The Golden Age

K >> Kenneth Grahame >> The Golden Age

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"Hadn't been doing anything," panted Edward, still breathless.
"I went up into the village and explored, and it was a very nice
one, and the people were very polite. And there was a
blacksmith's forge there, and they were shoeing horses, and
the hoofs fizzled and smoked, and smelt so jolly! I stayed there
quite a long time. Then I got thirsty, so I asked that old woman
for some water, and while she was getting it her cat came out of
the cottage, and looked at me in a nasty sort of way, and said
something I didn't like. So I went up to it just to--to teach it
manners, and somehow or other, next minute it was up an apple-
tree, spitting, and I was running down the lane with that old
thing after me."

Edward was so full of his personal injuries that there was no
interesting him in Medea at all. Moreover, the evening was
closing in, and it was evident that this cutting-out expedition
must be kept for another day. As we neared home, it gradually
occurred to us that perhaps the greatest danger was yet to come;
for the farmer must have missed his boat ere now, and would
probably be lying in wait for us near the landing-place. There
was no other spot admitting of debarcation on the home side; if
we got out on the other, and made for the bridge, we should
certainly be seen and cut off. Then it was that I blessed my
stars that our elder brother<149> was with us that day,--he might
be little good at pretending, but in grappling with the stern
facts of life he had no equal. Enjoining silence, he waited till
we were but a little way from the fated landing-place, and then
brought us in to the opposite bank. We scrambled out
noiselessly, and--the gathering darkness favouring us--crouched
behind a willow, while Edward pushed off the empty boat with his
foot. The old Argo, borne down by the gentle current, slid and
grazed along the rushy bank; and when she came opposite the
suspected ambush, a stream of imprecation told us that our
precaution had not been wasted. We wondered, as we listened,
where Farmer Larkin, who was bucolically bred and reared, had
acquired such range and wealth of vocabulary. Fully realising at
last that his boat was derelict, abandoned, at the mercy of wind
and wave,--as well as out of his reach,--he strode away to the
bridge, about a quarter of a mile further down; and as soon as we
heard his boots clumping on the planks, we nipped out, recovered
the craft, pulled across, and made the faithful vessel fast to
her proper moorings. Edward was anxious to wait and exchange
cour<150>tesies and compliments with the disappointed farmer,
when he should confront us on the opposite bank; but wiser
counsels prevailed. It was possible that the piracy was not yet
laid at our particular door: Ulysses, I reminded him, had reason
to regret a similar act of bravado, and--were he here--would
certainly advise a timely retreat. Edward held but a low opinion
of me as a counsellor; but he had a very solid respect for
Ulysses.

THE ROMAN ROAD

ALL the roads of our neighbourhood were cheerful and friendly,
having each of them pleasant qualities of their own; but this one
seemed different from the others in its masterful suggestion of a
serious purpose, speeding you along with a strange uplifting of
the heart. The others tempted chiefly with their treasures of
hedge and ditch; the rapt surprise of the first lords-and-ladies,
the rustle of a field-mouse, splash of a frog; while cool noses
of brother-beasts were pushed at you through gate or gap. A
loiterer you had need to be, did you choose one of them,--so many
were the tiny hands thrust out to detain you, from this side and
that. But this other was of a sterner sort, and even in its
shedding off of bank and hedgerow as it marched straight and full
for the open downs, it seemed to declare its contempt for
adventitious trappings to catch the shallow-pated. When the
sense of injustice or disappointment was heavy on me, and
things were very black within, as on this particular day, the
road of character was my choice for that solitary ramble, when I
turned my back for an afternoon on a world that had unaccountably
declared itself against me.

"The Knights' Road," we children had named it, from a sort of
feeling that, if from any quarter at all, it would be down this
track we might some day see Lancelot and his peers come pacing on
their great war-horses,--supposing that any of the stout band
still survived, in nooks and unexplored places. Grown-up people
sometimes spoke of it as the "Pilgrims' Way"; but I didn't know
much about pilgrims,--except Walter in the Horselberg story. Him
I sometimes saw, breaking with haggard eyes out of yonder copse,
and calling to the pilgrims as they hurried along on their
desperate march to the Holy City, where peace and pardon were
awaiting them. "All roads lead to Rome," I had once heard
somebody say; and I had taken the remark very seriously, of
course, and puzzled over it many days. There must have been some
mistake, I concluded at last; but of one road at least I
intuitively felt it to be true. And my belief was clinched
by something that fell from Miss Smedley during a history lesson,
about a strange road that ran right down the middle of England
till it reached the coast, and then began again in France, just
opposite, and so on undeviating, through city and vineyard, right
from the misty Highlands to the Eternal City. Uncorroborated,
any statement of Miss Smedley's usually fell on incredulous ears;
but here, with the road itself in evidence, she seemed, once, in
a way, to have strayed into truth.

