Текст книги "Страна Северного Ветра / At the Back of the North Wind"

Автор книги: Джордж МакДональд

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

CHAPTER XVI. DIAMOND MAKES A BEGINNING

THE wind blew loud, but Diamond slept a deep sleep, and never heard

it. My own impression is that every time when Diamond slept well and

remembered nothing about it in the morning, he had been all that night

at the back of the north wind. I am almost sure that was how he woke

so refreshed, and felt so quiet and hopeful all the day. Indeed he said

this much, though not to me–that always when he woke from such a sleep

there was a something in his mind, he could not tell what–could not

tell whether it was the last far-off sounds of the river dying away in

the distance, or some of the words of the endless song his mother had

read to him on the sea-shore. Sometimes he thought it must have been

the twittering of the swallows–over the shallows, you, know; but it may

have been the chirping of the dingy sparrows picking up their breakfast

in the yard–how can I tell? I don't know what I know, I only know what

I think; and to tell the truth, I am more for the swallows than the

sparrows. When he knew he was coming awake, he would sometimes try hard

to keep hold of the words of what seemed a new song, one he had not

heard before–a song in which the words and the music somehow appeared

to be all one; but even when he thought he had got them well fixed in

his mind, ever as he came awaker–as he would say–one line faded away

out of it, and then another, and then another, till at last there was

nothing left but some lovely picture of water or grass or daisies, or

something else very common, but with all the commonness polished off it,

and the lovely soul of it, which people so seldom see, and, alas! yet

seldomer believe in, shining out. But after that he would sing the

oddest, loveliest little songs to the baby–of his own making, his

mother said; but Diamond said he did not make them; they were made

somewhere inside him, and he knew nothing about them till they were

coming out.

When he woke that first morning he got up at once, saying to himself,

“I've been ill long enough, and have given a great deal of trouble; I

must try and be of use now, and help my mother.” When he went into her

room he found her lighting the fire, and his father just getting out of

bed. They had only the one room, besides the little one, not much more

than a closet, in which Diamond slept. He began at once to set things

to rights, but the baby waking up, he took him, and nursed him till

his mother had got the breakfast ready. She was looking gloomy, and his

father was silent; and indeed except Diamond had done all he possibly

could to keep out the misery that was trying to get in at doors and

windows, he too would have grown miserable, and then they would have

been all miserable together. But to try to make others comfortable is

the only way to get right comfortable ourselves, and that comes partly

of not being able to think so much about ourselves when we are helping

other people. For our Selves will always do pretty well if we don't pay

them too much attention. Our Selves are like some little children who

will be happy enough so long as they are left to their own games, but

when we begin to interfere with them, and make them presents of too nice

playthings, or too many sweet things, they begin at once to fret and

spoil.

“Why, Diamond, child!” said his mother at last, “you're as good to your

mother as if you were a girl–nursing the baby, and toasting the bread,

and sweeping up the hearth! I declare a body would think you had been

among the fairies.”

Could Diamond have had greater praise or greater pleasure? You see

when he forgot his Self his mother took care of his Self, and loved and

praised his Self. Our own praises poison our Selves, and puff and swell

them up, till they lose all shape and beauty, and become like great

toadstools. But the praises of father or mother do our Selves good, and

comfort them and make them beautiful. They never do them any harm. If

they do any harm, it comes of our mixing some of our own praises with

them, and that turns them nasty and slimy and poisonous.

When his father had finished his breakfast, which he did rather in a

hurry, he got up and went down into the yard to get out his horse and

put him to the cab.

“Won't you come and see the cab, Diamond?” he said.

“Yes, please, father–if mother can spare me a minute,” answered

Diamond.

“Bless the child! I don't want him,” said his mother cheerfully.

But as he was following his father out of the door, she called him back.

“Diamond, just hold the baby one minute. I have something to say to your

father.”

