Tongues of Fire and Other Sketches/Petershin and Mr. Snide

Petershin, a retired Insurance Surveyor, had always nursed a private terror that one day the night express would catch him on a level crossing, that his foot would get jammed between the rails, and that he would not have the courage to saw it off with his penknife. This secret dread had haunted his mind since childhood. Owing to circumstances that need no particular mention at the moment, he let out his secret one evening to a valued acquaintance. He spoke of it, in some detail, to John Snide, a bookseller in a small way and a publisher of occasional pamphlets, a married man of education and authority. “Really, Petershin,” observed Mr. Snide. “Now, that’s very odd. It’s a coincidence, I might say. For, d’you know, now that you mention it, I may say I’ve always had a similar dread myself.” He took off his glasses and wiped them thoughtfully. “No,” exclaimed Petershin with lively interest. “Have you really?” He was relieved to find that his terror was not so peculiar after all that no one else could share it. Raising his eyebrows he listened attentively. “I have, indeed,” Mr. Snide assured his friend. “Only in my case”⁠—he put his glasses on his nose and looked over them at his companion⁠—“in my case Petershin, there’s⁠—a difference.” He was addressing, of course, an inferior fellow. Both voice and manner betrayed a slight suggestion of superiority, as though it would hardly do to feel precisely what the other felt. Apparently, a shade more value had to be inserted. Petershin accepted the slight rebuke. “A difference, Mr. Snide!” he echoed, as one whom a fellow-sympathy made intelligently understanding. That he was accustomed to keep his place was conveyed in the familiar yet respectful “ Mr. ” “In my own case,” resumed the other, nodding with what he might have called, had he been pressed, a “soupçon” of advantage, “the difference is, that, while my foot will be jammed somewhat as you describe, I shall have,” he went on carelessly, “no penknife on me.” “ Really! Now, if that isn’t peculiar!” declared Petershin, where an inferior mind must have phrased it “Well⁠—I’m damned!” He hoped he had suitably conveyed the admiration of his friend’s courage. Mr. Snide nodded with comfortable assurance, and the talk, thus begun, continued volubly for an hour or so, Mrs.  Snide not being in the particular building at the time.⁠ ⁠… Petershin liked Mr. Snide. He rather looked up to him as being a cultured man, learned in books, even something of a scholar. The way he quoted from authors proved this. He saw little of him, however, because he was afraid of Mrs. Snide, whom he considered “too particular.” Once or twice he had gone into the shop, just a little before lunch time, and had invited Mr. Snide to join him in a few minutes’ stroll, and Mrs. Snide had distinctly mentioned that it was inconvenient⁠—“Gentlemen didn’t go for a stroll just before mealtime⁠—when it was raining.” She had noticed, too, his celluloid collar, with a remark he did not quite catch, but an unfavourable remark, he felt sure; because, later, when Petershin advised Mr.  Snide to use one, the latter said: “Yes, Petershin, they are practical, I admit, and a saving too, no doubt, but⁠—er⁠—the wife thinks they’re not quite the thing for me, being⁠—as I might say⁠—among books, you see.” “ Reelly they don’t catch fire,” explained Petershin eagerly, not understanding at first what was meant. “There’s not the smallest danger of that sort⁠—” “A man⁠—the wife holds⁠—is what he wears,” Mr. Snide interrupted him. From which moment Petershin despised and feared Mrs. Snide, realising that she was “too particular.” The phrase, moreover, was obviously a quotation from some book, and a quotation from a great author invariably overwhelmed Petershin with a painful sense of his own inferiority, reducing him to an uncomfortable and admiring silence. Mrs. Snide, Petershin had ascertained, disapproved of him for another reason than that of his external appearance, for her husband had been detained one night, getting home at 3  a.m., to be exact⁠—and his explanation had not quite satisfied “the wife.” “Oh, I was out with an insurance man,” he said. “A surveyor, my dear,” he added, when pressed, “with Mr.  