Delphi Collected Works of Ouida, page 858
Gerry flushed angrily, and bent his head over his sweet peas. He had done all he could, and perhaps they would have to go away after all.
“Don’t be so cut up, child,” said his granny. “I’ll take a couple of rooms in some little place on the moors, so as you’ll have the air and a bit o’ garden.”
But then she broke down herself, and wept, for she was deeply attached to her little home, and it hurt her to think of its being pulled down, in a pother of dust, by a troop of meddlers. It hurt all the dwellers there cruelly.
The grey, cloister-like walls shut them away in safety from the pressure of an indifferent outside world, for to those who are old and poor the hurrying crowd, busy, and selfish, and vigorous, seems always unkind and alien. They were to be turned out of this familiar refuge as bees are burned out of their hive. Few of them knew where to go. None of them could endure the thought of living in the streets. All the little community was like a flock of sheep which is being driven off a well-known tranquil pasture through a noisy town to the shambles. They were all old, they were all poor; to all this place was a harbour of refuge; they were good friends with one another, and every night and morning the chimes of St. Michael and All Angels rang them to rest and roused them to Life.
Gerry had no grounds for the intense faith he placed in the great man who had been so kind to him; but in himself he thought, “I’m sure he won’t forget, for he didn’t forget the flowers; and he was so wonderful good to me.”
But nothing was heard or done. The days and the weeks passed on, and the child grew thinner and paler, and his blue eyes larger, and his hands hot and dry. “He’ll just go and fret himself to death,” said John Stearne and Sarah Lane; and what could they do? for they could not struggle with fate, as dealt out to them by the mayor and the corporation.
Gerry ate nothing with any relish, and he took no more pleasure even in the garden.
“For what is the use?” he said to himself. “They’ll pull it all up and tear it all down, and everything’ll die.”
Nothing of any direct certainty was known, for the old folks were too insignificant in the eyes of the county and town councils to be honoured with any communication. But the local papers published many articles on the subject, and the men bought and read the journals, and gathered that the matter would be eventually decided against them, and in accord with the mayor’s views, and that the compensation likely to be given to each pensioner was to be about eight or perhaps ten pounds a year, this sum being calculated on a portion of the capital which would be realized by the sale of the site. But not eight or even ten pounds per annum could console these obstinate old people for the impending loss of their homes, where they were all so snug, and so quiet, and so friendly, like rabbits in a warren where no sportsmen come.
“’Tis monstrous; that’s what ’tis,” said John Stearne and the community after him; and the sexton, and the parish clerk, and the pew owner of St. Michael’s and all other dwellers around the church agreed with them.
“Gerry did go and speak to the Prime Minister face to face,” said Stearne for the thousandth time. “But, Lord! I told the dear child ’twouldn’t be o’ no use. Great men don’t think o’ the likes o’ us.”
Stearne believed in Gerry devoutly, but the other inmates began to be doubtful about Gerry’s visit to London.
“Children dew love tarrydiddles,” said one old man, “and they dew boast awful sometimes.”
Notwithstanding the gatekeeper’s indignant assertions that Gerry was incapable of straying a hair’s breadth from the truth, and that the people at the station knew that he had gone up in the London train, public opinion, as it existed in Dame Eleanor’s Cots, began to turn against Gerry. “Children is mighty big liars sometimes,” said the sceptical community; and he knew that he was suspected and disbelieved, and the insult cut him to the heart.
Even Mrs. Lane, though she never said so, thought he had dreamt of his visit to the statesman. It was so utterly improbable that such a great man would have received an unknown little boy. Gerry must have gone up to London, doubtless; but it might very well be that, absorbed by one idea, he had fallen asleep in the Park or somewhere, and dreamt of this incredible interview. The child, she reflected, had brought not an atom of proof of it, and he was even unwilling to speak much about it.