So Diamond sat down again, took the baby in his lap, and began poking

his face into its little body, laughing and singing all the while,

so that the baby crowed like a little bantam. And what he sang was

something like this–such nonsense to those that couldn't understand it!

but not to the baby, who got all the good in the world out of it:–

baby's a-sleeping wake up baby for all the swallows are the merriest

fellows and have the yellowest children who would go sleeping and

snore like a gaby disturbing his mother and father and brother and all

a-boring their ears with his snoring snoring snoring for himself and no

other for himself in particular wake up baby sit up perpendicular hark

to the gushing hark to the rushing where the sheep are the woolliest and

the lambs the unruliest and their tails the whitest and their eyes the

brightest and baby's the bonniest and baby's the funniest and baby's the

shiniest and baby's the tiniest and baby's the merriest and baby's

the worriest of all the lambs that plague their dams and mother's

the whitest of all the dams that feed the lambs that go crop-cropping

without stop-stopping and father's the best of all the swallows that

build their nest out of the shining shallows and he has the merriest

children that's baby and Diamond and Diamond and baby and baby and

Diamond and Diamond and baby–

Here Diamond's knees went off in a wild dance which tossed the baby

about and shook the laughter out of him in immoderate peals. His mother

had been listening at the door to the last few lines of his song, and

came in with the tears in her eyes. She took the baby from him, gave him

a kiss, and told him to run to his father.

By the time Diamond got into the yard, the horse was between the shafts,

and his father was looping the traces on. Diamond went round to look at

the horse. The sight of him made him feel very queer. He did not know

much about different horses, and all other horses than their own were

very much the same to him. But he could not make it out. This was

Diamond and it wasn't Diamond. Diamond didn't hang his head like that;

yet the head that was hanging was very like the one that Diamond used

to hold so high. Diamond's bones didn't show through his skin like that;

but the skin they pushed out of shape so was very like Diamond's skin;

and the bones might be Diamond's bones, for he had never seen the shape

of them. But when he came round in front of the old horse, and he put

out his long neck, and began sniffing at him and rubbing his upper lip

and his nose on him, then Diamond saw it could be no other than old

Diamond, and he did just as his father had done before–put his arms

round his neck and cried–but not much.

“Ain't it jolly, father?” he said. “Was there ever anybody so lucky as

me? Dear old Diamond!”

And he hugged the horse again, and kissed both his big hairy cheeks. He

could only manage one at a time, however–the other cheek was so far off

on the other side of his big head.

His father mounted the box with just the same air, as Diamond thought,

with which he had used to get upon the coach-box, and Diamond said

to himself, “Father's as grand as ever anyhow.” He had kept his brown

livery-coat, only his wife had taken the silver buttons off and put

brass ones instead, because they did not think it polite to Mr. Coleman

in his fallen fortunes to let his crest be seen upon the box of a cab.

Old Diamond had kept just his collar; and that had the silver crest upon

it still, for his master thought nobody would notice that, and so let it

remain for a memorial of the better days of which it reminded him–not

unpleasantly, seeing it had been by no fault either of his or of the old

horse's that they had come down in the world together.

“Oh, father, do let me drive a bit,” said Diamond, jumping up on the box

beside him.

His father changed places with him at once, putting the reins into his

hands. Diamond gathered them up eagerly.

“Don't pull at his mouth,” said his father, “just feel, at it gently

to let him know you're there and attending to him. That's what I call

talking to him through the reins.”

“Yes, father, I understand,” said Diamond. Then to the horse he said,

“Go on Diamond.” And old Diamond's ponderous bulk began at once to move

to the voice of the little boy.

But before they had reached the entrance of the mews, another voice

called after young Diamond, which, in his turn, he had to obey, for it

was that of his mother. “Diamond! Diamond!” it cried; and Diamond pulled

the reins, and the horse stood still as a stone.

“Husband,” said his mother, coming up, “you're never going to trust him

with the reins–a baby like that?”

“He must learn some day, and he can't begin too soon. I see already he's

a born coachman,” said his father proudly. “And I don't see well how

he could escape it, for my father and my grandfather, that's his

great-grandfather, was all coachmen, I'm told; so it must come natural

to him, any one would think. Besides, you see, old Diamond's as proud of

him as we are our own selves, wife. Don't you see how he's turning round

his ears, with the mouths of them open, for the first word he speaks to

tumble in? He's too well bred to turn his head, you know.”

