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

Автор книги: Джордж МакДональд

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

CHAPTER XVIII. THE DRUNKEN CABMAN

A FEW nights after this, Diamond woke up suddenly, believing he heard

North Wind thundering along. But it was something quite different. South

Wind was moaning round the chimneys, to be sure, for she was not very

happy that night, but it was not her voice that had wakened Diamond. Her

voice would only have lulled him the deeper asleep. It was a loud, angry

voice, now growling like that of a beast, now raving like that of a

madman; and when Diamond came a little wider awake, he knew that it was

the voice of the drunken cabman, the wall of whose room was at the head

of his bed. It was anything but pleasant to hear, but he could not help

hearing it. At length there came a cry from the woman, and then a scream

from the baby. Thereupon Diamond thought it time that somebody did

something, and as himself was the only somebody at hand, he must go and

see whether he could not do something. So he got up and put on part of

his clothes, and went down the stair, for the cabman's room did not open

upon their stair, and he had to go out into the yard, and in at the next

door. This, fortunately, the cabman, being drunk, had left open. By

the time he reached their stair, all was still except the voice of the

crying baby, which guided him to the right door. He opened it softly,

and peeped in. There, leaning back in a chair, with his arms hanging

down by his sides, and his legs stretched out before him and supported

on his heels, sat the drunken cabman. His wife lay in her clothes upon

the bed, sobbing, and the baby was wailing in the cradle. It was very

miserable altogether.

Now the way most people do when they see anything very miserable is to

turn away from the sight, and try to forget it. But Diamond began as

usual to try to destroy the misery. The little boy was just as much one

of God's messengers as if he had been an angel with a flaming sword,

going out to fight the devil. The devil he had to fight just then

was Misery. And the way he fought him was the very best. Like a wise

soldier, he attacked him first in his weakest point–that was the baby;

for Misery can never get such a hold of a baby as of a grown person.

Diamond was knowing in babies, and he knew he could do something to make

the baby, happy; for although he had only known one baby as yet, and

although not one baby is the same as another, yet they are so very much

alike in some things, and he knew that one baby so thoroughly, that he

had good reason to believe he could do something for any other. I have

known people who would have begun to fight the devil in a very different

and a very stupid way. They would have begun by scolding the idiotic

cabman; and next they would make his wife angry by saying it must be her

fault as well as his, and by leaving ill-bred though well-meant shabby

little books for them to read, which they were sure to hate the sight

of; while all the time they would not have put out a finger to touch the

wailing baby. But Diamond had him out of the cradle in a moment, set

him up on his knee, and told him to look at the light. Now all the light

there was came only from a lamp in the yard, and it was a very dingy and

yellow light, for the glass of the lamp was dirty, and the gas was bad;

but the light that came from it was, notwithstanding, as certainly

light as if it had come from the sun itself, and the baby knew that, and

smiled to it; and although it was indeed a wretched room which that lamp

lighted–so dreary, and dirty, and empty, and hopeless!–there in the

middle of it sat Diamond on a stool, smiling to the baby, and the baby

on his knees smiling to the lamp. The father of him sat staring at

nothing, neither asleep nor awake, not quite lost in stupidity either,

for through it all he was dimly angry with himself, he did not know

why. It was that he had struck his wife. He had forgotten it, but was

miserable about it, notwithstanding. And this misery was the voice of

the great Love that had made him and his wife and the baby and Diamond,

speaking in his heart, and telling him to be good. For that great Love

speaks in the most wretched and dirty hearts; only the tone of its voice

depends on the echoes of the place in which it sounds. On Mount Sinai,

it was thunder; in the cabman's heart it was misery; in the soul of St.

John it was perfect blessedness.

By and by he became aware that there was a voice of singing in the room.

This, of course, was the voice of Diamond singing to the baby–song

after song, every one as foolish as another to the cabman, for he was

too tipsy to part one word from another: all the words mixed up in his

ear in a gurgle without division or stop; for such was the way he spoke

himself, when he was in this horrid condition. But the baby was more

than content with Diamond's songs, and Diamond himself was so contented

with what the songs were all about, that he did not care a bit about the

songs themselves, if only baby liked them. But they did the cabman good

as well as the baby and Diamond, for they put him to sleep, and the

sleep was busy all the time it lasted, smoothing the wrinkles out of his

temper.