As time went on, and the mayor’s progressive projects grew more and more clearly defined, every one in the alms-houses was convinced that Gerry had made fools of them with his story; and he was made to feel the cold shadow of unpopularity, and to taste how sour the cream of popular favour can become. They said little, for there were Stearne and Sarah Lane always ready to take his part; but they looked askance at him, they sniggered as he passed, and they no longer begged him to do up their gardens, and nail up their creepers, though the summer heats had now passed and the autumnal winds were blowing and making havoc amongst their plants.
Prim, too, had never forgotten or forgiven the attempt to put her into the basket; she was no longer friendly.
“If she had been a dog,” he thought wistfully, “there isn’t nothing she wouldn’t have forgived.”
His heart was very sore, and his body suffered with it.
The doctor consulted by Mrs. Lane spoke of anæmia, and prescribed cod-liver oil; but the wise old woman knew better what was the matter. “He’s just fret-tin’ hisself to death,” she said as John Stearne had said it. “You know we’ve got to go, doctor.”
“Yes, I know,” said the doctor. “It seems hard; but it will be in reality much better for you. These places are anti-hygienic, their sanitary arrangements are horrible — all this smothering greenery on the walls! — and open dust-bins! Actually open dust-bins! You will be infinitely better off in a nice little modern house with all proper appliances. All such rookeries as this ought to be swept away; they are mere incubating nests for bacilli!”
And he went away hurriedly lest microbes should descend upon him from the thatch, or arise in the air from the water-butt as he passed it.
“Why make him come here, granny?” said Gerry. “You hear the wicked, silly things he says.”
“But you are ill, my dearie.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You fret, child, and that makes you ill. We all fret, ’tis true; but it don’t do no good. We’ll have to go. The powers above us will it so.”
Gerry dropped down at her knees and hid his face on her apron.
“Oh, granny, he’s surely forgot! I didn’t think he’d forget; he seemed so good. I know he didn’t promise, no he didn’t promise, but I felt sure he’d help, and it’s four months ago to-day.”
Mrs. Lane bent over him and stroked his hair tenderly.
“Dearie, tell me, tell me true, are you sure you did see that great man? Are you certain sure you didn’t dream it all?”
Gerry raised his head; his pale, thin, small face grew red with indignation.
“Of course I saw him! When I tell you I saw him? He would have given me a sovereign, but I wouldn’t take it; and I wish now as I had taked it, ‘cos if I’d brought it home with me you’d have believed, and all the others too.”
His whole frame quivered with a passion of righteous indignation.
“Oh, how can you doubt me, granny? How can you? Do you think I’d ever tell a lie?”
“No, my love, no,” murmured Sarah Lane, sorely disturbed. “No child o’ my bringin’ up ever lied. But you may have dreamed it, Gerry. It do seem, my dear, so utterly onlikely.”
“I can’t help that,” said Gerry, drearily. “It’s true. But I never said as he promised. He never — no, he never — did promise.But he kept the flowers, and I thought he’d remember.”
Mrs. Lane was greatly troubled. Gerry was ill; he was certainly ill; there was no doubt about that, and she thought his mind wandered. She felt sure now that it was all a delusion, that the child’s imagination had been strained to excess, and its visions had become established as facts in his brain. She had heard of such ailments of the mind, and knew that they often defied all cure.
She sat still, stroking Gerry’s hair as he leaned against her knee; his anger quieted, he had lapsed into the silent and sad meditation now so common with him, and so ominous at his age.
Across the turfed square she could see the gateway with its archway; the gates were ajar, and John Stearne was speaking with a person who had approached from the street, and who looked like a gentleman’s servant. He gave the old gatekeeper a large parcel and went away; Stearne stood as if riveted to the ground, staring and holding the parcel.
Then he came across the turf, treading on the daisies, which he had never done before in all his years; he staggered as if he were drunk, and he gasped for breath as he approached Mrs. Lane’s porch. All the other inmates were already out at their doors, staring and wondering.
“Gerry! Gerry!” cried John Stearne.
“Gerry! Gerry! Here’s a present for you from the Prime Minister, and the man as brought it was to tell us that we won’t be sent adrift, because this here charity of Dame Eleanor’s is not con-ver-ti-ble and can’t never be broke up; and ’tis the great Crown lawyers as have said so.”