“Well, but, husband, I can't do without him to-day. Everything's got to

be done, you know. It's my first day here. And there's that baby!”

“Bless you, wife! I never meant to take him away–only to the bottom of

Endell Street. He can watch his way back.”

“No thank you, father; not to-day,” said Diamond. “Mother wants me.

Perhaps she'll let me go another day.”

“Very well, my man,” said his father, and took the reins which Diamond

was holding out to him.

Diamond got down, a little disappointed of course, and went with his

mother, who was too pleased to speak. She only took hold of his hand as

tight as if she had been afraid of his running away instead of glad that

he would not leave her.

Now, although they did not know it, the owner of the stables, the same

man who had sold the horse to his father, had been standing just inside

one of the stable-doors, with his hands in his pockets, and had heard

and seen all that passed; and from that day John Stonecrop took a great

fancy to the little boy. And this was the beginning of what came of it.

The same evening, just as Diamond was feeling tired of the day's work,

and wishing his father would come home, Mr. Stonecrop knocked at the

door. His mother went and opened it.

“Good evening, ma'am,” said he. “Is the little master in?”

“Yes, to be sure he is–at your service, I'm sure, Mr. Stonecrop,” said

his mother.

“No, no, ma'am; it's I'm at his service. I'm just a-going out with my

own cab, and if he likes to come with me, he shall drive my old horse

till he's tired.”

“It's getting rather late for him,” said his mother thoughtfully. “You

see he's been an invalid.”

Diamond thought, what a funny thing! How could he have been an invalid

when he did not even know what the word meant? But, of course, his

mother was right.

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Stonecrop, “I can just let him drive through

Bloomsbury Square, and then he shall run home again.”

“Very good, sir. And I'm much obliged to you,” said his mother.

And Diamond, dancing with delight, got his cap, put his hand in Mr.

Stonecrop's, and went with him to the yard where the cab was waiting.

He did not think the horse looked nearly so nice as Diamond, nor Mr.

Stonecrop nearly so grand as his father; but he was none, the less

pleased. He got up on the box, and his new friend got up beside him.

“What's the horse's name?” whispered Diamond, as he took the reins from

the man.

“It's not a nice name,” said Mr. Stonecrop. “You needn't call him by it.

I didn't give it him. He'll go well enough without it. Give the boy a

whip, Jack. I never carries one when I drive old–”

He didn't finish the sentence. Jack handed Diamond a whip, with which,

by holding it half down the stick, he managed just to flack the haunches

of the horse; and away he went.

“Mind the gate,” said Mr. Stonecrop; and Diamond did mind the gate, and

guided the nameless horse through it in safety, pulling him this way and

that according as was necessary. Diamond learned to drive all the sooner

that he had been accustomed to do what he was told, and could obey the

smallest hint in a moment. Nothing helps one to get on like that. Some

people don't know how to do what they are told; they have not been used

to it, and they neither understand quickly nor are able to turn what

they do understand into action quickly. With an obedient mind one learns

the rights of things fast enough; for it is the law of the universe, and

to obey is to understand.

“Look out!” cried Mr. Stonecrop, as they were turning the corner into

Bloomsbury Square.

It was getting dusky now. A cab was approaching rather rapidly from

the opposite direction, and Diamond pulling aside, and the other driver

pulling up, they only just escaped a collision. Then they knew each

other.

“Why, Diamond, it's a bad beginning to run into your own father,” cried

the driver.

“But, father, wouldn't it have been a bad ending to run into your own

son?” said Diamond in return; and the two men laughed heartily.

“This is very kind of you, I'm sure, Stonecrop,” said his father.

“Not a bit. He's a brave fellow, and'll be fit to drive on his own hook

in a week or two. But I think you'd better let him drive you home now,

for his mother don't like his having over much of the night air, and I

promised not to take him farther than the square.”

“Come along then, Diamond,” said his father, as he brought his cab up to

the other, and moved off the box to the seat beside it. Diamond jumped

across, caught at the reins, said “Good-night, and thank you, Mr.

