Читать книгу Ploughman of the Moon - Robert William Service - Страница 13

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Despite his ten children and an income of two hundred pounds a year, Papa kept his three chins up and carried on gallantly.

From the time he came into Mama's money, to his death some thirty years later, he never attempted to earn a living. Therein he showed his sagacity. To bring up a family of ten on two hundred pounds a year is a life task for any man, so why complicate it by attempting another job. He took over the management of the estate, as it were, and doled out its income with caution. Even Mama had to ask for every penny she spent.

Mama's father was a wise man who owned cotton mills. He left her about ten thousand pounds, with instructions that it was to be invested in Government securities, and that she was only to have the life interest. This was providential, because if Papa had been able to get his hands on the principal, I hate to think what would have happened to our little brood. He had a great opinion of his business ability and studied the stock markets assiduously. He would often talk of Rio something or other, and when he was cheerful we knew it had gone up, but when he was glum we guessed it was down. In the end, like everything he touched, something happened to wipe out his small stake. I see him now as a pathetic, frustrated figure, forced to live on his wife's income because he was incapable of making one of his own. But one thing I will say for him—he was one of the most abstemious men I have ever known. For three hundred and fifty-five days of the year he perched triumphantly on the water-wagon; then on the other ten he fell off with a mighty wallop.

Let no one point the finger of reproach at a man who is a model of sobriety all but ten days of the year. That is a record of which61 any one should be elated, especially if he came of a hearty drinking family such as ours. Whisky was the national beverage and Scotland was proud of it. I had several relatives who cultivated snakes under glass, so I rate Papa high as a teetotaller. It is true that if he got even a whiff of strong liquor he was unable to stop there; so it was to his credit that for ninety-eight per cent of the time he refused to let a drop of alcohol pass his lips. But the trouble was that he never gave us any warning of his nose-dive from sobriety. When it was about due the suspense got on our nerves. On the street, talking to a girl, we would keep a wary eye for Papa in the distance, taking up the sidewalk. Or if at home we had friends visiting, we were fearful of him barging in on us with bibulous geniality.

One time we had a wealthy aunt staying with us when Papa developed a gloomy gaze and a mean manner. These were signs of a chute from sobriety; and sure enough that evening he announced his intention of going out for a whiff of fresh air. I waited till he was well away, then followed at a distance. I was only ten at the time, but I felt the honour of the family was at stake. When he got to the first pub he disappeared inside, and after a little hesitation I followed. I was prepared to do my little: "Father, dear father, come home with me now" stuff, and all braced for the part. He was standing up to the bar with a group of others, and before him was a tumbler of whisky. I went forward and took him by the arm. He turned round. At first his face showed amazement, then wrath.

"You young blackguard!" he shouted. "What are you doing in this haunt of iniquity?" The group around him looked uncomfortable and I looked crestfallen. So, taking me by the arm, he marched me out. "What were you doing in that den of vice?" he demanded again with virtuous indignation.

"What were you doing?" I said.

"That's none of your affair. But anyway I was there on business. One of those men is a baker and I was arranging for a supply of slightly stale bread at half-price. And over a glass of lemonade," he added indignantly.

I felt guilty. Perhaps it had been lemonade and his motives inno62cent. So on the way home I let him lecture me on the evils of strong drink, and he made me promise solemnly that I would never enter a pub again. After all, I had to admit that he was a good example to me, for his bibulous spells only lasted two or three days, after which he became very sick. Then for a while he was abject in his misery; then almost angelic in his remorse. So much did he look the suffering martyr he made us feel as if we had driven him into the embrace of John Barleycorn. So he would remain a model of: "Wouldn't touch a drop of the beastly stuff!" ... till the next time.

Between his half-Dundreary whiskers Papa had a moustache like a thatch. He was very moustache-conscious. He used to gnaw it a lot till it became grey and he had to ink it. He had a special cup with an inside shield to prevent his moustache getting wet when he drank tea, but when he drank water he had to squeeze it dry. His head was brilliantly bald. It enraged him in hot weather when flies used it as a landing field. Then he would whisk his paper and say "Dammit!", and Mama would say: "Now, Papa, remember the children," so that he would be abashed.