Rome! It was fascinating to think that it lay at the other end
of this white ribbon that rolled itself off from my feet over the
distant downs. I was not quite so uninstructed as to imagine l
could reach it that afternoon; but some day, I thought, if things
went on being as unpleasant as they were now,--some day, when
Aunt Eliza had gone on a visit,--we would see.

I tried to imagine what it would be like when I got there. The
Coliseum I knew, of course, from a woodcut in the history-book:
so to begin with I plumped that down in the middle. The rest had
to be patched up from the little grey market-town where twice a
year we went to have our hair cut; hence, in the result,
Vespasian's amphitheatre was approached by muddy little streets,
wherein the Red Lion and the Blue Boar, with Somebody's Entire
along their front, and "Commercial Room" on their windows; the
doctor's house, of substantial red-brick; and the facade of the
New Wesleyan Chapel, which we thought very fine, were the chief
architectural ornaments: while the Roman populace pottered about
in smocks and corduroys, twisting the tails of Roman calves and
inviting each other to beer in musical Wessex. From Rome I
drifted on to other cities, dimly heard of--Damascus, Brighton
(Aunt Eliza's ideal), Athens, and Glasgow, whose glories the
gardener sang; but there was a certain sameness in my conception
of all of them: that Wesleyan chapel would keep cropping up
everywhere. It was easier to go a-building among those dream-
cities where no limitations were imposed, and one was sole
architect, with a free hand. Down a delectable street of cloud-
built palaces I was mentally pacing, when I happened upon the
Artist.

He was seated at work by the roadside, at a point whence the cool
large spaces of the downs, juniper-studded, swept grandly
westwards. His attributes proclaimed him of the artist tribe:
besides, he wore knickerbockers like myself,--a garb confined, I
was aware, to boys and artists. I knew I was not to bother him
with questions, nor look over his shoulder and breathe in his
ear--they didn't like it, this genus irritabile; but there was
nothing about staring in my code of instructions, the point
having somehow been overlooked: so, squatting down on the grass,
I devoted myself to a passionate absorbing of every detail. At
the end of five minutes there was not a button on him that I
could not have passed an examination in; and the wearer himself
of that homespun suit was probably less familiar with its pattern
and texture than I was. Once he looked up, nodded, half held out
his tobacco pouch,--mechanically, as it were,--then, returning it
to his pocket, resumed his work, and I my mental photography.

After another five minutes or so had passed he remarked, without
looking my way: "Fine afternoon we're having: going far to-day?"

"No, I'm not going any farther than this," I replied; "I WAS
thinking of going on to Rome but I've put it off."

"Pleasant place, Rome," he murmured; "you'll like it." It was
some minutes later that he added: "But I wouldn't go just now,
if I were you,--too jolly hot."

"YOU haven't been to Rome, have you?" I inquired.

"Rather," he replied, briefly; "I live there."

This was too much, and my jaw dropped as I struggled to grasp the
fact that I was sitting there talking to a fellow who lived in
Rome. Speech was out of the question: besides, I had other
things to do. Ten solid minutes had I already spent in an
examination of him as a mere stranger and artist; and now the
whole thing had to be done over again, from the changed point of
view. So I began afresh, at the crown of his soft hat, and
worked down to his solid British shoes, this time investing
everything with the new Roman halo; and at last I managed to get
out: "But you don't really live there, do you?" never doubting
the fact, but wanting to hear it repeated.

"Well," he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rudeness
of my query, "I live there as much as l live anywhere,--about
half the year sometimes. I've got a sort of a shanty there.
You must come and see it some day."

"But do you live anywhere else as well?" I went on, feeling the
forbidden tide of questions surging up within me.

"O yes, all over the place," was his vague reply. "And I've got
a diggings somewhere off Piccadilly."

