ITS WALLS WERE AS OF JASPER
In the long winter evenings, when we had the picture-books out
on the floor, and sprawled together over them with elbows deep in
the hearth-rug, the first business to be gone through was the
process of allotment. All the characters in the pictures had to
be assigned and dealt out among us, according to seniority, as
far as they would go. When once that had been satisfactorily
completed, the story was allowed to proceed; and thereafter, in
addition to the excitement of the plot, one always possessed a
personal interest in some particular member of the cast, whose
successes or rebuffs one took as so much private gain or loss.
For Edward this was satisfactory enough. Claiming his right of
the eldest, he would annex the hero in the very frontispiece; and
for the rest of the story his career, if chequered at intervals,
was sure of heroic episodes and a glorious close. But his
juniors, who had to put up with characters of a clay more mixed--
nay, sometimes with undiluted villany--were hard put to it on
occasion to defend their other selves (as it was strict etiquette
to do) from ignominy perhaps only too justly merited.
Edward was indeed a hopeless grabber. In the "Buffalo-book,"
for instance (so named from the subject of its principal picture,
though indeed it dealt with varied slaughter in every zone),
Edward was the stalwart, bearded figure, with yellow leggings and
a powder-horn, who undauntedly discharged the fatal bullet into
the shoulder of the great bull bison, charging home to within a
yard of his muzzle. To me was allotted the subsidiary character
of the friend who had succeeded in bringing down a cow; while
Harold had to be content to hold Edward's spare rifle in the
background, with evident signs of uneasiness. Farther on, again,
where the magnificent chamois sprang rigid into mid-air. Edward,
crouched dizzily against the precipice-face, was the sportsman
from whose weapon a puff of white smoke was floating away. A
bare-kneed guide was all that fell to my share, while poor Harold
had to take the boy with the haversack, or abandon, for this
occasion at least, all Alpine ambitions.
Of course the girls fared badly in this book, and it was not
surprising that they preferred the "Pilgrim's Progress" (for
instance), where women had a fair show, and there was generally
enough of 'em to go round; or a good fairy story, wherein
princesses met with a healthy appreciation. But indeed we were
all best pleased with a picture wherein the characters just
fitted us, in number, sex, and qualifications; and this, to us,
stood for artistic merit.
All the Christmas numbers, in their gilt frames on the
nursery-wall, had been gone through and allotted long ago; and in
these, sooner or later, each one of us got a chance to figure in
some satisfactory and brightly coloured situation. Few of the
other pictures about the house afforded equal facilities. They
were generally wanting in figures, and even when these were
present they lacked dramatic interest. In this picture that I
have to speak about, although the characters had a stupid way of
not doing anything, and apparently not wanting to do anything,
there was at least a sufficiency of them; so in due course they
were allotted, too.
In itself the picture, which--in its ebony and tortoise-shell
frame--hung in a corner of the dining-room, had hitherto
possessed no special interest for us, and would probably never
have been dealt with at all but for a revolt of the girls
against a succession of books on sport, in which the illustrator
seemed to have forgotten that there were such things as women in
the world. Selina accordingly made for it one rainy morning, and
announced that she was the lady seated in the centre, whose gown
of rich, flowered brocade fell in such straight, severe lines to
her feet, whose cloak of dark blue was held by a jewelled clasp,
and whose long, fair hair was crowned with a diadem of gold and
pearl. Well, we had no objection to that; it seemed fair enough,
especially to Edward, who promptly proceeded to "grab" the
armour-man who stood leaning on his shield at the lady's right
hand. A dainty and delicate armour-man this! And I confess,
though I knew it was all right and fair and orderly, I felt a
slight pang when he passed out of my reach into Edward's
possession. His armour was just the sort I wanted myself--
scalloped and fluted and shimmering and spotless; and, though he
was but a boy by his beardless face and golden hair, the
shattered spear-shaft in his grasp proclaimed him a genuine
fighter and fresh from some such agreeable work. Yes, I grudged
Edward the armour-man, and when he said I could have the fellow
on the other side, I hung back and said I'd think about it.
