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    The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice From "The New Decameron", Volume III.
    The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice From "The New Decameron", Volume III.
    The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice From "The New Decameron", Volume III.
    Ebook63 pages50 minutes

    The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice From "The New Decameron", Volume III.

    By V. (Victoria) Sackville-West

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice From "The New Decameron", Volume III.

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      Book preview

      The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice From "The New Decameron", Volume III. - V. (Victoria) Sackville-West

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea

      Justice, by V. Sackville West

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: The Tale Of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice

             From The New Decameron, Volume III.

      Author: V. Sackville West

      Release Date: August 31, 2007 [EBook #22476]

      Last Updated: February 7, 2013

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF MR. PETER BROWN ***

      Produced by David Widger

      THE TALE OF MR. PETER BROWN

      CHELSEA JUSTICE

      From The New Decameron—Volume III.

      By V. Sackville West

      THE first thing which attracted my attention to the man was the shock of white hair above the lean young face. But for this, I should not have looked twice at him: long, spare, and stooping, a shabby figure, he crouched over a cup of coffee in a corner of the dingy restaurant, at fretful enmity with the world; typical, I should have said, of the furtive London nondescript. But that white hair startled me; it gleamed out, unnaturally cleanly in those not overclean surroundings, and although I had propped my book up against the water-bottle at my own table, where I sat over my solitary dinner, I found my eyes straying from the printed page to the human face which gave the promise of greater interest. Before very long he became conscious of my glances, and returned them when he thought I was not observing him. Inevitably, however, the moment came when our eyes met, We both looked away as though taken in fault, but when, having finished his coffee and laid out the coppers in payment on his table, he rose to make his way out between the tables, he let his gaze dwell on me as he passed; let it dwell on me quite perceptibly, quite definitely, with an air of curious speculation, a hesitation, almost an appeal, and I thought he was about to speak, but instead of that he crushed his hat, an old black wideawake, down over his strange white hair, and hurrying resolutely on towards the swing-doors of the restaurant, he passed out and was lost in the London night.

      I was uncomfortably haunted, after that evening, by a sense of guilt. I was quite certain, with unjustifiable certainty born of instinct, that the man had wanted to speak to me, and that the smallest response on my part would have encouraged him to do so. Why hadn't I given the response? A smile would have sufficed; a smile wasn't much to demand by one human being of another. I thought it very pitiable that the conventions of our social system should persuade one to withhold so small a thing from a fellow-creature who, perhaps, stood in need of it. That smile, which I might have given, but had withheld, became for me a sort of symbol. I grew superstitious about it; built up around it all kinds of extravagant ideas; pictured to myself the splash of a body into the river; and then, recovering my sense of proportion, told myself that one really couldn't go about London smiling at people. Yet I didn't get the man's face out of my head. It was not only the white hair that had made an impression on my mind, but the unhappy eyes, the timidly beseeching look. The man was lonely, I was quite sure of that; utterly lonely. And I had refused a smile.

      I don't know whether to say with more pride than shame, or more shame than pride, that I went back to the restaurant a week later. I had been kept late at my work, and there were few diners; but he was there, sitting at the same table, hunched up as before over a cup of coffee. Did the man live on coffee? He was thin enough, in all conscience, rather like a long, sallow bird, with a snowy crest. And he had no occupation, no book to read; nothing better to do than to bend his long curves over the

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