Petershin, in fact.” That was all Mr. Snide said; but, apparently, his wife had said a good deal more. Mr. Snide had mentioned the matter to him afterwards⁠—briefly. Wherefore it was that Petershin did not see as much of his friend as he would have liked to see, and was, in addition, rather afraid of Mrs. Snide. The tendency to coincidence already mentioned continued, nevertheless, to bring the two acquaintances together by chance, finding both, as if by chance again, affected by a similar, or as Mr. Snide might have said, an identical emotion. This emotion they shared accordingly, exchanging confidences, as two intelligent men will when actuated by the same desire simultaneously. Yielding to Mrs. Snide’s disapproval, however, they were cautious in the matter of referring to these chance meetings afterwards⁠—at least Mr. Snide was, being a tactful and experienced man. Nor again, respecting Mrs. Snide’s wishes, did they meet before a meal. Petershin no longer called at the shop just before luncheon for a little stroll. It was usually after dinner that the spirit of confidence brought one across the other’s path. These occasions began invariably with Petershin’s saying invitingly: “Now, here we are! And what’s it going to be, Mr. Snide? Eh?” They ended invariably with an observation from Mr.  Snide⁠—much later: “Well⁠—I’ll be getting on, Petershin. Time slips away on rapid wing. The wife’ll be expecting me,” a glance at his friend’s collar conveying the hint that its wearer was not expected to accompany him, and the quotation, if it were such, having its invariable effect.

One of these occasions, however, though inaugurated by Petershin’s usual greeting, did not end quite according to formula, the reason being that Mrs. Snide had gone to the country to see her mother who was very ill, and had telegraphed that her return that night was uncertain: “Mother very gravely ill indeed may not be back tonight. Ada. ”  “Dear me,” offered Petershin, by way of sympathy. “Worse, is she?” “Much worse, yes, apparently,” replied Mr. Snide. “In fact, I might say, dying.” “Dear me, dear me!” repeated the other, his voice lower, his eyebrows higher. “Is she reelly ?” “I’m afraid so,” was Mr. Snide’s considered opinion, given slowly and repeated for the sake of emphasis. “I’m afraid she is.” He reflected a moment, idly fingering a glass that happened to be near his hand, then adding as a result of his reflection: “I might say I’m sure of it.” And immediately thereafter, before his friend could offer anything further by way of condolence, he brushed the entire matter from his mind with a free gesture of the hand and elbow, and invited Petershin to join him in the discussion of the various interests they possessed in common. “For why meet trouble halfway?” he added, as an afterthought. “A wise man should float above sorrow and keep his head well above water always.” “Say when,” Petershin interrupted, happening to be pouring out some water at the moment. “And that’s courage, it seems to me?” the other finished his sentence, ignoring the interruption, though quickly holding up two fingers in an absentminded yet peremptory manner. “It is indeed,” concurred Petershin sympathetically, and with a touch of respect due to his persuasion that he had listened to a quotation from some famous author. “That is courage, yes,” he repeated, adding with a slight inconsequence, “Here’s to you, sir!” Whereupon the conversation led easily into exchanges of a personal, even of a confidential nature, the two friends being evidently in a chatty and exuberant mood that favoured such intimate exchanges.⁠ ⁠…

Outside, the weather was cold and dreary, a bitter wind from the north threatening snow. Darkness had fallen, as with a clap of suddenness, before its time. It was inclement weather, as Mr. Snide might have said, or, as Petershin in other company would have described it⁠—filthy. Unfavourable, anyhow, each felt in his own particular way, to Mrs. Snide’s mother. “No weather for an invalid, Mr.  Snide, this⁠—is it?” was what Petershin remarked, to which the other replied briefly but with energy, indeed, with gusto, as he might have said⁠—“dangerous, I call it dangerous.” Both references, it is seen, were indirect; an allusion of sympathy to the illness, each felt, was proper and desirable, while yet it need not detain them. There were other matters to discuss.⁠ ⁠… The sense of leisure was pleasant, the warmth of the room was comfortable, each man found the other’s conversation stimulating. Ideas certainly flowed. The hours slipped easily away.