At length Diamond grew tired of singing, and began to talk to the baby

instead. And as soon as he stopped singing, the cabman began to wake up.

His brain was a little clearer now, his temper a little smoother,

and his heart not quite so dirty. He began to listen and he went on

listening, and heard Diamond saying to the baby something like this, for

he thought the cabman was asleep:

“Poor daddy! Baby's daddy takes too much beer and gin, and that makes

him somebody else, and not his own self at all. Baby's daddy would never

hit baby's mammy if he didn't take too much beer. He's very fond of

baby's mammy, and works from morning to night to get her breakfast and

dinner and supper, only at night he forgets, and pays the money away for

beer. And they put nasty stuff in beer, I've heard my daddy say, that

drives all the good out, and lets all the bad in. Daddy says when a man

takes a drink, there's a thirsty devil creeps into his inside, because

he knows he will always get enough there. And the devil is always crying

out for more drink, and that makes the man thirsty, and so he drinks

more and more, till he kills himself with it. And then the ugly devil

creeps out of him, and crawls about on his belly, looking for some other

cabman to get into, that he may drink, drink, drink. That's what my

daddy says, baby. And he says, too, the only way to make the devil come

out is to give him plenty of cold water and tea and coffee, and nothing

at all that comes from the public-house; for the devil can't abide that

kind of stuff, and creeps out pretty soon, for fear of being drowned

in it. But your daddy will drink the nasty stuff, poor man! I wish he

wouldn't, for it makes mammy cross with him, and no wonder! and then

when mammy's cross, he's crosser, and there's nobody in the house to

take care of them but baby; and you do take care of them, baby–don't

you, baby? I know you do. Babies always take care of their fathers and

mothers–don't they, baby? That's what they come for–isn't it, baby?

And when daddy stops drinking beer and nasty gin with turpentine in it,

father says, then mammy will be so happy, and look so pretty! and daddy

will be so good to baby! and baby will be as happy as a swallow, which

is the merriest fellow! And Diamond will be so happy too! And when

Diamond's a man, he'll take baby out with him on the box, and teach him

to drive a cab.”

He went on with chatter like this till baby was asleep, by which time

he was tired, and father and mother were both wide awake–only rather

confused–the one from the beer, the other from the blow–and staring,

the one from his chair, the other from her bed, at Diamond. But he was

quite unaware of their notice, for he sat half-asleep, with his eyes

wide open, staring in his turn, though without knowing it, at the

cabman, while the cabman could not withdraw his gaze from Diamond's

white face and big eyes. For Diamond's face was always rather pale, and

now it was paler than usual with sleeplessness, and the light of the

street-lamp upon it. At length he found himself nodding, and he knew

then it was time to put the baby down, lest he should let him fall. So

he rose from the little three-legged stool, and laid the baby in the

cradle, and covered him up–it was well it was a warm night, and he did

not want much covering–and then he all but staggered out of the door,

he was so tipsy himself with sleep.

“Wife,” said the cabman, turning towards the bed, “I do somehow believe

that wur a angel just gone. Did you see him, wife? He warn't wery big,

and he hadn't got none o' them wingses, you know. It wur one o' them

baby-angels you sees on the gravestones, you know.”

“Nonsense, hubby!” said his wife; “but it's just as good. I might say

better, for you can ketch hold of him when you like. That's little

Diamond as everybody knows, and a duck o' diamonds he is! No woman could

wish for a better child than he be.”

“I ha' heerd on him in the stable, but I never see the brat afore. Come,

old girl, let bygones be bygones, and gie us a kiss, and we'll go to

bed.”

The cabman kept his cab in another yard, although he had his room in

this. He was often late in coming home, and was not one to take notice

of children, especially when he was tipsy, which was oftener than not.

