The Garden of Resurrection
CHAPTER I
Itwas the first, the very first, day of spring. A man walked by me with a narcissus in his coat and he was humming a tune.
By the looks of him—the tail-coat, the bowler hat, the little leather hand-bag—he was an artisan. You know that game of placing people. I put him down as an electrician. He had been attending to a job up West. He was returning to the premises of his firm in Bond Street. All this, of course, was surmise. But of one thing I was certain. He had no business to be walking through the Park. He ought to have been on a 'bus, or in the Underground Railway, speeding back to save his firm's most precious time, ready to start forth once more upon his firm's most urgent errands. Instead of this—it was the first day of spring—he was walking through the Park and I was envying him. I envied the narcissus in his coat. Even the very tune he was humming touched a sense of covetousness in my heart.
"Nor his ox," thought I, "nor his ass, nor anything that is his." A very stern Commandment that; for even as I took off my silk hat and brushed the rim of it once with my sleeve, I envied him for his tail-coat and his billy-cock.
It was little enough to want of any man, his tail-coat or his billy-cock, his narcissus or the tune set humming from his heart. I did not want his leather bag at all. He could keep that. Yet it seemed that I was to break the tenth decree of Moses to its last letter, or, since I was going backwards, to its first; for after he had gone by some thirty yards or so, I was envying him for something else altogether.
A few moments before he came, a little nursemaid had wheeled her pram down the path where I was sitting. She was one of those rosy-cheeked creatures who come up from the country to grow pale in London, just as the flowers come up of a morning to Covent Garden and wither perhaps before the night is out. She must have been very new to it all, for she had all the country freshness about her still. Her cheeks glowed in the quick, bright air. Her hair blew loosely over her forehead—through the stray, fine threads of it her eyes danced, glittering with youth. I remember now of what it must have reminded me. You have seen those spiders' webs, caught on the points of furze which, early on a crisp May morning, glisten with drops of dew? Those eyes of hers through her hair reminded me of that. And as she passed me by, leaning forward again and again to whisper to that fat, round baby in the pram, she chanced to look at me.
You must take my word for it that it was not from any thwarted desire to draw her into conversation that the expression in those eyes of hers chilled me. I have never had the courage or, which again I envy so much in others, the presence of mind which brings knowledge to a man, that a woman would answer if he addressed her in the street. I believe there are many women, the most virtuous in the world, who have had little adventures of this kind. God knows, life would be dull without such interludes. But as yet no such woman has come my way. It were better put if I said that I have never come hers. Therefore, there was no desire on my part to say a word to this little nursery maid; yet the swift look in her eyes made a thrill of coldness quiver through me. That a woman looks her disapproval of you can be borne. But it is hard to bear, that look in a woman's eyes which sees you not at all; when in one woman's face you read the disapproval of her whole sex.
I don't know why it should have struck me so strangely that morning, for I am used to it by now. I have known it so long. In any case, it is not a thing to talk about. You have it there in that nursery maid's eyes. I am an ugly devil, not even with that ugliness which pleads a charm to many a woman's heart. I am an ugly devil, and that is all there is about it. The only creatures who have ever gazed at me as though I were the image of God were my mother and my dog. The one is dead. I have only to stretch down my hand from my chair and the other will gaze at me in such fashion now. He sat upon a chair next to me that morning and, as I paid his penny to the collector, he gave me a glance from his brown eyes which I chose to take for gratitude. He thanked me—why not? He had not got any pennies with him. There are times when I am that way myself.
Now, when the nursery maid's eyes had passed me over, they looked at Dandy and her whole expression changed. I caught the sign of friendliness, the gentle come-hitherly glance which I know is the first step in those little adventures leading to chance acquaintanceship. For that look he would have spoken to her had he been a man—by reason of that look, had he been a man, she would have answered him. As it was, only his tail wagged; but she did not see that. And so she passed on while Dandy and I sat gazing after her.
I will not depart into reasons as to why I called him Dandy. This incident alone will serve to tell you why. He was a dandy and so much better-looking than I, wherefore I gave him that name—an unnecessary yet unconscious criticism of myself.
It was a moment or two after this that my electrician strolled by and I began to envy him. Dandy and I both turned our heads to watch him out of sight, and then it was that I coveted most of all those things which were his. For this was what happened. When she had reached the end of the path, had stood a moment to watch the horses as they turned and started their canter once more down the Row, the little nursery maid wheeled round her pram and began retracing her steps.