This fellow had no armour nor weapons, but wore a plain jerkin
with a leather pouch--a mere civilian--and with one hand he
pointed to a wound in his thigh. I didn't care about him, and
when Harold eagerly put in his claim I gave way and let him have
the man. The cause of Harold's anxiety only came out later. It
was the wound he coveted, it seemed. He wanted to have a big,
sore wound of his very own, and go about and show it to people,
and excite their envy or win their respect. Charlotte was only
too pleased to take the child-angel seated at the lady's feet,
grappling with a musical instrument much too big for her.
Charlotte wanted wings badly, and, next to those, a guitar or a
banjo. The angel, besides, wore an amber necklace, which took her
fancy immensely.
This left the picture allotted, with the exception of two or
three more angels, who peeped or perched behind the main figures
with a certain subdued drollery in their faces, as if the thing
had gone on long enough, and it was now time to upset something
or kick up a row of some sort. We knew these good folk to be
saints and angels, because we had been told they were; otherwise
we should never have guessed it. Angels, as we knew them in our
Sunday books, were vapid, colourless, uninteresting characters,
with straight up-and-down sort of figures, white nightgowns,
white wings, and the same straight yellow hair parted in the
middle. They were serious, even melancholy; and we had no desire
to have any traffic with them. These bright bejewelled little
persons, however, piquant of face and radiant of feather, were
evidently hatched from quite a different egg, and we felt we
might have interests in common with them. Short-nosed, shock-
headed, with mouths that went up at the corners and with an
evident disregard for all their fine clothes, they would be the
best of good company, we felt sure, if only we could manage to
get at them. One doubt alone disturbed my mind. In games
requiring agility, those wings of theirs would give them a
tremendous pull. Could they be trusted to play fair? I asked
Selina, who replied scornfully that angels always played fair.
But I went back and had another look at the brown-faced one
peeping over the back of the lady's chair, and still I had my
doubts.
When Edward went off to school a great deal of adjustment and
re-allotment took place, and all the heroes of illustrated
literature were at my call, did I choose to possess them. In this
particular case, however, I made no haste to seize upon the
armour-man. Perhaps it was because I wanted a fresh saint of my
own, not a stale saint that Edward had been for so long a time.
Perhaps it was rather that, ever since I had elected to be
saintless, I had got into the habit of strolling off into the
background, and amusing myself with what I found there. A very
fascinating background it was, and held a great deal, though so
tiny. blue and red, like gems. Then a white road ran, with
wilful, uncalled-for loops, up a steep, conical hill, crowned
with towers, bastioned walls, and belfries; and down the road the
little knights came riding, two and two. The hill on one side
descended to water, tranquil, farreaching, and blue; and a very
curly ship lay at anchor, with one mast having an odd sort of
crow's-nest at the top of it.
There was plenty to do in this pleasant land. The annoying
thing about it was, one could never penetrate beyond a certain
point. I might wander up that road as often as I liked, I was
bound to be brought up at the gateway, the funny galleried,
top-heavy gateway, of the little walled town. Inside, doubtless,
there were high jinks going on; but the password was denied to
me. I could get on board a boat and row up as far as the curly
ship, but around the headland I might not go. On the other side,
of a surety, the shipping lay thick. The merchants walked on the
quay, and the sailors sang as they swung out the corded bales.
But as for me, I must stay down in the meadow, and imagine it all
as best I could.
Once I broached the subject to Charlotte, and found, to my
surprise, that she had had the same joys and encountered the same
disappointments in this delectable country. She, too, had walked
up that road and flattened her nose against that portcullis; and
she pointed out something that I had overlooked--to wit, that if
you rowed off in a boat to the curly ship, and got hold of a
rope, and clambered aboard of her, and swarmed up the mast, and
got into the crow's-nest, you could just see over the headland,
and take in at your ease the life and bustle of the port. She
proceeded to describe all the fun that was going on there, at
such length and with so much particularity that I looked at her
suspiciously. "Why, you talk as if you'd been in that crow's-nest
yourself!" I said. Charlotte answered nothing, but pursed her
mouth up and nodded violently for some minutes; and I could get
nothing more out of her. I felt rather hurt. Evidently she had
managed, somehow or other, to get up into that crow's-nest.
