CHAPTER XXVII
My Scogan had been
accommodated in a little canvas hut.
Dressed in a black shirt and a red bodice, with a yellow-and-red bandana
handkerchief tied round his black wig, he looked - sharp-nosed, brown, and
wrinkled - like the Bohemian hag of Frith's Derby
Day. A placard pinned to the curtain of
the doorway announced the presence within the tent of 'Sesostris,
the Sorceress of Ecbatana.' Seated at a table, Mr Scogan
received his clients in mysterious silence, indicating with a movement of the
finger that they were to sit down opposite him and to extend their hands for
his inspection. He then examined the
palm that was presented him, using a magnifying glass and a pair of horn
spectacles. He had a terrifying way of
shaking his head, frowning and clicking with his tongue as he looked at the
lines. Sometimes he would whisper, as
though to himself, 'Terrible, terrible!' or 'God preserve us!' sketching out
the sign of the cross as he uttered the words.
The clients who came in laughing grew suddenly grave; they began to take
the witch seriously. She was a
formidable-looking woman; could it be, was it
possible, that there was something in this sort of thing, after all? After all, the thought, as the hag shook her
head over their hands, after all ... And they waited, with an uncomfortably
beating heart, for the oracle to speak.
After a long and silent inspection, Mr Scogan
would suddenly look up and ask, in a hoarse whisper, some horrifying question,
such as, 'Have you ever been hit on the head with a hammer by a young man with
red hair?' When the answer was in the
negative, which it could hardly fail to be, Mr Scogan
would nod several times, saying, 'I was afraid so. Everything is still to come, still to come,
though it can't be very far off now.'
Sometimes, after a long examination, he would just whisper, 'Where
ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,' and refuse to divulge any details
of a future too appalling to be envisaged without despair. Sesostris had a
success of horror. People stood in a
queue outside the witch's booth, waiting for the privilege of hearing sentence
pronounced upon them.
Denis, in
the course of his round, looked with curiosity at this crowd of suppliants
before the shrine of the oracle. He had
a great desire to see how Mr Scogan played his
part. The canvas booth was a rickety,
ill-made structure. Between its walls
and its sagging roof were long gaping chinks and crannies. Denis went to the tea-tent and borrowed a
wooden bench and a small Union Jack.
With these he hurried back tot he booth, he climbed up, and with a great
air of busy efficiency began to tie the Union Jack to the top of one of the
tent-poles. Through the crannies in the
canvas he could see almost the whole of the interior of the tent. Mr Scogan's
bandana-covered head was just below him; his terrifying whispers came clearly
up. Denis looked and listened while the
witch prophesied financial losses, death by apoplexy, destruction
by air-raids in the next war.
'Is there
going to be another war?' asked the old lady to whom he had predicted this end.
'Very
soon,' said Mr Scogan, with an air of quiet
confidence.
The old
lady was succeeded by a girl dressed in white muslin, garnished with pink
ribbons. She was wearing a broad hat, so
that Denis could not see her face; but from her figure and the roundness of her
bare arms he judged her young and pleasing.
Mr Scogan looked at her hand, then whispered, 'You are still virtuous.'
The young
lady giggled and exclaimed, 'Oh, lor'!'
'But you
will not remain so for long,' added Mr Scogan sepulchrally. The
young lady giggled again. 'Destiny,
which interests itself in small things no less than in great, has announced the
fact upon your hand.' Mr Scogan took up the magnifying-glass and began once more to
examine the white palm. 'Very
interesting,' he said, as though to himself - 'very interesting. It's as clear as day.' He was silent.
'What's
clear?' asked the girl.
'I don't
think I ought to tell you.' Mr Scogan shook his head; the pendulous brass earrings which
he had screwed on to his ears tinkled.
'Please,
please!' she implored.
The witch
seemed to ignore her remark.
'Afterwards, it's not at all clear.
The fates don't say whether you will settle down to married life and
have four children or whether you will try to go on to the cinema and have none. They are only specific about this one rather
crucial incident.'
'What is
it? What is it? Oh, do tell me!'
The white
muslin figure leant eagerly forward.
Mr Scogan sighed. 'Very
well,' he said, 'if you must know, you must know. But if anything untoward happens you must
blame your own curiosity. Listen. Listen.'
He lifted up a sharp, claw-nailed forefinger. 'This is what the fates have written. Next Sunday afternoon at
'Is it
really true?' asked white muslin.
The witch
gave a shrug of the shoulders. 'I merely
tell you what I read in your hand. Good
afternoon. That will be sixpence. Yes, I have change. Thank you.
Good afternoon.'
Denis
stepped down from the bench; tied insecurely and crookedly to the tent-pole,
the Union Jack hung limp on the windless air.
'If only I could do things like that!' he thought, as he carried the
bench back to the tea-tent.
Anne was
sitting behind a long table filling thick white cups from an urn. A neat pile of printed sheets lay before her
on the table. Denis took one of them and
looked at it affectionately. It was his
poem. They had printed five hundred
copies, and very nice the quarto broadsheets looked.
