and a channel ran down the centre of the paving, whose broken slabs rose and fell in wet weather to the passing step, spurting out little founts of dirty water, while the channel itself was choked, from being turned into a receptacle for the superfluous odds and ends of the inhabitants – to wit: potato, turnip, and carrot peelings; the shells of whelks, periwinkles, mussels, and crabs; egg-shells were at times seen there, as also the nacreous covering of the oyster, but not as the débris of banquets, since these latter were only brought in by the grotto-building children, and the former thrown out by the jobbing bookbinder’s-finisher when robbed of their albumen for purposes of trade. Heads, tails, and the vertebra of plaice, or the real Yarmouth bloater, were common objects of the shore. Babies had been seen in that channel, which possessed a certain charm from its safety, since the child that rolled in rolled no farther. It was the favourite resort of the small fry of the neighbourhood, – a neighbourhood that rejoiced in small children, and big babies of an elastic nature, which prevented falls and contusions from stopping their growth, – for the refuse in that channel could be raked about and poked at with bits of stick to the formation of dams, where walnut cock-boats could be sailed, or mussel-prows launched; and occasional visitants from as far off as Lower Series-place had been known to perch there and peck, for the channel was famed for its ample supply of impromptu playthings for the little savages of the place. A large lobster-claw found therein had formed the coral of Dredge minor, whose father worked at Covent-garden Market, and never slept at home by night. Little Jenny Perkins wore a necklace composed of periwinkle-shells; while whelk-shells, stuck at the end of thick pieces of firewood, and previously filled with peas, formed rattles that were indestructible.

Like Lower Series-place, Bennett’s-rents was famous for its prolific inhabitants. Long as daylight lasted, there was a dense small population of half-dressed aborigines, hooting, racing about, playing, and quarrelling, aided in their efforts by levies from others of the rags of Lincoln’s-inn. Why called Bennett’s-rents was not obvious, though it might have been from the hideous cracks and seams in the frowzy old houses, whose windows looked as if they had been in a brown-paper-and-rag war, in which glass had suffered a terrible defeat, and submitted now, with an ill grace, to the presence of the new settlers.

But the children did not have the channel all up themselves, for at early dawn the pigeons from the housetops paid it visits, and, in spite of broken, dissipated-looking chimney-pots, falling-out mortar, and shattered, soot-covered tiles, there were many soft-eyed, iridescent – hued birds dwelling upon the roofs of the houses in Bennett’s-rents; and, more especially upon Sunday mornings, an observer from some high edifice might have seen dirty-faced men, in hairy caps, rising out of trap-doors in roofs, like “Mr F’s aunt” through the factory-floor, and, when half-way out, and forming prominent objects among little wildernesses of sooty, lath-made cages and traps, amusing themselves by waving red-cotton handkerchiefs tied to the end of sticks, for the purpose of keeping their flights of pigeons high in air.

A rumour had spread through the court that something was to be seen in the neighbouring street, when out trooped the children from the narrow entrance, and comparative silence reigned, till place and echoes were alike mocked by a man with his cry of “Rag – bone!” but his was labour in vain: he took nothing further from the Rents to glut the shop of Mrs Slagg, and, reaching the end of the place, he departed with his bag still light, and the court knew him no more that day, though there were rags enough in every house to have filled his sack again and again, and drawn down the index of his portable weighing-machine to the furthest limit. Still there was another sound to be heard, for Mr William Jarker, of the heavy jaw, flattened nose, and general bull-dog aspect, was above his attic, whistling to his pigeons, as the Reverend Arthur Sterne stood by the reeking channel, gazing up into the strip of blue sky above his head, and following the circling flight of the birds as he muttered sadly to himself, “O, that I had wings like a dove; for then would I fly away and be at rest!” but the next instant he smiled sadly, as he recalled work undone, duties to perform, and then thought of the rest and fate of these birds, wondering, too, how it came that they should form the “fancy” of the roughest of the rough. Then he paused with his foot upon the threshold of the house where Septimus Hardon lodged, for there, in the hot, close London court, came gushing down in tones of purest liquid melody, the wild, heaven-gate trill of a lark: “Tsweet-tsweet-tsweet-tsweet!” every trill an intoxicating, magic draught, drunk in by the ear, and – a very opium – bearing the hearer far, far away to green fields, shady woodlands, golden hill-sides, and sparkling brooks; louder, louder and more rapturous, thrilling the air around; rising and falling, echoing from far and near, but ever sweet and pure, even joyous at times; and praise the song of the wild bird as you may, there is that in the trill of its caged brother in some close London alley that shall sound the sweeter in the sadness engendered by the surroundings, for it whispers of brighter scenes and purer homes, bearing you with it far, far away from the misery where you stay.