⁠ ⁠… It was Petershin who made the first move to leave: “You’ll be getting anxious, Mr. Snide,” he observed. “I mushtn’t keep you up.” He crossed cautiously to the window and, wiping the moisture off with the curtain, peered out into the night. “Shnowing, by gad!” he exclaimed. “Shnowing thickanfasht!” His manner held an unaccustomed dignity. It was a stiff, exaggerated dignity. Behind his back Mr. Snide, first looking at his watch, replied easily, as one who is master of circumstances: “Not a bit, Petershin. Be an optimist, my lad. Those whom the gods love die young⁠—” “But, I tell you it is ,” interrupted Petershin brusquely, thinking his veracity was called in question. “Evershings white already. The air’s thick with it. Like a Chrismhascard.” Then, returning to his seat, he caught his companion’s powerful eye fixed on him. “ Mr. Shnide,” he added, with an effort, “beg pardon, but it izsch⁠—reelly.” He sat down, fumbling with his watch. He did not want a disagreement with his superior friend. He made no further comment. “The nightsh still young,” Mr. Snide mentioned presently. “Let it snow. Wha’dowe care, Pee’shin?” And they chatted on for another timeless interval.⁠ ⁠… “Shtill snowing, I igspec’,” Petershin offered in the middle of something Mr. Snide was saying with great deliberation. He had not gone to the window to look. It was merely that Mr. Snide had been talking for a very long time about a “sosh’listic pamphlet” he was publishing, and that he, Petershin, had the impression it was time for him to say something by way of comment. Only, not having listened attentively, he could find no “reelly” intelligent comment. Mr. Snide paused, glowering heavily at him. “To hell withyer shnow” he said angrily. “You’ve not been lis’ning to what I washayin.” And before Petershin could find a tactful answer by way of soothing him, Mr.  Snide looked at his watch, rose from his chair, stood for a moment hesitating, and then abruptly sat down again, a broad smile upon his face, “Pe’ershin, my boy, the night is young,” he said with the emphasis of one who knows. His momentary annoyance was quite forgotten. “Time wearsh along, but the night, I shure you, ish still young. And Mrs.  Shnide is far from⁠—far from ’ome.” Petershin agreed with a nod. It was partly a quotation.

An hour later, when they rose to take their leave (as Mr.  Snide might have said, but did not actually say), the driving snow was so thick in their faces and upon the ground that Mr.  Snide, catching his companion by the arm with delightful friendliness, observed: “We’ll take zhe shor’cut. Thaswashwe’ll do. An’ you come to my placesh. Accept my hospital’ty for the night. I’ll put you up, Pe’shin. She’s probly dead. Sh’ll right, old boy. The godsh love thoshwho die young.” “No thanksh,” Petershin replied with dignity, “prefer to be excushed,” but, perhaps yielding to the spell of the quotation about the gods, he accompanied Mr. Snide forthwith arm in arm, into the inclement snowstorm.

It was what Snide might have called “reelly a heavy storm.” Thick snow swirled about them, drove into their faces, plastered their clothes with big clinging flakes, so that in five minutes they were white from head to foot. They panted with effort. It was no time for speech. Petershin, blindly confident in his friend’s leadership, ploughed forward heavily. No other pedestrians were out on such a night. They passed no single person, and the snow lay six inches deep upon the ground. It was the wind, of course, that made them sway. To Mr. Snide first occurred the idea of calling a halt to recover breath; he accompanied the action with an observation of some violence which his companion did not quite catch. “Pardon?” bawled Petershin, looking up a second into a red face whose eyebrows and moustache were hung with white dripping flakes. “Thisis an orspishcashun,” roared Mr. Snide, but again the words were whirled from his lips by the tremendous wind. He stood with his back to the gusts, Petershin facing him. “Can’t hear wotyoushay,” yelled the latter, and then turned his back to the storm. He now stood sideways to his friend, and being sheltered a little he glanced up and repeated very loudly “What?” Mr. Snide roared back at him: “I only said orspishcashun”⁠—the wind again whipping the syllables into space, while at the same time it upset his balance a trifle, so that he reeled slightly towards his companion. They collided, in fact, though speedily separating themselves again and standing upright. “Ver’ sorry,” screamed Petershin, still anxious to hear what the lost sentence was, but feeling the fault lay with himself. “Awf’ly sorry, but I didn’t qui’ hear.” He glanced up at the same time, and the red face he