Where the Blue Begins | Page 8

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 the
newspaper, 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 of
the 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.
So he took his responsibility gravely. This was partly due to the
christening service, perhaps, which had gone off very charmingly. It
had not been without its embarrassments. None of the neighbouring
ladies would stand as godmother, for they were secretly dubious as to
the children's origin; so he had asked good Mrs. Spaniel to act in that
capacity. She, a simple kindly creature, was much flattered, though
certainly she can have understood very little of the symbolical rite.

Gissing, filling