Chapter CXVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　It was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was Mrs.Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhoodto pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children shestill went every year. Like many Kentish folk her family had gone outregularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding theannual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. Thework was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for thechildren it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met themaidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about thelanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed byweddings. They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs andtables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. They were veryexclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as theycalled the people who came from London; they looked down upon them andfeared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folkdid not want to mix with them. In the old days the hoppers slept in barns,but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow;and the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year.Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from thepublic-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was a quarter of amile from the hop-field. They left his bag there and walked over to themeadow in which were the huts. They were nothing more than a long, lowshed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. In front of eachwas a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watchingthe cooking of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already thefaces of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in hersun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no realdifference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you couldsee how much at home she found herself in the country. She was fryingbacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but shehad a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny wasenthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence."We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It isn't life,it's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farmin the country.""I can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured scorn."Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying forLondon." She turned to Philip. "Athelny's always like this when we comedown here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't know a swede from amangel-wurzel.""Daddy was lazy today," remarked Jane, with the frankness whichcharacterized her, "he didn't fill one bin.""I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more binsthan all of you put together.""Come and eat your supper, children," said Mrs. Athelny. "Where's Sally?""Here I am, mother."She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fireleaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late Philip had onlyseen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at thedressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress shewore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showedher strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet."You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said Philip, as he shookhands with her."She's the belle of the hop-fields," said Athelny. "My word, if theSquire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you cansay Jack Robinson.""The Squire hasn't got a son, father," said Sally.She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for herbeside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. She waslike some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whomold Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, breadand butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs.Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate.He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives uponBrillat-Savarin."There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny," said his wife, "you doenjoy your food and no mistake!""Cooked by your hand, my Betty," he said, stretching out an eloquentforefinger.Philip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily at the line offires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of the flamesagainst the night; at the end of the meadow was a line of great elms, andabove the starry sky. The children talked and laughed, and Athelny, achild among them, made them roar by his tricks and fancies."They think a rare lot of Athelny down here," said his wife. "Why, Mrs.Bridges said to me, I don't know what we should do without Mr. Athelnynow, she said. He's always up to something, he's more like a schoolboythan the father of a family."Sally sat in silence, but she attended to Philip's wants in a thoughtfulfashion that charmed him. It was pleasant to have her beside him, and nowand then he glanced at her sunburned, healthy face. Once he caught hereyes, and she smiled quietly. When supper was over Jane and a smallbrother were sent down to a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow tofetch a pail of water for washing up."You children, show your Uncle Philip where we sleep, and then you must bethinking of going to bed."Small hands seized Philip, and he was dragged towards the hut. He went inand struck a match. There was no furniture in it; and beside a tin box, inwhich clothes were kept, there was nothing but the beds; there were threeof them, one against each wall. Athelny followed Philip in and showed themproudly."That's the stuff to sleep on," he cried. "None of your spring-mattressesand swansdown. I never sleep so soundly anywhere as here. You willsleep between sheets. My dear fellow, I pity you from the bottom of mysoul."The beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of which was acoating of straw, and this was covered with a blanket. After a day in theopen air, with the aromatic scent of the hops all round them, the happypickers slept like tops. By nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow andeveryone in bed but one or two men who still lingered in the public-houseand would not come back till it was closed at ten. Athelny walked therewith Philip. But before he went Mrs. Athelny said to him:"We breakfast about a quarter to six, but I daresay you won't want to getup as early as that. You see, we have to set to work at six.""Of course he must get up early," cried Athelny, "and he must work likethe rest of us. He's got to earn his board. No work, no dinner, my lad.""The children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can give you acall on their way back. They pass The Jolly Sailor.""If they'll wake me I'll come and bathe with them," said Philip.Jane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and nextmorning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting intohis room. The boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out withhis slippers. He put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down. Theday