The Short Stories of W. L. George: 'She did not argue with him. The time to abdicate had come''

By W. L George

Walter Lionel George was born to British parents on 20th March 1882 in Paris, France.

It was not until he was a young man of 20 that he learned English. In 1905 he moved to London to work in an office but soon found himself working as a journalist, as a foreign correspondent, for various London newspapers.

By 1911, with the publication of his first novel ‘A Bed of Roses’, which portrayed the fall of a penniless young woman into prostitution, his efforts were rewarded and he turned to literature as a full time career.

His writings now sold well. He added short stories to his offerings as well as literary essays and several tracts that discussed left-wing themes. Others thought his subject matter to be difficult and poorly chosen and his political views gained him little credit amongst his peers although such luminaries as George Orwell praised both subject matter and style.

His personal life was also turbulent. His three marriages left him widowed twice. In 1908 he married Helen Porter who died in 1914, Helen Agnes Moorhead followed in 1916 but she died in 1920. His last marriage was to Kathleen Geipel in 1921.

W. L George died on 30th January 1926.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miniature Masterpieces
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781787804616

Book preview

The Short Stories of W. L. George

Walter Lionel George was born to British parents on 20th March 1882 in Paris, France.

It was not until he was a young man of 20 that he learned English.  In 1905 he moved to London to work in an office but soon found himself working as a journalist, as a foreign correspondent, for various London newspapers.

By 1911, with the publication of his first novel ‘A Bed of Roses’, which portrayed the fall of a penniless young woman into prostitution, his efforts were rewarded and he turned to literature as a full time career.

His writings now sold well.  He added short stories to his offerings as well as literary essays and several tracts that discussed left-wing themes.  Others thought his subject matter to be difficult and poorly chosen and his political views gained him little credit amongst his peers although such luminaries as George Orwell praised both subject matter and style.

His personal life was also turbulent.  His three marriages left him widowed twice. In 1908 he married Helen Porter who died in 1914, Helen Agnes Moorhead followed in 1916 but she died in 1920. His last marriage was to Kathleen Geipel in 1921.

W. L George died on 30th January 1926. 

Index of Contents

FOUR STORIES

THE CORK 

THE HOUSE

THRIFT 

KNIGHT GASTON

TWENTY SHORT DRAMAS

THE PATRIOT

A CLEAN BREAST 

THE PRIDE OF HIS PROFESSION 

A PROUD MOTHER

A LOVER OF VARIETY

FARVER

ON THE ALTAR OF HIS PRIDE 

THE GALLANT NINETY-NINTH

SACRIFICE

THE PRICE OF GOOD CHEER

AFTER THE END

REVENGE

THE HOME-COMING

THE MAKING OF A GENTLEMAN

THE VOW

THE LITTLE BROWN SLAVE 

ANGELIQUE

A RESPECTABLE WOMAN

HONOUR

THE CHEMIST'S DAUGHTER

THREE GROTESQUES

UNE AFFAIRE COMPLIQUEE

FATE AND HER DARLING 

THE SHIVALEER

W. L. GEORGE – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

FOUR STORIES

THE CORK

We shall have to do it, said the old man slowly. We shall have to do it after all, la mere.

The old woman stood by the side of the wide tiled hearth, her gnarled brown hands planted on her thin hips. Small, wizened, burned the colour of brick, she seemed, in spite of her seventy years, more vigorous than her old husband. She was slightly bent; her sparse white hair was drawn tightly back from her forehead. Under the veined skin the skull was indicated; she looked like a bird of prey. Now her dark, beady eyes rested upon him, and her thin lips, hardly redder than her chin, were pursed up in thought.

Why? she asked at length.

The old man did not reply in words. He shrugged his shoulders; his head slowly swayed from right to left and back again, like that of a very old cab-horse which can no longer kick when its master whips it. Mother Perguix understood very well the movement of this man, with whom she had lived half a century. Perguix was saying clearly, Look at me. Am I not seventy-four? Do you not see that my back is bent as a bow? That my hands are bound with the knots of gout? I can no longer work merrily in the fields, plough a straight furrow; and shudders run down my old back when I stagger under the weight of the fencing poles. Is it not time I had my rest?

She did not argue with him. The time to abdicate had come, so she accepted the idea of change, as she had all her life accepted storms, droughts, pests, diseases, all those evils nature sends the peasant. Seeing her old husband so feeble and broken, her heart ached; she tried to comfort him.

It had to come. It may not be so bad, for Jules is a good boy. Besides, many others have given up their land and lived happily. Euphrasie is a good girl.