Gerry sprang to his feet, galvanized into fresh life.
“Now you’ll believe! Now you’ll believe, all of you!” he shouted; and then he fainted.
“When his grandmother and the gatekeeper brought him back to consciousness he was lying on his little bed, and the setting sun was shining through the lattice.
Beside him there was an open box made of maple wood; in the box was a set of gardening tools, of the size for a child’s use, and on the lid of the box was a silver plate, which was engraved with the date of his visit to London and the words: “To a Brave Little Boy.”
“I said as he wouldn’t forget!” he cried, his face illumined with joy and the ruddy rays of the sun.
“You’ll be a great man, Gerry!” said the admiring pensioners as they crowded around him.
“I’ll be a gardener,” said Gerry. “But why did you think as I’d lied?”
He shook them all off and went into his garden, where the cat was sitting under the bush of southernwood. He took her up in his arms.
“What beautiful flowers I’ll grow for him, Prim!” he murmured in her ear. “For he’s kept our homes for us all.”
Prim pardoned the insult of the basket, and allowed herself to be caressed; and a robin on the sundial sang.
The Short Stories
The Langham, Marylebone, London, one of the largest and best known traditional style grand hotels in city. Ouida moved into the Langham in 1867 and according to the hotel promotional materials, she wrote in bed by candlelight, with the curtains drawn and surrounded by purple flowers. She ran up huge hotel and florist’s bills, and commanded soirees that included soldiers, politicians and leading literary figures, including Oscar Wilde, Algernon Swinburne, Robert Browning and Wilkie Collins.
List of Short Stories in Chronological Order
CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE
THE STORY OF A BROIDERED SHIELD.
LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS;
OUR MALTESE PEERAGE.
LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES:
THE WORRIES OF A CHAPERONE.
A STUDY A LA LOUIS QUINZE;
PENDANT TO A PASTEL BY LA TOUR.
MIDNIGHT.
DEADLY DASH.
THE GENERAL’S MATCH-MAKING
COACHES AND COUSINSHIP.
THE STORY OF A CRAYON-HEAD;
A DOUBLED-DOWN LEAF IN A MAN’S LIFE.
THE BEAUTY OF VICQ D’AZYR;
NOT AT ALL A PROPER PERSON.
A STUDY À LA LOUIS QUATORZE: PENDANT TO A PORTRAIT BY MIGNARD.
BEATRICE BOVILLE.
A LINE IN THE “DAILY.”
HOLLY WREATHS AND ROSE CHAINS.
SILVER CHIMES AND GOLDEN FETTERS.
SLANDER AND SILLERY.
SIR GALAHAD’S RAID.
REDEEMED.
OUR WAGER.
OUR COUNTRY QUARTERS.
A LEAF IN THE STORM
A DOG OF FLANDERS
THE NURNBERG STOVE
THE AMBITIOUS ROSE TREE
LAMPBLACK
BANDITA
THE CHILD OF URBINO
FINDELKIND
A RAINY JUNE
DON GESUALDO
THE SILVER CHRIST
A LEMON-TREE
A HOUSE-PARTY
STREET DUST
LETTA
A LITTLE THIEF
THE FIG TREE
GERRY’S GARDEN
List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order
A DOG OF FLANDERS
A DOUBLED-DOWN LEAF IN A MAN’S LIFE.
A HOUSE-PARTY
A LEAF IN THE STORM
A LEMON-TREE
A LINE IN THE “DAILY.”
A LITTLE THIEF
A RAINY JUNE
A STUDY À LA LOUIS QUATORZE: PENDANT TO A PORTRAIT BY MIGNARD.
A STUDY A LA LOUIS QUINZE;
BANDITA
BEATRICE BOVILLE.
CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE
COACHES AND COUSINSHIP.
DEADLY DASH.
DON GESUALDO
FINDELKIND
GERRY’S GARDEN
HOLLY WREATHS AND ROSE CHAINS.
LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES:
LAMPBLACK
LETTA
LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS;
MIDNIGHT.
NOT AT ALL A PROPER PERSON.