had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky wascloudless, and the sun was shining yellow. Sally, holding Connie's hand,was standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dressover her arm. He saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour oflavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple. Shegreeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that herteeth were small and regular and very white. He wondered why they hadnever caught his attention before."I was for letting you sleep on," she said, "but they would go up and wakeyou. I said you didn't really want to come.""Oh, yes, I did."They walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. That way it wasunder a mile to the sea. The water looked cold and gray, and Philipshivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ranin shouting. Sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not comeinto the water till all the rest were splashing round Philip. Swimming washis only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he hadthem all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowningman, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. The bathe was uproarious,and it was necessary for Sally to be very severe to induce them all tocome out."You're as bad as any of them," she said to Philip, in her grave, maternalway, which was at once comic and touching. "They're not anything like sonaughty when you're not here."They walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulderand her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts Mrs. Athelnyhad already started for the hop-garden. Athleny, in a pair of the oldesttrousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had noshirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fireof sticks. He was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand.As soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches' chorus fromMacbeth over the odorous kippers."You mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry," he said,when they came up.And in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and butter intheir hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field. Theywere the last to leave. A hop-garden was one of the sights connected withPhilip's boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature ofthe Kentish scene. It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though hewere at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of thehops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. Philip feasted hiseyes on the richness of the green leaves. The hops were yellowing, and tohim they had the beauty and the passion which poets in Sicily have foundin the purple grape. As they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmedby the rich luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, andthe fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the hops.Athelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he lifted up his voiceand sang; it was the cracked voice of the boy of fifteen, and Sally turnedround."You be quiet, Athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm."In a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more came uponthe pickers. They were all hard at work, talking and laughing as theypicked. They sat on chairs, on stools, on boxes, with their baskets bytheir sides, and some stood by the bin throwing the hops they pickedstraight into it. There were a lot of children about and a good manybabies, some in makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the softbrown dry earth. The children picked a little and played a great deal. Thewomen worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and they couldpick twice as fast as foreigners from London. They boasted about thenumber of bushels they had picked in a day, but they complained you couldnot make money now as in former times: then they paid you a shilling forfive bushels, but now the rate was eight and even nine bushels to theshilling. In the old days a good picker could earn enough in the season tokeep her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it; yougot a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. Mrs. Hill had boughtherself a pianner out of what she made picking, so she said, but she wasvery near, one wouldn't like to be near like that, and most people thoughtit was only what she said, if the truth was known perhaps it would befound that she had put a bit of money from the savings bank towards it.The hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not countingchildren, and Athelny loudly boasted of the day when he would have acompany consisting entirely of his own family. Each company had a bin-man,whose duty it was to supply it with strings of hops at their bins (the binwas a large sack on a wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rowsof them were placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this positionthat Athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a company.Meanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than by exertions of hisown. He sauntered up to Mrs. Athelny, who had been busy for half an hourand had already emptied a basket into the bin, and with his cigarettebetween his lips began to pick. He asserted that he was going to pick morethan anyone that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much asmother; that reminded him of the trials which Aphrodite put upon thecurious Psyche, and he began to tell his children the story of her lovefor the unseen bridegroom. He told it very well. It seemed to Philip,listening with a smile on his lips, that the old tale fitted in with thescene. The sky was very blue now, and he thought it could not be morelovely even in Greece. The children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks,strong, healthy, and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; thechallenging emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic ofthe green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the row, with thepickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was more of the Greek spiritthere than you could find in the books of professors or in museums. He wasthankful for the beauty of England. He thought of the winding white roadsand the hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicateline of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness of themarshes, and the melancholy of the North Sea. He was very glad that hefelt its loveliness. But presently Athelny grew restless and announcedthat he would go and ask how Robert Kemp's mother was. He knew everyone inthe garden and called them all by their Christian names; he knew theirfamily histories and all that had happened to them from birth. Withharmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and there was atouch of condescension in his familiarity. Philip would not go with him."I'm going to earn my dinner," he said."Quite right, my boy," answered Athelny, with a wave of the hand, as hestrolled away. "No work, no dinner."