"Where's that?" I inquired.

"Where's what?" said he. "Oh, Piccadilly! It's in London."

"Have you a large garden?" I asked; "and how many pigs have you
got?"

"I've no garden at all," he replied, sadly, "and they don't allow
me to keep pigs, though I'd like to, awfully. It's very hard."

"But what do you do all day, then," I cried, "and where do you go
and play, without any garden, or pigs, or things?"

"When I want to play," he said, gravely, "I have to go and play
in the street; but it's poor fun, I grant you. There's a goat,
though, not far off, and sometimes I talk to him when I'm feeling
lonely; but he's very proud."

"Goats ARE proud," I admitted. "There's one lives near
here, and if you say anything to him at all, he hits you in the
wind with his head. You know what it feels like when a fellow
hits you in the wind?"

"I do, well," he replied, in a tone of proper melancholy, and
painted on.

"And have you been to any other places," I began again,
presently, "besides Rome and Piccy-what's-his-name?"

"Heaps," he said. "I'm a sort of Ulysses--seen men and cities,
you know. In fact, about the only place I never got to was the
Fortunate Island."

I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and
to the point, and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be
confidential with him.

"Wouldn't you like," I inquired, "to find a city without any
people in it at all?"

He looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said
he.

"I mean," I went on eagerly, "a city where you walk in at the
gates, and the shops are all full of beautiful things, and the
houses furnished as grand as can be, and there isn't anybody
there whatever! And you go into the shops, and take
anything you want--chocolates and magic lanterns and injirubber
balls--and there's nothing to pay; and you choose your own house
and live there and do just as you like, and never go to bed
unless you want to!"

The artist laid down his brush. "That WOULD be a nice city,"
he said. "Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in
Rome,--or in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the
places I've never been to."

"And you'd ask your friends," I went on, warming to my subject,--
"only those you really like, of course,--and they'd each have a
house to themselves,--there'd be lots of houses,--and no
relations at all, unless they promised they'd be pleasant, and if
they weren't they'd have to go."

"So you wouldn't have any relations?" said the artist. "Well,
perhaps you're right. We have tastes in common, I see."

"I'd have Harold," I said, reflectively, "and Charlotte. They'd
like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh, and
Martha--I'd have Martha, to cook and wash up and do things.
You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt
Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady."

"Then I'm sure I should like her," he replied, heartily, "and
when I come to--what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo--
something, did you say?"

"I--I don't know," I replied, timidly. "I'm afraid it hasn't got
a name--yet."

The artist gazed out over the downs. "`The poet says, dear city
of Cecrops;'" he said, softly, to himself, "`and wilt not thou
say, dear city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he went
on, turning again to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose;
you will some day."

"Who's he?" I inquired.

"Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing
away.

"O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to
live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd
like MY city best."

"And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius
wouldn't, you know."

"Then we won't invite him," I said, "will we?"

"_I_ won't if you won't," said he. And that point being
settled, we were silent for a while.

"Do you know," he said, presently, "I've met one or two fellows
from time to time who have been to a city like yours,--perhaps it
was the same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken
hints, now and then; but they've been there sure enough. They
don't seem to care about anything in particular--and every
thing's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later
they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone
back, I suppose."

"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for;
_I_ wouldn't,--to be told you've broken things when you haven't,
and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not
allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known
people, too, who've gone there."

The artist stared, but without incivility.

"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but
it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like
Arthur. And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes
and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stones who
don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in
a book, you know. They'll be there!"

"And the men who never come off," he said, "who try like the
rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss,--or break down or get
bowled over in the melee,--and get no Princess, nor even a
second-class kingdom,--some of them'll be there, I hope?"

"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if
they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course."

"What a time we shall have!" said the artist, reflectively; "and
how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!"

The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze was
flooding the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist
began to put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt
very low; we would have to part, it seemed, just as we were
getting on so well together. Then he stood up, and he was very
straight and tall, and the sunset was in his hair and beard as he
stood there, high over me. He took my hand like an equal.
"I've enjoyed our conversation very much," he said. "That was an
interesting subject you started, and we haven't half exhausted
it. We shall meet again, I hope."

"Of course we shall," I replied, surprised that there should be
any doubt about it.

"In Rome, perhaps?" said he.

