PATCHWORK PIECES

Otago Witness, Issue 3994, 30 September 1930, Page 5

PATCHWORK PIECES

By

Eileen Service.

J Special fob the Otago Witness.)

THE CHILD POET.

They made a solemn quartet as they marched to their table. The man and woman leading, and bringing up the realwere the gravest of the four, their faces lifted in that look of reverence whicli bespeaks the presence of greatness. The greybeard and the child had a different appearance. You might almost have said that they were influenced by their companions, and that, had those two not been so obviously impressed, they themselves would have acted differently. The waitress pulled four chairs from a table. “ Thank you,” breathed the woman. The child and the greybeard sat on pne side, the man and -the woman on the pther. The child surveyed the brownroom. “ See, Guardie,” she said. “ Daffodils pn green cloths!” “You poet!” exclaimed the ■woman. i‘ Of course, you would notice that!” The child started. A flush crept over her cheeks. “ This is a great moment,” declared the man. “To be lunching with a poet r —and one as famed as you! What will you eat? An ordinary meal? I suppose you prefer ambrosia.” He gave an order to the waitress. “ She's very fond of stew,” the grey-' beard ventured. The woman shuddered. “Impossible! Don’t speak of it!” The man had a pale dissipated face, with thick lips and heavy eyelids. He leaned there, resting his elbow’s on the table, and concentrated his attention on the child. The woman w-as thin, dark, pnd sallow, with that air of highlystrung expectancy common to one who jives on her nerves. Her body was tense pgainst the high-backed chair. Her mouth w’as lined. “A great moment,” the man repeated, ‘‘ one we’ve been w’aiting for for months. And you’re to realise how important we feel about it. We are tremendously honoured at being with you, you know.” When he spoke his lids drooped so that his eyes grew smaller. They seemed to leer at her. “ I should think so,” the woman ggreed. “ It’s a unique honour. To think of our being here with you—of all people—and to be so unconcerned about it! It’s extraordinary, really it is.” She took a deep breath. “ Now you must tell us about yourself. We are dying to know! ” The child looked at them uncomfortably. “ But there’s nothing to tell,” she said. “ Nothing to tell ? ” The woman laughed. “Don’t be shy,” the man entreated. f ‘We know better than that!” The greybeard y said nothing. He pat back, looking at the roof and helping neither in one way nor another. ■ - “ I’ve thought about you a lot since your book came out,” the woman said. She bent forward, her ■ eyes burning in her taut face. “ You’ve interested me greatly from a psychological point of view. I’ve wondered about you, and tried to see if I could analyse you.” “ And can you ? ” asked the child. She spoke politely. It w’as a relief not to have to talk, for really there was nothing to say. “ I can and I can’t. - You’re somewhat of a problem. But I’ve formed my own ideas, and I’m sure they’re correct.” The woman smiled, an arch, dazzling smile. “Yes, I’m sure they are!” “At last,” said the greybeard. The waitress had appeared and was setting down plates of fish. He bent towards the child and patted her hand. “Your favourite sauce, girl. What do you think of that!” She cooed, a little bubbling coo. “So it is!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that goodie! ” She began to eat, her face radiant. The woman stared at her. “ I suppose you’ve read a great deal,' 5 the man said. “ Poetry, now. Of course, you know all the poets. But you don’t like them all, do you? Is Wordsworth your favourite?” He turned to the greybeard. “ ‘ Heaven lies about us in our infancy.’ Wordsworth’s made for her, of course. He must be her favourite.”

“Is he ? ” the greybeard asked. The child shook her head.

“ I haven’t any favourite,” she told him, “ and certainly not Wordsworth.” “ But there must be somebody,” the man persisted. “Who, now? One of the moderns?”

, She shook her head again. “ I don’t know who you mean.” There was a stiff silence. “ I don’t read poetry.” "Don’t read poetry ! ” The answer nonplussed the man. Taken aback and somewhat embarrassed, he bent to his plate.

“ Not all poets read poetry,” the woman murmured. “It doesn’t follow at all. Poetry springs from the soul. It can be quite spontaneous.” Again her eyes burned as she looked at the child. She lowered her voice.

“ Now you, you fairy thing, you don’t need to read what others have written when you know it all yourself ? Haven’t I imagined you at your work ! I can just see you ! You write in the morning, don’t you, when you wake up and see the sun coming in through your little window. The hours of night have washed your soul, and the sun brings inspiration. Am I right ? I’ve

thought of it so often. All my inspirations come in the morning, too.” The child had finished her fish, and was watching the approach of the ■waitress across the room. She shivered as if something unpleasant were annoying her. The woman’s eyes bored her. “ No,” she said, “ I write in the night - . I’m always too sleepy in the mornings. Aren’t I, Guardie ? ” And then, before the greybeard could answer, “ Oh, here’s the menu again.” She went through it, nodding and murmuring her delight. The others waited.

“ Stew ! ” she said defiantly, and sat back, folding her hands. She pretended not to know that she had committed a sacrilege, and watched the others select their dish. A feeling of anger was struggling in her heart. Who were these people, and why did she have to tolerate them ? ... It was such a wonderful day ! Outside the sun was dancing on the pavement, and girls were happy under the warm shadows of their hats. It was lovely in here, too, with the daffodils and the green cloths. But these people ■were spoiling it questioning and probing her. They had formed little patterns, and were trying to make her fit them, and then were upset because she would not. She noticed the superior air of the woman. Again, the flame of anger burned her.

She knew what they were thinking—that she was silly and commonplace, and that it had been a waste of time to imagine she was going to prove a diversion. She had neither talked nor charmed them. All their enthusiasm at lunching with a poet had been ■wasted. The man had thought he could tell what poets she read ! The woman had decided how her poems were written ! Oh, the horridness of them, the utter horridness ! If only she could be rude to them !

“ Guardie,” she whispered, turning to him suddenly, then stopped. The waitress was back with their orders.

<c You must do what we ask you, because it is so. important,” the woman was saying. Since the coming of the stew she had devoted herself to the man, and only now, at the end of the meal, addressed the child. “ We’ve brought a copy of your poems with us, and we want you to autograph it. So wonderful to have an author’s copy ! We shall love it.”

She beamed, and the man drew forth a booklet from his pocket. “ Rather,” he agreed. “ And such a souvenir of to-day.” The child looked at it lying on the table, that slim, cream-covered book of verse on which her fame hung. She picked it up and turned its pages. Familiar words and lines glanced back from the printed sheets. The woman was speaking, but she did not heed her, neither did the curious stare of the man pierce her calm. She was back in those coloured moments when her poems had been born, back where no one could follow' her.

Then she was conscious of the greybeard handing her his pen. His eyes were pleading with her. “ Be good, girl,” they said. She took the pen and looked at the pair opposite. “ Must I ? ” she asked.

They seemed to shout at her. Must she ? Of course, she must. And at once ! She had disappointed them enough as it was to-day At least let her do one thing in keeping with an orthodox poet. Slowly she drew the book towards her and signed her name. But. beneath it she wrote two words—“By Request.”