Read Online Summer Will Show by Sylvia Townsend Warner - Free Book Online
Authors: Sylvia Townsend Warner
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half-caste implore, his voice urgent with fear. “Don’t be angry, don’t quarrel, loveys. Oh, don’t!”
“What’s all this?”
They were silent, Augusta checking her tears with surprise at the sudden onslaught.
“Caspar! Were you teasing them? Is this your fault?” He shook his head despairingly.
“What has happened?”
Still he did not answer, wringing his small hands and casting deploring looks from one child to the other. Then Augusta began to weep again.
“Horrid Damian, hateful boy! You are a bad brother, you hurt me.”
“Hold your tongue, silly!”
“You did hurt me, you did, you did! You pulled my hair, and it’s given me a headache, and you aren’t sorry in the least, for you didn’t stop, even when Caspar begged you. Caspar is a fool. He ought to have knocked you down. But he can do nothing, he can only play his silly guitar.”
She turned to the half-caste, and tried to make a face at him, but more tears ruined the attempt. He had come towards her on his knees, and with a cry of sympathy began to stroke the jangled curls.
“Go away! I don’t want you. You’re
black
!”
“Augusta!”
But before the word was out of Sophia’s mouth Damian hurled himself upon his sister, scratching and buffeting her.
“How dare you, Augusta, how dare you? I’ll kill you for that. Caspar is my friend, and he isn’t black, and I’ll kill you for saying so.”
“Black, black! He is black. A blackamoor! And he’s not a proper boy either, he’s only a bastard. Harlowe said so. I heard her. A black bastard, that’s all your Caspar is.”
She railed out of the tumult of Damian’s assault, her cropped hair tangled over her face, wet with spittle, a furious fighting mane, which she shook over her flushed cheeks. A long scratch leaped out on her arm, and began to bleed. Damian thrust his face against hers, snarling, speechless with rage.
It was all Sophia could do to unclench their combat. Raging herself, locked into a stone of anger, she hauled them towards the house.
“Kneel down,” she commanded, trembling with fury, forcing them down with hands that were like stone against their slight shaken flesh. “Stay there and quiet yourselves.”
After that struggle under the midday sun the shaded air of her sitting-room was cold as a tomb. She trembled as she sat down behind her desk, entrenching herself as against two savage animals. Presently she took her Commonplace Book, and began turning over the pages. The children knelt quietly now, subdued by the austere cool of the shaded room. Under her lashes she saw that they had begun to exchange glances, allied again, now that they had her wrath to look forward to.
“Listen.
“
On Tuesday last, Samuel Turvey, a boy of nine years of age, apprentice to a chimney-sweep, was suffocated in the chimney of a house at Worksop. His master declares that the boy, having gone a little way up the chimney, called down that he was wedged, and could go no further. As he had shown sullenness before, and refused other chimneys, a fire of damp straw was kindled on the hearth, in order that he might be obliged to mount. He still expostulated, though he was heard attempting to go further. To the horror of those present, his body then fell to the hearth, he having been rendered unconscious by the smoke, and loosing his hold. Plucked from the fire he was discovered to be badly burned, and died the same day in the workhouse infirmary
.”
She read coldly and slowly. After a pause she asked,
“Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“Would you like to be a chimney-sweep?”
“No, Mamma.”
The boy’s answer was mechanical. He knelt and trembled, his face was ashen, every now and then it quivered. Her words had fallen on ears almost deaf, he was still absorbed in the bodily aftermath of the quarrel. Augusta cried out,
“What a horrible wicked man!”
“He had his living to make. And chimneys have to be swept. And some chimneys are so built that a brush
“What’s all this?”
They were silent, Augusta checking her tears with surprise at the sudden onslaught.
“Caspar! Were you teasing them? Is this your fault?” He shook his head despairingly.
“What has happened?”
Still he did not answer, wringing his small hands and casting deploring looks from one child to the other. Then Augusta began to weep again.
“Horrid Damian, hateful boy! You are a bad brother, you hurt me.”
“Hold your tongue, silly!”
“You did hurt me, you did, you did! You pulled my hair, and it’s given me a headache, and you aren’t sorry in the least, for you didn’t stop, even when Caspar begged you. Caspar is a fool. He ought to have knocked you down. But he can do nothing, he can only play his silly guitar.”
She turned to the half-caste, and tried to make a face at him, but more tears ruined the attempt. He had come towards her on his knees, and with a cry of sympathy began to stroke the jangled curls.
“Go away! I don’t want you. You’re
black
!”
“Augusta!”
But before the word was out of Sophia’s mouth Damian hurled himself upon his sister, scratching and buffeting her.
“How dare you, Augusta, how dare you? I’ll kill you for that. Caspar is my friend, and he isn’t black, and I’ll kill you for saying so.”
“Black, black! He is black. A blackamoor! And he’s not a proper boy either, he’s only a bastard. Harlowe said so. I heard her. A black bastard, that’s all your Caspar is.”
She railed out of the tumult of Damian’s assault, her cropped hair tangled over her face, wet with spittle, a furious fighting mane, which she shook over her flushed cheeks. A long scratch leaped out on her arm, and began to bleed. Damian thrust his face against hers, snarling, speechless with rage.
It was all Sophia could do to unclench their combat. Raging herself, locked into a stone of anger, she hauled them towards the house.
“Kneel down,” she commanded, trembling with fury, forcing them down with hands that were like stone against their slight shaken flesh. “Stay there and quiet yourselves.”
After that struggle under the midday sun the shaded air of her sitting-room was cold as a tomb. She trembled as she sat down behind her desk, entrenching herself as against two savage animals. Presently she took her Commonplace Book, and began turning over the pages. The children knelt quietly now, subdued by the austere cool of the shaded room. Under her lashes she saw that they had begun to exchange glances, allied again, now that they had her wrath to look forward to.
“Listen.
“
On Tuesday last, Samuel Turvey, a boy of nine years of age, apprentice to a chimney-sweep, was suffocated in the chimney of a house at Worksop. His master declares that the boy, having gone a little way up the chimney, called down that he was wedged, and could go no further. As he had shown sullenness before, and refused other chimneys, a fire of damp straw was kindled on the hearth, in order that he might be obliged to mount. He still expostulated, though he was heard attempting to go further. To the horror of those present, his body then fell to the hearth, he having been rendered unconscious by the smoke, and loosing his hold. Plucked from the fire he was discovered to be badly burned, and died the same day in the workhouse infirmary
.”
She read coldly and slowly. After a pause she asked,
“Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“Would you like to be a chimney-sweep?”
“No, Mamma.”
The boy’s answer was mechanical. He knelt and trembled, his face was ashen, every now and then it quivered. Her words had fallen on ears almost deaf, he was still absorbed in the bodily aftermath of the quarrel. Augusta cried out,
“What a horrible wicked man!”
“He had his living to make. And chimneys have to be swept. And some chimneys are so built that a brush
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