THE GOBBLER

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1847, 31 July 1907, Page 8

THE GOBBLER

If anyone cares to know lioav I became acquainted with the cobbler, I do not mind admitting that it Avas through the two girls. When I first came to live in the fifth house in the square, the tivo girls occupied rooms on the ground floor, whence (the house being jerrybuilt and the Avails thin) ripples 'of laughter Avere occasionally wafted up to the first floor back. The laughter sounded inviting, friendly, and, though not uproarious cheerful in the extreme; as if, in fact, the tAvo girls, buffets or ao buffets from the Avorld, had concluded to take it as it was, and make the best of it. To me, someAvhat lonely I confess, the sence of companionship Avas u welcome one, and, surreptitious inspection having convinced me that they came in comfortably at the Avaist, and Avere blessed Avith nice hair and neat boots, I Avas only too glad, meeting them on the stairs one day, to find a tentative bow answered by two beaming smiles. It Avas certainly through the tAvo girls that I became acquainted with the cobbler. Walking up the garden-path one day I observed the younger (and prettier) of them standing at the door. The afternoon sun Ava.s trying its best to make gold of her broAvn hair. That, however, is merely by the Avay. The cobbler Avas in it (in the Avay, I mean), and, Avhat is more, he made not the slightest attempt to get out of it. So that it Avas neither inquisitiveness nor a desire for informaion, Avhich made me a listener to the conversation, but dire necessity.

He Avas a tallish man with a ragged beard, and there Avas a rapt expression in his eyes Avhich attracted my attention at once. In his hand he held a pair of shoes, and I noticed that they were small shoes and had dainty heels.

This is a digression, hcAvever, for ill® cobbler Avas not talking about the shoes, though he looked as if he Avere. and, business being business, doubtless should have been. “And my voice could be distinctly heard aboA’e all the other Aoices,” I heard him say, “and it floated up into ih" dome, and it echoed in the root softer, and softer, and softer. Then it died aAvay.’ I caught his eye; there Avas not the slightest embarrassment in his manner. He looked at me gravely for a minute; '• n Ur - tc-a-k liis departure, and I Avas left with the younger (and prettier) of in • tAVo gi Is. “I'm afraid I have interrupted an interesting conversation.” x She smiled, and informed me that, it Avas precisely Avhat I had done. “He is a most interesting man,” she added. “He appears to be a jewel of great price,” r responded; “but Avhat is the mystery of his voice ?” “His voice?” “Yes; it grows softer, and softer, and echoes in domes, and does other funny things.” “Ah, you heard,” she said, half reproachfully; then she explained the cobbler to me. It appeared that the cobbler Avas a cobbler from necessity, and a musician by instinct. When the necessity pressed, he made or mended boots; Avhen it did not, lie went to St. Paul's and sang. His taste Avas exclusive; none but church music appealed to him, and St. Paul's was his church of churches. Perhaps it Avas that its dome took kindlv to the praetiee of echoing; perhaps, that long acquaintance Avith it had endeared the structure to him; hut certain it is. that there, Avhenever a chance offered, he Avent; and there, on liis own proud admission, he sang prodigiously. Sundays were naturally his field-days. During the Aveek, his powers had to some extent-to be repressed, and his yearnings only partially satisfied, hut on Sundays he found an ample and generous recompense. The earliest service found him ready, and evensong never ended too late for him. The younger of the two girls waxed enthusiastic about the cobbler. “He is so truly artistic,'' she said, “so different from ordinary. Fancy his Avorking hard day after day at such coarse work as mending boots, Avhile, within his soul, there is always this deep longing for beauty and peace and music!” I am ashamed to say I could not repress a smile. She blushed. “I’m afraid it seems stupid/' she said. “On the contrary, it is most interesting,” I protested. “I should like to meet him.” “Well, he’s often here/' elie said, “ana ” “I'm often here/' I rejoined. Some few days afteiwards there came a modest tap at the door of my room, and, opening it, I saAV the younger of the tAvo girls. “I am afraid you avill think it very silly,” she said, ‘‘but the cobbler is here, and as you- seemed so interested in him the other day, 1 thought you might like to see fi ir^ (l^ o ' v * T I expressed my gratitude. Lut a hope I shan't put him off his conversation,” I added. , h , ~ “You are not so bad as all that, she admitted graciously, so ay© A\ent downstairs together. „ , “Good afternoon, Hr Boles, she said brightly. “You've done the shoes? “Ind how' is St. Paul’s getting on? This gentleman takes a great interest m The cobbler seemed relieved. Perhaps he had thought that in my presence St Paul’s might be ruled inadmissible. 1 was there yesterday, being Sunday, Miss,” he replied gravely. How lovely are the messengers. was the anthem.

