CHAPTER X.
Our first night.--Under canvas.--An appeal for help.--Contrariness oftea-kettles, how to overcome.--Supper.--How to feel virtuous.--Wanted! acomfortably-appointed, well-drained desert island, neighbourhood of SouthPacific Ocean preferred.--Funny thing that happened to George'sfather.--a restless night.
Harris and I began to think that Bell Weir lock must have been done awaywith after the same manner. George had towed us up to Staines, and wehad taken the boat from there, and it seemed that we were dragging fiftytons after us, and were walking forty miles. It was half-past seven whenwe were through, and we all got in, and sculled up close to the leftbank, looking out for a spot to haul up in.
We had originally intended to go on to Magna Charta Island, a sweetlypretty part of the river, where it winds through a soft, green valley,and to camp in one of the many picturesque inlets to be found round thattiny shore. But, somehow, we did not feel that we yearned for thepicturesque nearly so much now as we had earlier in the day. A bit ofwater between a coal-barge and a gas-works would have quite satisfied usfor that night. We did not want scenery. We wanted to have our supperand go to bed. However, we did pull up to the point--"Picnic Point," itis called--and dropped into a very pleasant nook under a great elm-tree,to the spreading roots of which we fastened the boat.
Then we thought we were going to have supper (we had dispensed with tea,so as to save time), but George said no; that we had better get thecanvas up first, before it got quite dark, and while we could see what wewere doing. Then, he said, all our work would be done, and we could sitdown to eat with an easy mind.
That canvas wanted more putting up than I think any of us had bargainedfor. It looked so simple in the abstract. You took five iron arches,like gigantic croquet hoops, and fitted them up over the boat, and thenstretched the canvas over them, and fastened it down: it would take quiteten minutes, we thought.
That was an under-estimate.
We took up the hoops, and began to drop them into the sockets placed forthem. You would not imagine this to be dangerous work; but, looking backnow, the wonder to me is that any of us are alive to tell the tale. Theywere not hoops, they were demons. First they would not fit into theirsockets at all, and we had to jump on them, and kick them, and hammer atthem with the boat-hook; and, when they were in, it turned out that theywere the wrong hoops for those particular sockets, and they had to comeout again.
But they would not come out, until two of us had gone and struggled withthem for five minutes, when they would jump up suddenly, and try andthrow us into the water and drown us. They had hinges in the middle,and, when we were not looking, they nipped us with these hinges indelicate parts of the body; and, while we were wrestling with one side ofthe hoop, and endeavouring to persuade it to do its duty, the other sidewould come behind us in a cowardly manner, and hit us over the head.
We got them fixed at last, and then all that was to be done was toarrange the covering over them. George unrolled it, and fastened one endover the nose of the boat. Harris stood in the middle to take it fromGeorge and roll it on to me, and I kept by the stern to receive it. Itwas a long time coming down to me. George did his part all right, but itwas new work to Harris, and he bungled it.
How he managed it I do not know, he could not explain himself; but bysome mysterious process or other he succeeded, after ten minutes ofsuperhuman effort, in getting himself completely rolled up in it. He wasso firmly wrapped round and tucked in and folded over, that he could notget out. He, of course, made frantic struggles for freedom--thebirthright of every Englishman,--and, in doing so (I learned thisafterwards), knocked over George; and then George, swearing at Harris,began to struggle too, and got _himself_ entangled and rolled up.
[Picture: Watching and waiting] I knew nothing about all this at thetime. I did not understand the business at all myself. I had been toldto stand where I was, and wait till the canvas came to me, andMontmorency and I stood there and waited, both as good as gold. We couldsee the canvas being violently jerked and tossed about, prettyconsiderably; but we supposed this was part of the method, and did notinterfere.
We also heard much smothered language coming from underneath it, and weguessed that they were finding the job rather troublesome, and concludedthat we would wait until things had got a little simpler before we joinedin.
We waited some time, but matters seemed to get only more and moreinvolved, until, at last, George's head came wriggling out over the sideof the boat, and spoke up.
It said:
"Give us a hand here, can't you, you cuckoo; standing there like astuffed mummy, when you see we are both being suffocated, you dummy!"
I never could withstand an appeal for help, so I went and undid them; notbefore it was time, either, for Harris was nearly black in the face.
It took us half an hour's hard labour, after that, before it was properlyup, and then we cleared the decks, and got out supper. We put the kettleon to boil, up in the nose of the boat, and went down to the stern andpretended to take no notice of it, but set to work to get the otherthings out.
