The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions (4 page)

“The second portion of my proposals for economy deals with an innovation—Receipts! Yes, I would have receipts.

“Given the fact that there is, and seems likely yet awhile to be, a need for human butchering; then, in the name of any small fragment of common sense we may possess, let us put the thing on a saner, more business-like footing—And Save the Meat! (Loud cheers.) Aye, save the meat, economize; treat it as the business it is—and a nasty, dirty business at that. Like reasonable people, go to the best, the most direct way to get it done and over as quickly and efficiently as possible. We could, in the event of my suggestion being adopted, point out to the victims that they were, at least, not dying quite in vain.”

Mr. Russell then went on to make suggestions:—

“War would, of course, have to be conducted on somewhat different lines than has been the case hitherto. Also, we should have to make International agreements that all nations should conform to the new methods of doing our killing. But no doubt it could be arranged. The item of economy would prove a mighty argument in its favour.

“As to the actual scheme, there are several which I have in my mind, any one of which would do. To take one. We will suppose that there is a matter in dispute between two nations, and we are one of them. Well, we would, according to my idea, have a committee to study its importance, size, risks, desirabilities, etc.—everything, in fact, except the morality of it; then we would refer to statistics of various ‘kills’ in former butcheries, and so—taking all the points into consideration—strike an average, and form an estimate of the number to be killed to make a sure thing of it. The other side would do the same, and neither would know the number of men the other had voted to the settling of the business. This would supply a splendid element of chance, well calculated to give opportunities for developing all the necessary heroic qualities which any man could hope to have.

“The next part of the work would be to pick the men. They would be chosen by lot; so many from each station— a method well calculated to improve their nerve, hardihood, manhood, stoicism, fortitude, and many other good qualities. As the last stand of those who uphold war has been its beneficial effect on the manhood of the nation, it will be seen that my proposition must meet with their approval; for, before a blow has been struck, a large proportion of the training has been accomplished.

“Having now picked our butchers (or victims), their numbers as per estimate of the Meat Office—I mean the War Office—we would turn them into a big pen along with the chosen number which the opposing nation had voted as being necessary to accomplish their purpose. Each man would be provided with a knife and steel, and—commencing work at the usual working hour of the country in which the butchering is effected—would proceed to the slaying with all the speed at their command. The survivors would, of course, be esteemed the winners. The slaying over, the meat would be packed and sold by the winning side to defray expenses, in this wise minimizing the cost of a somewhat unpleasant but—according to many learned men—a very necessary and honourable business.

“This meat should sell well; for I can imagine that there should be considerable satisfaction in eating one’s enemy: moreover, I am told that it is a very old custom.

“I would suggest, in closing, that the butchers receive instruction from the Head Butchers in the proper methods of killing. At present they put far more science into destroying bullocks quickly and comfortably than in performing the same kind office for their fellows. If a man must be killed, at least let him be treated no more barbarously than a bullock. Further, they would have to learn, when killing, not to spoil the joints. Let every man understand his trade!”

Here Mr. John Russell made an end amid profound cheering from the whole House.

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My House Shall Be Called the House of Prayer

(An incident in the Life of Father Johnson, Roman Catholic Priest)

“And the Great Deep of Life.”

F
ather Johnson’s Irish village is not Irish. For some unknown reason it is polyglot. They are, as one might say, a most extraordinary family.

I took my friend, James Pelple, down with me for an afternoon’s jaunt, to give the priest a call in his new house; for he had moved since last I saw him. Pelple knew of Father Johnson, by hearsay, and disapproved strongly. There is no other word to describe his feelings.

“A good man, yes,” he would remark. “But if all you tell me, and the half of what I hear from others, is true, he is much too lax. His ritual——”

“I’ve never been to his place,” I interrupted. “I know him only as the man. As a man, I love him, as you know; as a priest, I admire him. Concerning his ritual I know nothing. I don’t believe he is the man to be unduly lax on vital points.”

“Just so! Just so!” said Pelple. “I know nothing; but I’ve heard some very peculiar things.”

I smiled to myself. Certainly, Father Johnson has some unusual ways. I have seen him, for instance, when we have been alone, forget to say his grace until, maybe, he had eaten one dish. Then, remembering, he would touch his fingers together, and say:— “Bless this food to me” (glancing at the empty dish), “an’ I thank Thee for it” (looking at the full one in front). Then, remembering the dish yet on the stove:—“An’ that too, Lord,” and direct the Lord’s attention to the same, by a backward nod of his head. Afterwards, resuming his eating and talking, in the most natural fashion.

“I’ve heard that he allows his church to be used for some very extraordinary purposes,” continued Pelple. “I cannot, of course, credit some of the things I hear; but I have been assured that the women take their knitting into the church on weekday evenings, whilst the men assemble there, as to a kind of rendezvous, where village topics are allowed. I consider it most improper, most improper! Don’t you?”

But I found it difficult to criticise Father Johnson. I was frankly an admirer, as I am to-day. So I held my peace, assisted by an elusive movement of the head, that might have been either a nod or a negative.

When we reached the village, and asked for the priest’s new house, three men of the place escorted us there in state, as to the house of a chieftain. Reaching it, two of them pointed to him through the window, where he sat at table, smoking, after his early tea. The third man would have accompanied us in; but I told him that I wanted to see the priest alone; whereupon they all went happily. To have need to see the priest alone, was a need that each and all understood, as a part of their daily lives.

I lifted the latch, and we passed in, as all are welcome to do at any hour of the day or night. The door of his house opened into a short half-passage, and I could see direct into his little room, out of which went the small scullery-kitchen. As we entered, I heard Sally, his servant-wench, washing dishes in the little scullery; and just then Father Johnson called out to her:—“Sally, I’ll make a bet with ye.”