OUR COUNTRY QUARTERS.
OUR MALTESE PEERAGE.
OUR WAGER.
PENDANT TO A PASTEL BY LA TOUR.
REDEEMED.
SILVER CHIMES AND GOLDEN FETTERS.
SIR GALAHAD’S RAID.
SLANDER AND SILLERY.
STREET DUST
THE AMBITIOUS ROSE TREE
THE BEAUTY OF VICQ D’AZYR;
THE CHILD OF URBINO
THE FIG TREE
THE GENERAL’S MATCH-MAKING
THE NURNBERG STOVE
THE SILVER CHRIST
THE STORY OF A BROIDERED SHIELD.
THE STORY OF A CRAYON-HEAD;
THE WORRIES OF A CHAPERONE.
The Non-Fiction
Scandicci, a commune of Florence in Tuscany, four miles southwest of Florence — in 1871 Ouida moved to Italy, where she pursued her work as a novelist. At first she rented an apartment at the Palazzo Vagnonville. Later she removed to the Villa Farinola at Scandicci, where she lived in great style, entertained largely, collected objets d’art, dressed expensively but not tastefully, drove good horses, and kept many dogs.
The New Priesthood: A Protest Against Vivisection
THE FUTURE OF VIVISECTION.
THE last few years, and in especial the last few months, hare been conspicuous for the advance of the doctrines of Vivisection from a science limited to specialists into a theme of discussion for the general public. The literature of the day teems with the arguments of its experts and of its opponents; and if, on the one hand, the public is needlessly pained by the introduction of the cruel histories amidst its lighter reading, there is hope, on the other hand, that it may thereby be brought to comprehend something of the gigantic system of animal sacrifice which, under the various titles of “experiment,” “demonstration,” and “observation,” takes place in all the cities and most of the towns of Europe every day of the year. Hitherto it is quite certain that the public in general in every nation (excepting perhaps the German) has known as little of the matter as it knows of chemistry or of navigation; having everywhere a vague impression that the practice is confined to two or three of its leading men of science. Thus far it knows; but of the number and continuity of the animal tortures, of the perpetual repetition of the same experiment for the sake of students, of the millions of creatures operated on in mere curiosity or simply in the course of demonstration to pupils of well-known facts in living organisms (such as the severing of the hoof from the limb of the living horse, — agonising; quite useless, but perpetually done, as at Alfort); of all these sections, so to speak, of that system of animal torment which, for want of a clearer scientific name, is called by the name of Vivisection, the general public most certainly has no conception. The leading physiologists claim much such a blind trust in their wisdom from the rest of humanity as did the augurs of old, and the people, for the most part, are obedient and content, out of indifference rather than out of respect, to leave them unobserved in their blood-stained temples. The majority of the public is ignorant, indolent, and superstitious; in our time, the superstitious awe of science has succeeded to the superstitious awe of religion, and science profits by the credulity of the multitude as religions did before it The minority, which arc more intelligent and more independent, are none the less indolent, and shrink, with a perhaps pardonable egotism, from all painful and repulsive facts. An aversion to hear of ills they cannot remedy makes the majority of people eager to believe that those ills do not exist. To the revelations made of the tortures of laboratories this majority is wilfully blind, and what they avoid knowing most people have a vague though unacknowledged idea will not happen. It is this reluctance to suffer pain from hearing of it which, yet more than either indifference or collusion, has enabled the practice to attain the continually increasing proportions that it has done in this century. Unfortunately also, the vast and also ever-increasing body of persons who are opposed to any form of religion has conceived that in encouraging vivisection it encourages free thought, because the most cruel vivisector in Europe was elevated for a few weeks into the position of a Minister of the French Republic Hence we have many causes at work to produce apathy about, or encouragement of, the torture of living animals, and induce the great bulk of the people to remain in total ignorance of the system of animal sacrifice which prevails, as I have said, throughout all the cities and most of the towns of Europe. The extreme difficulty lies in persuading readers to realise in any accurate degree the vast extent of the misery which this ignorance involves and sanctions.
