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Sunday, October 30, 2011
Blahblahblah
Mrs. Brennen took snuff. She got it out of her grandson's store; going in and helping herself from the big tin on the second shelf. It was a habit her family deplored. Mrs. Brennen did not like snuff much. It was one of the things she had got over. It made her cough. But the fact that her family deplored her taking it prevented her from giving it up completely. She drank a little too. Not much; just enough to get "tiddly." That was what she called it, "I'm a little tiddly to-day," she'd say, and the family didn't like that either. Nor did she, save for the fun of shocking them and the interest outwitting them gave her. An old woman did not have much fun, and she had her reputation as a character to keep up. Sometimes she wished she was not a character. "Mad," people called her behind her back; "eccentric," to her face. "Dear Mrs. Brennen, you would do that. You are so eccentric." "Mad" she would not agree to; "eccentric," yes; if it was eccentric to like sitting on the stoep in the sun and only talking when you wanted to. There was too much talk in the world. Sometimes she would go for days without talking. "One of her spells," they called it. Oh, yes, she knew what they said: "Old Mrs. Brennen is having one of her spells." But she was too busy thinking to worry about what people thought. "Let 'em talk," she said. "If they'd seen what I've seen, they'd stay silent. If they'd seen what I've seen, they'd have something to think about. Lot of damned old women! That's what they are, men and all." Her family made her laugh with their goings-on. When they reached her age, if they ever did, they'd know that nothing mattered very much. She took another pinch of snuff. Some of it slipped between her fingers on to her black alpaca dress. She flicked it off with the back of her fingers and fumed to watch a span of oxen pull up to the store. Mrs. Brennen wondered how many wagons she had seen pull up like that since she had come to Brennen's Store as a bride. Thousands and thousands of wagons. Thousands of men, too--white men, Kaffirs, men on foot, in Cape carts, in spiders, or riding, and now they came in motor-cars. Mrs. Brennen did not like motor-cars. Of course they saved time. But what did one do with the time one saved? No one could tell her that. She chuckled. They couldn't tell her, because they didn't know. She had seen two wars and some native troubles. Once when Brennen was away, the store had been burned by Kaffirs. She had just escaped. A friendly native had warned her. She had hidden in the bush. She had taken Susie with her--a sweet little dog. She had never had another dog like Susie-black and white, as soft to touch as silk, with a wet pink nose. Generally, black-and-white dogs had black noses, but Susie's had been pink. As she crouched among the rocks, the Kaffirs had come quite near her.Susie had tried to bark and she had held her between her knees and strangled her. Then the Kaffirs had gone and she had buried Susie. The road had been moved since then, and the new store built. Susie was buried about where the wagon stood now. She looked at her hands. They were very frail, veined, knotted and lumpy with gout. Once they had been beautiful. Brennen had said she had beautiful hands. Once they had strangled a pet dog while wild Kaffirs swarmed round her..................... 2:54 AM The Soldier's Peaches
Mrs. Brennen took snuff. She got it out of her grandson's store; going in and helping herself from the big tin on the second shelf. It was a habit her family deplored. Mrs. Brennen did not like snuff much. It was one of the things she had got over. It made her cough. But the fact that her family deplored her taking it prevented her from giving it up completely. She drank a little too. Not much; just enough to get "tiddly." That was what she called it, "I'm a little tiddly to-day," she'd say, and the family didn't like that either. Nor did she, save for the fun of shocking them and the interest outwitting them gave her. An old woman did not have much fun, and she had her reputation as a character to keep up. Sometimes she wished she was not a character. "Mad," people called her behind her back; "eccentric," to her face. "Dear Mrs. Brennen, you would do that. You are so eccentric." "Mad" she would not agree to; "eccentric," yes; if it was eccentric to like sitting on the stoep in the sun and only talking when you wanted to. There was too much talk in the world. Sometimes she would go for days without talking. "One of her spells," they called it. Oh, yes, she knew what they said: "Old Mrs. Brennen is having one of her spells." But she was too busy thinking to worry about what people thought. "Let 'em talk," she said. "If they'd seen what I've seen, they'd stay silent. If they'd seen what I've seen, they'd have something to think about. Lot of damned old women! That's what they are, men and all." Her family made her laugh with their goings-on. When they reached her age, if they ever did, they'd know that nothing mattered very much. She took another pinch of snuff. Some of it slipped between her fingers on to her black alpaca dress. She flicked it off with the back of her fingers and fumed to watch a span of oxen pull up to the store. The voorloper bent down to pick up some clods to throw into the faces of the oxen. The driver whistled and turned the handle of the brake. The big wheels locked, dragged on a yard or two and stopped. Taking off his hat, the driver went into the store. The voorloper sat in the dust under the horns of the leaders. Mrs. Brennen wondered how many wagons she had seen pull up like that since she had come to Brennen's Store as a bride. Thousands and thousands of wagons. Thousands of men, too--white men, Kaffirs, men on foot, in Cape carts, in spiders, or riding, and now they came in motor-cars. Mrs. Brennen did not like motor-cars. Of course they saved time. But what did one do with the time one saved? No one could tell her that. She chuckled. They couldn't tell her, because they didn't know. She had seen two wars and some native troubles. Once when Brennen was away, the store had been burned by Kaffirs. She had just escaped. A friendly native had warned her. She had hidden in the bush. She had taken Susie with her--a sweet little dog. She had never had another dog like Susie-black and white, as soft to touch as silk, with a wet pink nose. Generally, black-and-white dogs had black noses, but Susie's had been pink. As she crouched among the rocks, the Kaffirs had come quite near her. Susie had tried to bark and she had held her between her knees and strangled her. Then the Kaffirs had gone and she had buried Susie. The road had been moved since then, and the new store built. Susie was buried about where the wagon stood now. She looked at her hands. They were very frail, veined, knotted and lumpy with gout. Once they had been beautiful. Brennen had said she had beautiful hands. Once they had strangled a pet dog while wild Kaffirs swarmed round her..................... 2:37 AM |
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