"Yes, in Rome," I answered, "or Piccy-the-other-place, or
somewhere."

"Or else," said he, "in that other city,--when we've found the
way there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as
soon as you see me. And we'll go down the street arm-in-arm, and
into all the shops, and then I'll choose my house, and you'll
choose your house, and we'll live there like princes and good
fellows."

"Oh, but you'll stay in my house, won't you?" I cried; "wouldn't
ask everybody; but I'll ask YOU."

He affected to consider a moment; then "Right!" he said: "I
believe you mean it, and I WILL come and stay with you. I
won't go to anybody else, if they ask me ever so much. And I'll
stay quite a long time, too, and I won't be any trouble."

Upon this compact we parted, and I went down-heartedly from the
man who understood me, back to the house where I never could do
anything right. How was it that everything seemed natural and
sensible to him, which these uncles, vicars, and other grown-up
men took for the merest tomfoolery? Well, he would explain this,
and many another thing, when we met again. The Knights' Road!
How it always brought consolation! Was he possibly one of those
vanished knights I had been looking for so long? Perhaps he
would be in armour next time,--why not? He would look well in
armour, I thought. And I would take care to get there first, and
see the sunlight flash and play on his helmet and shield, as he
rode up the High Street of the Golden City.

Meantime, there only remained the finding it,--an easy
matter.

THE SECRET DRAWER

IT must surely have served as a boudoir for the ladies of old
time, this little used, rarely entered chamber where the
neglected old bureau stood. There was something very feminine in
the faint hues of its faded brocades, in the rose and blue of
such bits of china as yet remained, and in the delicate old-world
fragrance of pot-pourri from the great bowl--blue and white, with
funny holes in its cover--that stood on the bureau's flat top.
Modern aunts disdained this out-of-the-way, back-water, upstairs
room, preferring to do their accounts and grapple with their
correspondence in some central position more in the whirl of
things, whence one eye could be kept on the carriage drive, while
the other was alert for malingering servants and marauding
children. Those aunts of a former generation--I sometimes felt--
would have suited our habits better. But even by us children, to
whom few places were private or reserved, the room was
visited but rarely. To be sure, there was nothing particular in
it that we coveted or required,--only a few spindle-legged gilt-
backed chairs; an old harp, on which, so the legend ran, Aunt
Eliza herself used once to play, in years remote, unchronicled; a
corner-cupboard with a few pieces of china; and the old bureau.
But one other thing the room possessed, peculiar to itself; a
certain sense of privacy,--a power of making the intruder feel
that he WAS intruding,--perhaps even a faculty of hinting that
some one might have been sitting on those chairs, writing at the
bureau, or fingering the china, just a second before one entered.

No such violent word as "haunted" could possibly apply to this
pleasant old-fashioned chamber, which indeed we all rather liked;
but there was no doubt it was reserved and stand-offish, keeping
itself to itself.

Uncle Thomas was the first to draw my attention to the
possibilities of the old bureau. He was pottering about the
house one afternoon, having ordered me to keep at his heels for
company,--he was a man who hated to be left one minute alone,--
when his eye fell on it. H'm! Sheraton!" he remarked. (He had
a smattering of most things, this uncle, especially the
vocabularies.) Then he let down the flap, and examined the empty
pigeon-holes and dusty panelling. "Fine bit of inlay," he went
on: "good work, all of it. I know the sort. There's a secret
drawer in there somewhere." Then, as I breathlessly drew near,
he suddenly exclaimed: "By Jove, I do want to smoke!" and
wheeling round he abruptly fled for the garden, leaving me with
the cup dashed from my lips. What a strange thing, I mused, was
this smoking, that takes a man suddenly, be he in the court, the
camp, or the grove, grips him like an Afreet, and whirls him off
to do its imperious behests! Would it be even so with myself, I
wondered, in those unknown grown-up years to come?

But I had no time to waste in vain speculations. My whole being
was still vibrating to those magic syllables, "secret drawer;"
and that particular chord had been touched that never fails to
thrill responsive to such words as CAVE, TRAP-DOOR, SLIDING-
PANEL, BULLION, INGOTS, or SPANISH DOLLARS. For, besides its
own special bliss, who ever heard of a secret drawer with nothing
in it? And oh, I did want money so badly! I mentally ran
over the list of demands which were pressing me the most
imperiously.