Charlotte had got ahead of me on this occasion.
It was necessary, no doubt, that grownup people should dress
themselves up and go forth to pay calls. I don't mean that we saw
any sense in the practice. It would have been so much more
reasonable to stay at home in your old clothes and play. But we
recognized that these folk had to do many unaccountable things,
and after all it was their life, and not ours, and we were not in
a position to criticize. Besides, they had many habits more
objectionable than this one, which to us generally meant a free
and untrammelled afternoon, wherein to play the devil in our own
way. The case was different, however, when the press-gang was
abroad, when prayers and excuses were alike disregarded, and we
were forced into the service, like native levies impelled toward
the foe less by the inherent righteousness of the cause than by
the indisputable rifles of their white allies. This was
unpardonable and altogether detestable. Still, the thing
happened, now and again; and when it did, there was no arguing
about it. The order was for the front, and we just had to shut up
and march.
Selina, to be sure, had a sneaking fondness for dressing up and
paying calls, though she pretended to dislike it, just to keep on
the soft side of public opinion. So I thought it extremely mean
in her to have the earache on that particular afternoon when Aunt
Eliza ordered the pony-carriage and went on the war-path. I was
ordered also, in the same breath as the pony-carriage; and, as we
eventually trundled off, it seemed to me that the utter waste of
that afternoon, for which I had planned so much, could never be
made up nor atoned for in all the tremendous stretch of years
that still lay before me.
The house that we were bound for on this occasion was a "big
house;" a generic title applied by us to the class of residence
that had a long carriage-drive through rhododendrons; and a
portico propped by fluted pillars; and a grave butler who bolted
back swing-doors, and came down steps, and pretended to have
entirely forgotten his familiar intercourse with you at less
serious moments; and a big hall, where no boots or shoes or upper
garments were allowed to lie about frankly and easily, as with
us; and where, finally, people were apt to sit about dressed up
as if they were going on to a party.
The lady who received us was effusive to Aunt Eliza and
hollowly gracious to me. In ten seconds they had their heads
together and were hard at it talking clothes. I was left high and
dry on a straight-backed chair, longing to kick the legs of it,
yet not daring. For a time I was content to stare; there was lots
to stare at, high and low and around. Then the inevitable fidgets
came on, and scratching one's legs mitigated slightly, but did
not entirely disperse them. My two warders were still deep in
clothes; I slipped off my chair and edged cautiously around the
room, exploring, examining, recording.
Many strange, fine things lay along my route--pictures and
gimcracks on the walls, trinkets and globular old watches and
snuff-boxes on the tables; and I took good care to finger
everything within reach thoroughly and conscientiously. Some
articles, in addition, I smelt. At last in my orbit I happened on
an open door, half concealed by the folds of a curtain. I glanced
carefully around. They were still deep in clothes, both talking
together, and I slipped through.
This was altogether a more sensible sort of room that I had got
into; for the walls were honestly upholstered with books, though
these for the most part glimmered provokingly through the glass
doors of their tall cases. I read their titles longingly,
breathing on every accessible pane of glass, for I dared not
attempt to open the doors, with the enemy encamped so near. In
the window, though, on a high sort of desk, there lay, all by
itself, a most promising-looking book, gorgeously bound. I raised
the leaves by one corner, and like scent from a pot-pourri jar
there floated out a brief vision of blues and reds, telling of
pictures, and pictures all highly coloured! Here was the right
sort of thing at last, and my afternoon would not be entirely
wasted. I inclined an ear to the door by which I had entered.
Like the brimming tide of a full-fed river the grand, eternal,
inexhaustible clothes-problem bubbled and eddied and surged
along. It seemed safe enough. I slid the book off its desk with
some difficulty, for it was very fine and large, and staggered
with it. to the hearthrug--the only fit and proper place for
books of quality, such as this.
They were excellent hearthrugs in that house ; soft and wide,
with the thickest of pile, and one's knees sank into them most
comfortably. When I got the book open there was a difficulty at
first in making the great stiff pages lie down. Most fortunately
the coal-scuttle was actually at my elbow, and it was easy to
find a flat bit of coal to lay on the refractory page. Really, it
was just as if everything had been arranged for me. This was not
such a bad sort of house after all.