He only shaved twice a week. On the day he shaved he would look like a Member of Parliament, for he would wear his sprigged waistcoat and lavender spats. He had a Winston Churchill hat that looked as if it was the result of a liaison between a bowler and a topper. He was pompous and put on an English accent on these occasions, referring to men in position as: "My old friend ..." In short, you would have thought he was making at least a thousand pounds a year. On the second day, when his beard began to show, he would don a second-grade suit and look like a small-business man. On the third day he would dress like a tramp and wear a red handkerchief under his bristly chin. In this character he enjoyed taking the younger children out for a walk, especially if it was Sunday and he could meet the well-dressed crowd coming from church. I admired his sense of dramatic fitness, but if I asked any one to the house I was careful to do it on Papa's shaving day.

He shaved with a cut-throat razor, for the safety kind had not63 then been invented. I used to sharpen my pencils with his best razor, though I could imagine his fury if he had caught me at it. I generally used a fine old razor with an ivory handle, and I felt rather remorseful when, on my beginning to shave, he made me a present of it. It was his favourite, and I shaved with it over half the world, finally having it stolen in the bunk-house of a California labour camp. I wonder what its ultimate fate was? Maybe it cut the throat of a nigger.

I think Papa realized that he was a failure, as far as concerned the affairs of public life, and tried to justify his existence by success in the domestic sphere. This took the form of having a large family and bringing them up on a small income. He tried to save every penny he could by buying in the cheapest markets, and every day he returned carrying big armfuls of food he had bought in the slum districts. Unluckily most of this was of inferior quality, and sometimes even unfit to eat. For instance, he would bring home apples that were half-rotten, fish that smelt putrid, Irish butter tasting of turnips, eggs in which the yellow and white had wedded, and meat that was full of grubs. His idea was that money saved was money earned; but we, his poor family, were the ones who suffered from his penny-pinching. For personally he liked food best when it tasted high. He had a wonderful digestion and used to boast that never in his life had he experienced a headache. Tobacco had so dulled his sense of taste he could not enjoy anything unless it was full flavoured. But he loved to eat, and for that reason our nourishment, if lacking in quality, was never wanting in quantity. We had eggs for breakfast, a hot midday dinner, a high tea, and a supper at nine in the evening of coffee and fried fish.

All evening he would read his paper and smoke. In smoking, too, he carried out his passion for economy. He smoked clay pipes that cost a penny each. He would cut and mix his own tobacco, and when his pipe was smoked he would knock the dottle onto the mantelpiece. When he loaded his pipe again he would carefully place the ashes on top. Then when the pipe got too dirty he would bury it in the fireglow and bake it clean. He always bought the64 Evening Citizen, which he read from beginning to end. For half an hour he would peruse it; then light his pipe and puff for another half-hour. As he smoked in silence his eyes would seem stern with reverie, though I don't think he had a single thought in his mind. But he surely enjoyed his pipe and his paper. We were so glad to see him passing a peaceful evening; for if he got restless and went out it was a sign of coming trouble. At half-past ten he would go yawning to bed.

In the line of clothes, too, his passion for economy asserted itself. Once he bought cheaply a bolt of the green cloth used for covering billiard tables and had suits for us four boys made of it. Then he forced us to wear them, and I always remember as I sat in class one day, attired in my pea-green suit, how my tiny brother entered dressed in one exactly similar. The boys laughed and even the teacher joined in, observing impertinently: "The Service Circus, meseems."

But his chief triumph in economy was in the shoe department. He bought a shoemaker's outfit and became an amateur cobbler. He then insisted on keeping all our shoes and boots in repair, furnishing the soles with hobnails and steel plaques, and the uppers with weird patches. Protestations were of no avail. We had to wear them, and proudly he would point to his handiwork. He would spend a whole day at his bench, punching, sewing, hammering, and chuckling at the thought that he was doing some shoemaker out of five bob. It is as a cobbler I best remember him, beaming benevolently through his spectacles, his sleeves rolled up, grey stubble on his chin. In such a moment he looked benignant and contented.

