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The Dream Chapter the Fourth - The Widow Smith Moves to London Parts 1 and 2 · The H. G. Wells Library

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  Speaker 1: Section eight of The Dream, a Novel. This is a
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  Speaker 1: LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
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  Speaker 1: The Dream a Novel by H. G. Wells, Chapter the fourth,
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  Speaker 1: The Widow Smith Moves to London, Parts one and two.
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  Speaker 1: Part one. In those days, said Sarnak, the great majority
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  Speaker 1: of the dead were put into coffins and buried underground.
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  Speaker 1: Some few people were burnt, but that was an innovation,
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  Speaker 1: and contrary to the very materialistic religious ideas of the time.
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  Speaker 1: This was a world in which, he must remember, people
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  Speaker 1: were still repeating, in perfect good faith a creed which
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  Speaker 1: included the resurrection of the body in life, everlasting. Intellectually
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  Speaker 1: Old Egypt and a dreaming mummy still ruled the common
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  Speaker 1: people of the European world. The Christian creeds were themselves
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  Speaker 1: mummies from Lower Egypt. As my father said on one
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  Speaker 1: occasion when he was discussing this question of cremation, it
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  Speaker 1: might prove a bit awkward the resurrection, like not having
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  Speaker 1: a proper wedding garment, so to speak. Though there's sharks,
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  Speaker 1: said my father, whose mental transitions were sometimes abrupt, and
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  Speaker 1: them as Bennette by lions. Many of the best Christian
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  Speaker 1: martyrs in their time was at by lions. They'd certainly
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  Speaker 1: be given bodies. And if one is given a body,
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  Speaker 1: why not another, said my father, lifting mild and magnified
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  Speaker 1: eyes and inquiry. It's a difficult question, my father decided.
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  Speaker 1: At any rate, there was no discussion of cremation. In
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  Speaker 1: his case. We had a sort of hoarse coach with
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  Speaker 1: a place for the coffin in front to take him
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  Speaker 1: to the cemetery, and in this vehicle my mother and
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  Speaker 1: Prue travel also my brother Ernest, who had come down
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  Speaker 1: from London for the occasion, and my uncle and I
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  Speaker 1: walked ahead and waited for it at the cemetery gates
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  Speaker 1: and followed the coffin to the graveside. We were all
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  Speaker 1: in black clothes, even black gloves, in spite of the
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  Speaker 1: fact we were wretchedly poor. Twon't be my last visit
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  Speaker 1: to this place this year, said my uncle, despondently. Not
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  Speaker 1: if Adelaide goes on as she is going. Ernest was silent.
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  Speaker 1: He disliked my uncle and was brooding over him. From
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  Speaker 1: the moment of his arrival. He had shown a deepening
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  Speaker 1: objection to my uncle's existence. There's luck, they say in funerals,
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  Speaker 1: said my uncle, presently striking a brighter tone. For I
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  Speaker 1: keep my eye open. I daresay I might get her
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  Speaker 1: into something. Ernest remained dour. We followed the men carrying
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  Speaker 1: the coffin towards the cemetery chapel in a little procession
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  Speaker 1: led by mister Snaps. In his clerical robes. He began
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  Speaker 1: to read out words that I realized were beautiful in touching,
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  Speaker 1: and that concerned strange and far away things. I am
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  Speaker 1: the resurrection and the life, he that believeth in me,
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  Speaker 1: Though he be dead, yet shall he live. I know
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  Speaker 1: that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at
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  Speaker 1: the latter day upon the earth. We brought nothing into
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  Speaker 1: this world, and it is certain we carry nothing out.