In the scullery, I heard a swift rustling and a subdued clatter, and knew that Sally (having heard that preliminary often before) was stealthily removing the handles of the knives from the boiling water. Then her reply:—

“Did y’r riv’rence sphake?”

“I did, Sally, colleen,” said the priest’s voice. “I’ll make a bet with ye, Sally, you’ve the handles av thim knives over hilt in the hot water—eh, Sally!”

And then Sally’s voice, triumphant:—

“Ye’re wrong, y’r riv’rence, thim knives is on the dhresser!”

“Aye, Sally.” said Father Johnson; “but were they not in the hot water whin I sphoke firrst?”

“They was, y’r riv’rence.” said Sally, in a shamed voice; just as she had been making the same confession for the past seven years. And then the priest had a little fit of happy, almost silent laughter, puffing out great clouds of smoke; in the midst of which we walked in on him.

After our greetings, which the priest had met with that strange magnetism of heartiness that had left even the critical Pelple less disapproving, we were set down to a tea, which we simply had to eat, the priest waiting on us himself, and making the little meal “go,” as you might say, with the abundance of his energy and humour—telling a hundred quaint tales and jests of the country-side, with his brogue making points of laughter where more formal speech would have left us dull and untouched.

The meal over, the priest suggested that we might like to accompany him down to his chapel, and see whether things were “kapin’ happy,” as he phrased it. As you may suppose, we were quite eager to accept his invitation; for, as I have made clear already, I had never been down to his place before, and I had heard many things—even as had Pelple—about his chapel and his methods.

We had not far to go. On the way, Father Johnson pointed with his thumb to a little stone-built cabin, very small and crude, which I learned was rented by a certain old Thomas Cardallon, who was not an Irishman.

“Tom’s wife died last week,” said the priest, quietly. “He’s to be evicted to-morrow as iver is, if he cannot fhind the rint.”

I put my hand into my pocket, with a half-involuntary movement; but he shook his head, as much as to say no good could be done that way. That was all, and we were past the small hovel in a minute; but I found myself looking back with a sudden, new curiosity at the little rough-built living-place, that, before, had been only one poor hut among many; yet was now instinct to me with a history of its own, so that it stood out in my memory, from the others, that were here and there about, as something indicative of the life-hope and striving of two poor humans. I put it badly, I know; but it was just such a jumble of vague thoughts and emotions as these, that stirred in my mind. I had reason afterwards to have further memory of the cottage and its one-time occupants.

We reached the chapel very soon; but when we entered, I stood for a moment, in astonishment, looking up the single aisle of the long, whitewashed room. There was not much noise; for, as I discovered, reverence and the sense of the Place, held power all the time; moreover, they were Father Johnson’s people. I looked at my friend, smiling, I fear.

“Even worse than Rumour foretold.” I suggested in a low voice; but he made no reply; for he appeared to me to be stifled by the excess of his astounded disapproval. The priest was a few paces before us, where we had made our involuntary pause in the doorway; and he, too, came to a stand, and looked at the scene, unobserved.

You will understand that there was cause for my astonishment, and even—as many will agree—with the strong disapprobation which my friend was feeling, when I tell you that there was an auction in progress within the House; for within the doorway to the left, was a pile of household goods, evidently from the cottage of one of the very poor. In front of the little heap was an old man, and round him, in a semicircle, stood a number of the villagers, listening intently to the old man’s extolling of each article of his household gear, which he was putting up for sale.

“ ‘My House shall be called——’” I quoted softly and involuntarily; but less with any blame in my heart, than a great wonder, salted by a vague shockedness. The priest, still standing a little before me, caught my half-unconscious quotation; but he only said “Hush!” so gently that I felt suddenly ashamed, as if I were a child fumbling with the Garments of Life, which the priest had worn upon his shoulders all the long years.

For maybe the half of a minute longer, we stood staring at the scene, Father Johnson still a few paces before us into the chapel.

“Tom Cardallon,” he said presently over his shoulder. “If he sold outside, the officers would confiscate. I showed ye the house av him, as we passed.”

He beckoned us to join the group of villagers round the pitiful pile of household goods, which we did, whilst he went on up the chapel, speaking a word here and there to the many who were gathered together in companionship for the quiet hour that preceded the evening Rosarv. Some were praying; a few were sitting quietly in restful isolation from the world of reality; many of the women, I noticed, were knitting, or sitting making butter in small glass jars, which they shook constantly in their hands. The whole scene, in the soft evening light that came in through the long narrow windows, giving me an extraordinary sense of restfulness and natural humanity.

I turned presently from my viewing of the general chapel, to the particular corner where I stood upon the skirt of the little group around the old man. I began to catch the drift of his remarks, uttered in a low tone, and found myself edging nearer, to hear more plainly. I gathered—as the priest had told us—that he had just lost his wife, after a long illness which had run them hopelessly into debt. Indeed, as you know, the eviction from the little hovel was arranged for the morrow, if the old man could not find the small sum which would make it possible for him to stay on in the old cottage, where he had evidently spent many very happy years.

“This ’ere,” the old man was saying, holding up a worn saucepan, “wer’ one as my missus ’as cooked a pow’r o’ spuds in.”

He stopped, and turned from us a moment, with a queer little awkward gesture, as if looking round for something that he knew subconsciously he was not in search of. I believe, in reality, the movement was prompted by an unrealised desire to avert his face momentarily, which had begun to work, as memory stirred in him. He faced round again.

“Eh,” he continued, “she wer’ great on chips in batter, she wer’. Me ’n ’er used ter ’ave ’em every Sunday night as ever was. Like as they was good to sleep on, so she said. An’ I guess they was all cooked in this ’ere ole pan.”