Hence, if he had ever seen Diamond, he did not know him. But his wife

knew him well enough, as did every one else who lived all day in the

yard. She was a good-natured woman. It was she who had got the fire

lighted and the tea ready for them when Diamond and his mother came home

from Sandwich. And her husband was not an ill-natured man either, and

when in the morning he recalled not only Diamond's visit, but how he

himself had behaved to his wife, he was very vexed with himself, and

gladdened his poor wife's heart by telling her how sorry he was. And for

a whole week after, he did not go near the public-house, hard as it was

to avoid it, seeing a certain rich brewer had built one, like a trap to

catch souls and bodies in, at almost every corner he had to pass on his

way home. Indeed, he was never quite so bad after that, though it was

some time before he began really to reform.

CHAPTER XIX. DIAMOND'S FRIENDS

ONE day when old Diamond was standing with his nose in his bag between

Pall Mall and Cockspur Street, and his master was reading the newspaper

on the box of his cab, which was the last of a good many in the row,

little Diamond got down for a run, for his legs were getting cramped

with sitting. And first of all he strolled with his hands in his pockets

up to the crossing, where the girl and her broom were to be found in all

weathers. Just as he was going to speak to her, a tall gentleman stepped

upon the crossing. He was pleased to find it so clean, for the streets

were muddy, and he had nice boots on; so he put his hand in his pocket,

and gave the girl a penny. But when she gave him a sweet smile in

return, and made him a pretty courtesy, he looked at her again, and

said:

“Where do you live, my child?”

“Paradise Row,” she answered; “next door to the Adam and Eve–down the

area.”

“Whom do you live with?” he asked.

“My wicked old grannie,” she replied.

“You shouldn't call your grannie wicked,” said the gentleman.

“But she is,” said the girl, looking up confidently in his face. “If you

don't believe me, you can come and take a look at her.”

The words sounded rude, but the girl's face looked so simple that

the gentleman saw she did not mean to be rude, and became still more

interested in her.

“Still you shouldn't say so,” he insisted.

“Shouldn't I? Everybody calls her wicked old grannie–even them that's

as wicked as her. You should hear her swear. There's nothing like it in

the Row. Indeed, I assure you, sir, there's ne'er a one of them can shut

my grannie up once she begins and gets right a-going. You must put her

in a passion first, you know. It's no good till you do that–she's so

old now. How she do make them laugh, to be sure!”

Although she called her wicked, the child spoke so as plainly to

indicate pride in her grannie's pre-eminence in swearing.

The gentleman looked very grave to hear her, for he was sorry that such

a nice little girl should be in such bad keeping. But he did not know

what to say next, and stood for a moment with his eyes on the ground.

When he lifted them, he saw the face of Diamond looking up in his.

“Please, sir,” said Diamond, “her grannie's very cruel to her sometimes,

and shuts her out in the streets at night, if she happens to be late.”

“Is this your brother?” asked the gentleman of the girl.

“No, sir.”

“How does he know your grandmother, then? He does not look like one of

her sort.”

“Oh no, sir! He's a good boy–quite.”

Here she tapped her forehead with her finger in a significant manner.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the gentleman, while Diamond looked on

smiling.

“The cabbies call him God's baby,” she whispered. “He's not right in the

head, you know. A tile loose.”

Still Diamond, though he heard every word, and understood it too, kept

on smiling. What could it matter what people called him, so long as he

did nothing he ought not to do? And, besides, God's baby was surely the

best of names!

“Well, my little man, and what can you do?” asked the gentleman, turning

towards him–just for the sake of saying something.

“Drive a cab,” said Diamond.

“Good; and what else?” he continued; for, accepting what the girl had

said, he regarded the still sweetness of Diamond's face as a sign of

silliness, and wished to be kind to the poor little fellow.

“Nurse a baby,” said Diamond.

“Well–and what else?”

“Clean father's boots, and make him a bit of toast for his tea.”

“You're a useful little man,” said the gentleman. “What else can you

do?”

“Not much that I know of,” said Diamond. “I can't curry a horse, except

somebody puts me on his back. So I don't count that.”

“Can you read?”

“No. But mother can and father can, and they're going to teach me some

day soon.”

“Well, here's a penny for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And when you have learned to read, come to me, and I'll give you

sixpence and a book with fine pictures in it.”

“Please, sir, where am I to come?” asked Diamond, who was too much a

man of the world not to know that he must have the gentleman's address

before he could go and see him.

“You're no such silly!” thought he, as he put his hand in his pocket,

and brought out a card. “There,” he said, “your father will be able to

read that, and tell you where to go.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Diamond, and put the card in his

pocket.

