الفصل الفصل 5 · DULCE DOMUM

. DULCE DOMUM

The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin

nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back

and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty

air, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter

and laughter. They were returning across country after a long day’s

outing with Otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands where

certain streams tributary to their own River had their first small

beginnings; and the shades of the short winter day were closing in on

them, and they had still some distance to go. Plodding at random across

the plough, they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now,

leading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking

a lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small inquiring

something which all animals carry inside them, saying unmistakably,

“Yes, quite right; _this_ leads home!”

“It looks as if we were coming to a village,” said the Mole somewhat

dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a

path and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the

charge of a well-metalled road. The animals did not hold with villages,

and their own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an

independent course, regardless of church, post office, or public-house.

“Oh, never mind!” said the Rat. “At this season of the year they’re all

safe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and

children, dogs and cats and all. We shall slip through all right,

without any bother or unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them

through their windows if you like, and see what they’re doing.”

The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village

as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery

snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either

side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage

overflowed through the casements into the dark world without. Most of

the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in

from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in

handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy

grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture—the

natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.

Moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far

from home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as

they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled

off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of

a smouldering log.

But it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere

blank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little

curtained world within walls—the larger stressful world of outside

Nature shut out and forgotten—most pulsated. Close against the white

blind hung a bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and

appurtenance distinct and recognisable, even to yesterday’s dull-edged

lump of sugar. On the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked

well into feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had

they tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage pencilled

plainly on the illuminated screen. As they looked, the sleepy little

fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and raised his head. They

could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of

way, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again, while

the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness. Then a

gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of

frozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their

toes to be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a

weary way.

Once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either

side of the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly

fields again; and they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the

home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in

the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of

familiar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far

over-sea. They plodded along steadily and silently, each of them

thinking his own thoughts. The Mole’s ran a good deal on supper, as it

was pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he

knew, and he was following obediently in the wake of the Rat, leaving

the guidance entirely to him. As for the Rat, he was walking a little

way ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on

the straight grey road in front of him; so he did not notice poor Mole

when suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric

shock.

We others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses,

have not even proper terms to express an animal’s inter-communications

with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word

“smell,” for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills

which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning,

warning, inciting, repelling. It was one of these mysterious fairy

calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness,

making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal,

even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped

dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its

efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that

had so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and

with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.

Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft

touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling

and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that

moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought

again, that day when he first found the river! And now it was sending

out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in.

Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a

thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures,

its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush

of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness!

Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he

had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to

after his day’s work. And the home had been happy with him, too,

evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling

him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no

bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there,

and wanted him.

The call was clear, the summons was plain. He must obey it instantly,

and go. “Ratty!” he called, full of joyful excitement, “hold on! Come

back! I want you, quick!”

“Oh, _come_ along, Mole, do!” replied the Rat cheerfully, still

plodding along.

“_Please_ stop, Ratty!” pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart.

“You don’t understand! It’s my home, my old home! I’ve just come across

the smell of it, and it’s close by here, really quite close. And I

_must_ go to it, I must, I must! Oh, come back, Ratty! Please, please

come back!”

The Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what

the Mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal

in his voice. And he was much taken up with the weather, for he too

could smell something—something suspiciously like approaching snow.

“Mole, we mustn’t stop now, really!” he called back. “We’ll come for it

to-morrow, whatever it is you’ve found. But I daren’t stop now—it’s

late, and the snow’s coming on again, and I’m not sure of the way! And

I want your nose, Mole, so come on quick, there’s a good fellow!” And

the Rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer.

Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big

sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to

the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape. But even under

such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm. Never for a

moment did he dream of abandoning him. Meanwhile, the wafts from his

old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him

imperiously. He dared not tarry longer within their magic circle. With

a wrench that tore his very heartstrings he set his face down the road

and followed submissively in the track of the Rat, while faint, thin

little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for

his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.