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  Speaker 1: The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed
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  Speaker 1: be the name of the Lord. Suddenly I forgot the
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  Speaker 1: bickerings of my uncle brethren, was overcome with tenderness and
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  Speaker 1: grief for my father. A rush from my memory of
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  Speaker 1: many clumsy kindlinesses, A realization of the loss of his
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  Speaker 1: companionship came to me. I recalled the happiness of many
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  Speaker 1: my Sunday tramps by his side in springtime, on golden
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  Speaker 1: summer evenings, in winter, when the frost had picked out
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  Speaker 1: every twig in the downland hedgerows. I thought of his endless,
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  Speaker 1: edifying discourses about flowers and rabbits and hillsides and distant stars.
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  Speaker 1: And he was gone. I should never hear his voice again.
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  Speaker 1: I should never see again his dear old eyes magnified
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  Speaker 1: to an immense wonder through his spectacles. I should never
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  Speaker 1: have a chance of telling him how I cared for him.
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  Speaker 1: And I had never told him I cared for him. Indeed,
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  Speaker 1: I had never realized I cared for him until now
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  Speaker 1: he was lying, stiff and still and submissive in that coffin,
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  Speaker 1: a rejected man. Life had treated him badly. He had
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  Speaker 1: never had a dog's chance. My mind leapt forward beyond
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  Speaker 1: my years, and I understand what a tissue of petty
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  Speaker 1: humiliations and disappointments and degradations his life had been. I
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  Speaker 1: saw them as clearly as I see now the immense
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  Speaker 1: pity of such a life. Sorrow possessed me. I wept
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  Speaker 1: as I stumbled along after him. I had great difficulty
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  Speaker 1: in preventing myself from weeping aloud. Part two. After the funeral,
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  Speaker 1: my brother Ernest and my uncle had a violent wrangle
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  Speaker 1: about my mother's future. Seeing that my aunt Adelaide was
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  Speaker 1: for all practical purposes done for, my uncle suggested that
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  Speaker 1: he should sell up most of his furniture, bring his
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  Speaker 1: capital into the green grocery business, and come and live
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  Speaker 1: with his sister. But my brother declared that the green
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  Speaker 1: grocery business was a dying concern and was from my
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  Speaker 1: mother moving into a house in cliff Stone when she
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  Speaker 1: might let lodgings prue would be no end of help
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  Speaker 1: in that. At first this was opposed by my uncle.
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  Speaker 1: Then he came around to the idea on condition that
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  Speaker 1: he participated in the benefits of the scheme. But this
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  Speaker 1: Ernest opposed, asking rather rudely, what sort of help my
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  Speaker 1: uncle supposed he would be in a lodging house let alone.
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  Speaker 1: You've never out of bed before ten, he said, though
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  Speaker 1: how he knew this fact did not appear. Ernest had
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  Speaker 1: been living in London working at a garage. He drove
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  Speaker 1: hard cars by the month or job, and his respect
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  Speaker 1: for the upper class had somehow disappeared. The dignity of
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  Speaker 1: Sir John French Cuthbertson at second hand left him cold
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  Speaker 1: and scornful. You ain't goin to have my mother work
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  Speaker 1: for you and wait on you, know how, he said.
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  Speaker 1: While this dispute went on, my mother, with the assistance
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  Speaker 1: of Prue, was setting out the cold collation, which in
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  Speaker 1: those days was the redeeming feature of every funeral. There
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  Speaker 1: was cold ham and chicken. My uncle abandoned his position
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  Speaker 1: of vantage on my father's rag hearth rug, and we
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  Speaker 1: all sat down to our exceptional meal. For some little time,
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  Speaker 1: the cold ham and chicken made a sort of truce
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  Speaker 1: between my brother Ernest and my uncle. But presently my
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  Speaker 1: uncle sewg drank off his beer and reopened the argument.
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  Speaker 1: You know, I think, he said, spearing a potato from
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  Speaker 1: the dish nearby with a fok. You ought to have
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  Speaker 1: some voice in what is going to become of you.