Even Bill Jarker ceased waving his handkerchief, took his short, black pipe from his mouth, and listened; the curate thought of days when, with a soft white hand in his, he had wandered over the downs, listening to those ever-sweet English notes; while from the window above was stretched forth the fair, shapely head of Lucy Grey, her eyes sparkling, and lips apart, as if to command silence; and then, as the curate looked up, there was a slight start, a faint flush of colour in the girl’s pale cheeks, and her head was quickly withdrawn.

A tall, slight, careworn man was the curate of Saint Magdalen’s; hair sprinkled with grey, deep lines crossing his brow, and yet there was a smile of ineffable sweetness lingering about his mouth – a smile which, far from telling of weakness, whispered of sorrow, tenderness, patience, and charity.

The few minutes of tranquillity had passed. The door of the house stood open – as, in fact, did that of every other house in the thickly-inhabited court; the children began to troop back, Bill Jarker took to his pipe and pigeon-flying, and with thoughts trembling between the ideal and the real, the curate entered the door before him.

It was not a Saturday, or he would have found the ascent of the stairs troublesome; but he well knew the manners and customs of the natives, and abstained from making his visits on that day of the week, for on Saturdays there was a rule carried out (one set in force by the landlady), that the attics cleaned down to the second-floor, the second-floor to the first, the first-floor to the passage, which last portion fell to the lot of the occupants of the parlours, front and back – two families who took it in turns to make the dirt upon the said passage wet, and then to smear it from side to side with a flannel, so that the boards always wore the aspect of having been newly hearthstoned with a lump of brown clay, if the simile will stand. Consequently, upon this seventh day of the week, when the lodgers were busy, and Mrs Sims could be heard sniffing as she “did Hardons’ bit,” the journey upwards was dangerous, for if the traveller avoided the snares and pitfalls formed by divers pails and brown pans, or even, maybe, a half-gallon can from the public at the corner if the pail was engaged; if he saved himself from slipping on the sloping, wet boards, and fell over no kneeling scrubber in a dark corner, he most certainly heard low-muttered abuse heaped upon his head for “trapesing” over the newly-cleaned stairs – abuse direct or indirect, according to the quality of the traveller.

Not, then, being a Saturday, Mr Sterne entered the house known as Number 7 – by tradition only, for the brass number, after being spun round by one pin for some months, suddenly disappeared – passed along to the worn stairs, two flights of which he ascended, creaking and cracking the while beneath his weight, and every one sloping, so that it seemed hanging to the wall to save itself from falling. He paused for an instant upon the landing opposite Septimus Hardon’s rooms, and listened to the rapid beating “click-click” of Lucy’s sewing-machine; then up two more flights; and again, without pause, up two more, which groaned with weakness and old age; while sunken door-frames, doors that would not shut, and various other indications, told of the insecure condition of the house. And now once more he paused upon the top landing, where some domestic spider had spun a web of string, stretching it from rusty nail to rusty nail, for the purpose of drying clothes – garments now, fortunately for the visitor, absent.

Here fell upon the ear the twitterings of many birds, and the curate’s face again lighted up as the song of the lark once more rang out loud and clear, apparently from outside the window of the attic before whose door he stood. But his reverie was interrupted by a sharp shrill voice, which he could hear at intervals giving orders in a quick angry tone. Then followed the lashing of a whip, a loud yelp, or the occasional rapid beat of a dog’s tail upon the floor. At last, turning the handle of the rickety door, the visitor entered.