saw, plastered with wet snow, the hat crooked and the end of a necktie sticking up through the coat collar towards the mouth, made such a funny picture that he burst suddenly into a spasm of uncontrollable laughter. “Woshthematter, you idjiut?” cried Mr. Snide, suddenly angry. “I only said that was an”⁠—he articulated very clearly, roaring his syllables against the storm⁠—“orspishush’cashun. What the devil⁠—” Petershin’s laughter died away on the instant. “Oh,” he yelled back. “Pardon me, Mr. Snide. Awspishush ’casion, yes. So it is. Qui’ right, of course.” It cost him a prodigious effort, but the words, despite the wicked wind, rang true and clear. “Tha’s woshIsaid,” came back the angry roar. “Why don’ you liss’n?” Petershin, crestfallen and ashamed, tried to pull himself together, and as the mental effort involved also the physical effort of standing erect, he was surprised to find that there was something the matter with his feet. With one foot, that is. The left foot refused to follow the right. Mr. Snide, he became aware, was standing on it. It was an awkward moment. He did not quite like to mention it, but neither did he quite like to push Mr. Snide away. He wriggled. Nothing happened. Again he wriggled⁠—furiously. It was no good. Mr. Snide was firmly planted apparently on his left foot. Petershin, still wriggling, was in the act of losing his balance altogether, when suddenly his companion stepped aside with a curiously unnatural movement. A clear space of two feet now lay between the two men; Mr. Snide could not possibly still be standing on his companion’s left foot and yet that left foot would not budge. Petershin struggled. Mr. Snide, he perceived, was struggling too. Each man, apparently, was making violent efforts to extricate his foot from the clutch of deep snow that somehow held it. Each had one leg stretched out stiff and straight at an awkward angle that provided leverage. But Petershin was the first to realise what had happened. He was the first to put it into words at any rate: “Me foo’s cau’,” he gasped. At the same moment both men lost their balance and fell sideways into a deep white drift. Petershin, again, was the first to pick himself up⁠—into a sitting position. He brushed the snow violently from his person. Immediately opposite to him, about three feet away, he stared into a red face with glaring, bloodshot eyes, cheeks, moustache and eye-brows caked with white, necktie askew, and one arm gesticulating vehemently in the air. For a second the impulse to burst out laughing was very strong, for Mr. Snide’s appearance was grotesque beyond description. The same instant, however, the laughter died away in his throat. His friend was bawling something at him. The words were thick⁠—with snow and wind. They horrified him: “Me foo’s cau’ too! We’re on the ra’way track God shave us!” The dreadful situation produced one immediate effort⁠—both men found their mother tongue and were able to use it without difficulty, and simultaneously. They recovered their lost distinctness of utterance. Mr.  Snide in particular, having the louder voice of the two, dropped his pose of quoting from better minds than his own, and became at once natural and sincere: “You damned idjiut,” he roared. “What possessed you to ta’ the shor’ cu’ on a night like this?” He stood upright again, after a tremendous struggle. He shook his fist, lost his balance in doing so, and collapsed again into the snow, still shouting as he floundered. “ You led me into this,” Petershin was shouting simultaneously. “It was your damfool s’gesstion.” Then he collapsed beside him and, like two violent turkeys beating furious wings, or two veterans in a three-legged race with ankles fastened together, they made the snow fly in all directions, pulling vainly at each other in their attempts to rise, roaring imprecations while they did so. It was a grotesque and painful sight. Breathless at last, with right hands clasped for a final pull, arms taut and shoulders braced, there came a pause. “Now,” cried Mr. Snide. “Are you ready? One, two, and⁠—away!” They rose together as though a spring released them. Facing each other in a standing position, as if they were shaking hands, Petershin then turned his head sideways a moment and listened. A sound came to him that was not the wind. “Snide!” he screamed. “It’s the ni’ express!” “And me foo’sstill cau’!” both roared in the same breath. In the distance was a faint glimmer of reddish light just visible through the driving flakes. It was growing