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  Speaker 1: Me and this young man from London have been having
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  Speaker 1: a bit of a difference about you and what you
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  Speaker 1: ought to do. I realized abruptly from the expression on
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  Speaker 1: my mother's white face, a sort of white intentness which
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  Speaker 1: a widow's cap seemed to emphasize. Though she was quite
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  Speaker 1: determined to have not only some voice, but a decisive
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  Speaker 1: voice in this matter. But before she could say anything,
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  Speaker 1: my brother Ernest had intervened. It's like this, mother, He said,
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  Speaker 1: You've got to do something, haven't you. My mother was
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  Speaker 1: about to reply when Anna snatched a sort of assent
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  Speaker 1: from her and proceeded, Well, naturally I ask what sort
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  Speaker 1: of thing can you do? And as naturally I answer, lodgings.
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  Speaker 1: You can't expect to go on being a greengrocer, because
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  Speaker 1: that ain't natural for a woman, considering the weights and
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  Speaker 1: coal that has to be lifted, and could be lifted
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  Speaker 1: easy with amanda helper, said my uncle, if he was
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  Speaker 1: a man, said my brother Ernest, with bitter sarcasm. Maining
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  Speaker 1: asked my uncle with cold hoteur, what I say, said
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  Speaker 1: brother Ernest, No more, no less. So if you take
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  Speaker 1: my advice, mother, what you'll do is this. You go
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  Speaker 1: down early tomorrow at Cliffstone to look for a suitable
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  Speaker 1: little house, big enough to owe lodgers and not so
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  Speaker 1: big as to break your back. And I'll go and
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  Speaker 1: talk to mister Bulstrode about ending up your tenancy. Ere
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  Speaker 1: then we'll be able to see where we are again.
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  Speaker 1: My mother attempted to speak, but was overborne. If you
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  Speaker 1: think I'm going to be treated as a nonentity, said
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  Speaker 1: my uncle, You're making the biggest mistake you ever made
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  Speaker 1: in your life. Say now, you listen to me, Marth.
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  Speaker 1: You shut up, said my brother. Mother's my business first
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  Speaker 1: and foremost. Shut up, echoed my uncle. What miners at
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  Speaker 1: a funeral? From when chap not a third my age,
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  Speaker 1: a mere asidous empty boy? Shut up? You shut up yourself,
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  Speaker 1: my boy, and listen to those who know a bit
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  Speaker 1: more about life than you do. I've smacked your head
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  Speaker 1: before today, not once or twice. Ee. Then I warmed
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  Speaker 1: your eye when you stole them peaches, and much good
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  Speaker 1: it did you. I orter to have took your skin off.
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  Speaker 1: You and me have never got on much. But unless
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  Speaker 1: you keep a civil tongue in your head, we ain't
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  Speaker 1: going to get on now. Saying which, said brother Ernest,
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  Speaker 1: with a dangerous calmness. The sooner you make yourself scarce,
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  Speaker 1: the better for all concerned. Not to leave my only
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  Speaker 1: sister's affairs in the ends of a cub like you. Again,
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  Speaker 1: my mother sayed to speak, but the angry voices disregarded her.
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  Speaker 1: I tell you you're going to get out. And if you
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  Speaker 1: can't get out of your own discretion, I warn you
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  Speaker 1: I'll have to help you. Not when you're in mourning,
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  Speaker 1: said my mother, not wearing your mourning. And besides, but
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  Speaker 1: they were both too heated to attend to her. You're
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  Speaker 1: pretty big with your talk, said my uncle. But don't
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  Speaker 1: you presume too far on my forbearance. I've had enough
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  Speaker 1: of this, so voll, said my brother Ernest, and stood up.
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  Speaker 1: My uncle stood up too, and they glared at one another.
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  Speaker 1: That's the door, said my brother darkly. My uncle walked
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  Speaker 1: back to his wonted place on the hearth rug. Now,
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  Speaker 1: don't let's have any quarrelings on a day like this,
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  Speaker 1: he said. If you haven't any consideration for your mother,
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  Speaker 1: you might at least think of him who has passed beyond.