It will be seen from all this what an important part Papa played in our household. If he could not cut a swathe in the world of affairs he could at least be the big noise in his own home. By persistent paternity he bolstered up his self-respect, and if outsiders would not recognize him as a dominant personality he was determined his family would. But when we reached sixteen he very sensibly realized that his mastery of us was over, and giving us each a latchkey allowed us to remain out till midnight.65

He was highly moral, and though he never went to church, he forced us to go until we got beyond his control. Then he transferred his interest to the younger children, taking them walks like a nursemaid, or bringing them sweetstuffs, which he made them search for in his pockets. He was sentimental, and the only one, apart from the children, I ever heard cry in our home. Once one of my sisters was stricken with diphtheria, and was not expected to live through the night. We were called in to say a last good-bye, and I remember the funny sniffling noises Papa made. Small as I was I could not sleep that night. Though I had never paid much attention to my sister, the thought of her dying filled me with woe. But in the night she took a turn for the better, and in the morning we were told she was saved.

At first we had two maids, girls of sixteen whom we paid sixteen shillings a month; but when the family grew numerous we could not afford even that. It was then Papa became official dish-washer. Thus by menial abnegation he tried to make up for his failure as a bread-earner, though he would have been the very last to admit failure. To the end he had to kid himself that he was a success, and in his own way he was.

When I left for the New World a number of the boys came down to see me off. I was surprised, because I had never realized that I was so popular. However, they presented me with a silver flask and to my embarrassed shame they sang: "For he's a jolly good fellow."

I was wishing they would dry up when Papa appeared. The old man came running down the wharf, carrying a small package which he handed to me. Outwardly he was smiling a twisted smile, but I could see he was crying bitterly—inside. Well, I have always disliked displays of emotion, so I hurried on board the boat. As it edged out, I could see his very blue eyes in his very red face staring wistfully after me. Maybe I was doing what he would have loved to have done; for besides being a dreamer I think he would have enjoyed adventure. But his destiny was to bring up ten children on two hundred pounds a year. I cannot reproach him for his failings, for they were my own—laziness, day-dreaming, a hatred of authority66 and a quick temper. And even more than he, I had the equipment of a first class failure. Yes, I hated to work for others, and freedom meant more to me than all else. I, too, was of the race of men who don't fit in.

After the boat left I opened his parting gift. It was a Bible. I am sorry to say I never read it. Yet I kept it sentimentally for many years; and, in wild camps of thieves and vagabonds, that was the one possession no one ever tried to steal.

I never saw him again. He wrote to me many times, and in a final letter begged me to pay him a last visit. He pleaded: "Even if you cannot come, just write and say you will." Well, I never answered that letter, and I never went back, for I was far away in the Yukon making a book. Soon after, he died—at the same age as Grandfather, and of the same trouble—a stroke. I must confess I felt a sense of relief. His letters had become increasingly pathetic, and he was quite infirm. His passing would make things easier for my mother, who was much younger and who had borne a hard burden.

Yet I was sorry I had not done more for him, and had not pretended an affection I did not feel. But if I neglected him I am happy to think I brought some joy to his later days. He it was who took my first manuscript to the publisher and begged the newspaper men to give it a kindly write-up. Its instant success must have staggered him. I imagine how he must have strutted and bragged. Well, I like to think that his old age was brightened by my work and that he was happy reading my maiden effort. That is—if he did read it. If so, I think it would be the only book he ever read.

And at the end he was a stout abstainer; for on his death-bed when some one suggested a sip of brandy, he said indignantly: "Take the stuff away. Do you think I want to meet my Maker with the stink of alcohol on my lips?" These were almost his last words....

A sentimental dreamer; kind to children and tender-hearted; a lover of freedom and good food—there have been worse men lauded to the skies, and I am grateful that here I am able to pay a small tribute to his memory.67