Such Is Life Joseph Furphy (ebook reader screen .TXT) 📖

consecutive husbands in heaven⁠—so potently has her woman-soul proved its capacity for leading people upward and on. Methinks I perceive a new and sinister meaning in the Shakespearean love-song:⁠—

Come away, come away, death;
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.

Nicely put, no doubt; but the importance of a departure depends very much on the⁠—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

No appearance, your worship. Call for Enobarbus; he will not hear thee, or, from Caesar’s camp, say “I am none of thine.”⁠—On the value of the departed. For instance, when a man of property departs, he leaves his possessions behind⁠—a fact noticed by many poets⁠—and the man himself is replaced without cost. When a well-salaried official departs⁠—such as a Royal Falconer, or a Master of the Buckhounds, or an Assistant-Sub-Inspector he perforce leaves his billet behind; and we wish him bon voyage to whichever port he may be bound. But when a philosopher departs in this untimely fashion, he leaves nothing⁠—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

And echo answers, “Ha-a-a-a-ay!” Authority melts from you, apparently.⁠—Leaves nothing but a few rudimentary theories, of no use to anyone except the owner, inasmuch as no one else can develop them properly; just a few evanescent footprints on the sands of Time, which would require only a certain combination of age and facilities for cohesion to mature into mammoth-tracks on the sandstone of Progress. All on the debit side of Civilisation’s ledger, you observe. Consequently, he doesn’t long to leave these fading scenes, that glide so quickly by. And when the poet holds it truth that men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things, he is simply talking when he ought to be sleeping it off in seclusion. I understand how a man may rise on the stepping-stone of his defunct superior officer to higher things; but his dead self⁠—it won’t do, Alfred; it won’t do. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat.⁠—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

Who is he whose grief bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow makes the very lignum quiver in sympathy? It may not be amiss to look round and see.

So I turned my head, and saw, on the opposite side of the river, about eighty yards away, a man on a grey horse. I rose, and advanced toward the bank.

“Why, Mosey,” said I, “is that you? How does your honour for this many a day? Where are you camped?”

“Across here. Tell Warrigal Alf his carrion’s on the road for Yoongoolee yards, horse an’ all; an’ from there they’ll go to Booligal pound if he ain’t smart. I met them just now.”

“Where shall I find Alf?”

“Ain’t his wagon bitin’ you⁠—there in the clear? You ain’t a bad hand at sleepin’⁠—no, I’m beggared if you are. I bin bellerin’ at you for two hours, dash near.”

“Who has got the bullocks, Mosey?”

“Ole Sollicker.”

“Couldn’t you get them from him yourself?”

“I didn’t try. I was glad to see them goin’; on’y I begun to think after, thinks I, it’s a pity o’ the poor misforchunate carrion walkin’ all that way, free gracious for nothin’; an’ p’r’aps a trip to Booligal pound on top of it; an’ them none too fat. But I’m glad for Alf. I hate that beggar. I wouldn’t len’ him my knife to cut up a pipe o’ tobacker, not if his tongue was stickin’ out as long as yer arm. I wasn’t goin’ to demean myself to tell him about his carrion, nyther; on’y I knowed your horses when I seen them; an’ by-’n’-by I spotted you where you was layin’ down, sleepin’ fit to break yer neck; an’ I bin hollerin’ at you till I’m black in the face. I begun to think you was drunk, or dead, or somethin’⁠—bust you.” And with this address, which I give in bowdlerised form, the young fellow turned his horse, and disappeared through a belt of lignum.

I walked across to the bullock-wagon. The camp had a strangely desolate and deserted appearance. Three yokes lay around, with the bows and keys scattered about; and there was no sign of a campfire. Under the wagon lay a saddle and bridle, and beside them the swollen and distorted body of Alf’s black cattle-dog⁠—probably the only thing on earth that had loved the gloomy misanthrope. I lifted the edge of the hot, greasy tarpaulin, and looked on the flooring of the wagon, partly covered with heavy coils of wool-rope, and the spare yokes and chains.

“A drink of water, for God’s sake!” said a scarcely intelligible whisper, from the suffocating gloom of the almost airtight tent.

I threw the tarpaulin back off the end of the wagon, and ran to the river for a billy of water. Then, vaulting on the platform, I saw Alf lying on his blankets, apparently helpless, and breathing heavily, his face drawn and haggard with pain. I raised his head, and held the billy to his lips; but, being in too great a hurry, I let his head slip off my hand, and most of the water spilled over his throat and chest. He shrank and shivered as the cool deluge seemed to fizz on his burning skin, but drank what was left, to the last drop.

“Now turn me over on the other side, or I’ll go mad,” he whispered.

He shuddered and groaned as I touched him, but, with one hand under his shoulders, and the other under his bent and rigid knees, I slowly turned him on the other side.

“Wouldn’t you like to lie on your back for a change?” I asked.

“No, no,” he whispered excitedly; “my heels might slip, and straighten my knees. Another drink of water, please.”

I brought a second billy of water, but he turned from it with disgust.

“If you could make a sort of an effort, Alf,” I suggested.

He treated me to a half-angry, half-reproachful look, and turned away his face. I rose to my feet, and rolled back the tarpaulin halfway along the jigger, for