larger, brighter. There was a deep sound like thunder. It was growing every second louder. And, without a word at first, both figures stooped, bent double, fumbling at their feet with frozen fingers that were all thumbs. “Lend me yo’ penknife,” both shouted frantically together. “Lef’ it at home,” bawled two minds with but a single thought. “Got a match?” yelled Snide. “Li’ it at once. Li’ a bit o’ paper, can’t you?” Petershin did not answer. Not even an oilcan could have burned in such a wind. “Cut the laces!” It was Petershin’s generous idea. He suddenly shoved an open penknife at his friend, as though he wished to stab him. “Good man!” Snide seized it and made frantic slashes at his imprisoned boot. “Hurry up, for God’s sake! Haven’t done me own yet!” from Petershin. The red light had come much closer, the roar of the approaching train already shook the ground and made the metals tremble. “Lemme do it for you,” bawled Snide. “I’m free!” He leant over, he bent himself double, his arm was stretched towards his friend’s boot, but in the attempt he lost his balance and fell⁠—outwards, away from the track. At the same instant, when the awful engine was not ten yards from where he had been standing, Petershin, making a desperate wrench of final, superhuman, almost acrobatic violence, extricated his own foot too. The wind from the engine flung him with violence against Mr. Snide’s prostrate body. His foot had torn loose, leaving the boot tight in the rails beneath the thundering wheels. It was an effort that would have surprised an osteopath. The night express, oblivious of two human hearts within an inch of its flying mass, roared past into the darkness and, light, thunder, rattle, bulk and all, was lost in the storm. The wind and flakes resumed their unchallenged occupancy of the night. “Get orf of me, you lout!” was the first sound audible, after the bang and clatter were gone. It was Mr. Snide’s voice, muffled by something that impeded clear utterance. A big, white, shapeless substance rolled slowly to one side⁠—and Petershin stood up. “It passed right over us⁠—I do believe,” he gasped. “Are we alive?” He felt himself over. A second shapeless white mass rose gradually beside him. “I am,” it shouted. “But no thanks to you!” From the path of a slow-moving luggage train on the other track where they were now standing, they moved shakily aside. The great, endless thing went lumbering past them with convulsions, jolting and shuddering, the enormous tarpaulins over the piled-up freight looking like white mammoths galloping on short legs and with hidden heads, back to the shelter of their primeval forests. The two men watched it slowly vanish. For a long time neither spoke a word. The appalling fate they had escaped left them half-stunned. “Have you done with my penknife⁠— Mr. Snide?” Petershin enquired presently, shouting as usual to make himself heard. Mr. Snide replied that he had and added “Thank you” while a search for the knife began, ending some minutes later by its being discovered still tightly clasped in the right hand of the man whose life it had undoubtedly saved. “With many thanks,” repeated Mr. Snide, more composedly now. He handed over the object with a mixture of carelessness and empressement in his manner. “Don’t mention it, please,” said Petershin. Both men were very shaky still. Indeed, they were trembling. But recovery was on the way. The search for two boots then followed. Of these, however, little remained beyond the soles and some scraps of frayed laces. Wearing these sandal-wise, and complaining bitterly of the cold, the two friends eventually resumed their journey arm-in-arm. They spoke little. “I⁠—er⁠—should like to say thank you,” repeated Mr. Snide, as they presently reached the comparative shelter of the houses. “Your knife⁠—the loan of it⁠—was a great help to me. So small a thing can change the waysh of fate! Indeed, I might say⁠—⁠” “Oh, please. It’s nothing, Mr. Snide,” interrupted Petershin. “Only too glad I had it with me⁠—after all.” “I might say,” continued the other, ignoring the interruption, “that it saved my life.” He pressed his friend’s hand, as they reached the door. A lump rose in Petershin’s throat. He was not far from tears. The proximity of the forbidden door, however, exercised a sobering effect. Mrs. Snide, of course, might have returned, he reflected. He paused inside the iron garden gate, then made a move as though to go. “One minute,” enjoined Mr. Snide, observing his hesitation, but sympathetically. “Allow