The beginnings of the thing were gay borders--scrolls and
strap-work and diapered backgrounds, a maze of colour, with small
misshapen figures clambering cheerily up and down everywhere. But
first I eagerly scanned what text there was in the middle, in
order to get a hint of what it was all about. Of course I was
not going to waste any time in reading. A clue, a sign-board, a
finger-post was all I required. To my dismay and disgust it was
all in a stupid foreign language! Really, the perversity of some
people made one at times almost despair of the whole race.
However, the pictures remained; pictures never lied, never
shuffled nor evaded; and as for the story, I could invent it
myself.
Over the page I went, shifting the bit of coal to a new
position; and, as the scheme of the picture disengaged itself
from out the medley of colour that met my delighted eyes, first
there was a warm sense of familiarity, then a dawning
recognition, and then--O then! along with blissful certainty came
the imperious need to clasp my stomach with both hands, in order
to repress the shout of rapture that struggled to escape--it was
my own little city!
I knew it well enough, I recognized it at once, though I had
never been quite so near it before. Here was the familiar
gateway, to the left that strange, slender tower with its grim,
square head shot far above the walls; to the right, outside the
town, the hill--as of old--broke steeply down to the sea. But
to-day everything was bigger and fresher and clearer, the walls
seemed newly hewn, gay carpets were hung out over them, fair
ladies and long-haired children peeped and crowded on the
battlements. Better still, the portcullis was up--I could even
catch a glimpse of the sunlit square within--and a dainty company
was trooping through the gate on horseback, two and two. Their
horses, in trappings that swept the ground, were gay as
themselves; and they were the gayest crew, for dress and bearing,
I had ever yet beheld. It could mean nothing else but a wedding,
I thought, this holiday attire, this festal and solemn entry;
and, wedding or whatever it was, I meant to be there. This time I
would not be balked by any grim portcullis; this time I would
slip in with the rest of the crowd, find out just what my little
town was like, within those exasperating walls that had so long
confronted me, and, moreover, have my share of the fun that was
evidently going on inside. Confident, yet breathless with
expectation, I turned the page.
Joy! At last I was in it, at last I was on the right side of
those provoking walls; and, needless to say, I looked about me
with much curiosity. A public place, clearly, though not such as
I was used to. The houses at the back stood on a sort of
colonnade, beneath which the people jostled and crowded. The
upper stories were all painted with wonderful pictures. Above the
straight line of the roofs the deep blue of a cloudless sky
stretched from side to side. Lords and ladies thronged the
foreground, while on a dais in the centre a gallant gentleman,
just alighted off his horse, stooped to the fingers of a girl as
bravely dressed out as Selina's lady between the saints; and
round about stood venerable personages, robed in the most
variegated clothing. There were boys, too, in plenty, with tiny
red caps on their thick hair; and their shirts had bunched up and
worked out at the waist, just as my own did so often, after
chasing anybody; and each boy of them wore an odd pair of
stockings, one blue and the other red. This system of attire went
straight to my heart. I had tried the same thing so often, and
had met with so much discouragement; and here, at last, was my
justification, painted deliberately in a grown-up book! I looked
about for my saint-friends--the armour-man and the other fellow--
but they were not to be seen--Evidently they were unable to get
off duty, even for a wedding, and still stood on guard in that
green meadow down below. I was disappointed, too, that not an
angel was visible. One or two of them, surely, could easily have
been spared for an hour, to run up and see the show; and they
would have been thoroughly at home here, in the midst of all the
colour and the movement and the fun.
But it was time to get on, for clearly the interest was only
just beginning. Over went the next page, and there we were, the
whole crowd of us, assembled in a noble church. It was not easy
to make out exactly what was going on; but in the throng I was
delighted to recognize my angels at last, happy and very much at
home. They had managed to get leave off, evidently, and must have
run up the hill and scampered breathlessly through the gate; and
perhaps they cried a little when they found the square empty, and
thought the fun must be all over. Two of them had got hold of a
great wax candle apiece, as much as they could stagger under, and
were tittering sideways at each other as the grease ran
bountifully over their clothes. A third had strolled in among the
company, and was chatting to a young gentleman, with whom she
appeared to be on the best of terms. Decidedly, this was the
right breed of angel for us. None of your sick-bed or night
nursery business for them!