'Have you
sold many?' he asked in a casual tone.
Anne put
her head on one side deprecatingly.
'Only three so far, I'm afraid.
But I'm giving a free copy to everyone who spends more than a shilling
on his tea. So in any case it's having a
circulation.'
Denis made
no reply, but walked slowly away. He
looked at the broadsheet in his hand and read the lines to himself relishingly as he walked along:
'This day of roundabouts and swings,
Struck weights, shied coconuts, tossed rings,
Switchbacks, Aunt Sallies, and all such small
High jinks - you call it ferial?
A holiday? But paper noses
Sniffed the artificial roses
Of round Venetian cheeks through half
Each carnival year, and masks might laugh
At things the naked face for shame
Would blush at - laugh and think no blame.
A holiday? But Galba showed
Elephants on an airy road;
Jumbo trod the trightrope then,
And in the circus armèd men
Stabbed home for sport and died to break
Those dull imperatives that make
A prison of every working day,
Where all must drudge and all obey.
Sing
How to be free. The Russian snow
Flowered with bright blood whose roses spread
Petals of fading, fading red
That died into the snow again,
Into the virgin snow; and men
From all the ancient bonds were freed
Old law, old custom, and old creed,
Old right and wrong there bled to death:
The frozen air received their breath,
A little smoke that died away;
And round about them where they lay
The snow bloomed roses. Blood was there
A red-gay flower and only fair.
Sing
Of
Innocence and
Paper Nose and Red Cockade
Dance within the magic shade
That makes them drunken, merry, and strong
To laugh and sing their ferial song:
"Free, free ...!"
But Echo answers
Faintly to the laughing dancers,
"Free" - and faintly laughs, and still,
Within the hollows of the hill,
Faintlier laughs and whispers, "Free,"
Fadingly, diminishingly:
"Free," and laughter faints away ...
Sing
He folded the sheet carefully and put it in his
pocket. The thing had its merits. Oh, decidedly, decidedly! But how unpleasant the crowd smelt! He lit a cigarette. The smell of cows was preferable. He passed through the gate in the park wall
into the garden. The swimming-pool was a
centre of noise and activity.
'Second
Heat in the Young Ladies' Championship.'
It was the polite voice of Henry Wimbush. A crowd of sleek, seal-like figures in black
bathing-dresses surrounded him. His grey
bowler hat, smooth, round, and motionless in the midst of a moving sea, was an
island of aristocratic calm.
Holding his
tortoiseshell-rimmed pince-nez an inch or two in front of his eyes, he read out
names from a list.
'Miss Dolly
Miles, Miss Rebecca Balister, Miss Doris Gabell ...'
Five young
persons ranged themselves on the brink.
From their seats of honour at the other end of the pool, old Lord Moleyn and Mr Callamay looked on
with eager interest.
Henry Wimbush raised his hand.
There was an expectant silence.
'When I say "Go," go.
Go!' he said. There was an almost
simultaneous splash.
Denis
pushed his way through the spectators.
Somebody plucked him by the sleeve; he looked down. It was old Mrs Budge.
'Delighted
to see you again, Mr Stone,' she said in her rich, husky voice. She panted a little as she spoke, like a
short-winded lapdog. It was Mrs Budge
who, having read in the Daily Mirror that the Government needed peach
stones - what they needed them for she never knew - had made the collection of
peach stones her peculiar 'bit' of war work.
She had thirty-six peach trees in her walled garden, as well as four
hothouses in which trees could be forced, so that she was able to eat peaches
practically the whole year round. In
1916 she ate 4200 peaches, and sent the stones to the Government. In 1917 the military authorities called up
three of her gardeners, and what with this and the fact that it was a bad year
for wall fruit, she only managed to eat 2900 peaches during that crucial period
of the national destinies. In 1918 she
did rather better, for between January 1st and the date of the Armistice she
ate 3300 peaches. Since the Armistice
she had relaxed her efforts; now she did not eat more than two or three peaches
a day. Her constitution, she complained,
had suffered; but it had suffered for a good cause.
Denis
answered her greeting by a vague and polite noise.
'So nice to
see the young people enjoying themselves,' Mrs Budge went on. 'And the old people too, for that
matter. Look at old Lord Moleyn and dear Mr Callamay. Isn't it delightful to see the way they enjoy
themselves?'
Denis
looked. He wasn't sure whether it was so
very delightful after all. Why didn't
they go and watch the sack races? The
two old gentlemen were engaged at the moment in congratulating the winner of
the race; it seemed an act of supererogatory graciousness; for, after all, she
had only won a heat.
'Pretty
little thing, isn't she?' said Mrs Budge huskily, and panted two or three
times.
'Yes,'
Denis nodded agreement. Sixteen,
slender, but nubile, he said to himself, and laid up the phrase in his memory
as a happy one. Old Mr Callamay had put on his spectacles to congratulate the
victor, and Lord Moleyn, leaning forward over his
walking-stick, showed his long ivory teeth, hungrily smiling.