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  Speaker 1: My object is simply to try and range things so's
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  Speaker 1: best for all. And what I say is this, The
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  Speaker 1: idea of your mother going into a lodging house alone
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  Speaker 1: without a man's help is ridiculous, perfectly ridiculous, and only
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  Speaker 1: a first class in considerate young fool. My brother Ernest
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  Speaker 1: went and stood close to my uncle. You've said enough,
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  Speaker 1: he remarked, this affairs between me and my mother, and
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  Speaker 1: your motto is get out. See again. My mother had
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  Speaker 1: something to say, and again she was silenced. This is
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  Speaker 1: a man's work, Mother said, Ernest, are you going to
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  Speaker 1: shift at uncle? My uncle faced up to this threat
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  Speaker 1: of Ernest. I've a judy to my sister. And then
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  Speaker 1: I regret to say, my brother laid hands on him.
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  Speaker 1: He took him by the collar and by the wrist,
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  Speaker 1: and for a moment the two black clad figures swayed.
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  Speaker 1: Let go my coat, said my uncle, Let go my
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  Speaker 1: coat collar. But at thirst for violence had taken possession
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  Speaker 1: of Ernest. My mother and Prue and I stood aghast.
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  Speaker 1: Ernie cried, my mother, you forget yourself. It's all right,
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  Speaker 1: Mother said Ernie, and whirled my uncle violently from the
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  Speaker 1: hearth rug to the bottom of the staircase. Then he
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  Speaker 1: shifted his grip from my uncle's wrist to the seat
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  Speaker 1: of his tight black trousers, and partly lifted and partly
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  Speaker 1: impelled him up the staircase. My uncle's arm waved wildly,
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  Speaker 1: as if he clutched at his lost dignity. John cried,
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  Speaker 1: my mother, is your at I had a glimpse of
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  Speaker 1: my uncle's eyes as he vanished up the staircase. He
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  Speaker 1: seemed to be looking for his hat, but he was
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  Speaker 1: now offering no serious opposition to my brother Ernest's handling
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  Speaker 1: of him. Give it in, Mary, said my mother, And
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  Speaker 1: there's his gloves to you. I took the black hat
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  Speaker 1: and the black gloves and followed the struggle upstairs. Astonished
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  Speaker 1: and unresisting, my uncle was propelled through the front door
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  Speaker 1: into the street and stood there panting and regarding my brother.
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  Speaker 1: His collar was torn from its stud and his black
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  Speaker 1: tie disarranged. Ernest was breathing heavily. Now you be yourphan,
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  Speaker 1: Mind your own business, said Ernie. Ernie turned with a
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  Speaker 1: start as I pushed past him. Here's your hat and gloves, Uncle,
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  Speaker 1: I sat, adding them too. He took them mechanically, his
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  Speaker 1: eyes still fixed on Ernest. And you're the boy I
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  Speaker 1: trained to be honest, said my uncle to my brother Ernest,
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  Speaker 1: very bitterly. Leastways I tried to You're the young worm
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  Speaker 1: I've fattened up at my gardens and showed such kindness
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  Speaker 1: too gratitude. He regarded the hat in his hand for
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  Speaker 1: a moment as though it were some strange object, and then,
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  Speaker 1: by a happy inspiration, put it on his head. God
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  Speaker 1: help your mother, said my uncle John Julip golled, helper.
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  Speaker 1: He had nothing more to say. He looked up the
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  Speaker 1: street and down, and then turned, as by a sort
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  Speaker 1: of necessity, in the direction of the Wellington Public House.