First, there was the pipe I wanted to give George Jannaway.
George, who was Martha's young man, was a shepherd, and a great
ally of mine; and the last fair he was at, when he bought his
sweetheart fairings, as a right-minded shepherd should, he had
purchased a lovely snake expressly for me; one of the wooden
sort, with joints, waggling deliciously in the hand; with yellow
spots on a green ground, sticky and strong-smelling, as a fresh-
painted snake ought to be; and with a red-flannel tongue, pasted
cunningly into its jaws. I loved it much, and took it to bed
with me every night, till what time its spinal cord was loosed
and it fell apart, and went the way of all mortal joys. I
thought it so nice of George to think of me at the fair, and
that's why I wanted to give him a pipe. When the young year was
chill and lambing-time was on, George inhabited a little wooden
house on wheels, far out on the wintry downs, and saw no faces
but such as were sheepish and woolly and mute; ant when he and
Martha were married, she was going to carry his dinner out
to him every day, two miles; and after it, perhaps he would smoke
my pipe. It seemed an idyllic sort of existence, for both the
parties concerned; but a pipe of quality, a pipe fitted to be
part of a life such as this, could not be procured (so Martha
informed me) for a less sum than eighteen pence. And meantime--!

Then there was the fourpence I owed Edward; not that he was
bothering me for it, but I knew he was in need of it himself, to
pay back Selina, who wanted it to make up a sum of two shillings,
to buy Harold an ironclad for his approaching birthday,--H. M. S.
Majestic, now lying uselessly careened in the toyshop window,
just when her country had such sore need of her.

And then there was that boy in the village who had caught a young
squirrel, and I had never yet possessed one, and he wanted a
shilling for it, but I knew that for ninepence in cash--but what
was the good of these sorry, threadbare reflections? I had wants
enough to exhaust any possible find of bullion, even if it
amounted to half a sovereign. My only hope now lay in the magic
drawer, and here I was standing and letting the precious
minutes slip by. Whether "findings" of this sort could, morally
speaking, be considered "keepings," was a point that did not
occur to me.

The room was very still as I approached the bureau,--possessed,
it seemed to be, by a sort of hush of expectation. The faint
odour of orris-root that floated forth as I let down the flap,
seemed to identify itself with the yellows and browns of the old
wood, till hue and scent were of one quality and interchangeable.

Even so, ere this, the pot-pourri had mixed itself with the tints
of the old brocade, and brocade and pot-pourri had long been one.

With expectant fingers I explored the empty pigeon-holes and
sounded the depths of the softly-sliding drawers. No books that
I knew of gave any general recipe for a quest like this; but the
glory, should I succeed unaided, would be all the greater.

To him who is destined to arrive, the fates never fail to afford,
on the way, their small encouragements; in less than two minutes,
I had come across a rusty button-hook. This was truly
magnificent. In the nursery there existed, indeed, a general
button-hook, common to either sex; but none of us possessed
a private and special button-hook, to lend or refuse as suited
the high humour of the moment. I pocketed the treasure carefully
and proceeded. At the back of another drawer, three old foreign
stamps told me I was surely on the highroad to fortune.

Following on these bracing incentives, came a dull blank period
of unrewarded search. In vain I removed all the drawers and felt
over every inch of the smooth surfaces, from front to back.
Never a knob, spring or projection met the thrilling finger-tips;
unyielding the old bureau stood, stoutly guarding its secret, if
secret it really had. I began to grow weary and disheartened.
This was not the first time that Uncle Thomas had proved shallow,
uninformed, a guide into blind alleys where the echoes mocked
you. Was it any good persisting longer? Was anything any good
whatever? In my mind I began to review past disappointments, and
life seemed one long record of failure and of non-arriral.
Disillusioned and depressed, I left my work and went to the
window. The light was ebbing from the room, and outside seemed
to be collecting itself on the horizon for its concentrated
effort of sunset. Far down the garden, Uncle Thomas was holding
Edward in the air reversed, and smacking him. Edward, gurgling
hysterically, was striking blind fists in the direction where he
judged his uncle's stomach should rightly be; the contents of his
pockets--a motley show--were strewing the lawn. Somehow, though
I had been put through a similar performance an hour or two ago,
myself, it all seemed very far away and cut off from me.

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