A solitary little path ran across the fields not far from the house.It lay deep among tall grasses and the withered brittle stalks of last autumn's goldenrod, and here Gissing rambled in the green hush of twilight, after the puppies were in bed.In less responsible days he would have lain down on his back, with all four legs upward, and cheerily shrugged and rolled to and fro, as the crisp ground-stubble was very pleasing to the spine.But now he paced soberly, the smoke from his pipe eddying just above the top of the grasses.He had much to meditate.
The dogwood tree by the house was now in flower.The blossoms, with their four curved petals, seemed to spin like tiny white propellers in the bright air.When he saw them fluttering Gissing had a happy sensation of movement.The business of those tremulous petals seemed to be thrusting his whole world forward and forward, through the viewless ocean of space.He felt as though he were on a ship--as, indeed, we are.He had never been down to the open sea, but he had imagined it.There, he thought, there must be the satisfaction of a real horizon.
Horizons had been a great disappointment to him.In earlier days he had often slipped out of the house not long after sunrise, and had marvelled at the blue that lies upon the skyline.Here, about him, were the clear familiar colours of the world he knew; but yonder, on the hills, were trees and spaces of another more heavenly tint.That soft blue light, if he could reach it, must be the beginning of what his mind required.
He envied Mr.Poodle, whose cottage was on that very hillslope that rose so imperceptibly into sky.One morning he ran and ran, in the lifting day, but always the blue receded.Hot and unbuttoned, he came by the curate's house, just as the latter emerged to pick up the morning paper.
"Where does the blue begin?" Gissing panted, trying hard to keep his tongue from sliding out so wetly.
The curate looked a trifle disturbed.He feared that something unpleasant had happened, and that his assistance might be required before breakfast.
"It is going to be a warm day," he said politely, and stooped for thenewspaper, as a delicate hint.
"Where does--?" began Gissing, quivering; but at that moment, looking round, he saw that it had hoaxed him again.Far away, on his own hill the other side of the village, shone the evasive colour.As usual, he had been too impetuous.He had not watched it while he ran; it had circled round behind him.He resolved to be more methodical.
The curate gave him a blank to fill in, relative to baptizing the children, and was relieved to see him hasten away.
But all this was some time ago.As he walked the meadow path, Gissing suddenly realized that lately he had had little opportunity for pursuing blue horizons.Since Fuji's departure every moment, from dawn to dusk, was occupied.In three weeks he had had three different servants, but none of them would stay.The place was too lonely, they said, and with three puppies the work was too hard.The washing, particularly was a horrid problem.Inexperienced as a parent, Gissing was probably too proud: he wanted the children always to look clean and soigne.The last cook had advertised herself as a General Houseworker, afraid of nothing; but as soon as she saw the week's wash in the hamper (including twenty-one grimy rompers), she telephoned to the station for a taxi.Gissing wondered why it was that the working classes were not willing to do one-half as much as he, who had been reared to indolent ease.Even more, he was irritated by a suspicion of the ice-wagon driver.He could not prove it, but he had an idea that this uncouth fellow obtained a commission from the Airedales and Collies, who had large mansions in the neighbourhood, for luring maids from the smaller homes.Of course Mrs.Airedale and Mrs.Collie could afford to pay any wages at all.So now the best he could do was to have Mrs.Spaniel, the charwoman, come up from the village to do the washing and ironing, two days a week.The rest of the work he undertook himself.On a clear afternoon, when the neighbours were not looking, he would take his own shirts and things down to the pond-- putting them neatly in the bottom of the red express-wagon, with the puppies sitting on the linen, so no one would see.While the puppies played about and hunted for tadpoles, he would wash his shirts himself.
His legs ached as he took his evening stroll-- keeping within earshot ofthe house, so as to hear any possible outcry from the nursery.He had been on his feet all day.But he reflected that there was a real satisfaction in his family tasks, however gruelling.Now, at last (he said to himself), I am really a citizen, not a mere dilettante.Of course it is arduous.No one who is not a parent realizes, for example, the extraordinary amount of buttoning and unbuttoning necessary in rearing children.I calculate that 50,000 buttonings are required for each one before it reaches the age of even rudimentary independence.With the energy so expended one might write a great novel or chisel a statue.Never mind: these urchins must be my Works of Art.If one were writing a novel, he could not delegate to a hired servant the composition of laborious chapters.