It was grand. My voice kind -of ruled the choir, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always ruling. The Dean, preached in the morning—a beautiful sermon, Miss. When he went into the pulpit, he bowed to me as though to say, ‘Thank you, Mr Boles.’” “That was very nice of him,” said my companion. “It was, Miss, very nice; and in the afternoon two ladies—one oldish and one quite young—came in at the north door. They walked right up, and looked round, as though to say, ‘ Where is he ?’ Of course I knew what they wanted. The Dean had mentioned my singing to his wife and daughter, and here they were, come to hear me. So 1 got up and bowed, and said. ‘The next chairs are vacant, ladies, and I am Mr Boles/ " The cobbler paused. “And what happened?” I asked. “Well, they sat there and listened,’’ he continued slowly. “ ‘Rock of Ages’ was th-e hymn—it’s a good hymn, and I let myself go. I was at my best, and I knew it. One of the tenors in the choir looked at me as though to say, ‘Good gracious, that such a man should sing without a surplice V and as my voice rolled and levcrbeiated, the ladies shut their eyes, so as not to lose a sound.” “1 -suppose you couldn’t give us a verse now,” I said. “I never sing out of church, Sir,” replied the cobbler gravp.lv. After that I used to look out for him; partly because I found him interesting, and partly because the younger the two girls found' him interesting. So it came about that the cobbler repaiied many boots that did not need repairing, and poured much talk into sympathetic ears. Of how he startled the bass one Easter Sunday; of how the Archbishop came up from Lambeth to hear him; of ho,, the Dean made it a practice to look for him and smile at him; of how the Priest-Vicar said, “The man has a voice like an organ”; of hoy, on one melancholy occasion, the mystic bond of artistic afiinity which existed 'between him and the principal tenor broke down, and discord resulted in the "Amen”—of these and many other moving incidents we heard the .story. The cobbler fell into a regular habit of calling on Monday and relating liis experiences of the previous day, after which lie would gravely hand each of us a copy of the Sunday liymn-sheet and depart. One day he made a sensation by informing ms that lie was going away. “Going away?” said the younger of the two girls. “Oil, I am sorry!” “Leaving St. Paul’s?” I asked reproachfully. “Yes, Sir, it’s practically settled. I saw in the paper last week that they want a first-class tenor at one of the Oxford colleges. Yesterday I came out strong in the Psalms, 1 saw the Dean whisper to ono of the minor Canons, and I expect to receive a call this week. I shall be ready, Miss.” “I suppose we must congratulate you, Mr Boles.” “Thank you, Miss. Of course, I shall be sorry to leave St. Paul’s; I doubt if any other church would suit my voice so well But I’ll see to the shoes, Miss.” But tho Oxford appointment seemed to liang fire. Week after week brought the cobbler regularly to our door, and every week some obstacle had arisen. There was strenuous competition between three of the colleges as to which should acquire him. The choir of the fortunate college which triumphed had, eaten up with jealousy, petitioned the authorities against his advent. St. Anne’s, Soho, had in turn put in their claim for his services, only to bo brought into sharp conflict with St. Margaret’s. Westminster. The Dean and Chapter of the Abbey itself had abandoned a promising cutting-out expedition on the conviction that his voice was too imperious. In course of time the cobbler's purple ecstasy subsided into a chastened, but proud, resignation. “I am afraid they never will settle it/' he said. “It locks bad,” I admitted. “The fact is, Sir, the Dean as good as said to me yesterday that, at all cost —-at all cost —I must stay at St. Paul’s.” It was about this time that the younger of the two girls married, and I fell upon gloomy days. An atmosphere surrounded the younger, -of the two- girls which I missed greatly, when she had gone. I v think the cobbler must have noticed my gloom; at any rate, he noticed her absence. “Lady gone away, tSrtr” he asked. “Married,” I answered, rather shortly. “Dear, dear! Married, indeed, Sir! And I thought—ah, well! We all have our disappointments, Sir.” An extraodinary change came over bis f-ace. Por a moment I thought he was stricken with sudden illness; I was alarmed, I confess, and lie must have noticed my perturbation. “My face seems, to express more than most, Sir,” lie said will satisfaction; “I seem somehow to throw more into it. There was a funeral passing me in the High street the other day, and I put on that same sympathetic look that you have justseen. Sir. The widow—-it was a husband as was dead—put her head out of the carriage as though to say, ‘Thank you, Mr Boles.’ My face somehow seems to express more than most. I’ll leave the extra liymn-sheet, Sir. . No doubt the lady would like to see it, and you can send it on.” I sent it on, and from that time the cobbler and I became great friends. I nsed to visit liis shop, and acquired quite an affection for. a rough bench which stood therein and from which I could watch the play of liis busy hands and the expression of his grey old face He -was always genial, this cobbler, and whether the condescension of the Dean or the opposition of an upstart young bootmaker over the way -armed the topic of our conversation, I never heard him say an unkind thing. One day the whim seized me to go to to St. Paul’s and hear him sing. I had often wondered what maimer of voice he really possessed, and I made up my

mind to find out. Underneath the dome, and near the chancel, I found him, and, seeing a vacant chair behind him, slipped into it unobserved. When the Psalms began, his face lit up; bis body swayed from side to side with the lise and fall of the music; with an impressive forefinger lie beat out the time. But I heard no voice. I leaned forward, and strained my ears. No, not a sound, not a whisper! The mighty voice of the cobbler existed only in his imagination. Meanwhile—not that it is a matter. of any consequence —I console myself with the elder of the two girls—Charles W. Westron, in “Macmillan’s Magazine.”