"Dandy," said I, and his eyes shot round to mine, "they're going to meet."
We watched them closely as they passed.
"I wonder how she looked at him," I muttered. "If he turns, we shall see. Will he turn? Will he turn?"
Dandy's tail wagged, and he turned.
But that was not all; for, as he looked over his shoulder, the little nursery maid whipped round as well, and in the electrician's eyes I saw a smile. When then she turned her head about, I saw a smile there too. Twice they looked back over their shoulders, after which the electrician's steps grew slow. I settled myself back in my chair, so that they should not guess I had seen; for I was really interested by this. The premises of that firm in Bond Street were getting further away with every step he took in their direction. Another hesitating stride or two and they had vanished out of sight altogether. He had turned and was coming back.
For the third time the little nursery maid looked over her shoulder. Oh, you should not say she was leading him on. Such a thought as that never enters a woman's head. She is only curious to see what will happen. When, for instance, as in such a case as this, a woman looks back at you when you have passed, it is not to encourage you to look back at her, it is only to see if you are. But no woman will ever persuade a man to learn that; what is more, no woman would ever be so foolish as to try. It is a man's mistaken ideas about women—or it is love, if you like that better—which makes the world go round.
I could see that my little maid had not the faintest conception of what would have been the result of her glances. Any one might have seen it, for directly she understood that he was following, a great leaping of her heart quickened her steps and she came past me once more, wheeling the pram so fast that the fat, round baby jumped and jumped again.
And all this sudden increase of pace was in order to escape him. Not for one moment was there a desire in the heart of her to be caught. Indeed, in her face there was a set determination that she should not be overtaken—and certainly not opposite me.
Now whether she kept up this pace or not, I am in no position to say. The movement of a receding figure—I speak almost in terms of physical laws—is well-nigh impossible to estimate. I feel sure, however, that she did. The only means therefore by which I can satisfactorily justify the result in my mind is by the assumption that he must have been walking quicker than she. Whichever it was, he caught her.
He had forgotten his tune as he came by me. I think it was quite right of him. When life is holding out to you its greatest possibility, that is no time for humming a tune. Nevertheless, he did his best to look unconcerned. He pretended he had forgotten something at that house in the West End. In fact, as he passed me, he took out his watch and distinctly I heard him say—"Sch! Sch!"
"Splendid fellow," I said to Dandy. And so he was. I would have given much to be in need of such little deception myself. Some one else's romance, however, is very engrossing when it happens that you have none of your own. Dandy and I followed him secretly with our eyes as he sailed down the path like a bold man-o'-war in pursuit of his capture. I say, secretly. There was no secrecy about Dandy. He jumped off his chair and, standing in the middle of the path, he looked directly after them. At least, I think it was after them. There was another dog in sight, but he was very far away.
However that may be, we were not permitted to see the most interesting part of it. She was quick and she was cunning in her manœuvres, was that little nursery maid. Before I could have contemplated the action, she had put about and was off up the path which turns sharply to the right and leads into the solitary heart of the Park. That pram went round that corner bumping on two wheels. I saw the fat, round baby clinging to the sides. Then, sure enough, round went my electrician after her and, but for Dandy, the Park seemed empty once more.
"Well," said I, "that's all there is to that," and I leant back again with disappointment in my chair. There was no such thing as following them. It was not to be done. Love is a timid thing at such a stage as this, and I would not have frightened it for the world. I will confess that I enjoyed the thought that it was generous of me. I fancy, moreover, that Providence, who superintends all these matters, thought so too. In any case, she gave me my reward.
It was a good hour later. Hundreds of men and women had passed by in that time for me to look at—nearly as many dogs for Dandy. I had well-nigh forgotten my electrician when, happening to look down towards that sudden corner, I saw him hurry round it and make to come past me once more. I smiled in gratitude to Providence, but my reward was not full even then. He had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, and, seeing me once more, knowing I was a friend no doubt, he stopped and asked me for a match. I took out my box.
"Did you find what you wanted?" said I, as he lit his cigarette.
He threw away the match and looked at me.
"I beg your pardon," said he.
"'Twas only," said I, "that you passed me here about an hour ago. You passed me twice. First time you were going out of the Park, the second time you came back. I saw you look at your watch. I imagined that you'd left some instrument at the house up West where you'd been working. You were evidently annoyed at the waste of time."
His eyes opened in some sort of amazement.
"Very quick of you to have noticed it, sir."