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  Speaker 1: And in this manner was my uncle John Julip, on
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  Speaker 1: the day of my father's funeral, cast forth into the
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  Speaker 1: street of Cherry Gardens, a prospective widower and a most
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  Speaker 1: pathetic and unhappy little man. The dingy black figure and
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  Speaker 1: retreat still haunts my memory. Even from the back. He
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  Speaker 1: looked amazed. Never did a man who has not been
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  Speaker 1: kicked look so like a man who has been. I
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  Speaker 1: never saw him again. I have no doubt that he
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  Speaker 1: carried his sorrows down to the Wellington and got himself
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  Speaker 1: thoroughly drunk. And I have a little doubt that he
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  Speaker 1: missed my father dreadfully. All the time he was doing so.
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  Speaker 1: My brother Ernest returned thoughtfully to the kitchen. He was
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  Speaker 1: already a little abashed at his own violence. I followed
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  Speaker 1: him respectfully. You did not have done that, said my mother.
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  Speaker 1: What were right as a plan himself on you? To
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  Speaker 1: be kept and waited on. He wouldn't have planted himself
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  Speaker 1: on me, my mother replied. You get eate it, Annie,
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  Speaker 1: same as he used to do, and you won't listen
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  Speaker 1: to anything I never did fancy uncle, said Ernie. When
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  Speaker 1: you get eated, Ernie, you seem to forget everything, said
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  Speaker 1: my mother. You might have remembered he was my brother,
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  Speaker 1: fond brother, said Ernie. Why who started all this stealing?
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  Speaker 1: Who led poor father to drink and bet? All the same?
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  Speaker 1: Said my mother. You hadn't no right to handle him
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  Speaker 1: as you did, And your poor father's oddly cold in
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  Speaker 1: the grave. She wept. She produced a black, bolded handkerchief
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  Speaker 1: and mopped her eyes. I did hope your poor father
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  Speaker 1: would have a nice funeral, all the trouble and expense,
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  Speaker 1: and now you've spoilt it. I'll never be able to
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  Speaker 1: look back on this day with pleasure, not if I
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  Speaker 1: live to be a hundred years. I'll always remember how
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  Speaker 1: you spoilt your own father's funeral, turning on your uncle
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  Speaker 1: like this. Ernest had no answer for her reproaches. He
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  Speaker 1: shouldn't have argued and said what he did. He objected,
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  Speaker 1: and also unnecessary. All along I've been trying to tell
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  Speaker 1: you needn't worry about me. I don't want no lodging
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  Speaker 1: house in cliff Stone, with your uncle or without your uncle.
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  Speaker 1: I wrote him Matilda Good a week come Tuesday and
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  Speaker 1: settled everything with her. Everything it's settled. What do you mean,
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  Speaker 1: asked Ernest. Why that ouse rz and Pimlico. She's been
• 14:33
  Speaker 1: wanting Trusty up for a long time, what with her vericos,
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  Speaker 1: veins up and down stairs and one thing another, And
• 14:40
  Speaker 1: directly she got my letter about your poor dear father,
• 14:43
  Speaker 1: she wrote off to me. You need never want a home,
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  Speaker 1: she says, so long as I got a lodger. You
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  Speaker 1: and Prue are welcome, she says, welcome help. And the
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  Speaker 1: boy can easy find work up here, much easier than
• 14:55
  Speaker 1: he can in Cliffstone. All the time you was planning
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  Speaker 1: larger houses and things for I was trying to tell
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  Speaker 1: you you mean it's settled. It's settled. And what you're
• 15:06
  Speaker 1: going to do with your bits of furniture so some
• 15:09
  Speaker 1: and takes some. It's feasible, said Earnest after reflection. And
• 15:14
  Speaker 1: so we needn't really have add that bit of an argument,
• 15:18
  Speaker 1: said Earnest after a pause. Not me and uncle. Not
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  Speaker 1: on my account, you needn't, said my mother. Well we
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  Speaker 1: add it, said Ernest, after another pause, and without any
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  Speaker 1: visible signs of regret. End of Section eight read by
• 15:35
  Speaker 1: Cris Buchanan, Springfield, Illinois, June twenty second, twenty twenty three.