Tales of Men and Ghosts | Page 9

was a lovely soft September
afternoon--a day to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one's eyes on
the sky, and let the cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the
vision was suggested by the fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph's
hideous black walnut library, I passed one of the under-gardeners, a
handsome full-throated Italian, who dashed out in such a hurry that he
nearly knocked me down. I remember thinking it queer that the fellow,
whom I had often seen about the melon-houses, did not bow to me, or
even seem to see me.
"Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his
fat hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the
Churchman at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon--the
fattest melon I'd ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of
contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated
myself on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to
ask him a favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as
calm as an egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering--and without
stopping to greet me he pointed passionately to the melon.
"'Look at it, look at it--did you ever see such a beauty? Such
firmness--roundness--such delicious smoothness to the touch?' It was as
if he had said 'she' instead of 'it,' and when he put out his senile hand
and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way.
"Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who
had been specially recommended for the melon-houses--though it was
against my cousin's principles to employ a Papist--had been assigned to
the care of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its existence,
as destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest
sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be photographed and
celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done
well--seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning
he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day
at the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its
blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned scoundrelly
Jesuit done but drop it--drop it crash on the sharp spout of a
watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale rotundity,

and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon?
"The old man's rage was fearful in its impotence--he shook, spluttered
and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had sacked him
on the spot, without wages or character--had threatened to have him
arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. 'By God, and
I'll do it--I'll write to Washington--I'll have the pauper scoundrel
deported! I'll show him what money can do!' As likely as not there was
some murderous Black-hand business under it--it would be found that
the fellow was a member of a 'gang.' Those Italians would murder you
for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And then he
grew frightened at his own excitement. 'But I must calm myself,' he
said. He took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the
Churchman. He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the
melon was brought in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him
for an hour, in the dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily
about the fallen melon.
"All the while one phrase of the old man's buzzed in my brain like the
fly about the melon. '_I'll show him what money can do!_' Good
heaven! If I could but show the old man! If I could make him see his
power of giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I
tried to tell him something about my situation and Kate's--spoke of my
ill-health, my unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make
myself a name--I stammered out an entreaty for a loan. 'I can guarantee
to repay you, sir--I've a half-written play as security...'
"I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as
an egg-shell again--his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels
over a slippery rampart.
"'A half-written play--a play of yours as security?' He looked at me
almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. 'Do you
understand anything of business?' he enquired mildly. I laughed and
answered: 'No, not much.'
"He leaned back with closed lids. 'All this excitement has been too
much for me,' he said. 'If you'll excuse me, I'll prepare for my nap.' And
I