It was, no one could doubt it, a great stroke of luck, and the sense of her words brought him to his feet in a moment. It is I, the Reverend Jethro Furber, he formally announced. She fled up the stairs. The pale light danced as he stumbled after her. Don't be frightened. Don't be frightened. She extinguished the lamp and he thought he would never find her. Before he did, the whole business had gotten thoroughly on his nerves, his old illness had returned, and even his bones shook. He cradled the rail in his arms. He was blind — a buzzing in his eyes. Despite the grotesqueness of the wish, a part of him wanted to be mistaken for the huge hide-wetter who was so marvelously fitted and so universally desired. Another part didn't care at all about that, but would have been immensely gratified to have her fall beneath him, opening easily, whoever she thought he was. So what if her breasts were like pancakes. Nor was that all he wanted, for he was in a thousand careening pieces like a shattered army. However, when at last he dragged Lucy from the linen closet and obtained the lamp — she was a torn and dirty spirit, certainly, for she'd fouled her clothes — he was nearly sickened by the smell of her, it was so strong and fecal. He possessed the lamp but had no way to light it, and while he stood stupidly considering this, she flew through the darkness again, whining weirdly like a bat. In pursuit, Furber fell on the stairs, smashing the mantle. Rattled, he shouted threats. You're to tell no one I fell, you hear, smell-belly, he roared. You're loony, you hear me? You're loony Lucy. He was beginning to see quite well now, and he found her hunched under the table in the kitchen mewing and spitting like a cat. Twisting a great knot in her nightdress, he pulled her out, saying experimentally, "I am Backett Omensetter," in a deep bass voice. When he heard her chuckle he struck out blindly, hitting her several times on the head and shoulders. These blows rendered her docile, and though exhausted by his own emotions, he was able to restore her to the care of her friends without further difficulty or exertion.
Not many days after, at the Hatstat's where Lucy had been taken to recover, he was even able to offer her a good deal of excellent advice concerning the management of her life in the future. He was aware, at the time, of his stiffness, of the extreme correctness of his deportment all in all; but Lucy Pimber, though she seemed as large-eyed as an owl and nearly as watchful, listened to his lengthy and somewhat elaborate monologue, despite the cold remoteness of its tone and the unflinching directness of its message, with a steady, calm, and sober mien throughout, for which Furber, more than once in the weeks that followed, gave grateful thanks to ghosts, elves, sprites, gnomes, witches — all of the disloyal angels, each of the fallen gods.
3
It was an afternoon of weak sun, the hour was late, and Mat appeared slowly on the end of the street. Outside his shop, as lightly as a water bird, Jethro Furber waited, and so observed reluctance enter the blacksmith's knees. It's lovely to be loved, he thought bitterly, rising to tiptoe and pulling the collar of his coat around his neck. Love… hate… what did it matter which it was? He was ready for either. His plans were made. His speeches had been well rehearsed. He had his courage and his anger up, his makeup straight, his costume fresh, its creases squeezed so ardently they gave him edges like a knife. Furthermore, he knew his man. That was a terrible thing — to know your man; terrible, that is, for the man known, if it was true. And in this case, it was true. He did know. He knew. Mat's imagination would undo him.
There was coming toward him now, its body pondering, its temples glowering, a beast, burthenous with shadow. Furber winked. Mat's shoulders were too heavy for his buck. Frowns pinched his eyes. Undo — and a totter of limbs, a clatter of bones in collections. Oh he was always such a weighty man. "Yet His burthen is light." But Mat dragged his shadow like a sled and fragments of dancehall song pierced Furber's head.
Imagine my distress
if you undo my dress.
for if you do,
oh me! undo—
for if you do,
oh my! untie—
then I'm undone,
I must confess;
I'll simply die
without my dress.
He felt strangely adrift again. A shadow flew under his feet. It was curious — this floating. Better watch it. Hair lapped Mat's ears.
So if you do,
oh me! undo—
so if you do,
oh my! untie—
Mat was habitually heavy-hearted, morosely kind, distinctly dull in that sense, slow and gloomy; his center of gravity seemed to Furber near his knees.
consider that my dress
fits tight across my chest;
has hooks and eyes,
and bows and ties,
has pins and clips
clear to my hips,
Furber had withdrawn from his skin but he was still cold. Unhappy hands, fallen out of pockets, fluttered in greeting. Greeting? The sky fled without moving. Mat came slowly on.
and is difficult to press
so very difficult to press.
Yet somewhere in that ponderous person lived a lively fancy… yes — as a mouse might nest in a bear or a bird in a beaver. Thus Mat was curious, though a dreadful prude, and if he would gossip only when he felt obliged, he was frequent and unfalling in the discharge of his duties. He was fond of popular philosophy which he badly misconstrued, and once he had embarrassed Furber with a gift of some tracts on Eastern mysticism and the occult which he had acquired while a carter in Chicago in his youth.
If you insist
that I divest
the dress that clasps
me to its breast,
and guards my honestness,
and shields my honestness,
Despite Mat's reputation for having what barbers, shaving, call a light touch — a quality unusual, even irrelevant, in smiths — he regularly broke things: chairs, crocks, dishes, cooking pots and tools.
then whatever you may do
do to yourself too—
He was proud, in addition, that his thoughts were sometimes deep; that his mind was, on occasion, devious; that he saw through people, or around them, which was often the greater feat; and that he had a flair for finding affinities, however different and bizarre their outward forms (Pimber and Omensetter were a natural pair, he always said) which his friends pronounced both exact and remarkable.
for that's the golden rule,
the golden, golden rule—