The gentleman walked away, but turning round a few paces off, saw

Diamond give his penny to the girl, and, walking slower heard him say:

“I've got a father, and mother, and little brother, and you've got

nothing but a wicked old grannie. You may have my penny.”

The girl put it beside the other in her pocket, the only trustworthy

article of dress she wore. Her grandmother always took care that she had

a stout pocket.

“Is she as cruel as ever?” asked Diamond.

“Much the same. But I gets more coppers now than I used to, and I can

get summats to eat, and take browns enough home besides to keep her from

grumbling. It's a good thing she's so blind, though.”

“Why?” asked Diamond.

“'Cause if she was as sharp in the eyes as she used to be, she would

find out I never eats her broken wittles, and then she'd know as I must

get something somewheres.”

“Doesn't she watch you, then?”

“O' course she do. Don't she just! But I make believe and drop it in my

lap, and then hitch it into my pocket.”

“What would she do if she found you out?”

“She never give me no more.”

“But you don't want it!”

“Yes, I do want it.”

“What do you do with it, then?”

“Give it to cripple Jim.”

“Who's cripple Jim?”

“A boy in the Row. His mother broke his leg when he wur a kid, so he's

never come to much; but he's a good boy, is Jim, and I love Jim dearly.

I always keeps off a penny for Jim–leastways as often as I can.–But

there I must sweep again, for them busses makes no end o' dirt.”

“Diamond! Diamond!” cried his father, who was afraid he might get no

good by talking to the girl; and Diamond obeyed, and got up again

upon the box. He told his father about the gentleman, and what he had

promised him if he would learn to read, and showed him the gentleman's

card.

“Why, it's not many doors from the Mews!” said his father, giving him

back the card. “Take care of it, my boy, for it may lead to something.

God knows, in these hard times a man wants as many friends as he's ever

likely to get.”

“Haven't you got friends enough, father?” asked Diamond.

“Well, I have no right to complain; but the more the better, you know.”

“Just let me count,” said Diamond.

And he took his hands from his pockets, and spreading out the fingers of

his left hand, began to count, beginning at the thumb.

“There's mother, first, and then baby, and then me. Next there's old

Diamond–and the cab–no, I won't count the cab, for it never looks at

you, and when Diamond's out of the shafts, it's nobody. Then there's the

man that drinks next door, and his wife, and his baby.”

“They're no friends of mine,” said his father.

“Well, they're friends of mine,” said Diamond.

His father laughed.

“Much good they'll do you!” he said.

“How do you know they won't?” returned Diamond.

“Well, go on,” said his father.

“Then there's Jack and Mr. Stonecrop, and, deary me! not to have

mentioned Mr. Coleman and Mrs. Coleman, and Miss Coleman, and Mrs.

Crump. And then there's the clergyman that spoke to me in the garden

that day the tree was blown down.”

“What's his name!”

“I don't know his name.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don't know.”

“How can you count him, then?”

“He did talk to me, and very kindlike too.”

His father laughed again.

“Why, child, you're just counting everybody you know. That don't make

'em friends.”

“Don't it? I thought it did. Well, but they shall be my friends. I shall

make 'em.”

“How will you do that?”

“They can't help themselves then, if they would. If I choose to be their

friend, you know, they can't prevent me. Then there's that girl at the

crossing.”

“A fine set of friends you do have, to be sure, Diamond!”

“Surely she's a friend anyhow, father. If it hadn't been for her, you

would never have got Mrs. Coleman and Miss Coleman to carry home.”

His father was silent, for he saw that Diamond was right, and was

ashamed to find himself more ungrateful than he had thought.

“Then there's the new gentleman,” Diamond went on.

“If he do as he say,” interposed his father.

“And why shouldn't he? I daresay sixpence ain't too much for him to

spare. But I don't quite understand, father: is nobody your friend but

the one that does something for you?”

“No, I won't say that, my boy. You would have to leave out baby then.”

“Oh no, I shouldn't. Baby can laugh in your face, and crow in your ears,

and make you feel so happy. Call you that nothing, father?”