Stonecrop,” and drove away home, feeling more of a man than he had ever

yet had a chance of feeling in all his life. Nor did his father find it

necessary to give him a single hint as to his driving. Only I suspect

the fact that it was old Diamond, and old Diamond on his way to his

stable, may have had something to do with young Diamond's success.

“Well, child,” said his mother, when he entered the room, “you've not

been long gone.”

“No, mother; here I am. Give me the baby.”

“The baby's asleep,” said his mother.

“Then give him to me, and I'll lay him down.”

But as Diamond took him, he woke up and began to laugh. For he was

indeed one of the merriest children. And no wonder, for he was as plump

as a plum-pudding, and had never had an ache or a pain that lasted more

than five minutes at a time. Diamond sat down with him and began to sing

to him.

baby baby babbing your father's gone a-cabbing to catch a shilling for

its pence to make the baby babbing dance for old Diamond's a duck they

say he can swim but the duck of diamonds is baby that's him and of all

the swallows the merriest fellows that bake their cake with the water

they shake out of the river flowing for ever and make dust into clay on

the shiniest day to build their nest father's the best and mother's the

whitest and her eyes are the brightest of all the dams that watch their

lambs cropping the grass where the waters pass singing for ever and of

all the lambs with the shakingest tails and the jumpingest feet baby's

the funniest baby's the bonniest and he never wails and he's always

sweet and Diamond's his nurse and Diamond's his nurse and Diamond's his

nurse

When Diamond's rhymes grew scarce, he always began dancing the baby.

Some people wondered that such a child could rhyme as he did, but his

rhymes were not very good, for he was only trying to remember what he

had heard the river sing at the back of the north wind.

CHAPTER XVII. DIAMOND GOES ON

DIAMOND became a great favourite with all the men about the mews. Some

may think it was not the best place in the world for him to be brought

up in; but it must have been, for there he was. At first, he heard a

good many rough and bad words; but he did not like them, and so they did

him little harm. He did not know in the least what they meant, but there

was something in the very sound of them, and in the tone of voice in

which they were said, which Diamond felt to be ugly. So they did not

even stick to him, not to say get inside him. He never took any notice

of them, and his face shone pure and good in the middle of them, like

a primrose in a hailstorm. At first, because his face was so quiet

and sweet, with a smile always either awake or asleep in his eyes, and

because he never heeded their ugly words and rough jokes, they said he

wasn't all there, meaning that he was half an idiot, whereas he was a

great deal more there than they had the sense to see. And before long

the bad words found themselves ashamed to come out of the men's mouths

when Diamond was near. The one would nudge the other to remind him that

the boy was within hearing, and the words choked themselves before they

got any farther. When they talked to him nicely he had always a good

answer, sometimes a smart one, ready, and that helped much to make them

change their minds about him.

One day Jack gave him a curry-comb and a brush to try his hand upon

old Diamond's coat. He used them so deftly, so gently, and yet so

thoroughly, as far as he could reach, that the man could not help

admiring him.

“You must make haste and, grow” he said. “It won't do to have a horse's

belly clean and his back dirty, you know.”

“Give me a leg,” said Diamond, and in a moment he was on the old horse's

back with the comb and brush. He sat on his withers, and reaching

forward as he ate his hay, he curried and he brushed, first at one side

of his neck, and then at the other. When that was done he asked for a

dressing-comb, and combed his mane thoroughly. Then he pushed himself on

to his back, and did his shoulders as far down as he could reach. Then

he sat on his croup, and did his back and sides; then he turned around

like a monkey, and attacked his hind-quarters, and combed his tail. This

last was not so easy to manage, for he had to lift it up, and every now

and then old Diamond would whisk it out of his hands, and once he sent

the comb flying out of the stable door, to the great amusement of the

men. But Jack fetched it again, and Diamond began once more, and did not

leave off until he had done the whole business fairly well, if not in

a first-rate, experienced fashion. All the time the old horse went

on eating his hay, and, but with an occasional whisk of his tail when

Diamond tickled or scratched him, took no notice of the proceeding.