With an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting Rat, who began

chattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got back, and

how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be, and what a supper he

meant to eat; never noticing his companion’s silence and distressful

state of mind. At last, however, when they had gone some considerable

way further, and were passing some tree-stumps at the edge of a copse

that bordered the road, he stopped and said kindly, “Look here, Mole

old chap, you seem dead tired. No talk left in you, and your feet

dragging like lead. We’ll sit down here for a minute and rest. The snow

has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over.”

The Mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control

himself, for he felt it surely coming. The sob he had fought with so

long refused to be beaten. Up and up, it forced its way to the air, and

then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor Mole at

last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly,

now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly

be said to have found.

The Rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of Mole’s paroxysm of

grief, did not dare to speak for a while. At last he said, very quietly

and sympathetically, “What is it, old fellow? Whatever can be the

matter? Tell us your trouble, and let me see what I can do.”

Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals

of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back

speech and choked it as it came. “I know it’s a—shabby, dingy little

place,” he sobbed forth at last, brokenly: “not like—your cosy

quarters—or Toad’s beautiful hall—or Badger’s great house—but it was my

own little home—and I was fond of it—and I went away and forgot all

about it—and then I smelt it suddenly—on the road, when I called and

you wouldn’t listen, Rat—and everything came back to me with a rush—and

I _wanted_ it!—O dear, O dear!—and when you _wouldn’t_ turn back,

Ratty—and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time—I

thought my heart would break.—We might have just gone and had one look

at it, Ratty—only one look—it was close by—but you wouldn’t turn back,

Ratty, you wouldn’t turn back! O dear, O dear!”

Recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full

charge of him, preventing further speech.

The Rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only patting

Mole gently on the shoulder. After a time he muttered gloomily, “I see

it all now! What a _pig_ I have been! A pig—that’s me! Just a pig—a

plain pig!”

He waited till Mole’s sobs became gradually less stormy and more

rhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only

intermittent. Then he rose from his seat, and, remarking carelessly,

“Well, now we’d really better be getting on, old chap!” set off up the

road again, over the toilsome way they had come.

“Wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), Ratty?” cried the tearful Mole,

looking up in alarm.

“We’re going to find that home of yours, old fellow,” replied the Rat

pleasantly; “so you had better come along, for it will take some

finding, and we shall want your nose.”

“Oh, come back, Ratty, do!” cried the Mole, getting up and hurrying

after him. “It’s no good, I tell you! It’s too late, and too dark, and

the place is too far off, and the snow’s coming! And—and I never meant

to let you know I was feeling that way about it—it was all an accident

and a mistake! And think of River Bank, and your supper!”

“Hang River Bank, and supper too!” said the Rat heartily. “I tell you,

I’m going to find this place now, if I stay out all night. So cheer up,

old chap, and take my arm, and we’ll very soon be back there again.”

Still snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, Mole suffered himself to be

dragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who by a flow

of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back

and make the weary way seem shorter. When at last it seemed to the Rat

that they must be nearing that part of the road where the Mole had been

“held up,” he said, “Now, no more talking. Business! Use your nose, and

give your mind to it.”

They moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the Rat was

conscious, through his arm that was linked in Mole’s, of a faint sort

of electric thrill that was passing down that animal’s body. Instantly

he disengaged himself, fell back a pace, and waited, all attention.

The signals were coming through!

Mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering slightly,

felt the air.

Then a short, quick run forward—a fault—a check—a try back; and then a

slow, steady, confident advance.

The Rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the Mole, with

something of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch, scrambled

through a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open and trackless and

bare in the faint starlight.

Suddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the Rat was on the

alert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his unerring

nose had faithfully led him.

It was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it

seemed a long time to Rat ere the passage ended and he could stand

erect and stretch and shake himself. The Mole struck a match, and by

its light the Rat saw that they were standing in an open space, neatly

swept and sanded underfoot, and directly facing them was Mole’s little

front door, with “Mole End” painted, in Gothic lettering, over the

bell-pull at the side.

Mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it... and

the Rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of fore-court.

A garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on the other a roller;

for the Mole, who was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand

having his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that

ended in earth-heaps. On the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in

them, alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary—Garibaldi,

and the infant Samuel, and Queen Victoria, and other heroes of modern

Italy. Down on one side of the forecourt ran a skittle-alley, with

benches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted

at beer-mugs. In the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish

and surrounded by a cockle-shell border. Out of the centre of the pond

rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells and topped by a

large silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong and had a

very pleasing effect.

Mole’s face-beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him,

and he hurried Rat through the door, lit a lamp in the hall, and took

one glance round his old home. He saw the dust lying thick on

everything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of the long-neglected

house, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby

contents—and collapsed again on a hall-chair, his nose to his paws. “O

Ratty!” he cried dismally, “why ever did I do it? Why did I bring you

to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might

have been at River Bank by this time, toasting your toes before a

blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!”

The Rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches. He was running

here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and

lighting lamps and candles and sticking them, up everywhere. “What a

capital little house this is!” he called out cheerily. “So compact! So

well planned! Everything here and everything in its place! We’ll make a

jolly night of it. The first thing we want is a good fire; I’ll see to

that—I always know where to find things. So this is the parlour?

Splendid! Your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall?

Capital! Now, I’ll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a duster,

Mole—you’ll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table—and try and

smarten things up a bit. Bustle about, old chap!”

Encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the Mole roused himself and

dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the Rat, running

to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up

the chimney. He hailed the Mole to come and warm himself; but Mole

promptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark

despair and burying his face in his duster. “Rat,” he moaned, “how

about your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal? I’ve nothing

to give you—nothing—not a crumb!”

“What a fellow you are for giving in!” said the Rat reproachfully.

“Why, only just now I saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser,

quite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines

about somewhere in the neighbourhood. Rouse yourself! pull yourself

together, and come with me and forage.”

They went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and

turning out every drawer. The result was not so very depressing after

all, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines—a

box of captain’s biscuits, nearly full—and a German sausage encased in

silver paper.

“There’s a banquet for you!” observed the Rat, as he arranged the

table. “I know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting

down to supper with us to-night!”

“No bread!” groaned the Mole dolorously; “no butter, no——”

“No _pâté de foie gras_, no champagne!” continued the Rat, grinning.

“And that reminds me—what’s that little door at the end of the passage?

Your cellar, of course! Every luxury in this house! Just you wait a

minute.”

He made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty,

with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm,

“Self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, Mole,” he observed. “Deny

yourself nothing. This is really the jolliest little place I ever was

in. Now, wherever did you pick up those prints? Make the place look so

home-like, they do. No wonder you’re so fond of it, Mole. Tell us all

about it, and how you came to make it what it is.”

Then, while the Rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and

forks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the Mole, his bosom

still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related—somewhat

shyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject—how

this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got

through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a

bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a

certain amount of “going without.” His spirits finally quite restored,

he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show

off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful

of the supper they both so much needed; Rat, who was desperately hungry

but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered

brow, and saying, “wonderful,” and “most remarkable,” at intervals,

when the chance for an observation was given him.

At last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just

got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard

from the fore-court without—sounds like the scuffling of small feet in

the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences

reached them—“Now, all in a line—hold the lantern up a bit, Tommy—clear

your throats first—no coughing after I say one, two, three.—Where’s

young Bill?—Here, come on, do, we’re all a-waiting——”

“What’s up?” inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.

“I think it must be the field-mice,” replied the Mole, with a touch of

pride in his manner. “They go round carol-singing regularly at this

time of the year. They’re quite an institution in these parts. And they

never pass me over—they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to

give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it.

It will be like old times to hear them again.”

“Let’s have a look at them!” cried the Rat, jumping up and running to

the door.

It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when

they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a

horn lantern, some eight or ten little fieldmice stood in a semicircle,

red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep

into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady

eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing

and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the

elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, “Now then, one,

two, three!” and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the

air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed

in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in

chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to

lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.