The father's heart was fairly touched now. He made no answer to this

last appeal, and Diamond ended off with saying:

“And there's the best of mine to come yet–and that's you, daddy–except

it be mother, you know. You're my friend, daddy, ain't you? And I'm your

friend, ain't I?”

“And God for us all,” said his father, and then they were both silent

for that was very solemn.

CHAPTER XX. DIAMOND LEARNS TO READ

THE question of the tall gentleman as to whether Diamond could read or

not set his father thinking it was high time he could; and as soon as

old Diamond was suppered and bedded, he began the task that very night.

But it was not much of a task to Diamond, for his father took for his

lesson-book those very rhymes his mother had picked up on the sea-shore;

and as Diamond was not beginning too soon, he learned very fast indeed.

Within a month he was able to spell out most of the verses for himself.

But he had never come upon the poem he thought he had heard his mother

read from it that day. He had looked through and through the book

several times after he knew the letters and a few words, fancying he

could tell the look of it, but had always failed to find one more like

it than another. So he wisely gave up the search till he could really

read. Then he resolved to begin at the beginning, and read them all

straight through. This took him nearly a fortnight. When he had almost

reached the end, he came upon the following verses, which took his fancy

much, although they were certainly not very like those he was in search

of.

LITTLE BOY BLUE

            Little Boy Blue lost his way in a wood.

               Sing apples and cherries, roses and honey;

            He said, “I would not go back if I could,

               It's all so jolly and funny.”

            He sang, “This wood is all my own,

               Apples and cherries, roses and honey;

            So here I'll sit, like a king on my throne,

               All so jolly and funny.”

            A little snake crept out of the tree,

               Apples and cherries, roses and honey;

            “Lie down at my feet, little snake,” said he,

               All so jolly and funny.

            A little bird sang in the tree overhead,

               Apples and cherries, roses and honey;

            “Come and sing your song on my finger instead,

               All so jolly and funny.”

            The snake coiled up; and the bird flew down,

            And sang him the song of Birdie Brown.

            Little Boy Blue found it tiresome to sit,

            And he thought he had better walk on a bit.

            So up he got, his way to take,

            And he said, “Come along, little bird and snake.”

            And waves of snake o'er the damp leaves passed,

            And the snake went first and Birdie Brown last;

            By Boy Blue's head, with flutter and dart,

            Flew Birdie Brown with its song in its heart.

            He came where the apples grew red and sweet:

            “Tree, drop me an apple down at my feet.”

            He came where the cherries hung plump and red:

            “Come to my mouth, sweet kisses,” he said.

            And the boughs bow down, and the apples they dapple

            The grass, too many for him to grapple.

            And the cheeriest cherries, with never a miss,

            Fall to his mouth, each a full-grown kiss.

            He met a little brook singing a song.

            He said, “Little brook, you are going wrong.

            “You must follow me, follow me, follow, I say

            Do as I tell you, and come this way.”

            And the song-singing, sing-songing forest brook

            Leaped from its bed and after him took,

            Followed him, followed.  And pale and wan,

            The dead leaves rustled as the water ran.

            And every bird high up on the bough,

            And every creature low down below,

            He called, and the creatures obeyed the call,

            Took their legs and their wings and followed him all;

            Squirrels that carried their tails like a sack,

            Each on his own little humpy brown back;

            Householder snails, and slugs all tails,

            And butterflies, flutterbies, ships all sails;

            And weasels, and ousels, and mice, and larks,

            And owls, and rere-mice, and harkydarks,

            All went running, and creeping, and flowing,

            After the merry boy fluttering and going;

            The dappled fawns fawning, the fallow-deer following,

            The swallows and flies, flying and swallowing;

            Cockchafers, henchafers, cockioli-birds,

            Cockroaches, henroaches, cuckoos in herds.

            The spider forgot and followed him spinning,

            And lost all his thread from end to beginning.

            The gay wasp forgot his rings and his waist,

            He never had made such undignified haste.

            The dragon-flies melted to mist with their hurrying.

            The mole in his moleskins left his barrowing burrowing.

            The bees went buzzing, so busy and beesy,

            And the midges in columns so upright and easy.

            But Little Boy Blue was not content,

            Calling for followers still as he went,

            Blowing his horn, and beating his drum,

            And crying aloud, “Come all of you, come!”