That is the only way to get a kettle to boil up the river. If it seesthat you are waiting for it and are anxious, it will never even sing.You have to go away and begin your meal, as if you were not going to haveany tea at all. You must not even look round at it. Then you will soonhear it sputtering away, mad to be made into tea.
It is a good plan, too, if you are in a great hurry, to talk very loudlyto each other about how you don't need any tea, and are not going to haveany. You get near the kettle, so that it can overhear you, and then youshout out, "I don't want any tea; do you, George?" to which George shoutsback, "Oh, no, I don't like tea; we'll have lemonade instead--tea's soindigestible." Upon which the kettle boils over, and puts the stove out.
We adopted this harmless bit of trickery, and the result was that, by thetime everything else was ready, the tea was waiting. Then we lit thelantern, and squatted down to supper.
We wanted that supper.
For five-and-thirty minutes not a sound was heard throughout the lengthand breadth of that boat, save the clank of cutlery and crockery, and thesteady grinding of four sets of molars. At the end of five-and-thirtyminutes, Harris said, "Ah!" and took his left leg out from under him andput his right one there instead.
Five minutes afterwards, George said, "Ah!" too, and threw his plate outon the bank; and, three minutes later than that, Montmorency gave thefirst sign of contentment he had exhibited since we had started, androlled over on his side, and spread his legs out; and then I said, "Ah!"and bent my head back, and bumped it against one of the hoops, but I didnot mind it. I did not even swear.
How good one feels when one is full--how satisfied with ourselves andwith the world! People who have tried it, tell me that a clearconscience makes you very happy and contented; but a full stomach doesthe business quite as well, and is cheaper, and more easily obtained.One feels so forgiving and generous after a substantial and well-digestedmeal--so noble-minded, so kindly-hearted.
It is very strange, this domination of our intellect by our digestiveorgans. We cannot work, we cannot think, unless our stomach wills so.It dictates to us our emotions, our passions. After eggs and bacon, itsays, "Work!" After beefsteak and porter, it says, "Sleep!" After a cupof tea (two spoonsful for each cup, and don't let it stand more thanthree minutes), it says to the brain, "Now, rise, and show your strength.Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature andinto life; spread your white wings of quivering thought, and soar, agod-like spirit, over the whirling world beneath you, up through longlanes of flaming stars to the gates of eternity!"
After hot muffins, it says, "Be dull and soulless, like a beast of thefield--a brainless animal, with listless eye, unlit by any ray of fancy,or of hope, or fear, or love, or life." And after brandy, taken insufficient quantity, it says, "Now, come, fool, grin and tumble, thatyour fellow-men may laugh--drivel in folly, and splutter in senselesssounds
, and show what a helpless ninny is poor man whose wit and will aredrowned, like kittens, side by side, in half an inch of alcohol."
We are but the veriest, sorriest slaves of our stomach. Reach not aftermorality and righteousness, my friends; watch vigilantly your stomach,and diet it with care and judgment. Then virtue and contentment willcome and reign within your heart, unsought by any effort of your own; andyou will be a good citizen, a loving husband, and a tender father--anoble, pious man.
Before our supper, Harris and George and I were quarrelsome and snappyand ill-tempered; after our supper, we sat and beamed on one another, andwe beamed upon the dog, too. We loved each other, we loved everybody.Harris, in moving about, trod on George's corn. Had this happened beforesupper, George would have expressed wishes and desires concerningHarris's fate in this world and the next that would have made athoughtful man shudder.
As it was, he said: "Steady, old man; 'ware wheat."
And Harris, instead of merely observing, in his most unpleasant tones,that a fellow could hardly help treading on some bit of George's foot, ifhe had to move about at all within ten yards of where George was sitting,suggesting that George never ought to come into an ordinary sized boatwith feet that length, and advising him to hang them over the side, as hewould have done before supper, now said: "Oh, I'm so sorry, old chap; Ihope I haven't hurt you."
[Picture: Smoking pipes] And George said: "Not at all;" that it was hisfault; and Harris said no, it was his.
It was quite pretty to hear them.
We lit our pipes, and sat, looking out on the quiet night, and talked.
George said why could not we be always like this--away from the world,with its sin and temptation, leading sober, peaceful lives, and doinggood. I said it was the sort of thing I had often longed for myself; andwe discussed the possibility of our going away, we four, to some handy,well-fitted desert island, and living there in the woods.
Harris said that the danger about desert islands, as far as he had heard,was that they were so damp: but George said no, not if properly drained.
