Where the Blue Begins | Page 4

and transparent. The air was serene,
with a faint acid taste. Suddenly there shrilled a soft, sweet, melancholy
whistle, earnestly repeated. It seemed to come from the little pond in
the near-by copses. It struck him strangely. It might be anything, he
thought. He ran furiously through the field, and to the brim of the pond.
He could find nothing, all was silent. Then the whistlings broke out
again, all round him, maddeningly. This kept on, night after night. The
parson, whom he consulted, said it was only frogs; but Gissing told the
constable he thought God had something to do with it.
Then willow trees and poplars showed a pallid bronze sheen, forsythias
were as yellow as scrambled eggs, maples grew knobby with red buds.
Among the fresh bright grass came, here and there, exhilarating smells
of last year's buried bones. The little upward slit at the back of
Gissing's nostrils felt prickly. He thought that if he could bury it deep
enough in cold beef broth it would be comforting. Several times he
went out to the pantry intending to try the experiment, but every time
Fuji happened to be around. Fuji was a Japanese pug, and rather correct,
so Gissing was ashamed to do what he wanted to. He pretended he had
come out to see that the icebox pan had been emptied properly.

"I must get the plumber to put in a pukka drain-pipe to take the place of
the pan," Gissing said to Fuji; but he knew that he had no intention of
doing so. The ice-box pan was his private test of a good servant. A
cook who forgot to empty it was too careless, he thought, to be a real
success.
But certainly there was some curious elixir in the air. He went for
walks, and as soon as he was out of sight of the houses he threw down
his hat and stick and ran wildly, with great exultation, over the hills and
fields. "I really ought to turn all this energy into some sort of
constructive work," he said to himself. No one else, he mused, seemed
to enjoy life as keenly and eagerly as he did. He wondered, too, about
the other sex. Did they feel these violent impulses to run, to shout, to
leap and caper in the sunlight? But he was a little startled, on one of his
expeditions, to see in the distance the curate rushing hotly through the
underbrush, his clerical vestments dishevelled, his tongue hanging out
with excitement.
"I must go to church more often," said Gissing.
In the golden light and pringling air he felt excitable and high-strung.
His tail curled upward until it ached. Finally he asked Mike Terrier,
who lived next door, what was wrong.
"It's spring," Mike said.
"Oh, yes, of course, jolly old spring!" said Gissing, as though this was
something he had known all along, and had just forgotten for the
moment. But he didn't know. This was his first spring, for he was only
ten months old.
Outwardly he was the brisk, genial figure that the suburb knew and
esteemed. He was something of a mystery among his neighbours of the
Canine Estates, because he did not go daily to business in the city, as
most of them did; nor did he lead a life of brilliant amusement like the
Airedales, the wealthy people whose great house was near by. Mr.
Poodle, the conscientious curate, had called several times but was not
able to learn anything definite. There was a little card-index of

parishioners, which it was Mr. Poodle's duty to fill in with details of
each person's business, charitable inclinations, and what he could do to
amuse a Church Sociable. The card allotted to Gissing was marked, in
Mr. Poodle's neat script, Friendly, but vague as to definite participation
in Xian activities. Has not communicated.
But in himself, Gissing was increasingly disturbed. Even his seizures of
joy, which came as he strolled in the smooth spring air and sniffed the
wild, vigorous aroma of the woodland earth, were troublesome because
he did not know why he was so glad. Every morning it seemed to him
that life was about to exhibit some delicious crisis in which the
meaning and excellence of all things would plainly appear. He sang in
the bathtub. Daily it became more difficult to maintain that decorum
which Fuji expected. He felt that his life was being wasted. He
wondered what ought to be done about it.
CHAPTER TWO
It was after dinner, an April evening, and Gissing slipped away from
the house for a stroll. He was afraid to stay in, because he knew that if
he did, Fuji would ask him again to fix the dishcloth rack in the kitchen.
Fuji was very short