Well, no doubt they were now being married, He and She, just as
always happened. And then, of course, they were going to live
happily ever after; and that was the part I wanted to get to.
Storybooks were so stupid, always stopping at the point where
they became really nice; but this picture-story was only in its
first chapters, and at last I was to have a chance of knowing
how people lived happily ever after. We would all go home
together, He and She, and the angels, and I; and the armour-man
would be invited to come and stay. And then the story would
really begin, at the point where those other ones always left
off. I turned the page, and found myself free of the dim and
splendid church and once more in the open country.
This was all right; this was just as it should be. The sky was
a fleckless blue, the flags danced in the breeze, and our merry
bridal party, with jest and laughter, jogged down to the
water-side. I was through the town by this time, and out on the
other side of the hill, where I had always wanted to be; and,
sure enough, there was the harbour, all thick with curly ships.
Most of them were piled high with wedding-presents--bales of
silk, and gold and silver plate, and comfortable-looking bags
suggesting bullion; and the gayest ship of all lay close up to
the carpeted landing-stage. Already the bride was stepping
daintily down the gangway, her ladies following primly, one by
one; a few minutes more and we should all be aboard, the hawsers
would splash in the water, the sails would fill and strain. From
the deck I should see the little walled town recede and sink and
grow dim, while every plunge of our bows brought us nearer to the
happy island--it was an island we were bound for, I knew well!
Already I could see the island-people waving hands on the crowded
quay, whence the little houses ran up the hill to the castle,
crowning all with its towers and battlements. Once more we should
ride together, a merry procession, clattering up the steep street
and through the grim gateway; and then we should have arrived,
then we should all dine together, then we should have reached
home! And then--Ow! Ow! Ow!
Bitter it is to stumble out of an opalescent dream into the
cold daylight; cruel to lose in a second a sea-voyage, an island,
and a castle that was to be practically your own; but cruellest
and bitterest of all to know, in addition to your loss, that the
fingers of an angry aunt have you tight by the scruff of your
neck. My beautiful book was gone too--ravished from my grasp by
the dressy lady, who joined in the outburst of denunciation as
heartily as if she had been a relative--and naught was left me
but to blubber dismally, awakened of a sudden to the harshness of
real things and the unnumbered hostilities of the actual world. I
cared little for their reproaches, their abuse; but I sorrowed
heartily for my lost ship, my vanished island, my uneaten dinner,
and for the knowledge that, if I wanted any angels to play with,
I must henceforth put up with the anaemic, night-gowned
nonentities that hovered over the bed of the Sunday-school child
in the pages of the Sabbath Improver.
I was led ignominiously out of the house, in a pulpy, watery
state, while the butler handled his swing doors with a stony,
impassive countenance, intended for the deception of the very
elect, though it did not deceive me. I knew well enough that next
time he was off duty, and strolled around our way, we should meet
in our kitchen as man to man, and I would punch him and ask him
riddles, and he would teach me tricks with corks and bits of
string. So his unsympathetic manner did not add to my depression.
I maintained a diplomatic blubber long after we had been packed
into our pony-carriage and the lodge-gate had clicked behind us,
because it served as a sort of armour-plating against heckling
and argument and abuse, and I was thinking hard and wanted to be
let alone. And the thoughts that I was thinking were two.
First I thought, "I've got ahead of Charlotte this time!"
And next I thought, "When I've grown up big, and have money of
my own, and a full-sized walking-stick, I will set out early one
morning, and never stop till I get to that little walled town."
There ought to be no real difficulty in the task. It only meant
asking here and asking there, and people were very obliging, and
I could describe every stick and stone of it.
As for the island which I had never even seen, that was not so
easy. Yet I felt confident that somehow, at some time, sooner or
later, I was destined to arrive.