"Well—not very," I replied. "I sit here in the Park most mornings and amuse myself that way."
He gave me back my match-box.
"Well—that was just about it," he said. "I'd been fixing some blinds ready for the summer."
"Blinds for the summer," I echoed, "there's a sound about that."
He smiled broadly as he thought of it.
"By the way," said I, "you've lost your narcissus." He looked down quickly at his coat.
"Sch! Sch!" he said again, and with that turned and went away. I think he was beginning to mistrust me. He explained as he left me that he was in a great hurry. I have no doubt he was.
Now that really was the end of it, and for that I broke the very first letter of the tenth decree of Moses. For that lost narcissus, I envied him most of all. But when I say that I confess to envying him his little nursery maid, I simply mean that I envy every man his womenfolk, and the mood was heavy on me that morning. This little incident served only to make it the heavier. But for this incident, in fact, I might never have taken up my pen; certain it is I should never have gone forth on that wild, mad errand which is to become the subject of these pages.
Indeed, nothing less than this had happened—my electrician and his nursery maid had superinduced a mood, a growing, convincing belief that it was not worth while going on. I said aloud that there is nothing more lonely in this world than a lonely man. I made the remark to Dandy. I dared not tell it solely to myself, it would have been too real.
"There's nothing more lonely, Dandy," said I, "in this world than a lonely man."
Dandy stretched out a paw for my hand. He kept beating the air until he got it. When I felt his cold little pads in my palm, I added an amendment—"Unless it be a dog that is lost."
Confident then that in that short statement we had compassed the woes of the whole world, there came a momentary relief. It did not last for long. That vulture of a mood flapped its wings again and settled down once more to feed upon our minds. Neither Dandy nor I could shake him off. For this is the way with dogs, as you know well enough who have one. They are partners for better or for worse in the little limited company of hopes and fears that you see fit to float upon the world. The more shares are taken up, the better it is for you, the more going a concern it will be. But every human being has his own company and every one his own allotment. By which you may so easily understand that every man himself is his largest shareholder. Often, indeed, he marries and takes a partner; but even she has floated some little company of her own.
Now it is not this way with a dog. Take a dog into partnership and he halves your losses and your profits to the last. Little deals of his own, little speculations he may make in the street when the real business of the day is done. But during those working hours on 'Change when the vital affairs of life are afoot, there is he by the side of you, ready to laugh with you at the profits of your hopes, ready to despair with you at the losses you had feared.
Dandy was sharing my losses with me that morning. So fast as depression set in upon me, so, surely did his little ears droop down, his head hang lower and his tail fall limp. Why, even when some beautiful lady smiled at him as she passed, he turned away. I would have sworn he closed his eyes.
"My God," said I, in a supreme effort, "this'll never do," and at that moment came my doctor through the Park. I held up my hand in salute. It was more than a salute. I beckoned him to stop and speak to me. He got down from his car; came across and sat beside me.
"Lazy, lucky devil," said he.
I nodded my head. All men call me that.
"Do you ever give consultations in a place like this?" I asked.
He would have made me a professional answer had I not stopped him.
"Talk away," said he, and I talked.
It is marvellous how subtle and how eloquent one can be over the description of one's ills when there is really nothing the matter at all. I talked for ten minutes.
"It comes to this," said I, in conclusion, "every man jack of us is over-civilized. We're like a breed of race-horses that has outbred the strain which made it famous. We're over-bred."
He nodded.
"The worst of consultation in a place like this," said he, "is that I can't look at your tongue."
I don't suppose that Dandy heard this. In any case the sun was burning down on his head. Whichever it was, a broad smile wrinkled his face and his tongue lolled out. I pointed to him.
"You can look at that," said I; "we live the same sort of lives. Nothing the matter with that, is there?"
"Well—of course—it's an obvious thing to say," he began.
"I want a change?"
"That's it. A complete change of place."
"You're wrong," said I. "I want a complete change of time. I want to go back to a hundred years ago."
"Yes," he agreed, "better still, but I can't advise you how to get there. No—look here—it's not too late. Run off to Italy for a week or two—drop down into Sicily—take your time over it—get out of the train and walk if you like—and don't go alone."
"I shouldn't," said I.
"You know of some one?"
I looked down at Dandy. Dandy looked up at me.
"But I sha'n't go," I said. "You haven't diagnosed the disease. You don't seem to realize the worst symptom of it all."
"What's that?" he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I'm an ugly devil," said I.