me,” he added in the tone of a host, as he passed in front and inserted his latchkey with some difficulty. The proprietor pushed open his faded blue door and turned up the light in the little hall. His sandal had slipped off, but he did not notice it perhaps, as he moved on tiptoe to the table below the hat-rack where a telegram was visible. Petershin, watching him from the snowy step with anxlous eyes, was not even aware that his left foot was freezing in the icy slush. He picked up his friend’s lost sandal and laid it cautiously inside the passage. “One minute,” enjoined Mr. Snide, glancing back over his shoulder as a man who hesitates between authority and subservience. He opened the telegram. “Ah!” he ejaculated, tapping it like an actor then reading it again a little closer to the light. “It’s or’ ri’,” he added, a happy smile spreading across his red face. “I beg your pardon?” offered Petershin, choosing the longer form to gain time. Usually he was content with “pardon.” He wished to make quite sure, “It’s or’ ri’, I said,” repeated Mr. Snide briefly, “Come in, Pe’shin, come in, lad.” He hung his hat up with an air. Petershin advanced slowly into the forbidden hall. “Vour wife, I trust⁠—?” He meant to ask after the wife’s mother, but his mind was a trifle confused, it seems. “Everything’s s’asfactry, I hope?” he faltered. His host turned round and gazed at him, an expression of false gravity unable to mask the smile of genial hospitality that overpowered it. “Qui’ or’ ri’, thank you,” he replied. “Hang yer hat up!” He moved past and closed the door with a bang that echoed through the house and made Petershin jump. “It’s an inclement night. I’ll get some shlippers.” “Thank you, thank you,” murmured Petershin, shaking the snow from his hat, but still hesitating before he hung it up as bidden. “And your mother-in-law,” he hastened to correct his little mistake. “I trust⁠—?” “It’s or’ ri’, I’ve told you once,” was the reply, given with some impatience. “She’s dead. And my wife returns in the morning. Now, please make yourself at home, Pe’shin, my lad.” Petershin attempted a hasty calculation in his mind, but failed to arrive at a conclusion. Times, trains and distances were too involved for him at the moment. All he knew was that it was now somewhere about 3 o’clock in the morning. “Come in and have a spot,” Mr. Snide was saying pleasantly. “The mills of the godsh grind surely, but they grind uncommon slow. Those whom the godsh love die sooner or later. It’s all ri’. I’ll put the kettle on and find the slippers.⁠ ⁠… We’ll have it hot.” And Petershin followed his friend into the dining-room. It was at this moment that a new sound became audible behind him. It was a sound that froze his blood. His host, Mr. Snide, had evidently not heard it, for he was just then occupied in pouring out whisky with a generous air into two glasses, and he continued the operation steadily enough. He did not jump, at any rate. But neither did Petershin jump⁠—for the simple reason that he could not jump. He could not move at all. He experienced a total paralysis of all his muscles. Tongue, legs, arms, head, all were held motionless in a vice of terror. Petershin was petrified, for the sound that thus turned him into stone was a voice⁠—the voice of Mrs.  Snide: “Is that you, Richard Snide?” she asked, as she came slowly down the stairs towards the hall. No answer was forthcoming; the question, with a slight change in the wording that rendered it doubly awful, was repeated: “Then it is you, Richard Snide?” Petershin, still unable to move a muscle, was aware that the speaker now stood close behind him. She could see his celluloid collar. He could not turn his head, even had he dared. An acute anguish twisted his very entrails. His position became suddenly more than he could bear, so that he made an effort of supreme violence, even though he felt it might burst his heart⁠—he tried to run. The result was suffocating. He could not breathe properly. A second later he could not breathe at all. God! He was going to die! An awful yell for help escaped him, though meant at the same time to warn his companion. Mr. Snide, to his intense relief, looked round. The red face was tilted back a little, as its owner poured into his mouth the contents of his glass, and a moment or two later rose in an oddly laborious way and remarked solemnly: “Pe’shin, me lad, you’ve had ’nough⁠—more than ’nough, I might say. You’ve slept past closing time and your cell’loid collar’s choking you.⁠ ⁠…”