CAROL

Villagers all, this frosty tide,

Let your doors swing open wide,

Though wind may follow, and snow beside,

Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;

Joy shall be yours in the morning!

Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,

Blowing fingers and stamping feet,

Come from far away you to greet—

You by the fire and we in the street—

Bidding you joy in the morning!

For ere one half of the night was gone,

Sudden a star has led us on,

Raining bliss and benison—

Bliss to-morrow and more anon,

Joy for every morning!

Goodman Joseph toiled through the snow—

Saw the star o’er a stable low;

Mary she might not further go—

Welcome thatch, and litter below!

Joy was hers in the morning!

And then they heard the angels tell

“Who were the first to cry _Nowell?_

Animals all, as it befell,

In the stable where they did dwell!

Joy shall be theirs in the morning!”

The voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong

glances, and silence succeeded—but for a moment only. Then, from up

above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was

borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells

ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.

“Very well sung, boys!” cried the Rat heartily. “And now come along in,

all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!”

“Yes, come along, field-mice,” cried the Mole eagerly. “This is quite

like old times! Shut the door after you. Pull up that settle to the

fire. Now, you just wait a minute, while we—O, Ratty!” he cried in

despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending. “Whatever are

we doing? We’ve nothing to give them!”

“You leave all that to me,” said the masterful Rat. “Here, you with the

lantern! Come over this way. I want to talk to you. Now, tell me, are

there any shops open at this hour of the night?”

“Why, certainly, sir,” replied the field-mouse respectfully. “At this

time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours.”

“Then look here!” said the Rat. “You go off at once, you and your

lantern, and you get me——”

Here much muttered conversation ensued, and the Mole only heard bits of

it, such as—“Fresh, mind!—no, a pound of that will do—see you get

Buggins’s, for I won’t have any other—no, only the best—if you can’t

get it there, try somewhere else—yes, of course, home-made, no tinned

stuff—well then, do the best you can!” Finally, there was a chink of

coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an

ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern.

The rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small

legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted

their chilblains till they tingled; while the Mole, failing to draw

them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each

of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young,

it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked

forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.

The Rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the

beer-bottles. “I perceive this to be Old Burton,” he remarked

approvingly. “_Sensible_ Mole! The very thing! Now we shall be able to

mull some ale! Get the things ready, Mole, while I draw the corks.”

It did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well

into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping

and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and

wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in

all his life.

“They act plays too, these fellows,” the Mole explained to the Rat.

“Make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards. And very well

they do it, too! They gave us a capital one last year, about a

field-mouse who was captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, and made to

row in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love

had gone into a convent. Here, _you!_ You were in it, I remember. Get

up and recite a bit.”

The field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked

round the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied. His comrades

cheered him on, Mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the Rat went so far

as to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could

overcome his stage-fright. They were all busily engaged on him like

watermen applying the Royal Humane Society’s regulations to a case of

long submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the

field-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of

his basket.

There was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid

contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table. Under the

generalship of Rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch

something. In a very few minutes supper was ready, and Mole, as he took

the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board

set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends’ faces brighten

and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose—for

he was famished indeed—on the provender so magically provided, thinking

what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all. As they ate,

they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip

up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he

had to ask them. The Rat said little or nothing, only taking care that

each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that Mole had no

trouble or anxiety about anything.

They clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the

season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the

small brothers and sisters at home. When the door had closed on the

last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, Mole and Rat

kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last

nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At

last the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, “Mole, old chap, I’m ready

to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that

side? Very well, then, I’ll take this. What a ripping little house this

is! Everything so handy!”

He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets,

and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded

into the arms of the reaping machine.

The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his

head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his

eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the

firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which

had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received

him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that

the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw

clearly how plain and simple—how narrow, even—it all was; but clearly,

too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such

anchorage in one’s existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new

life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all

they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all

too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he

must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this

to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which

were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the

same simple welcome.