But that was all a pretence, for he knew very well who it was that

was perched on his back, and rubbing away at him with the comb and the

brush. So he was quite pleased and proud, and perhaps said to himself

something like this–

“I'm a stupid old horse, who can't brush his own coat; but there's my

young godson on my back, cleaning me like an angel.”

I won't vouch for what the old horse was thinking, for it is very

difficult to find out what any old horse is thinking.

“Oh dear!” said Diamond when he had done, “I'm so tired!”

And he laid himself down at full length on old Diamond's back.

By this time all the men in the stable were gathered about the two

Diamonds, and all much amused. One of them lifted him down, and from

that time he was a greater favourite than before. And if ever there was

a boy who had a chance of being a prodigy at cab-driving, Diamond was

that boy, for the strife came to be who should have him out with him on

the box.

His mother, however, was a little shy of the company for him, and

besides she could not always spare him. Also his father liked to have

him himself when he could; so that he was more desired than enjoyed

among the cabmen.

But one way and another he did learn to drive all sorts of horses, and

to drive them well, and that through the most crowded streets in London

City. Of course there was the man always on the box-seat beside him, but

before long there was seldom the least occasion to take the reins

from out of his hands. For one thing he never got frightened, and

consequently was never in too great a hurry. Yet when the moment came

for doing something sharp, he was always ready for it. I must once more

remind my readers that he had been to the back of the north wind.

One day, which was neither washing-day, nor cleaning-day nor

marketing-day, nor Saturday, nor Monday–upon which consequently Diamond

could be spared from the baby–his father took him on his own cab. After

a stray job or two by the way, they drew up in the row upon the stand

between Cockspur Street and Pall Mall. They waited a long time, but

nobody seemed to want to be carried anywhere. By and by ladies would be

going home from the Academy exhibition, and then there would be a chance

of a job.

“Though, to be sure,” said Diamond's father–with what truth I cannot

say, but he believed what he said–“some ladies is very hard, and keeps

you to the bare sixpence a mile, when every one knows that ain't enough

to keep a family and a cab upon. To be sure it's the law; but mayhap

they may get more law than they like some day themselves.”

As it was very hot, Diamond's father got down to have a glass of beer

himself, and give another to the old waterman. He left Diamond on the

box.

A sudden noise got up, and Diamond looked round to see what was the

matter.

There was a crossing near the cab-stand, where a girl was sweeping. Some

rough young imps had picked a quarrel with her, and were now hauling

at her broom to get it away from her. But as they did not pull all

together, she was holding it against them, scolding and entreating

alternately.

Diamond was off his box in a moment, and running to the help of the

girl. He got hold of the broom at her end and pulled along with her. But

the boys proceeded to rougher measures, and one of them hit Diamond on

the nose, and made it bleed; and as he could not let go the broom to

mind his nose, he was soon a dreadful figure. But presently his father

came back, and missing Diamond, looked about. He had to look twice,

however, before he could be sure that that was his boy in the middle

of the tumult. He rushed in, and sent the assailants flying in all

directions. The girl thanked Diamond, and began sweeping as if nothing

had happened, while his father led him away. With the help of old Tom,

the waterman, he was soon washed into decency, and his father set him on

the box again, perfectly satisfied with the account he gave of the cause

of his being in a fray.

“I couldn't let them behave so to a poor girl–could I, father?” he

said.

“Certainly not, Diamond,” said his father, quite pleased, for Diamond's

father was a gentleman.

A moment after, up came the girl, running, with her broom over her

shoulder, and calling, “Cab, there! cab!”

Diamond's father turned instantly, for he was the foremost in the rank,

and followed the girl. One or two other passing cabs heard the cry, and

made for the place, but the girl had taken care not to call till she was

near enough to give her friends the first chance. When they reached

the curbstone–who should it be waiting for the cab but Mrs. and Miss

Coleman! They did not look at the cabman, however. The girl opened the

door for them; they gave her the address, and a penny; she told the

cabman, and away they drove.

When they reached the house, Diamond's father got down and rang the

bell. As he opened the door of the cab, he touched his hat as he had

been wont to do. The ladies both stared for a moment, and then exclaimed

together:

“Why, Joseph! can it be you?”