The old man did not answer. He was not looking at her. He let his eyes travel past the oak dresser his great-grandfather had bought in Chartres, when the town was afire with excitement because Marie-Antoinette, the Austrian, had dropped her head into the basket of the guillotine; he considered the big bed in the alcove, the worn red eiderdown under which he had been born, under which he would die, the brass pots, the glittering kettle, the china of Sundays and festivals. Then he looked through the window at the winding white road which glowed in the sun as it rose up the hill of Aveneau. He could see the farrier's house, a horse about to be shod, and one of his own meadows in which browsed one of his cows.

The door opened and Euphrasie entered. Tall, raw-boned and dark, she had an air of joviality which might be brutality. Hands on hips, she looked at the old people as if she wondered whether it would be well to cajole them or better to bully them. She decided to be good-tempered.

Well, les vieux, what are you plotting, you two?

It was Mother Perguix answered after a pause.

He can't work so well now. She indicated the old man by a toss of her head. So he's been thinking of what Jules said. And . . .

And you'll give up the land? cried Euphrasie excitedly. Her black eyes glittered, her voice trembled with unguarded eagerness.

Maybe we will—maybe we will, said the old man sulkily. He looked at her with an air of suspicion. And maybe we won't. Maybe I'll talk to Jules when he comes in. And maybe we'll go before the notaire, and put it all on paper. And maybe we won't do anything at all.

He rose carefully from his seat and walked to the door, choosing places for his feet as if some were softer than others; and as he went he muttered again and again, Maybe we will and maybe we won't. Maybe we will . . .

Outside the door he found Henri, his great-grandson, aged five, gravely playing with a bucket of water. The little boy looked up at him and smiled, gleefully holding up a cork. Grand-pere, grand-pere! he cried, look, look at me: look at the funny game I'm playing.

Yes, Henri, said the old man, let me see.

The little boy plunged his arm into the bucket, wetting his sleeve up to the elbow, then released the cork. It always comes to the top, he whispered confidentially—always.

The old man turned away, murmuring, What silly games children play! and again began to gaze at his field, where browsed his cow.

The agreement was made very soon, for the notary had a common form for such transactions. When old Perguix and his grandson Jules appeared before him, very awkward in their stiff blue blouses, which shone in the sun where the starch was thickest, he merely asked, Annuity?

Cinq cents francs, M'sieu I'Notaire, said Jules. The young man threw out his chest. The mention of this vast sum made him feel so proud that he ceased to pick at the soft black hat he carried in his hairy hands; he was no longer embarrassed; and when he left with old Perguix, he magnanimously suited his stride to the shuffle of the bent figure. Was he not Jules Perguix, twenty-five, free of military duties and the quasi-owner of the old house, three meadows, seven cows, an orchard, and four acres of good arable land?

Jules Perguix walked slowly; but he walked a little in front of his grandfather.

The old man did not reply when Jules asked him to come into the house and seal the contract with a glass of brandy. He did not want to be invited into his own house. He shook his head and walked on, a hundred yards to the labourer's cottage, where his wife waited, almost settled in her new home. The furniture had already been put in its place; there was the dresser with the Sunday china; his armchair stood by the side of the hearth. He sank into it without a word, so bent, so broken that again his old wife's heart ached.

Courage, vieux! she said. Then, as he did not look up, she added, Tiens, here's some tobacco. Fill your pipe. Why, vieux, aren't you happy? You'll never have to work again.

She laid her hand upon his shoulder, shyly almost, as if her hands had forgotten that they could caress.

For caresses such as those had died so long ago.

And so they settled down to idleness uneasily, for they had had no practice in the art. When Perguix had dressed, read the Petit Journal, smoked a pipe upon the bench outside, his wife could join him, sit there too, for the dusting of their two rooms was soon over. There was not much cooking to do, and washing-day came but once a month. Most of the day they would sit on the bench, he smoking steadily, she knitting socks for little Henri. Then the dusk would come and the shadows grow longer on the Aveneau road. Then night. Then another day, and the end a little nearer. When Jules came punctually on the ninety-first day to pay the hundred and twenty-five francs, he rallied them as he regretfully piled upon the table the twenty-five pieces of silver.

Well, les vieux, happy doing nothing? They did not commit themselves. They seemed to have no will in the presence of this vigorous young man. They did not protest when, on the next occasion, the money was a fortnight late. It was paid, but, said Jules, times were very hard, the crop had been poor, there had been greenfly, and some fungus had got into the potatoes. In March no money came, and after a month had elapsed, Mother Perguix went to the house. Euphrasie reiterated her husband's complaints. They could not pay at once, and the string of her troubles was unwound, while her bold eyes avoided those of Mother Perguix. Euphrasie gave her seventy francs, but the remaining fifty-five were paid only when the next quarter was due. Then the whole of that quarter became overdue. The old people had had no meat for three weeks. The cider-cask was dry and the pipe empty.