“En avant! Halte là! Ah-h-h! bête! O, ’tis monsieur,” were the words which greeted Mr Sterne as he entered the sloping-roofed attic, one side of which was almost entirely window – old lead-framed lattice, mended in every conceivable way with pasted paper and book-covers; and there, in the middle of the worn floor, stood the thin, sharp-faced woman of the cellar, holding in one hand a whip, in the other a hoop; while two half-shaven French poodle-dogs crouched at her feet. Seated by the open window surrounded by birdcages, conspicuous among which was that of the lark whose notes enlivened the court, was a sallow, dark-haired, dark-eyed youth, eager-looking and well-featured, but sadly deformed, for his head seemed to rest upon his shoulders, and the leg twisted round the crutch which leaned against his chair was miserably attenuated.

“Bon jour! How are the pupils, Madame la Mère?” said the curate, taking a broken chair and seating himself.

“Bête, bête, bête!” hissed the woman, making feigned cuts with her little whip at the crouching dogs, which yelped miserably as they shrunk closer to the boards. “Ah, what you deserve!” she said.

“And how are the birds, Jean?” continued the visitor, addressing the young man, who was looking at him half-askance. “Your lark gives me the heartache, and sets me longing for the bright country.”

The curate had touched the right chord, for the youth’s face brightened into a pleasant smile directly.

“Does he not sing!” he said, with a slight French accent; and he leaned towards the cage where the bird, with crest erect, was breasting the wooden bars, and gazing with bright bead-like eyes up at the blue sky; but as soon as the cripple’s finger was inserted between the bars, the bird pecked at it playfully, fluttered its wings, and then, with head on one side, stood looking keenly at its master.

“O yes, he sings,” hissed the woman; “but he is obstinate, is Jean; he should sell his bird, and make money, and not let his poor mere always keep him.”

“Pst, pst!” ejaculated Jean, frowning upon his mother; but she only stamped one foot angrily, and continued:

“He is bête and obstinate. The doll down-stairs with the needle-machine loves the bird, and she would buy it, and it is worth four shillings; but Jean will that his mother seek his bread for him in de street, wis de stupid dogs; and they are bête, and will not learn nosing at all. Allez donc!”

As the woman grew more voluble in her speech, she passed from tolerable English to words with a broader and broader accent, till the command given at last to the dogs, each word being accompanied by a sharp cut of the whip, when the animals rose upon their hind-legs, drooped their fore-paws, and then subsided once more into their natural posture, but now to bend their fore-legs, as if kneeling. Then they rose again, drooped, and afterwards meekly crossed, their paws, winking their eyes dolefully the while, and, with an aspect of gravity made absurd, walked slowly off to separate corners of the room, where they again went down upon all-fours, and then sat wistfully winking at and watching their task-mistress.

“See, then!” she exclaimed, in her harsh shrill voice. “They would not do it, though I try thousand time; but now the task is ended they walk. Ah-h-h!”

The cut in the air which accompanied the exclamation might have fallen upon the dogs themselves, for the miserable little objects yelped as they saw it fall, and, as if moved by one muscle, laid their heads against the whitewashed wall till, seeing themselves unnoticed, they curled up, but never for a moment took their blinking eyes off their mistress.

Amidst much muttering, and with many frowns and short sharp shakes of the head, while her lips were pressed closely together, the woman, after much fumbling in her pocket, drew forth a partly-knitted stocking; when, sitting down, she began furiously clicking her needles, watching the while, with half-closed eyes, the curate and her son.

“So, then, you will not sell your lark, Jean?” said Mr Sterne.

The cripple knit his brow slightly, shook his head, and then drawing a long, delicate, girlish finger over the bars of his favourite’s cage, the lark set up its crest, twittered, fluttered its wings, and again pecked at the finger.

“No, no, no,” he said softly; “why does she complain? I would work if I could; but I sell and make money of these, though it seems cruel to keep them shut up, and they beat themselves against their prison-bars to get out into the free air and the green woods. And I’m sorry for them when the little breasts grow bare, and the feathers lie in the bottom of the cage; and she says —ma mère there – that I am bête.”

The woman seemed to compress every feature, as she shook her head fiercely, and went on with her knitting.