'Capital
performance, capital,' Mr Callamay was saying in his
deep voice.
The victor
wriggled with embarrassment. She stood
with her hands behind her back, rubbing one foot nervously on the other. Her wet bathing-dress shone, a torso of black
polished marble.
'Very good
indeed,' said Lord Moleyn. His voice seemed to come from just behind his
teeth, a toothy voice. It was as though
a dog should suddenly begin to speak. He
smiled again, Mr Callamay readjusted his spectacles.
'When I say
"Go", go. Go!'
Splash! The third heat had started.
'Do you know,
I never could learn to swim,' said Mrs Budge.
'Really?'
'But I used
to be able to float.'
Denis
imagined her floating - up and down, up and down on a great green swell. A blown black bladder; no, that wasn't good,
that wasn't good at all. A new winner
was being congratulated. She was
atrociously stubby and fat. The last
one, long and harmoniously, continuously curved from knee to breast, had been
an Eve by Cranach; but this, this one was a bad
Rubens.
'... go -
go - go!' Henry Wimbush's
polite level voice once more pronounced the formula. Another batch of young ladies dived in.
Grown a
little weary of sustaining a conversation with Mrs Budge, Denis conveniently
remembered that his duties as a steward called him elsewhere. He pushed out through the lines of spectators
and made his way along the path left clear behind him. He was thinking again that his soul was a
pale, tenuous membrane, when he was startled by hearing a thin, sibilant voice,
speaking apparently from just above his head, pronounce the single word
'Disgusting!'
He looked
up sharply. The path along which he was
walking passed under the lee of a wall of clipped yew. Behind the hedge the ground sloped steeply up
towards the foot of the terrace and the house; for one standing on the higher
ground it was easy to look over the dark barrier. Looking up, Denis saw two heads overtopping
the hedge immediately above him. He
recognized the iron mask of Mr Bodiham and the pale,
colourless face of his wife. They were
looking over his head, over the heads of the spectators, at the swimmers in the
pond.
'Disgusting!'
Mrs Bodiham repeated, hissing softly.
The rector
turned up his iron mask towards the solid cobalt of the sky. 'How long?' he said, as though to himself;
'how long?' He lowered his eyes again,
and they fell on Denis's upturned curious face.
There was an abrupt movement, and Mr and Mrs Bodiham
popped out of sight behind the hedge.
Denis
continued his promenade. He wandered
past the merry-go-round, through the thronged streets of the canvas village;
the membrane of his soul flapped tumultuously in the noise and laughter. In a roped-off space beyond, Mary was
directing the children's sports. Little
creatures seethed round her, making a shrill, tiny clamour; others clustered
about the skirts and trousers of their parents.
Mary's face was shining in the heat; with an immense output of energy
she started a three-legged race. Denis
looked on in admiration.
'You're
wonderful,' he said, coming up behind her and touching her on the arm.
'I've never
seen such energy.'
She turned
towards him a face, round, red, and honest as the setting sun; the golden bell
of her hair swung silently as she moved her head and quivered to rest.
'Do you
know, Denis,' she said, in a low, serious voice, gasping a little as she spoke
- 'do you know that there's a woman here who has had three children in
thirty-one months?'
'Really,'
said Denis, making rapid mental calculations.
'It's
appalling. I've been telling her about
the Malthusian League. One really ought
...'
But a
sudden violent renewal of the metallic yelling announced the fact that somebody
had won the race. Mary became once more
the centre of a dangerous vortex. It was
time, Denis thought, to move on; he might be asked to do something if he stayed
too long.
He turned
back towards the canvas village. The
thought of tea was making itself insistent in his mind. Tea, tea, tea. But the tea-tent was horribly thronged. Anne, with an unusual expression of grimness
on her flushed face, was furiously working the handle of the urn; the brown
liquid spurted incessantly into the proffered cups. Portentous, in the farther corner of the
tent, Priscilla, in her royal toque, was encouraging the villagers. In a momentary lull Denis could hear her deep,
jovial laughter and her manly voice.
Clearly, he told himself, that was no place for one who wanted tea. He stood irresolute at the entrance to the
tent. A beautiful thought suddenly came
to him: if he went back to the house, went unobtrusively, without being
observed, if he tiptoed into the dining-room and noiselessly opened the little
doors of the sideboard - ah, then! In
the cool recess within he would find bottles and a siphon; a bottle of crystal
gin and a quart of soda water, and then for the cups that inebriate as well as
cheer....
A minute
later he was walking briskly up the shady yew-tree walk. Within the house it was deliciously quiet and
cool. Carrying his well-filled tumbler
with care, he went into the library.
There, the glass on the corner of the table beside him, he settled into
a chair with a volume of Sainte-Beuve. There was nothing, he found, like a Causerie du Lundi for settling and
soothing the troubled spirits. The
tenuous membrane of his had been too rudely buffeted by the afternoon's
emotions; it required a rest.