            He said to the shadows, “Come after me;”

             And the shadows began to flicker and flee,

            And they flew through the wood all flattering and fluttering,

            Over the dead leaves flickering and muttering.

            And he said to the wind, “Come, follow; come, follow,

            With whistle and pipe, and rustle and hollo.”

            And the wind wound round at his desire,

            As if he had been the gold cock on the spire.

            And the cock itself flew down from the church,

            And left the farmers all in the lurch.

            They run and they fly, they creep and they come,

            Everything, everything, all and some.

            The very trees they tugged at their roots,

            Only their feet were too fast in their boots,

            After him leaning and straining and bending,

            As on through their boles he kept walking and wending,

            Till out of the wood he burst on a lea,

            Shouting and calling, “Come after me!”

            And then they rose up with a leafy hiss,

            And stood as if nothing had been amiss.

            Little Boy Blue sat down on a stone,

            And the creatures came round him every one.

            And he said to the clouds, “I want you there.”

             And down they sank through the thin blue air.

            And he said to the sunset far in the West,

            “Come here; I want you; I know best.”

            And the sunset came and stood up on the wold,

            And burned and glowed in purple and gold.

            Then Little Boy Blue began to ponder:

            “What's to be done with them all, I wonder.”

            Then Little Boy Blue, he said, quite low,

            “What to do with you all I am sure I don't know.”

            Then the clouds clodded down till dismal it grew;

            The snake sneaked close; round Birdie Brown flew;

            The brook sat up like a snake on its tail;

            And the wind came up with a what-will-you wail;

            And all the creatures sat and stared;

            The mole opened his very eyes and glared;

            And for rats and bats and the world and his wife,

            Little Boy Blue was afraid of his life.

            Then Birdie Brown began to sing,

            And what he sang was the very thing:

            “You have brought us all hither, Little Boy Blue,

            Pray what do you want us all to do?”

            “Go away!  go away!” said Little Boy Blue;

            “I'm sure I don't want you–get away–do.”

            “No, no; no, no; no, yes, and no, no,”

             Sang Birdie Brown, “it mustn't be so.

            “We cannot for nothing come here, and away.

            Give us some work, or else we stay.”

            “Oh dear! and oh dear!” with sob and with sigh,

            Said Little Boy Blue, and began to cry.

            But before he got far, he thought of a thing;

            And up he stood, and spoke like a king.

            “Why do you hustle and jostle and bother?

            Off with you all!  Take me back to my mother.”

            The sunset stood at the gates of the west.

            “Follow me, follow me” came from Birdie Brown's breast.

            “I am going that way as fast as I can,”

             Said the brook, as it sank and turned and ran.

            Back to the woods fled the shadows like ghosts:

            “If we stay, we shall all be missed from our posts.”

            Said the wind with a voice that had changed its cheer,

            “I was just going there, when you brought me here.”

            “That's where I live,” said the sack-backed squirrel,

            And he turned his sack with a swing and a swirl.

            Said the cock of the spire, “His father's churchwarden.”

             Said the brook running faster, “I run through his garden.”

            Said the mole, “Two hundred worms–there I caught 'em

            Last year, and I'm going again next autumn.”

            Said they all, “If that's where you want us to steer for,

            What in earth or in water did you bring us here for?”

            “Never you mind,” said Little Boy Blue;

            “That's what I tell you.  If that you won't do,

            “I'll get up at once, and go home without you.

            I think I will; I begin to doubt you.”

            He rose; and up rose the snake on its tail,

            And hissed three times, half a hiss, half a wail.

            Little Boy Blue he tried to go past him;

            But wherever he turned, sat the snake and faced him.

            “If you don't get out of my way,” he said,

            “I tell you, snake, I will break your head.”

            The snake he neither would go nor come;

            So he hit him hard with the stick of his drum.

            The snake fell down as if he were dead,

            And Little Boy Blue set his foot on his head.

            And all the creatures they marched before him,

            And marshalled him home with a high cockolorum.

            And Birdie Brown sang Twirrrr twitter twirrrr twee–

            Apples and cherries, roses and honey;

            Little Boy Blue has listened to me–

            All so jolly and funny.