“Look!” continued Jean softly, as he smiled and pointed rapidly from cage to cage, “canaries, linnets, redpoles, goldfinches, and a blackbird. The thrush broke his heart with singing, they said – the birdcatchers – but it was not that: I know why. I have sold four birds this week; but I keep the lark; he is a favourite.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the mother softly; “but he is bête;” when, as the curate turned, she was bending over her knitting, shaking her head and frowning, while she stabbed fiercely again and again at the worsted ball till it was transfixed by her needle, when she replaced the ball in her pocket, where the first drag she gave at the thread drew the ball from its place and it rolled on the floor. “Ah! good dog, bon chien!” she cried, as one of the poodles ran forward, caught the errant ball, and bore it to his mistress, returning immediately to his corner; but not to be unrewarded, for the woman rose, and forcing up the sliding socket, caused a little scrap of tallow-candle end to shoot out of a tin-candlestick as from a gun, when, receiving permission, the dog snatched it from the floor, and devoured the savoury morsel in its corner.

“But he should sell the lark, monsieur,” said the woman.

“Hush, ma mère,” said the cripple angrily; “the bird is not to sell.”

The mother shrugged her shoulders, and clicked her needles furiously.

“We all have our loves and likes, madame,” said the curate quietly.

“O, yes, yes, you rich; but we poor? No. We must live, and eat and drink, and have clothes; and Jean, there, has ruined me in medicine. What do we want with favourites, we poor? But that they help to keep us, I would sell the dogs. We are all slaves here, we poor; and we sell ourselves, our work, our hands, our beauty, some of us, – is it not so? and you rich buy, – or we starve. It is a bad world for us old and ugly. I am not like the doll upon the floor down-stairs.”

A sharp angry glance passed between mother and son, as the former rose from her seat, and with a short quick step left the room, driving back the dogs as they tried to follow; while it was evident that her words jarred painfully upon the curate. “Our beauty, some of us,” seemed to ring in his ears again and again, and he could not help associating these words with the latter part of her speech.

“How do you get your birds, Jean?” said the curate, making an effort, and breaking the silence.

“From him,” said the young man, nodding across the court to where Bill Jarker sat half out of his trap-door, still keeping up his pigeons, for a stray was in sight, and he was in hopes of an amalgamation, in spite of the efforts being made by neighbouring flights. “From him: he goes into the country with his nets – far off, where the green trees wave, while I can only read of them. But the book; did you bring the book?”

Thinking of other birds breasting their prison-bars: now of the fair bright face that he had seen at the window below, now of that of the cripple before him, the curate produced a volume from his pocket, and smiled as he watched the glittering eyes and eager aspect of the young man, as, hastily grasping the volume, he gazed with avidity upon the title.

“You love reading, then, Jean?” said the curate.

“Yes, yes,” cried the cripple. “What could I do without it? Always here; for I cannot walk much – only about the room. Ah, no! I could not live without reading – and my birds. She is good and kind,” he continued, nodding towards the door; “but we are poor, and it makes her angry and jealous.”

The lark burst forth with one of its sweetest strains as it heard its master’s voice, and then, rising, the curate left the attic, closing the door after him slowly, and peering through the narrowing slit to look upon the cripple eagerly devouring a page of the work he had brought.

The Frenchwoman was upon the first landing, and saluted the curate with a sinister meaning smile as he passed her and thoughtfully descended.

“But he is mean, I tell you,” cried ma mère angrily, as she once more stood beside her son. “What does he give us but words – words which are worth nothing? But what is that? My faith, a book he brought you? You shall not read; it makes you silly, and to forget your mother, who does so much for you. But I will!”

“Ah!” cried Jean, painfully starting from his seat, and snatching back the volume, and just in time, for the next moment would have seen it flying from the open window.

“Then I will sell the lark when you are asleep,” cried the woman spitefully.

The youth’s eyes glittered, as, with an angry look, he hissed between his teeth, “Then I will kill the dogs!” But the anger passed from his countenance in a few moments, and smiling softly, he said, “No, no, ma mère; you would not sell my poor bird, because I love it, and it would hurt me;” and then, casting down her knitting, the woman sprang across the room, throwing her arms round the cripple, and kissing him passionately, calling him by every endearing name, as she parted the hair from his broad forehead, and gazed in his bright dark eyes with all a mother’s fondness.

But the curate heard nothing of this – nothing but the loud song of the lark, which rang through the house – as slowly and thoughtfully he descended the worn and creaking stairs, while the woman’s words seemed to keep repeating themselves in a slow measured way, vibrating in his ears, and troubling him sorely with their cutting meaning; and more than once he found himself forming with his lips, “Our beauty, some of us.”