Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘Taking into account the draw your act is likely to be, we’re going to make you a special offer—thirty pounds a week. All right?’

Had the man understood? He put his finger in his mouth and went on shaking his head slowly, more to himself than at them, and seemingly unconscious of the bargain that was being held out to him. When he still didn’t answer, the knot of tension broke, and the manager said, in his ordinary, brisk voice,

‘Then I’m afraid we can’t do business. But just as a matter of interest, tell us why you turned down our excellent offer.’

The man drew a long breath and breaking his long silence said, ‘It’s the first time I done it and I didn’t like it.’

With that he turned on his heel and straddling his long legs walked off unsteadily in the direction of the dressing-room.

The circus-manager and his wife stared at each other.

‘It was the first time he’d done it,’ she muttered. ‘The first time.’ Not knowing what to say to him, whether to praise, blame, scold or sympathize, they waited for him to come back, but he didn’t come.

‘I’ll go and see if he’s all right,’ the circus-manager said. But in two minutes he was back again. ‘He’s not there,’ he said. ‘He must have slipped out the other way, the crack-brained fellow!’

Once upon a time there were two children, called Olga and Peter, and they lived on the edge of a huge forest. Olga was nine and Peter was seven. Their father was a woodman and very poor. Their mother’s name was Lucindra. She came from another country; their father had met her in the wars. She was beautiful and had fine golden hair. Though she was sometimes dreamy and absent-minded and would suddenly speak to them in her own language, which they didn’t understand, she was very fond of them and they loved her.

But Michael their father was a stern man and they were both a little afraid of him. Even Lucindra was afraid of him, for when he was angry he would scold her and sometimes tell her he wished he had never married her. And when this happened she wished she had never married him, but she did not dare to say so; besides he was strong and handsome and could be kind and loving when his fits of bad temper were over.

One thing he had always told his children, they must never on any account go farther into the forest than where they could still see the sunlight shining through the edges. The trees were so thick and the paths so few and hard to follow that even the foresters themselves sometimes lost their way. And there were dangerous animals as well, wolves and bears and wild boars. Michael still carried a scar from a gash that a bear had given him; it ran all the way from his elbow to his shoulder, making a bluish groove in his skin which you could feel with your finger. When he wanted to impress on them the danger of going too far into the forest he would show them the scar. Olga used to try not to look at it but Peter said he would like to have one like it.

Michael would not let even Lucindra wander about in the forest alone though sometimes he took her with him when he went out with his horse and cart. Then they would eat their dinner together under the trees, and she looked forward to that. But he usually went on foot, for the road soon came to an end and branched off into footpaths which lost themselves among the trees. So she did not know much more about the forest than the children did. But like them she wanted to know more, for their cottage was miles away from any town, and sometimes weeks passed without her seeing anyone.

One afternoon, however, when Michael was away at work, a stranger called. He was a young man, slight and slim, with hair as fair and eyes as blue as hers, which was not surprising for he came from her own country and had heard of people whom she knew. He was a pedlar who sold bead necklaces and brooches and bracelets and ribbons. These did not interest Peter very much but he also had pocket-knives and scissors and many other things. He brought them all out of his bag and laid them on the table in the kitchen which was their living-room; they shone and glittered and suddenly the whole place seemed much more cheerful, though Lucindra kept shaking her head and saying she was much too poor to buy anything. The young man said he didn’t expect her to, but he went on bringing more and more things out of his bag, even after it looked to be empty, and he was so gay that soon they were all laughing, Lucindra most of all; the children had never seen her laugh like that. And finally she went out of the room and came back with some money, and bought a bracelet for Olga and a pocket-knife for Peter and a necklace for herself. Then she told the young man he must be getting on his way, otherwise it would be dark; and he laughed and said he was in no hurry, because he knew the forest quite well. But greatly to the children’s disappointment she would not let him stay. So, telling her how unkind she was, he began to gather together his bits and pieces and put them back into the bag. The children could not take their eyes off him as one by one he packed the treasures away; and every now and then, if something was specially pretty, he would raise his eyebrows as though inviting them to buy it; but each time Lucindra shook her head. ‘You must go, you must go,’ she kept saying. ‘All in good time,’ he answered and looked slyly at the children, who knew that he was delaying his departure on purpose. But at last he got up and swung his sack over his shoulder and they followed him to the door where his horse was nibbling the grass; and he fixed the sack on a sort of pannier on its back and jumped into the saddle and wished them good-bye.

‘Which way are you going?’ Lucindra asked.

‘To the Crossways,’ he answered, smiling down at them.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Don’t you know?’ They didn’t, and then he told them that in the heart of the forest there was an open space where many roads met; ‘and one of those roads,’ he said, ‘leads to the land of your heart’s desire.’

‘But how would anyone find the place?’ Lucindra asked.

‘Easily,’ said the pedlar. ‘Just follow the full moon until you come to it.’ He pointed upwards and there was the full moon hanging low over the forest.

‘But how do people know which road to take?’ Lucindra asked.

‘Oh, it’s marked with a signpost,’ said the pedlar. He laughed again and rode off, and they went back into the house, which seemed very dull and empty.

Soon after that their father came in and the children at once began to tell him about the pedlar. They were still very excited and could think of nothing else, for they had never had such an adventure in their lives before. ‘Did you see him in the forest?’ they asked. ‘I saw no pedlar,’ he answered frowning. ‘I believe you dreamed the whole thing.’

‘Oh, no, we didn’t. Look, look, look.’ And disregarding their mother’s warning glance they showed him the bracelet and the penknife, and made Lucindra go and fetch her necklace, for she had already put it away. When he saw the necklace he grew still more angry and upbraided her bitterly for spending so much money. ‘We’re hard up as is,’ he said, ‘and you must needs go buying things from this smooth-tongued scoundrel. Never let me see you wearing them.’ Peter and Olga began to cry, and their mother let the necklace slip through her fingers on to the floor. ‘If ever I catch him I shall know what to do with him,’ Michael said. So they never told him the rest of the story or spoke of the pedlar any more.

It was a hard winter and it set in early, but in spite of that people did not seem to want wood as they used to, and Michael grew more and more morose and sour. Often when he came home he would not speak to them at all, and sat apart brooding, or went out again mysteriously and did not come back till after midnight. There was no pleasing him. If they sat quiet as mice he would complain of their silence; if they talked he would tell them to shut up. This was not so bad for the children as it was for their mother, for they now went to the village school and so had company. It was a long way to walk but they enjoyed it; they felt free the moment they got out of the house, and rather dreaded coming back, to find their mother drooping and listless, and their father, if he was at home, not lifting his head when they came in. Sometimes they lingered and talked to their friends, but they never spoke the state of things at home, because they had promised their mother not to.