A West-Country epic
The Cricks lived at Toad-Water; and in the same lonely upland spot Fate had pitched the home of the Saunderses, and for miles around these two dwellings there was never a neighbour or a chimney or even a burying-ground to bring a sense of cheerful communion or social intercourse. Nothing but fields and spinneys and barns, lanes and waste-lands. Such was Toad-Water; and, even so, Toad-Water had its history.
Thrust away in the benighted hinterland of a scattered market
district, it might have been supposed that these two detached items
of the Great Human Family would have leaned towards one another in a
fellowship begotten of kindred circumstances and a common isolation
from the outer world. And perhaps it had been so once, but the way
of things had brought it otherwise. Indeed, otherwise. Fate, which
had linked the two families in such unavoidable association of
habitat, had ordained that the Crick household should nourish and
maintain among its earthly possessions sundry head of domestic
fowls, while to the Saunderses was given a disposition towards the
cultivation of garden crops. Herein lay the material, ready to
hand, for the coming of feud and ill-blood. For the grudge between
the man of herbs and the man of live stock is no new thing; you will
find traces of it in the fourth chapter of Genesis. And one sunny
afternoon in late spring-time the feud came--came, as such things
mostly do come, with seeming aimlessness and triviality. One of the
Crick hens, in obedience to the nomadic instincts of her kind,
wearied of her legitimate scatching-ground, and flew over the low
wall that divided the holdings of the neighbours. And there, on the
yonder side, with a hurried consciousness that her time and
opportunities might be limited, the misguided bird scratched and
scraped and beaked and delved in the soft yielding bed that had been
prepared for the solace and well-being of a colony of seedling
onions. Little showers of earth-mould and root-fibres went spraying
before the hen and behind her, and every minute the area of her
operations widened. The onions suffered considerably. Mrs.
Saunders, sauntering at this luckless moment down the garden path,
in order to fill her soul with reproaches at the iniquity of the
weeds, which grew faster than she or her good man cared to remove
them, stopped in mute discomfiture before the presence of a more
magnificent grievance. And then, in the hour of her calamity, she
turned instinctively to the Great Mother, and gathered in her
capacious hands large clods of the hard brown soil that lay at her
feet. With a terrible sincerity of purpose, though with a
contemptible inadequacy of aim, she rained her earth bolts at the
marauder, and the bursting pellets called forth a flood of cackling
protest and panic from the hastily departing fowl. Calmness under
misfortune is not an attribute of either hen-folk or womenkind, and
while Mrs. Saunders declaimed over her onion bed such portions of
the slang dictionary as are permitted by the Nonconformist
conscience to be said or sung, the Vasco da Gama fowl was waking the
echoes of Toad-Water with crescendo bursts of throat music which
compelled attention to her griefs. Mrs. Crick had a long family,
and was therefore licensed, in the eyes of her world, to have a
short temper, and when some of her ubiquitous offspring had informed
her, with the authority of eye-witnesses, that her neighbour had so
far forgotten herself as to heave stones at her hen--her best hen,
the best layer in the countryside--her thoughts clothed themselves
in language "unbecoming to a Christian woman"--so at least said Mrs.
Saunders, to whom most of the language was applied. Nor was she, on
her part, surprised at Mrs. Crick's conduct in letting her hens
stray into other body's gardens, and then abusing of them, seeing as
how she remembered things against Mrs. Crick--and the latter
simultaneously had recollections of lurking episodes in the past of
Susan Saunders that were nothing to her credit. "Fond memory, when
all things fade we fly to thee," and in the paling light of an April
afternoon the two women confronted each other from their respective
sides of the party wall, recalling with shuddering breath the blots
and blemishes of their neighbour's family record. There was that
aunt of Mrs. Crick's who had died a pauper in Exeter workhouse--
every one knew that Mrs. Saunders' uncle on her mother's side drank
himself to death--then there was that Bristol cousin of Mrs.
Crick's! From the shrill triumph with which his name was dragged
in, his crime must have been pilfering from a cathedral at least,
but as both remembrancers were speaking at once it was difficult to
distinguish his infamy from the scandal which beclouded the memory
of Mrs. Saunders' brother's wife's mother--who may have been a
regicide, and was certainly not a nice person as Mrs. Crick painted
her. And then, with an air of accumulating and irresistible
conviction, each belligerent informed the other that she was no
lady--after which they withdrew in a great silence, feeling that
nothing further remained to be said. The chaffinches clinked in the
apple trees and the bees droned round the berberis bushes, and the
waning sunlight slanted pleasantly across the garden plots, but
between the neighbour households had sprung up a barrier of hate,
permeating and permanent.
The male heads of the families were necessarily drawn into the
quarrel, and the children on either side were forbidden to have
anything to do with the unhallowed offspring of the other party. As
they had to travel a good three miles along the same road to school
every day, this was awkward, but such things have to be. Thus all
communication between the households was sundered. Except the cats.
Much as Mrs. Saunders might deplore it, rumour persistently pointed
to the Crick he-cat as the presumable father of sundry kittens of
which the Saunders she-cat was indisputably the mother. Mrs.
Saunders drowned the kittens, but the disgrace remained.
Summer succeeded spring, and winter summer, but the feud outlasted
the waning seasons. Once, indeed, it seemed as though the healing
influences of religion might restore to Toad-Water its erstwhile
peace; the hostile families found themselves side by side in the
soul-kindling atmosphere of a Revival Tea, where hymns were blended
with a beverage that came of tea-leaves and hot water and took after
the latter parent, and where ghostly counsel was tempered by
garnishings of solidly fashioned buns--and here, wrought up by the
environment of festive piety, Mrs. Saunders so far unbent as to
remark guardedly to Mrs. Crick that the evening had been a fine one.
Mrs. Crick, under the influence of her ninth cup of tea and her
fourth hymn, ventured on the hope that it might continue fine, but a
maladroit allusion on the part of the Saunders good man to the
backwardness of garden crops brought the Feud stalking forth from
its corner with all its old bitterness. Mrs. Saunders joined
heartily in the singing of the final hymn, which told of peace and
joy and archangels and golden glories; but her thoughts were
dwelling on the pauper aunt of Exeter.
Years have rolled away, and some of the actors in this wayside drama
have passed into the Unknown; other onions have arisen, have
flourished, have gone their way, and the offending hen has long
since expiated her misdeeds and lain with trussed feet and a look of
ineffable peace under the arched roof of Barnstaple market.
But the Blood-feud of Toad-Water survives to this day.
_________
-THE END-
[H.H. Munro] Saki's short story: The Blood-Feud Of Toad-Water
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