And then we got on to drains, and that put George in mind of a very funnything that happened to his father once. He said his father wastravelling with another fellow through Wales, and, one night, theystopped at a little inn, where there were some other fellows, and theyjoined the other fellows, and spent the evening with them.
They had a very jolly evening, and sat up late, and, by the time theycame to go to bed, they (this was when George's father was a very youngman) were slightly jolly, too. They (George's father and George'sfather's friend) were to sleep in the same room, but in different beds.They took the candle, and went up. The candle lurched up against thewall when they got into the room, and went out, and they had to undressand grope into bed in the dark. This they did; but, instead of gettinginto separate beds, as they thought they were doing, they both climbedinto the same one without knowing it--one getting in with his head at thetop, and the other crawling in from the opposite side of the compass, andlying with his feet on the pillow.
There was silence for a moment, and then George's father said:
"Joe!"
"What's the matter, Tom?" replied Joe's voice from the other end of thebed.
"Why, there's a man in my bed," said George's father; "here's his feet onmy pillow."
"Well, it's an extraordinary thing, Tom," answered the other; "but I'mblest if there isn't a man in my bed, too!"
"What are you going to do?" asked George's father.
"Well, I'm going to chuck him out," replied Joe.
"So am I," said George's father, valiantly.
There was a brief struggle, followed by two heavy bumps on the floor, andthen a rather doleful voice said:
"I say, Tom!"
"Yes!"
"How have you got on?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, my man's chucked _me_ out."
"So's mine! I say, I don't think much of this inn, do you?"
"What was the name of that inn?" said Harris.
"The Pig and Whistle," said George. "Why?"
"Ah, no, then it isn't the same," replied Harris.
"What do you mean?" queried George.
"Why it's so curious," murmured Harris, "but precisely that very samething happened to _my_ father once at a country inn. I've often heardhim tell the tale. I thought it might have been the same inn."
We turned in at ten that night, and I thought I should sleep well, beingtired; but I didn't. As a rule, I undress and put my head on the pillow,and then somebody bangs at the door, and says it is half-past eight: but,to-night, everything seemed against me; the novelty of it all, thehardness of the boat, the cramped position (I was lying with my feetunder one seat, and my head on another), the sound of the lapping waterround the boat, and the wind among the branches, kept me restless anddisturbed.
I did get to sleep for a few hours, and then some part of the boat whichseemed to have grown up in the night--for it certainly was not there whenwe started, and it had disappeared by the morning--kept digging into myspine. I slept through it for a while, dreaming that I had swallowed asovereign, and that they were cutting a hole in my back with a gimlet, soas to try and get it out. I thought it very unkind of them, and I toldthem I would owe them the money, and they should have it at the end ofthe month. But they would not hear of that, and said it would be muchbetter if they had it then, because otherwise the interest wouldaccumulate so. I got quite cross with them after a bit, and told themwhat I thought of them, and then they gave the gimlet such anexcruciating wrench that I woke up.
The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I thought I would step outinto the cool night-air. I slipped on what clothes I could findabout--some of my own, and some of George's and Harris's--and crept underthe canvas on to the bank.
It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earthalone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush,while we her children slept, they were talking with her, theirsister--conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep forchildish human ears to catch the sound.
They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as childrenwhose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple of the god theyhave been taught to worship but know not; and, standing where the echoingdome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping,half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there.
And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In itsgreat presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has beenso full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and ofbitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. ThenNight, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon ourfevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, andsmiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, andlay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.
Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her verysilent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night'sheart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes ourhand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far awaybeneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into amightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that greatPresence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know thatPain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.
Only those who have worn the crown of suffering can look upon thatwondrous light; and they, when they return, may not speak of it, or tellthe mystery they know.
Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodlyknights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briars grewvery thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their waytherein. And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were verydark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches tolighten the gloom and sadness.
And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those th
at rode,missing his comrades, wandered far away, and returned to them no more;and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.
Now, when they reached the fair castle towards which they had beenjourneying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night,as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the greathall, and drank a loving measure, there came the comrade they had lost,and greeted them. His clothes were ragged, like a beggar's, and many sadwounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a greatradiance of deep joy.
And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him: and he toldthem how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many daysand nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.
Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage gloom therecame to him a stately maiden, and took him by the hand and led him onthrough devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of thewood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as alittle lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our way-wornknight saw as in a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the visionseemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as oneentranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell thedepth.
And the vision faded, and the knight, kneeling upon the ground, thankedthe good saint who into that sad wood had strayed his steps, so he hadseen the vision that lay there hid.
And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision that thegood knight saw therein we may not speak nor tell.