“Yes, ma'am; yes, miss,” answered he, again touching his hat, with all

the respect he could possibly put into the action. “It's a lucky day

which I see you once more upon it.”

“Who would have thought it?” said Mrs. Coleman. “It's changed times for

both of us, Joseph, and it's not very often we can have a cab even; but

you see my daughter is still very poorly, and she can't bear the motion

of the omnibuses. Indeed we meant to walk a bit first before we took a

cab, but just at the corner, for as hot as the sun was, a cold wind came

down the street, and I saw that Miss Coleman must not face it. But to

think we should have fallen upon you, of all the cabmen in London! I

didn't know you had got a cab.”

“Well, you see, ma'am, I had a chance of buying the old horse, and I

couldn't resist him. There he is, looking at you, ma'am. Nobody knows

the sense in that head of his.”

The two ladies went near to pat the horse, and then they noticed Diamond

on the box.

“Why, you've got both Diamonds with you,” said Miss Coleman. “How do you

do, Diamond?”

Diamond lifted his cap, and answered politely.

“He'll be fit to drive himself before long,” said his father, proudly.

“The old horse is a-teaching of him.”

“Well, he must come and see us, now you've found us out. Where do you

live?”

Diamond's father gave the ladies a ticket with his name and address

printed on it; and then Mrs. Coleman took out her purse, saying:

“And what's your fare, Joseph?”

“No, thank you, ma'am,” said Joseph. “It was your own old horse as took

you; and me you paid long ago.”

He jumped on his box before she could say another word, and with a

parting salute drove off, leaving them on the pavement, with the maid

holding the door for them.

It was a long time now since Diamond had seen North Wind, or even

thought much about her. And as his father drove along, he was thinking

not about her, but about the crossing-sweeper, and was wondering what

made him feel as if he knew her quite well, when he could not remember

anything of her. But a picture arose in his mind of a little girl

running before the wind and dragging her broom after her; and from that,

by degrees, he recalled the whole adventure of the night when he got

down from North Wind's back in a London street. But he could not quite

satisfy himself whether the whole affair was not a dream which he had

dreamed when he was a very little boy. Only he had been to the back of

the north wind since–there could be no doubt of that; for when he woke

every morning, he always knew that he had been there again. And as he

thought and thought, he recalled another thing that had happened that

morning, which, although it seemed a mere accident, might have something

to do with what had happened since. His father had intended going on the

stand at King's Cross that morning, and had turned into Gray's Inn Lane

to drive there, when they found the way blocked up, and upon inquiry

were informed that a stack of chimneys had been blown down in the night,

and had fallen across the road. They were just clearing the rubbish

away. Diamond's father turned, and made for Charing Cross.

That night the father and mother had a great deal to talk about.

“Poor things!” said the mother. “it's worse for them than it is for us.

You see they've been used to such grand things, and for them to come

down to a little poky house like that–it breaks my heart to think of

it.”

“I don't know” said Diamond thoughtfully, “whether Mrs. Coleman had

bells on her toes.”

“What do you mean, child?” said his mother.

“She had rings on her fingers, anyhow,” returned Diamond.

“Of course she had, as any lady would. What has that to do with it?”

“When we were down at Sandwich,” said Diamond, “you said you would have

to part with your mother's ring, now we were poor.”

“Bless the child; he forgets nothing,” said his mother. “Really,

Diamond, a body would need to mind what they say to you.”

“Why?” said Diamond. “I only think about it.”

“That's just why,” said the mother.

“Why is that why?” persisted Diamond, for he had not yet learned that

grown-up people are not often so much grown up that they never talk like

children–and spoilt ones too.

“Mrs. Coleman is none so poor as all that yet. No, thank Heaven! she's

not come to that.”

“Is it a great disgrace to be poor?” asked Diamond, because of the tone

in which his mother had spoken.

But his mother, whether conscience-stricken I do not know hurried him

away to bed, where after various attempts to understand her, resumed and

resumed again in spite of invading sleep, he was conquered at last, and

gave in, murmuring over and over to himself, “Why is why?” but getting

no answer to the question.