Then Euphrasie came, half-fawning, half-truculent: You'd much better come and live with us. Fancy paying double rent. Why, we'd make you feel so happy! I'd make your clothes, la mere, and you'd be living just as we do, on our own land. Think how good it would be, to sit there and smoke, pere, and look at little Henri.

They came. They were too old to go to law, much as they loved the idea of a lawsuit. Soon Perguix was sitting by the hearth in the house, while his wife knitted opposite. But one day Euphrasie forgot to buy him the Petit Journal, and he did not feel strong enough to walk up the hill to the shop. Mother Perguix told Euphrasie to go and buy it. The woman bought it; but next day it was forgotten again. Then the paper was bought on Sundays only, but Jules took it away, and after reading it, slept with his head on it in the barn.

What? said Euphrasie one day. You've got no more tobacco? You smoke too much, vieux; it'll do you harm. You can't have any more this week.

The old man eked out from Saturday to Saturday the supply which formerly sufficed for four days. Mother Perguix no longer had on Sundays a penny for the poor, but merely a single sou. Further than that Jules and Euphrasie could not go, for there was Monsieur le Curé to reckon with.

One day, as she had to help Jules to clean out the pigsty, Euphrasie suggested that the old Mother should wash the floor. There was no demur, though nothing had been said about work when the old couple came to live with the young. Soon Mother Perguix not only washed the floor, but helped to clean vegetables, to cook; she killed rabbits, gave a hand on washing-day. Then Jules said to the old man, Why don't you come into the orchard, vieux? It would change your ideas.

Soon the old man was loading fallen apples into a wheelbarrow. It was not hard work, for the curve of his back made it easy to pick them up. When he returned from the orchard he found Henri outside. The child was seven now; he smiled at his great-grandfather, who returned the greeting; he felt he wanted to amuse the little boy.

What was that game with a cork you used to play? he asked.

Game? Oh, yes! cork in the bucket. Oh, I haven't played that for a long time!

Let's play it, said the old man.

The child fetched a cork, a bucket of water, and obediently plunged in his hand,

Hold it tight, said the old man.

I can't hold it for ever, grand-pere said Henri laughing. I'd get too tired; or I'd get cramp, and it'd get loose and rise.

True, said the old man. Still you can hold it for a little.

Yes, said the child, but it's got to come to the top some time.

Now Mother Perguix cooked the meals alone; she carried food to the pigs; she walked to the far meadow to milk the cows. Her old husband did not come home until sunset, for he did the menial work, bound sheaves and stacked wood, or carried materials when fences and roofs had to be mended. They did as they were told, dumbly, as if they could not question the right of orders. Once Mother Perguix protested when Jules told his grandfather to go out at night and padlock the barn door.

What's that? asked Jules angrily. What do you mean? What's the good of you if you can't do a stroke of work? Sitting here all day doing nothing, eating and drinking, while I kill myself with work! Don't let me hear that again, la mere.

He looked so threatening that no more was said. Even Euphrasie was afraid. And so the life wore on, the life of endless toil to which are bound those who live by the land. All day it was labour, difficult and slow because the hands that did it were old and stiff; it was ditching and draining and the carrying of weights; it was the drawing of water and of loads, and there were long weary journeys to Aveneau to buy crockery or ironmongery. Now the tongues of Jules and Euphrasie were as lashes: they commanded, they urged, they reproached; and the young hated the slow old people, they hated their helplessness.

One day, as Perguix drank his soup, his hand trembled so that he spilled a spoonful down his blouse.

Vieux degoutant! roared Jules. A new clean blouse! Who's to be paid for washing that?

He raised his hand and, as if carried away by an ungovernable impulse, leaned across the table and struck the old man on the side of the head. Perguix said nothing. He sat at the table long after his old wife had cleared away the dishes; there were streaks upon his cheeks which might have been sweat, or tears.

A little later in that year Perguix paused in front of the house, laid down the heavy ploughshare he had brought home to have sharpened, wiped the sweat from his dim eyes. Then he saw Henri seated on the bench and reading a school-book.

What's that book, Henri? asked the old man.

History, said the child, with the portentous gravity of his nine years.

What history? asked the old man.

History of France. How some kings were beaten when some others came. Battles, you know.

"Ah .